Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em

The First

I only vaguely remember my first cigarette, stolen from my mother’s generic pack lying on the kitchen table. She and my father had always smoked – in the house, in the car, wherever and whenever the mood struck. It was summer, and my grandmother was staying with me at our house in Gilbert while my parents went about their daily jobs. After they left for work, I snuck outside and around the far side of the wood shed. I don’t know how much I inhaled, how much I coughed or even what it tasted like. I’m not sure if it was the nicotine from the cigarette or the thrill of doing something I shouldn’t be doing, but I had to have more. And, so, at age 13 I became a smoker.

In those early years I didn’t smoke much. It was a cigarette here, a cigarette there — whenever I could pilfer one from a pack around the house that wouldn’t be missed. I rolled my eyes in health class when presented with pictures of black lungs. I smiled and nodded when I was told smoking was bad. I had a dirty little secret, and I liked it.

Brand Experiments

Five years later, I started college. I wasn’t smoking a whole lot, but it certainly picked up especially now that I could buy my own cigarettes — smokes that said something about me. For a while, I loved to pick up packs of Djarum cloves from the tobacco shop at the mall where I worked part time. I loved the exotic smell and taste. I soon found American Spirits, and boasted they were “natural” and “better.” Lucky Strikes were a brand of choice for a while, too, though I have no idea why.

Then, I discovered the selection of cigarettes at Intermezzo, an alternative bookstore/tobacco shop/newsstand that once adjoined Goatfeather’s in Five Points. My favorite brand quickly became Nat Sherman Fantasia Lights – cigarettes with colored paper wrappings like red, blue, green and pink with gold leaf charcoal filters. They were beautiful and happy. And because I didn’t smoke much, it didn’t matter they were more than $5.00 per pack.

Soon, I met Rachel. Rachel smoked Mores – a 120 with a dark brown wrapper. I was intrigued and before long, I began to smoke Mores, too. Now and then, especially if I was going clubbing, I’d swap my Mores for Nat Sherman Black and Golds, which had a chocolate-like brown wrapper and gold leaf charcoal filter. They reeked of sophistication, I thought.

Emergency Room Adventures

My smoking slowly increased over the years. In the late 1990s, I found myself in the emergency room with bronchitis. It was so bad, I was turning blue and they had to give me multiple breathing treatments to get my oxygen levels back up. As I lay in the hospital bed with a mask across my face a nurse came in and kindly asked, “Can I get your anything dear?” I smiled, pulled the mask to one side and said, “A cigarette?” She laughed and walked away, but I wanted my damn smoke.

A few years ago, my mother took me to the emergency room for stomach pain. It was excruciating. Ultimately they would send me for more tests elsewhere, but during this trip they gave me several shots of morphine. My mother stopped smoking when I left for college, diagnosed with adult onset asthma. But after hours in the emergency room, all I wanted was a smoke. She finally agreed to pull the car over so I could get out and have a cigarette. I stood on the side on Highway 378, high as the proverbial kite, gripping someone’s wooden fence and sucking on that cigarette like it would give me the meaning of life. My mother watched from her pink Tracker, and now and again honked the horn, but nothing was going to tear me away from this little minute of heaven.

Heavenly Moments

It’s odd, but there are certain cigarettes I can never forget. The first one, the last one. That one on the side of Highway 378. The first time I smoked in front of my parents…

It was Thanksgiving, and I was home on break from college. We had Thanksgiving dinner at Ryan’s with several of their friends. After the meal, cigarettes began glowing around the table. I thought I would explode, so I slowly began to pull one from the pack in my purse. I sat with it in my lap for a few moments, and then went for it. I put it to my lips and lit it, inhaling slowly and waiting for the wrath. My mother shrieked across the table, “Toni Melinda Turbeville! What are you doing?!” “Smoking,” I replied. My father jumped to my defense, “What did you expect, Linda? She’s been around smoking her whole life.” The conversation ended, but through the years my mother would constantly remind me how bad smoking is.

