The ogre I was ready to tussle with, whose fetid breath I expected hot on my face, was Physical Craving. I was sure we’d meet. After all I had been lacing my cells and tissues with nicotine since I was 15 years old. Logically, my body must have adapted all functions to run on a continuing supply of the stuff.
The Theory of Evolution alone dictated that, deprived of what to all intents and purposes had become a life-supporting substance, my body should have rebelled. Sweats, aches, spiders crawling over my skin, tremors, maniacal laughter followed by outbursts of sobbing should now ensue – or was I confusing nicotine with heroin or crack?
Considering how venomously and virulently the anti-smoking lobby railed against cigarettes, one could be forgiven for thinking nicotine and tobacco consumers were the anti-Christ or at least close relatives.
So I was prepared. For two weeks nothing happened. Or so it appeared – but I was looking in the wrong place. My scientific self-observation technique was at fault. An effect was certainly occurring, however it was not physical, it was mental: I had lost the capacity to think.
Being able to ride up to my eighth floor apartment in an elevator, order a triple shot grande latte at any Starbucks anywhere on the planet, get a hot shower out of my plumbing, see the sun rise each day, have the occasional coherent thought – these were things I took for granted. They say you don’t miss your water until your well runs dry and my mental well had gone biscuit-like.
I couldn’t form any coherent thoughts, nothing more complex than ‘make a coffee’, ‘go for a run’, ‘eat something’, ‘watch a movie’, ‘go to sleep’. Therefore, those were the things I did. What I didn’t do was work; any writing; anything remotely intellectually oriented.
Fortunately, that same week I had to fly overseas to a conference so other people like airline attendants, conference organizers, and bossy friends were issuing those kinds of orders too, so my debilitation didn’t really surface until I was back home and ready to get back to work. It was as if I had a huge billboard that read ‘WTF??’ planted smack in the middle of my mental landscape. I stared blankly at the keyboard and waited in vain for inspiration…
Hmm, I mused in a fleeting moment of consciousness, if smoking raises one’s capacity for mental activity and the anti-smoking assholes want everyone on the planet to not smoke, then that means… But I couldn’t complete that thought either.
My interpersonal relationships changed dramatically. A typical conversation went like this:
My friend perusing a menu: Do you think I should have the lemon sole or rack of lamb?
Me: Rack of lamb?
Friend: Really? But I had that last time.
Me: Last time?
Friend: Yes, you’re right, it was a month ago. It’s not like I’m overdoing it.
Me: Not like you’re overdoing it?
Friend putting down menu and smiling at me benignly: You know, you’re a much nicer person since you stopped smoking.
I’d gone from an abrasively self-opinionated dick to a human audio playback device. People were flocking to bathe in my aura, complete strangers told me their woes. No, not really, I’m just trying to illustrate how profoundly I had been transformed.
Was this going to be the pattern for the rest of my life? Was I going to evolve into a perfect intellectual vacuum? How was that going to work when I needed every wit and wile to deal with my three teenaged children?
Coming Next: Was Brain Death Something I Could Learn To Live With?
