cancer cures smoking

On Feb. 4, the day the 2010 Winter Olympic Torch burned through the Sunshine Coast, I burned through nearly a pack of Export "A" Ultra Smooth cigarettes on my way to have surgery on my lung to remove three tumors. Cancerous tumors.

Why quit now? I smoked my first cigarette at 12 and, by 14, I was an accomplished, regular smoker. This was the 1960s. My mother smoked, most of my teachers smoked in the classroom, my doctor smoked in his examination room and, of course, all the cool boys smoked.

The only reasons for me not to smoke? "It isn't ladylike" and "it will stunt your growth." A towering (for largely Francophone northern New Brunswick) 5'9", I had no interest in being taller or being ladylike.

My mother dismissed the health concerns of smoking by pointing to her mother's grave: Elizabeth Doyle died of lung cancer in her early 60s, never having smoked a cigarette. Grandpa Joe always had a pipe in his mouth, but secondhand smoke wasn't to blame because he never lit the thing.

It may have been smoke inhalation damage from the night their Atholville home caught fire while they slept, but my mother was of the opinion that your birth and death were preordained so it didn't much matter what you did in between.

She got breast cancer in her 40s, in the mid-1960s. They lopped off her breast, gave her a few radiation treatments and she was fine, for a few years. It came back, in her lymph nodes. Surgery under her arm, more radiation and she was again fine. The third time it was in her throat, and now we're into the early 1970s. Same routine, surgery and radiation, and she was fine.

That last time, she quit smoking. Or so we thought. Next spring, as ten feet of snow melted behind the house, under a little window just big enough to stick your head out, a pyramid of weathered DuMaurier (her brand) cigarette butts was revealed. My father and I didn't mention it, he cleaned up the butts and my mother immediately took up smoking in front of us. As our family did with this kind of thing, we just pretended it never happened.

I walked up to the Vancouver General Hospital (VGH) admissions desk with a brand-new pack of Export A Ultra Smooth cigarettes in my pocket, along with a purple Bic lighter, ready for me as soon as I could get back to them. I'd been smoking for over 40 years and, cancer or not, I knew that the damage was done, so what would be the point of quitting now? I was a hardcore addict, I knew I couldn't quit, and I accepted that.

After surgery on Friday, my focus was on staying comfortable (comfortable = avoiding pain) and not messing up the drainage tube obscenely coming out of my lung, through my ribs and snaking over the side of the bed to some invisible receptacle for blood and gore. I made the mistake of having a peek and, believe me, they should not make those tubes transparent. It was unsettling, to say the least.

The pain was fine, unless I moved. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised; they did pull a chunk of my lung out between my ribs, along with the tumors in it, so those ribs and surrounding muscles were a bit tender. The nurses were wonderful, cheerfully pushing another dose of hydromorphone (Dialaudid) into my i.v. tube every four hours and sooner if I whined, which I did. Never occurred to me to crave a cigarette. I don't know if it was the pain, the narcotics or the unpleasantness of the situation, but I think I just forgot I was a smoker.

On Sunday, the drainage tube was pulled out (a disturbing sensation to say the least), the hole was closed with one stitch and the pain subsided considerably. I was now steady enough to walk to the bathroom without hanging on to a nurse, and even explore a bit beyond my room. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were all delicious. It occurred to me that I should be craving a cigarette, but I wasn't.

The next morning, Feb. 8, I was released, less my wee tumors, from the 12th floor of VGH after a checkup x-ray and visits from my surgeon, his residents and a few nurses to make sure everything was okay and I was clear on what I should be doing, or not doing, at home. 

Before leaving my room, in a fit of melodrama, I pulled the pack of Export A Ultra Smooth from my jacket pocket and disdainfully flung it into the garbage bag taped to my bedside table. It was like they were someone else's bad habit, and I didn't feel like wasting space in my pocket for it. I did, however, keep the purple Bic lighter.

The first few mornings at home, waking up, I visualized my immediate routine. Open eyes, stretch, reach for the cigarettes, light up, go to the bathroom, then to the kitchen for tea and cereal. I'd normally chain-smoke through that first cup. But wait, there are no cigarettes here. That's not the addiction talking, but my brain; still groggy with sleep, it hasn't forgotten the habit. Awake now, I don't want a cigarette.

It's been a week since surgery and I've still not smoked, nor have I had that berserk craving that's impossible to out-will or ignore. I'm down to only one or two 4-mg Dilaudid tablets a day, so I can't give that any credit. I'm feeling very little pain and getting my energy back quickly, so I should be wanting to smoke. But, I'm not. My jones has left the building. 

Cancer cures smoking.