Week Two. Who Knew?

Today, I am starting week number two in my still short journey to the land of the ex-smoker. Since Day One, I have kept a spreadsheet tracking my progress that I update every day. That's just the way I do business. I keep tabs on progress like my blood pressure and pulse rate because that's important to my health and I need to know those changes. I also track my daily weight because that's important to my vanity and, like it or not, that's one of the reasons I haven't quit before now. A gozillion other women feel the same as I do. That's the way it is and I'm sticking to that story. The spreadsheet has a timer formula that tells me how many hours, minutes and even seconds that I have not had a cigarette. But one formula that I would like to put in the spreadsheet is the one to remind me how I got to this point. 

My parents were quite a bit older than my friends' folks. My Daddy was 43 and my Mother 35 when I was born. I believed that they, when I was a teenager, were so old they didn't understand what I was going through, what I was feeling and needing. I loved them, but I didn't like them much and when I thought about what I wanted in life, I knew they were exactly who I did not want to be. But how many of us are our parents now and how many of us learned to mimic their habits when we were young?

I was born in the mid '50s. As I grew up, I was there when my parents had parties. My Mother and her friends had a weekly bridge club. Ashtrays were set at every four person table, the cards and cigarettes both close to hands. Some of the women, while pregnant, smoked, some had Thursday afternoon cocktails. Saturday nights brought the really close group together, the golfer men and their wives. The women stood in the kitchen, with their cigarettes in fancy holders, laughing and gossiping; the men, in the den, talking about the last golf score or whatever men talked about then. I never sat in the same room during these get-togethers. It wasn't like I was forbidden, but I stayed close enough to listen to what they talked about, hear how they said it and watched what they did. The paneling in the den was originally an almost white pine. When I moved away from home at eighteen, it was a greenish yellow. Mother and Daddy both smoked, but Daddy quit when I was in the first grade. Mother continued for another 30 years.

Some summers, my Mother would lie on the black, hot trampoline in the backyard to tan, baby oil being the preferred tanning agent at the time and, when I was little, I played on the swing set and watched her. Back then, she was my Elizabeth Taylor, my dark haired Lucy Ricardo.  Daddy was always plowing in the field on the old Farmall tractor with no umbrella or hat. He being a farmer was always gone from sunrise to sunset. But in my little kid mind, he would always return because he was my boyfriend. They both got skin cancer.

In later years, in the summertime, my friends and I hung out by the pool at the local country club, baking in the sun. My first job was lifeguarding there; sitting high on the lifeguard stand, slathered in baby oil, my preferred tanning agent. Sometimes red, I eventually had a great tan. 

Boonesfarm wine was cheap and available. My friends and I knew where the parent-controlled hooch was hidden.  Even at sixteen, we had easy access to booze.  We also knew where the cigarettes were kept. So some of us smoked and some of us drank. There wasn’t much else to do in a small little Texas town. My friends and I learned well. We were young, we would live forever! We didn't play bridge, but we found the ashtrays and we played other games.

I don't know too many people who immediately took pristine care of themselves after their parents relinquished their responsibility of safekeeping. I know I didn't. I started my adult life, or so I thought it was my adult life, married at eighteen, marrying against my own better judgment. But that's another story. When we become adults, at whatever age that is, we are supposed to assume control of our own bodies and actions, like it or not. That means also taking the responsibility when we do unhealthy things.

Who knew? Who knew really what that responsibility was?

Mother knew I smoked, probably from the first puff I took. Daddy pretended not to know until he said. 

My Mother died of a sudden heart attack, four years after she had quit smoking. My Daddy died of lung cancer, forty years after he had quit.

We can't get back the bodies we had in our youth, those bodies that we were starting to destroy but didn't know it.  I have learned, over time, we can only nurture the ones we have now and hopefully learn from those loved ones who have died before us.

This is my journey and I'm sticking to it.

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/51035610542@N01/60002388/">cszar</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

Dancing Day Three Away

Day Three. If you're not inclined to read someone else's diary, then stop now. I never wrote in a diary before. The only diary I have ever seen or read was my late Mother's, but that's another story all together. I never even wrote in a journal. I did write letters, long letters, by hand. Some sweet, some not so much.  So, there in a nutshell is a history of my writing. However, this post is not about my writing. It's about Day three.