I remember being wrapped in a blanket with Sanders, sitting outside on his back porch, looking up at the stars on a cold December night. Smoke and breath white and thick in the air. Talking about who knows what nonsense and sipping vodka from plastic cups.

And I remember that night. That last night he came to me. We sat on the edge of my bed, his white t-shirt smelling of grass and curry. He talked, I listened, and we smoked cigarette after cigarette.

I remember standing on the porch of Caughman Harmon Funeral Home with Shanna, John and Erica, slowly breathing in the smoke and exhaling pain and frustration.

I remember my first date with Adam. We had dinner at Gilligan’s. He with his Camel Lights, me with my Camel Turkish Golds. We both had salads, and though neither of us drinks very much, we each had a couple of drinks to ease the nervousness. We talked, laughed, shared stories and began out relationship in the smoking section.

Quitting

Oh, sure, I’ve tried various times over the years to quit. I’ve tried cold turkey, nicotine gum, nicotine patches, Wellbutrin, Zyban, Chantix. In the end nothing worked because I didn’t want it to. Knowing you should quit and wanting to quit are two different beasts – lest we forget smoking is, in fact, an addiction.

And what a divine addiction it is, especially for someone with anxiety problems. Not only does the nicotine calm me down, but the pack, the individual cigarettes, the lighter, the ashtray… they all give me something to fidget with. I don’t feel so nervous and insecure with my trusty Zippo and Camel Turkish Golds (my current brand) in hand. Cigarettes were a great break from work, too. When the day seemed to drag, when things got too harried, when I was fresh out of ideas, I could step outside, have a smoke and return to work feeling refreshed. What better accessory for writing than a cigarette dangling from the corner of your mouth? What better after dinner activity than enjoying a smoke in the crisp night air? Over the years, cigarettes became a part of my daily life, and I had no desire to quit.

To be truthful, I still have no desire to quit. Oh, I know, what an awful thing for an expecting mother to say. Get over it. When I learned of my pregnancy, I was smoking two packs of cigarettes per day – that’s 40 individual cigarettes. The next day, I barely smoked three cigarettes, and made myself sick. The following day, I bumped it back up to about one pack (20 cigarettes) and felt somewhat better. The plan was for me to wean myself off them completely, and for Adam to take his smoking outdoors. Well, several weeks later I still hadn’t weaned and Adam was still smiling at me from his side of the bed with a cigarette in hand. Don’t misunderstand. Adam and I both know smoking is bad for us, bad for the baby and something we must stop. Several people have told me, “You’ve never had such great motivation to quit!” They say that smiling, like it’s a good thing. Yes, I want my baby to be okay and healthy, but, no, I don’t want to quit smoking. I can’t have both, so I know I must quit, but I still don’t want to. Beginning to see the difference?

In any case, Adam made a sweeping proclamation this past weekend. As of Monday, November 17, 2008, we will no longer be smokers. We. As in he intends to quit smoking, too. He says he knows it will be easier for me and better for us and the baby in the long run. I cried. Hands down one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. He bought us each one pack of cigarettes on Sunday morning. By Monday morning we each had about six smokes left. I’ve never had any self-control, so by 10:30 a.m. I was sitting on the edge of the bed smoking my last cigarette. I savored the smell and taste, and watched as the letters “TURKISH GOLD” slowly disappeared into ash. By 7:00 or so, Adam and I were both ready to climb the walls. He went to the gas station and bought one pack. He rationed out the cigarettes, and we each smoked our last this morning.

A headache is setting in, and I feel as though I could bite the heads off chickens. In the end, this is the best thing for my family, and that’s the most important thing. Just keep me away from the poultry.

E-N-G-L-I-S-H

For the most part, I try not to flaunt my redneck self too often. I know some of my views, thoughts and opinions run counter to those of my liberal friends, and I’ve learned over the years it’s easier to leave things unsaid than start unfinishable (and unwinnable) arguments. (On the same note, I sometimes leave liberal things unsaid amongst my conservative friends.) But every now and again something really chaps my ass and I can’t leave it alone no matter how hard I try.

