Member-only story
Lived Through This
The Art of Failing to Quit Smoking
An account of my war with Chantix
Dr. Lee is a startling woman. If I stood in the middle of a field with my mother on one end (a smile and open arms) and Dr. Lee on the other (rolled-up newspapers in each hand), and they both said, “Come here, boy,” without a second’s delay I’d bound my way over to Dr. Lee. Not for safety, not for comfort or health, and certainly not for a good ear-scratching. I’d do it out of pure, primal fucking fear. So when she told me it was time for me to quit smoking, I had a horrible realization: I was going to have to ghost my doctor.
I’d tried to quit smoking only once in 12 years. I went to a hypnotist, and he told us it was okay to fall asleep, so I did. I lasted two days before I dug a half-smoked cigarette out of the ashtray of a Papa John’s.
It was the best goddamn cigarette I’ve ever had.
When Dr. Lee told me to quit smoking, she didn’t blink. She never blinks. She looks at you like she’s daring you to run. “Do you have eye drops?” I asked.
“No.” She held my gaze across the office. It was such a tiny office.
“Ah, okay, I just had LASIK, so my eyes are, like — ”