I had a Day two night dream. Someone was calling me, but I didn't recognize the voice. I didn't recognize the name either that was being called, but I knew it was me that was wanted. I walked around a corner and there was an old man standing there that I didn't know, but I wasn't frightened. He looked at me and winked. Then he turned and walked away. I followed him, but he did a half turn toward me, raised his right hand with his index finger extended, pointed slightly to the horizon and shook his head slowly from left to right, right to left. Then I woke up.

Day three has been an up and down steeple chase. My horse is not wanting to cooperate at all. I want him to go up and over, but he keeps hitting the rails.

I had promised my friend I would do some shopping with her. We both hate shopping and together it's safety in numbers, so I knew it would be short if not so sweet. But when I woke up, I was already anxious, already sad. I was supposed to meet her at 10:45 to do our errands. I think I can do this. I get in the shower, do my morning thing and get ready. Then, no, I really don't want to do this. I just want to go back to bed. But, instead of sleeping, I decide to write.

I write and write and write some more. I post some of it to my blog without editing it. It's simply a diary entry for me right now. Then I get a text "Wr R U". Oh, damn. I forgot! I have an obligation that I must meet.

After shopping and lunch, I head home. I drive into my driveway and stop.  My CD is playing Rachmaninov's Vocalise. I begin to cry. No, that's not quite right. I begin to sob and sob and sob. Big, huge crocodile tears rolling down my face. I'm heaving, but I keep listening to this beautiful music. What is wrong with me??

But I know what's wrong. I know this is how my mind and body are reacting to withdrawal.  So, it's time to take another route, another tack. I go into the house, load up my music and turn up the volume. Now is the time! Rock and roll time. Time to shake off my sadness, my anxiousness. I start to dance. I think I should try to clean my house. But, no! The house can wait. It's about the dancing and the joy now. And I begin to feel it.

Day four will come what may, but for now I dance.

Quitting Countdown or Quit Counting

I have quit smoking. Stopped, ceased, abandoned. Abandoned what had been a pleasurable experience for me.

I began counting at 10:00 PM CST on February 19, 2014, even though my official quit day was the next. I began counting then because that was the time that I stamped out my last cigarette. Some ex smokers, ex drinkers, ex drug addicts count days. I need to count each and every hour, each second. I even count the number of night time hours, because I will never be able to count the number of times I got up at 2:23 AM, or 1:17 AM or icantbelieveimgettingupagain:o'clock AM to have a cigarette. I've been thinking about it, planning for it in the best way possible for me, meticulously. I've prepared a spreadsheet. I take my blood pressure every day at the exact same time and record it. What is my pulse? Has my weight changed? I put it all on the spreadsheet. My spreadsheet is my steering wheel, my vehicle, my history. But I must have a formula wrong somewhere. The spreadsheet says it has only been 60 hours, but that can't be right. Where is the fourth day?

I do the math in my head. Three times 24 plus twelve is 84, right? Yes. But the spreadsheet has lost a day somewhere. I need to remember from the beginning.

Day one I felt a terrible sadness, a profound melancholy almost, that still lingers over me like the smoke I no longer inhale. I walk around trying to get out from under it, but I can't, so I wrap it around me and go on with my days.

Day one night has me dreaming things incredible. I reach up and rub my face. My hand comes back sticky with blood. I get up from bed and stumble to the bathroom and sit in the tub. Blood is seeping from everywhere, leaking. Then I feel a strange scratching on my chest, like sandpaper. I awake with a start as my cat, Moby is licking sweat from my chest.

Day two. Day two was only yesterday! The spreadsheet didn't lose a day, I made one up. Damnit! Here I thought I was farther along than just Day Two. I count again. DAY TWO. Day two has my mind racing. I am fidgety, restless. I feel like I have OD'd on Red Bull. I am a walking advertisement for adult attention deficit disorder. My mind is thinking of everything, but resting on nothing.

Today is day three. The sadness is still here, but my AADD has been replaced by a silent scream. I am impatient. I want to be by myself and left alone, but I have things to do that require me to interact with people. I want to yell ShutupshutupshutupSHUTUP as loud as I can, but I will stifle the urge to lash out at those closest to me and even those who are not. I know this feeling, too, shall pass.