Over the weekend, Adam and I went to the grocery store. Among the items on the list were shampoo and conditioner for my crazy, curly, bushwoman hair. Last time I bought Sunsilk shampoo and conditioner for curly hair, and it worked okay so I looked for it again among the Sunsilk products. In my search, there were several bottles I couldn’t easily identify, and I picked them up for closer inspection. The bottles — front and back — were completely in Spanish.  Suddenly, my redneck began showing, and Avenue Q’s “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist Sometimes” began playing in my head.

While I don’t have all of the issues many people do, insisting everyone should speak nothing but English in our country, as it turns out I do have an issue with things being completely in a different language. To become a citizen in the United States, you must have a certain level of English profiency. Maybe you’re learning, and having something — like a bottle of shampoo — with both languages may help you learn. But what is something completely in a foreign language teaching anyone? What is it encouraging? Come to America and never bother to learn its official language! Never mind that pesky citizenship test, we’ll cater to you anyway! Would I feel the same if the shoe was on the other foot? Maybe, maybe not. But it still irks me.

When foreigners first came to this country, Native Americans were quickly herded unto reservations and forced into English schools to learn not only the customs, but also the language. They were forced to cut their hair, leave behind their tribal dress, and, soon, forget their native tongue. Many of those languages were lost, and with them many stories. While I don’t wish to see immigrants — legal or illegal — treated this way, I do think there should be an attempt to teach them the languages and customs of this country. It is possible to respect and celebrate both.

I put the bottles back on the shelf, and purchased a different company’s products.

The Heart Beats

A new day… in so many ways. A new president for our struggling country. A black man in the White House. No, I haven’t blogged or said much about this election. I made a concentrated effort to stay away from the election hype, learning just enough to make an educated decision to cast my vote. So much energy — too much energy in my opinion — was wasted watching, twittering, social networking, talking, e-mailing and so on about this election. Important election, yes. Important to understand what’s going on, yes. Important to vote, yes. But why spend so much of your time and energy feeding the media machine? I dunno. It’s lost on me.

Yesterday was historical to me, personally, as well. Adam and I had our first trip to our obstetrician. I had been looking so forward to the visit, and needed the comfort of knowing my baby was okay. I have a friend who had an ectopic pregnancy, and the memory of it had haunted me. We arrived early, and I eyed the women with their protruding bellies with curiosity and fascination. Adam and I both tried not to stare at the woman who arrived with seven children of various ages in tow, and her belly announcing an eighth — one more and she has a softball team.

The nurse called us back, and we began talking in her office. The person who made my appointment made a mistake. New OB visits are usually scheduled on Wednesdays; they didn’t have a record that I was pregnant. I almost started crying. “No, no, no!” I thought. You can’t make me wait longer. Fortunately, the nurse was very kind and professional and worked me into their schedule with no problems, though she said we were doing things a bit out of order.

First, pee in the cup, which always makes me wish it was easier to aim with my equipment. Next, the ultrasound. I had the image of the tech smearing my belly with jelly and glowing like those girls in movies as she waved her magic wand and my baby’s picture appeared. No, no. I had my arse hanging off the table with my feet in stirrups as she slipped an ultrasound device inside me. It was an odd sensation, especially since I hadn’t known what to expect. But within moments, there he/she was.

I cannot even begin to describe the feeling of seeing this tiny little thing on the screen and knowing that it’s growing inside. And just as I was adjusting to seeing him/her for the first time, the tech pushed a button and the room was filled with his/her heartbeat. 170 beats per minute. My hand tightened around Adam’s, and I looked up at him to see his eyes grow moist and a smile spread across his face. I was overwhelmed.

The nurse took us back to her office for complete medical histories, a few lessons in what I should/should not be doing, introductions to the various services they offer and more. She answered all of my odd questions, and then walked us to the lab where they took ALOT of blood. We return on November 21 to meet with the doctor, have more tests completed and discuss the results of the tests we had yesterday.

We stopped at the pancake house for lunch, and were overjoyed to know that our baby is exactly where he/she should be, is the right size and has a strong heartbeat. And, of course, we’re still scared shitless.

Our first baby picture!