I was sitting in a hospital bed on death’s doorstep when I told the three doctors and my wife and kids that I made the decision to quit doing what was killing me.
I was on death’s doorstep. A casual habit from college evolved into a two-pack-a-day tragedy, and once the pandemic pushed me into a more-than-ever sedentary lifestyle while watching the world go by, those “nails in my coffin” were adding up.
But the “pocket pat” is the real story to tell.
Just minutes after I was released and after we picked up my brand-new medications, we passed the Sheetz on the way out of The Highlands. I patted my pocket and Michelle saw it and recognized it. That’s apparently what I did a lot as a smoker to check how many smokes I had in my pack as I passed a place that sold Marlboro Lights.
And she asked. “Do you want me to stop?”
It was the question of all questions. The line in the sand. The signs at the crossroads were clear to see.
“No.”
“Thank God.”
That’s when it was done. I tore off the nicotine patch off my left shoulder and decided to save my own life. And then I doubled down and quit drinking beer and anything else containing alcohol. I was scared.
I’ve been told a number of times that “most people quit but few people stick to it,” and the only advice I can offer is that you have to want to quit, and if you do, you have to continue until you begin feeling the benefits. Yes, I’ve gained weight. Yes, it was hard and sure, there were cravings and temptations and tests around other smokers.
But then I realize the actual taste of food is incredible, and that I like not smelling like I used to smell, and, yeah, the money part makes me feel stupid every time I think about it.
But I’m here – more than four years later – because of that pocket pat and all the reasons it was easy to resist it.
