65 hrs

I quit smoking because I found out my mom has lung cancer. It strikes me that some relative of mine might accidently stumble across this blog and be hearing this for the first time, since my mom hasn’t gotten around to telling everyone yet. To those people I would say, JOKING! J/k! But you should call my mom.


Looking back (you know, all two and a half days later. Ah, the perspective of time), I realize that I quit in a moment of Jesus- hysteria (Jesus, if you save my mom I’ll do anything, I swear to God, I’ll stop swearing, I’ll even stop fucking SMOKING!) And it worked. I make miracles. Because the surgeon informed my mom yesterday that it’s stage one lung cancer (that it’s not a return of her earlier uterine cancer), that it’s probably not going to kill her (he better be right, OR ELSE). I hope he doesn’t mean “well, this won’t kill you because you’re already so close to death…There’s simply not enough time!”

So, my quitting saved my mom’s life. Therefore, I cannot start again. If I smoke, my mom dies. It’s very simple. It’s crazy people math.

I called my mom while driving, lost, in my truck yesterday, because all the websites I’ve been reading give answers like this:

withdrawal from quitting smoking can include the following:

nausea (2-4 weeks)

chest pain (2-4 weeks)

nervousness/irritation (2-4 weeks)

So, since my mom is quitting (not for the first time), I decided to call and ask her. OK, so I got that the irritation can last for 2-4 weeks, but how long does the HOMICIDAL FUCKING RAGE I SWEAR TO GOD I HAVE BODIES IN THE BASEMENT, WANNA JOIN THEM? last?

“How do you feel?” I asked her.

“I go for walks,” she said. “I’m angry. Depressed. Irritated.” And, my mom suggested that I didn’t have to quit cold turkey. “Just limit yourself,” she said. “One at 8am, one at noon, one at three”

“Mom!” I said. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“No, no,” she answered. “I quit.”

I got off the phone. Mom, you quit when they told you you had lung cancer. I swear to GOD you better not be smoking.

Good news: I gained five pounds in two days. If you don’t know how a person does such a thing, you should try a little thing I like to call Nutella. By the jar. With a spoon. Or graham cracker.
I almost ran out of gas. I probably will tomorrow. There’s no reason to get gas if you don’t need a pack of cigarettes.

It’s weird—I do not feel like myself at all. First of all, I’m more than a little on edge. I’m mean. The thing—the gate—that kept my snarkiest comments in has come down. It’s not just open—it no longer exists. This morning, I saw a girl slip in the mud on the side of the road and I laughed. The worst part is, I already hated her before she slipped in the mud. And I only felt guilty about laughing because I didn’t feel bad AT ALL. Cigarettes have kept my mouth shut. I’m scared at what comes out. I’m not just witty (aka mean on the inside). I’m mean on the outside now, too.

Funniest thing read on an anti-smoking website today: don’t try to replace smoking with exercise, because then what happens when you break your ankle?

I won’t replace smoking with exercise. No worries there. The only time I breathe is when I remind myself. The only time I unclench my jaw is when I’m eating or when I tell myself to. The weirdest side effect of not smoking? A constant lump in my throat. What IS THAT?