IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCCEED

Eileen Cichello

It used to be that smoking was a rite of passage, a sign that you were now grown-up, sophisticated, cool. Not anymore. Now you are the social leper, sentenced to stand outside in sleet, snow, thunderstorms, heat waves; subject to glares, snubs, condescension. I'll tell you a secret, though...you meet the nicest people outside buildings, in garages or basements or whatever dingy area you may be consigned to. There is instant empathy as you trade war stories.

I was a college freshman when the following words were said to me, "What's the matter, O'Toole? Your face is green. "

"Shaddup!" I replied. "I'm going to learn to inhale if it kills me."

I did. It hasn't. Not yet.

My first attempt to stop smoking was back in 1960. Just back from our honeymoon, my husband Sam and I had decided to give up cigarettes for Lent. I lasted two days or was it just one day? Sam was NOT impressed.

I smoked through seven pregnancies, smoked as I nursed our babies. When it came time to feed them, I'd get my book, my coffee, my cigarettes ...and oh, yes, the baby. A delightful three-quarters of an hour would follow. All I can say in my defense is that we didn't know smoking was dangerous.

Then came ominous rumbles about the hazards of smoking. One December, I read an article in READER'S DIGEST about a guy with lung cancer smoking through his tracheotomy tube. Appalled, I could see myself doing that and I decided to quit.

January 1, I handed my cigarettes to Sam. No way would I subject myself to the humiliation of having to ask him for a cigarette. Sound psychology, right? Wrong. One day later, shamefaced, I asked for a cigarette. Two days later, it was "Gimme the blankety-blank pack!"

Many years later, our family doctor, Dr. Eppolito, said to me, "You really must stop smoking." I'd had bronchitis. He must have caught me at a weak moment because I left his office convinced I had to stop. I got in my car, lit up a cigarette and drove away. About ten miles later, something clicked in. "Where's Weedsport? I should have been home by now." Instead, I was somewhere out in the boonies, without a clue as to where I was. Yeah...I was ready for this step!

I called and made an appointment with a hypnotist. I drove to Auburn, chain-smoking as I went. At the corner of North and Seymour Street, I went through what I thought was a yellow light and ran into a car. Luckily, no one was hurt. Unluckily, a policeman was sitting across the street in his car. "Lady, that light was red, " he told me sternly. I apologized profusely, took my

ticket and headed home.

I did reschedule and I did get hypnotized. Several times. I came home with a tape and the advice to smoke only in one area of our home. I picked the upstairs room where I did my writing, figuring who would want to walk upstairs every time they wanted a cigarette. Well, it turned out to be a wonderful spot. I'd take my coffee and my cigarettes and settle in, surrounded by books. It just doesn't get any better than that!

Okay. So that wasn't working. I'd try the cellar. As it happens, there's a chest freezer at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Pretty soon, you could find me happily perched on top of it, coffee, ashtray and reading material at hand.

The barn...that might work. No way to be comfortable in the barn. Have YOU ever tried relaxing on a sawhorse? At one a.m., when the boys were being dropped off by friends, they might see this bathrobed figure slipping into the barn for the last butt of the day. (Scared the life out of a few of them...Lord! It was embarrassing!) Or the post office crew might see that same bathrobed figure about 7 a.m. I'd give a sickly smile and wave. Obviously, that didn't last too long. Besides, winter was approaching and it was getting mighty cold out there!

Then there was the machine they advertised on TV. I think it cost $80. I figured $80 was less than the cost of a month's smokes. Well worth it if it worked. It didn't. The first two days were glorious. You smoked like crazy, punching this little gizmo every time you lit up. Then it turned nasty. You could only light up when the machine buzzed. I can't remember at what point I retired the machine...maybe at the two hour stretch.

Several years ago, on impulse, I got a prescription for the nicotine patch. The prescription sat on my dresser for six months and I'd squirm when it caught my eye. Lent 1994 was approaching. I filled the prescription, read all the literature that went with it, told everyone I met that I was giving up smoking and stopped buying cartons, instead buying only one pack at a time.

Ash Wednesday 94, on went the patch and out went the cigarettes. The following day, on went the patch. About 10 a.m. I drove to the Pit Stop to get gas, fought with my consciense and lost. I went in and bought a pack of cigarettes, lit up and took off the patch. In my closet sits $90 worth of outdated patches.

Last February, after consulting with Dr. Eppolito and recognizing my hazardous no exercise, rising cholesterol status, I decided to give it another shot. The patches were out. No way I could just stop. Zyban sounded attractive...just cut down gradually, with Zyban taking the urge away. I began buying cigarettes one pack at a time. 30. 29. 28. 27. Each day one less than the day before. Occasional plateaus when it got down to the lower numbers. The Zyban made coffee taste funny and those two items had always been linked together.

It took several months but I actually got down to 4 cigarettes one day. I could leave the house without them...if I wasn't going to be gone more than a few hours. I didn't light up every time I answered the phone. I didn't have to step outside if meetings went on for a long time. I didn't bring my cigarettes into the bathroom with me.

I'm not sure why I stopped taking Zyban. I thought I'd see how I did without it. For whatever reason, I'm now smoking about 15 a day, still half of what I smoked before.

There will be more attempts to stop and hopefully, at some point, I'll actually do it. In the meantime, let me get my coat and save me a place in the garage.

Aren't I lucky that cigarettes are not addicting?

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