Tomorrow, day four, is coming. I can wait to see what is in store for me, but it will come nevertheless. I can't wait when I don't have to count anymore.

Quit, Quitter, Quitting

I'm quitting tomorrow! My smoking days and nights end tonight at 11:59 PM CST. Today, I've smoked the equivalent of a day of a coal miner's dig. If I was the canary in the cage at the bottom of the mines that are my lungs today, I would be dead.  I know this is what I must do. But I am sad. And I can't seem to come to grips with this sadness. More than almost anything, I want to quit this habit. Am I sad because I'm quitting my deadly friend? Am I sad because I must change my habits? Or is it because of the date I have chosen? Perhaps it's all of these, but it may be more. I will dig in, hunker down and meet this face on, as I do with almost everything in my life. Wish the canary well, please.

Riding and Deciding

It's a little cold, but I want to ride. I need to ride because it has been awhile and I need to feel and think. I back my bike out of the garage and push it into position. I check the headlights, blinkers, rear lights and brakes. I put my on leathers like a gladiator and I am ready.

A lot of the road to my destination is not pretty. In fact, it's downright ugly. Ugly plastic mailboxes that resemble ET. There are barren, brown cotton fields with pivot sprinklers standing as sentry until next planting time.  Other fields have the remains of dead sunflower stalks standing, but the Grackles as a black cloud swoop in and begin feasting on the seeds left behind. The Mesquite trees are spindly. The Old Farmers Almanac says not to plant a garden until the Mesquites have budded. By these Mesquite's way of thinking, it's going to be a long time before I can put a spade in my flower beds.

The oil derricks along the road are pumping a song of their own, almost a waltz. One two three up, one two three down. Someone's gold is being pumped. Someone's land is being drilled. I wonder if this is a good thing.

The stripes of the highway below my left are running. They have a rhythm of their own, even though they're silent. LineLineLineLine. LineLineLineLine.

I pull up to a stop sign and get ready to turn left, but that car is coming. It starts to slow down and it looks as if it's turning right, but there's no blinker. It still thinks it's turning right because it now has drifted into the bicycle lane. But still no blinker. I'm not going to move, but keep my bike in first gear in case I need to. It does finally turn and the window is down. He's an old man, I should keep my mouth shut, but I can't stop myself, "You don't have a blinker??" I yell.  I feel bad, because my Dad was once an old man driver.

I like this part of the road because there are animals living along it. There is a vet up on the left. There are horses in his stalls. Sometime I think if a vet has horses, it is probably not a good thing, but I spot the farrier getting ready to shoe. There are donkeys on the right. Cute dappled donkeys and the not unpleasant smell of manure in the air. Up ahead, there's a sweet pooch who sits by the side of the road watching. He just sits and watches me drive, no chasing in his mind. I wave to him and he smiles.

I turn again and drop down below the caprock. Now here it's warm. This is another world from before. Rocks and crags, hills and draws. Some of these Mesquites look happier.

I look for the sign. Gospel Ragtown it says, but that venue is not what I'm looking for. As I turn at this sign, the road is rough, pocked marked, rutted. I drive slower because my bike is lower than some and I don't want to bottom out. The drought in my state has been horrible, but down here, in the draw, it seems to be a memory. There is green here and there, especially after the recent snow and now warmer sun. The maple trees, though still naked, are stretching across the road to touch each other, as if to say "I remember you, I'll wait for you." I turn to the right and travel to my spot. I know I've not been the only one here, but I pretend that I am. I pull to my stop, get off my bike and walk. It's not too far now.

The spring is still running. In this desert of a land I live, water is life, water is precious. I find my rock and sit. I sit and gather wool, daydream and remember. I remember back 12 years ago to the week. I was taking care of my Dad; he was dying. He had put up a valiant fight, but he was now ready. He had been without his wife of 56 years for six and he was ready to go. He had smoked for a part of his adult life, but had quit cold turkey over 40 years ago. He hated that I smoked, not for how it looked, but for what he knew it to do. He had lung cancer and hadn’t smoked in over 40 years. “But your Mother smoked forever and she was able to quit,” he would tell me, encouragingly. I wanted to say, “Yeah, but she died, even the same," but I never did. The excuses are piling higher in my mind than the stacks of  cigarette packs I’ve bought; other ex-smokers are stronger than me, I enjoy it, it keeps my weight down. Everyone who has known a smoker, or even is an ex-smoker has heard or said the same. But I know my excuses are empty. I have just made my up mind here and now that I will quit. Not just try to quit, but to quit. I’ve picked my Daddy's death anniversary which is in a few days as my day.

