47 days, 23 hours, 22 minutes and 47 seconds

I am attempting to quit smoking. I’ve tried to quit many times in my life. Most of them didn’t last more than a few hours, but three of them almost succeeded.

The first almost success happened in my twenties, although I have no idea how long I remained on the wagon because I didn’t actually realize I’d stopped smoking until a co-worker who sat beside me at work and also smoked, asked me why I’d quit. In those days, we could smoke at our desks and she thought it had been at least a month since she’d seen me light up.

In my forties, an asthma attack brought on by an especially bad year for filbert pollen made it impossible to smoke for three weeks. Taking advantage of this abstinence I lasted for seven months until I repeatedly locked myself out of my apartment late at night. I’d sit on the steps outside my apartment and think about smoking, but of course my money was locked inside along with my keys. One night, I took out the garbage just after midnight and locked myself out again. When I sat on the steps, the change in my jeans pocket jingled. I pulled it out, counted it, then walked to an all-night convenience store for a pack of Marlboros and a lighter.

The last attempt, in my fifties, came after six days in hospital for another bout of bronchitis-related asthma and lasted about three months. I’d just put my house on the market, in preparation for moving to India. Two months after the house sold, I handed in my notice at work, initiating a tornado of anxiety about quitting my job with no prospect of future employment that finally culminated in mad dash to the gas station one Sunday morning.

So I thought this current attempt, triggered by another bout of bronchitis related asthma, would be a breeze, or at least no more than strong wind, because it was so similar to my last semi-successful attempts. I had recent memory of breathing difficulty and was already unemployed with no plans to sell my house, so there was no additional stress in my life.

I gave up drinking to prevent myself from losing control while under the influence with no ill effects at all—other than boredom; sobriety is not my ideal state.  I hid a house key outside in what I hoped was a not-too-obvious location and papered the house with signs like HANG IN THERE! and YOU CAN DO IT!  cribbed from the wrappers of motivational cough drops. Since my previous attempts had been hijacked by failure of will-power, I drew up a reduction chart, limiting myself to fewer and fewer cigarettes each day, hoping an accumulation of small triumphs of will-power would make the day I arrived at zero easier.

Here’s what I learned on day zero: I had no problem enduring the shakes, the headache, the stomach cramps, the cravings and the crankiness. In many ways, the challenge of surviving these symptoms of detoxification bolstered my determination.

Here’s what I learned on day zero plus one: headache, cramps and cravings got worse. Shakes became intermittent. Crankiness faded into a grayish state of apathy. I played at least a hundred games of solitaire on the computer.

Here’s what I learned on day zero plus two: headache got even worse. Shakes reduced to trembles. Stomach cramps were replaced by a strange sensation in my chest, like a spasm of every muscle in my torso, which woke me up at two AM and had the beneficial effect of converting the apathy into mild speculation about whether or not I was having a coronary event. But since I remained alert and mobile and normal-colored, I decided it was probably just another withdrawal symptom.

Here’s what I learned on day zero plus three: Headache still present, but so familiar I didn’t notice it unless I thought about it. All cramping, spasming and shaking ceased. Apathy still present but now punctuated by flashes of joy when I thought about buying cigarettes.

At six PM on day zero plus three, I gave in, bought cigarettes and smoked two in a row in an ecstasy of re-nicification. At seven PM on day zero plus three, when the high subsided, I realized my quitting plan was missing a vital ingredient: the desire to quit.

Now as it happens, the regulations for cigarette packaging recently changed in Canada, and the pack that I bought was in the new format, complete with a disturbing picture of a 42-year-old lung cancer patient, still smoking, and a testimonial she wrote just before she died, urging smokers to visit www.smokershelpline.ca. Not being one to ignore a sign, I hightailed it over to the website the next day, where I found a mass of testimonials from successful quitters.

I read through them, looking for motivations to ignite my desire to quit. Children and grandchildren figured prominently as primary motivators. I don’t have any of those. Many people felt embarrassed by their habit and disliked themselves for smoking in secret. I’ve always been a public smoker. Some people didn’t like the smell or the taste. Again, not applicable to me. However, a number of people said they found the determination to quit by imagining how much longer they’d live and how much healthier they feel while doing it. Well hell. Who doesn’t want to live longer and feel better?

I created a new set of motivational signs to replace the generic encouragement, this time focused on the quality of my longer life. I held a little ceremony, breaking the remaining cigarettes in the pack one at a time while chanting Mr. Spock’s traditional greeting, “Live long and prosper.” I brushed my teeth three times in a row (another activity many quitters found helpful) and embarked upon my second attempt. I held out for two days, with reduced withdrawal symptoms, before breaking down last night and toddling across the street just before the convenience store closed.

This morning, I decided I to join the Connect to Quit program on www.smokershelpline.ca, hoping that following all the steps and joining the support forum would give me the impetus I needed to resist the lure of the demon nicotine. The first step was to fill out my smoking profile. When I finished, the website told me how much money I would save a year and how much longer I would have to enjoy the money I saved, which turns out to be 47 days, 23 hours, 22 minutes and 47 seconds.

Okay, that’s not a terribly long time. But I’ll still feel better, right? Hopefully in less than a month and a half. Because if I don’t, and this third attempt fails, I’m not sure what I’ll use as motivation for the next one.