The end of a long day that got much longer
One of the first things I said to the woman police officer who came with her colleague to tell me what had happened to my son was, “Please get my tobacco. It’s on top of the fridge.”
That day was a long day even up to that point—I won’t go, here, into the series of events here but just believe me, it was one of those days when everything conspired to take my attention and energy—all day at work, then a long after work meeting and then home to more of the same.
A bad day to quit smoking
I had decided to quit smoking the night before. I knew I could do that—I hadn’t relapsed for long and it really wasn’t doing me any good, but that’s tobacco for you. So my Golden Virginia, my Rizlas and my clipper lighter were sitting on top of the fridge, behind the stereo. I do better when quitting to have some tobacco available, otherwise it becomes an obsession with going out and buying some. I had done it before, several times and had been a non-smoker for many more years than being a smoker.
So the police officer brought it to me and I rolled myself a skinny roll-up, no wimpy filters for me! I inhaled and got the kind of hit that is only really possible after many hours of deprivation. My mind said, “Yes!” even as my lungs said, “Really!?” and there I was, still a smoker but a completely different person now than the one who had stashed the supplies up there on the fridge—just in case.
My stalwart companion
So from there the rolling of fags and the smoking of the first quarter of each one and the rolling, the smoking, the rolling, the smoking—on and on—day and night—accompanied me through the horrors and the demands and the deep, deep sorrow that came next.
After three days, I could barely breath at all as I could not sleep but was chain smoking my little roll-ups 24/7 and frantically making one after another. My children would gently point out that I already had two rolled but still my hands wanted to make more.
I remember leaving the church from his funeral service and someone saw me with the rollup in hand in the churchyard and asked for a go on my fag. (What the fuck?!) I said , “No.” and turned away. In retrospect, that was an important moment. I knew that my needs had to trump hers at that moment and they would continue to trump other people’s considerations for a long time after that. What on earth did that woman imagine it was like to walk out of your handsome beautiful boy’s funeral—did she think I had any space beyond my own overwhelm? I had no space for anything else at all. But I did have my tobacco.
I kind of miss you, my friend, tobacco.
As I write this, I am missing having the tobacco. I miss having the reason to walk out of whatever was happening to smoke. I miss the sense of “Fuck it! I’ll have a fag -don’t you dare tell me I shouldn’t do it!” I was the worst kind of smoker. A friend called it a cowboy’s breakfast, black coffee and a cigarette. I kept it up for ten years.
For ten years I smelt of stale tobacco, had a foul taste in my mouth and set fire to stupid amounts of money but it was a support. It’s so hard to describe how much of a support it was.
Throughout my psychotherapy training which unpacked my psyche and unearthed the most hidden and scary parts of my experience in this world - I had tobacco as a little respite and a moment of solitary solace. I sat in the garden at the beautiful Karuna Institute while my colleagues ate muesli and drank herbal tea and smoked. I attended silent meditation retreats and rather than sit and mindfully eat with my colleagues, I hot-footed it to the nearest field and sat, leaning against a convenient tree and sought the hit, which was quite considerable after a few hours of mindfulness.
One afternoon, my nephew commented, as young children do, on my tobacco breath and that nearly prompted a full-stop, but even my own grandchild’s existence wasn’t enough to make me decide to stop.
And then, ten years after my son’s death I stopped. I sometimes miss being a smoker - somehow I was never alone when I had my tobacco. Perhaps I will blog next time about the gin!