I will do this not for my Daddy, but because of him. I will do it because he told me I could, oh those many years ago. This time I will succeed.

The Waves in my Mind

My mind is awash with ideas. It feels as if I am back in California, standing on the sand watching the waves come at me and not knowing which one to run from and which one to jump into. There are tiers in these waves. The first ones are small. Seemingly insignificant little ripples that hardly make it to the shore, but those tiny waves bring riches when they do; small iridescent shells that once were homes, a single tentacle that's still alive and moving. There are golden flecks of sand. Then more waves begin, with their larger size. Left, right and center they come. These bring more life; a small jellyfish floating up. Then the wave sucks it back to continue on wherever it will go. The beautiful shell of a sea turtle rolls in and as it turns in the surf, the core of the animal is gone, eaten out, eyes dead. Another wave washes over this dead thing, taking it away. Larger waves come. The sound of them crashing to the right on the rocks is almost deafening. There is an echo. Another one is coming. Another one is rising, threatening. But it is so beautiful, turning over and over, blue green, green blue. Where is this one going? Roiling over and over and, so tall, I cannot see the horizon; it seems to rise to the clouds. I begin to think that it will crash over and crush me. I run as fast as I can. I run because my life depends on it. I run and jump into this wave. The current takes over and pulls me with it and I relax.  My body doesn't fight. My mind doesn't resist. This is my home now.

Donations Please

"Hello, my name is Melinda and I am a blood donor." 

"Hello, Melinda."

More specifically I am a platelet/RBC donor and I try to give regularly. I suppose you can call me a donoraholic. I am also type O, so the blood center loves me, like the vampires that I think they are. Some of my friends don't understand my need to do this. Some of them actually think I'm nuts to spill my own bodily fluids voluntarily. 

There are strict requirements that must be met in order to donate. The minimum weight for women is 110 pounds. When I got up this morning and stepped on the scale, I saw 111.5 on the digital readout. Women must also be at least 5'1". I stretch the tape measure to 5'5 1/2". I think I'm average.

All donors go through an interview process, if you will, prior to being attached to a big machine with a needle and long tubes. You are asked all sorts of incredibly personal questions and I wonder if they have the police department's phone number on speed dial in case you answer yes. If the answers you give are in the negative and the technician is satisfied you are not lying, your blood is tested to make sure you are not anemic and that your platelet count is high enough. My count was a little bit lower than eight weeks prior, but it wasn't too low for me to be rejected.

The technician leads me to the donation room and I get settled in; heating pad on the lap, blanket over my body. I get plugged in with a needle in my arm to drain and earbuds in my ears to fill. My tech, Jaquie, heads off to confer with the other techs about my readings. And they confer and confer and confer some more.

Jaquie comes back and explains to me that, with the combination of my weight and my lower platelet count, this particular draw will take longer than usual in order to reduce any side effects on my body. Hum? Longer is better? Oh, well. I tell her I certainly don't have anything better to do, so lets get this show on the road.

Jaquie programs all my numbers into the computer and pushes "Go". She turns the monitor toward me so I can see the progress. I have 103 minutes ahead of me.

I'm settled in for the long haul. I have a large and very eclectic collection of music on my iPad. Sometimes when I'm in this chair, I listen to classic rock, sometimes it's classic classical. Today, since its cold and dreary outside, I choose the latter.

Time passes; I read and I listen. I read a man's life through his words and I listen to serenity in my music. This is the best time ever, believe it or not. I am relaxed, I am at peace, I am alone and there are no interruptions from anything or anyone. I really look forward to this time.

