I love smoking cigarettes, I love it. The feeling of a new pack, slapping the bottom into the flesh of my left hand to pack the tobacco, pulling the cellophane tab to open the pack, flipping the fourth from the left in the back row as my “lucky,” losing my lighter and rejoicing finding it, celebrating with a cigarette, commiserating with a cigarette, crying with a cigarette, laughing with a cigarette. Keeping my fingers busy, keeping my mouth distracted, having brief but meaningful interactions with other smokers outside, and the brief panic of running out are delightful little reminders that I choose how to live my own life.
I just love smoking.
That said, I understand that it will probably kill me. I’m ok with that, something will kill me, why not have it be cigarettes. I was recently diagnosed with a questionable spot on my lungs that is being watched and I feel pretty confident that it’s cancer in there almost certainly caused by decades of smoking (and loving) cigarettes.
A nurse at themedicaloncologygroup.com suggested that if I had quit smoking, I wouldn’t be dealing with this diagnosis and she’s probably right. But she doesn’t understand how comfortable I am with the diagnosis.
I’ve always known that I would die someday. I’ve always known that it would have something to do with the choices I made in my life. I refuse to be bullied into believing that a long life is inherently better than a short one.