The story of a woman whose vices came to define her, and who delighted in a token attempt to save her as quaint absurdity.
posted 1.26.06
One Match a Day
"I only light one match a day," the old woman said. Her voice was as dry as gin poured right from the bottle, tossed back in a smoky barroom, and I speculated that her vocal cords had long since turned to leather.
"Yes, young doctor, that's right," she rasped. "One match at seven a.m., and I'm lit for the rest of the day. But don't worry; I won't smoke in your office."
The examining room walls seemed to be yellowing from the tar and ash spilling from her lungs. The air was acrid and I could feel my own nose recoiling from her bitter exhaust. "Have you ever thought of quitting?" I asked her between held breaths.
She smirked at me, as if to say: Oh dear, how precious. You want to save me. But behind her cool blue eyes, under the silver cap of elderly hair that shaded her skull, I could almost see the nicotine devil in charge of her free will. Its puppetry was masterful. The old woman's yellow-stained fingers stroked her mouth as if searching for a phantom cancer stick.
"You know it's never too late to try," I continued. "There are newer medicines and nicotine patches that can increase your chances of quitting from 5% to almost 40%. I'd like to help you if you'd allow me." I glanced over at the window in the room. It was closed. Behind it fresh air streamed, and I wanted to open the window and let it pour in.
"Sweetie, save your efforts for someone else," the old woman wheezed. "I have tobacco in my veins, you see. Fifty years, and I'm up to four packs a day. Didn't I tell you that I only light one match a day?"
From seven in the morning until midnight she walked the world with her burning rolls of tobacco—their thousands of carcinogens drifting in entangled smoke clouds like putrid insects suspended in sagging spider webs. Had she become something else entirely? Was she a gray specter, sustained by rising smoke pouring like sand in reverse up through her hourglass frame?
She rocked forward on the examining table impatiently, and I knew it was time to move on. Nicotine was whispering to her. I noted her yellow teeth, her rotting gums, and her wheezing chest that would need years of airing out upon the laundry line to smell fresh again. I did pity her. She needed a savior better than I.
I gave her advice on several other problems and decided that it was fruitless to keep bothering her about smoking cessation. When the visit was done we both stood up. I helped her with her winter coat. Her right hand plunged into the smoked fur, followed by her left, and I pulled the garment up over the osteoporotic hump in her back.
"Thank you," she said. Her expression softened. "I appreciate you trying to help me quit. But smoking is what I do. Perhaps you could talk to my daughter the next time you see her? She takes after her mother."
The old woman walked out of the office, her right hand in her coat pocket. I imagined it was gripping a pack of Marlboros, her yellow fingertips fondling their deceptive filter tips. [Add your comment]
Reprinted by permission of the author from The Examining Room of Dr. Charles. Dr. Charles is a family doctor. He likes to write. His "weblog is a combination of those two pursuits, written in a way that reflects the inspiration I gain from practicing medicine and knowing my patients."
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