Then it's over. I'm finished. I go into the break room to have a snack, a soft drink and wait the requisite 15 minutes before leaving. I begin texting a friend some short puns about my donation that I think, at the time, are incredibly funny. I walk out to my car when I get a reply text from him that says "What??". I go back to the previous texts and see that Mr. iPhone Spellchecker had taken over and had decided what I originally typed wasn't really what I meant, so he had taken it upon himself to change it.

I begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Not a twitter, not a giggle, but a full-fledged from the bottom of my gut laugh. I don't think I'm hysterical, but I can't stop laughing. I'm sitting in my cold car, in the parking lot of the blood center and I look like a loon, a laughing loon. Another donor walks up and taps on my window. "Are you ok? Do you need some help?" he asks. I'm laughing so hard that I can barely answer. As tears of hilarity are streaming down my face, I look at him and nod. I croak out an "I'm ok, thank you." Maybe my friends who think I'm nuts for donating are right. Maybe I am nuts.

A platelet apheresis donation procedure separates the platelets and red blood cells. My blood will be used for trauma patients, perhaps a child in surgery. My platelets will be used for people undergoing cancer treatments. I had a dear friend die last month from pancreatic cancer. I often wonder if any of my past donations had been used to help him just a little. I like to think so. I wonder if my friends would understand that affinity I feel with him. If they did, I wonder if they would still think I'm nuts.

Taylor's Last Ride

Taylor's Corvette hit the guardrail at 76 miles per hour. It flew over the culvert and slammed into the embankment. He did not die on impact.

Taylor lived his life knowing he would be a football star. Growing up, his favorite team was the Dallas Cowboys and his all time idol was Roger Staubach. Taylor knew every snap, stat and touchdown the quarterback had made. His parents sent him to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell, New Mexico, where Staubach had attended, where Taylor was the starting quarterback for the Colts. He was recruited and signed to play for the Texas Longhorns in Austin,Texas before his foot hit the stage the night of graduation.

As expected, Taylor won the top spot for the Longhorns. He led the Horns to two conference titles and was a leading contender for the Heisman trophy in his sophomore year. He was being courted by the Pros. There had been scouts from the Saints, the Raiders and even his beloved Cowboys. After the end of his junior year, he made the decision to go pro and was signed by the Dallas Cowboys. Taylor had thrived in Austin. The lifestyle there was the polar opposite of life in the small dusty town in New Mexico and the strict rules and regulations of the Military Institute were no longer valid. He was living his dream, but Taylor had a secret.

After he had first moved to Austin, Taylor began exploring his new hometown and found Sixth Street. Even though he had charted his life course carefully through his love of football, he had never entertained a romantic or even a dating life. In east Austin, he finally found what he had never searched for, found what he never knew he needed.

The gay lifestyle was one of freedom for Taylor. He would go to the clubs in anonymity and dance through the night. He would meet his sexual partners in restrooms and alleys, never asking names, never telling his own. He began calling himself Roger during these times. Then he met Frankie.

Frankie was outgoing and flamboyant, slight in build, but big in personality. He was the exact opposite of Taylor and Taylor adored him. They would meet at the bars, drink until they could barely stand, then stumble down the street to the local Motel Six where they would have sex until they were sober again. Roger would leave Frankie in the morning and become Taylor again. 

He had to prepare for his move to Dallas. With his signing bonus from the Cowboys, he had bought himself a new corvette, but wanted to be frugal with the rest. He had rented a small condo in Dallas and needed to pack up his life in Austin. That meant leaving Frankie. He must pack away his gay life, too. There was no room for that life in the NFL. If anyone found out about Taylor's secret, his career with the Cowboys would be over before it started. The existence of Roger must be erased forever.

One night the week before he was scheduled to leave, he had one last tryst with Frankie. They met at their favorite bar, had drinks, then retreated to the motel. That night, instead of crazy, wild sex, they made fervent love. Taylor did not want it to end. When the sun began to come up, the lovers showered together, then left for breakfast. That's when Taylor told Frankie he was leaving.

The morning of Taylor's departure, he checked his mail one last time. There was only one letter, the envelope written with a beautiful hand.

A letter and picture were found on the floorboard of Taylor's wrecked Corvette. The letter said simply, "Dearest Taylor, I know who you are. Love, 'Frankie' "