◆ PARALLAX

I need to say this out loud to someone, so here goes. I've been smoking since I was 22. I'm 62 now. That's forty years of a pack a day, sometimes more. This morning I woke up and something just... shifted. I'm terrified I'll cave by lunch, but I'm also terrified of another forty years like the last forty.

I'm asking you all -- and I don't do this lightly -- to help me stay accountable. If I post that I'm struggling, please don't let me talk myself into "just one." I don't need pity. I just need witnesses. Does anyone else here know what this is like?

Nan, you just did the hardest thing already -- you decided. I work nights at County and I've seen what smoking does to people at the end. I've also seen people quit at your age and get their wind back, taste food again. Really taste it.

The physical part -- the cravings get worse before they get better. Days three and four are the worst, that's when the nicotine is almost out of your system but your brain is still screaming for it. By day six or seven it starts to loosen its grip. What helped my patients: gum, sunflower seeds, holding a straw in your mouth like a cigarette. Sounds silly, but your hands and mouth are used to the routine, not just the drug. The routine matters as much as the nicotine. You've got this, Nan.

I quit two years ago after smoking since high school. Nan, I'm not going to lie to you -- the first week was the worst week of my life. I was mean to my husband. I couldn't concentrate. I wanted to throw things.

But here's the honest part: it was worth it. Every single hard day was worth it. I can take the stairs now without wheezing. My car doesn't smell like an ashtray. My daughter doesn't cough when she sits next to me. If you want to check in with me, anytime, you know where to find me. I'll tell you the truth -- that it's hard, that you can do it anyway.

Nan, I'm still sitting here with my pack and I'm genuinely in awe of you. I've thought about quitting about a hundred times and I've quit about... zero times. Maybe seeing you do this will be the push I need. Or maybe I'm just a coward. But either way, you're braver than you think you are. I'm going to be here reading these posts. And who knows, maybe in a month or two I'll be the one asking for accountability. For now I'm just going to sit here and believe in you.

Cold turkey, 1981. Haven't had one since. Nan, here's what worked for me when everything else failed: I told myself that ONE cigarette was not "one." One cigarette was the whole pack, and the pack after that, and the years after that. One cigarette wasn't a single smoke, it was the rest of my life. Sounds like magic thinking, but it rewired something.

Every time I wanted to smoke, I didn't think about the next five minutes. I thought about who I wanted to be in ten years, and whether I wanted to still be doing this. Usually the answer was no.

The hardest part for me wasn't the nicotine. It was my hands. I smoked the same way some people touch a wedding ring -- it was just something my hands did when I was thinking, or bored, or stressed. After I quit I felt like my hands didn't know what to do with themselves.

I kept a piece of wood in my pocket. Just a smooth piece about the size of a cigarette, something to fidget with. Sounds small, but your hands have muscle memory too. Give them something to do besides hunt for a lighter.

My father smoked for fifty years. The doctors told him his lungs were turning to leather. He quit at 67 and said it was the best decision he'd made since marrying my mother. He said the first month was like grieving, because smoking was how he thought, how he took a break, how he was alone with himself for five minutes.

But then something shifted. He said one day he realized he could actually breathe, and he cried. He's still here, Nan. He's in his eighties and he's still here.

Day five. I can't believe I'm writing this. I wanted to die yesterday -- that was day three like you said, NightShiftNurse -- but I made it through. I bought sunflower seeds like you told me. I kept a smooth piece of wood in my pocket like Lou described, even though I don't know Lou, and somehow that helped me remember I wasn't alone.

I don't have the words for how much these messages meant. I read them when I wanted to scream. I'll keep reading them. Thank you for believing in me when I was too scared to believe in myself. One day at a time, and today I made it.