What’s the sense in living if I can’t have a cigarette?
This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, ‘The Adventures of an Air Force Medic.” Book is fiction but based on my two years as an air force medic in northern California back in the early ’80s.
Photo: Old man smoking on Pixabay.
I recognized the old timer’s familiar face. We locked eyes, I blurted out, “Welcome back Mr. Flarity.”
“Hello Sean. They got me in for a few tests, only going be here a few days.”
Mrs. Adelson popped in to interview our new patient. “OK, Mr. Flarity, I see they’ve got you on a few meds, blood pressure, heart pills, something here for circulation, and looks like the doc’s authorized some pain medication if you need it.”
Mr. Flarity made me laugh, “I don’t need no pain medication. I’m already in enough pain, how ‘bout some pain relief medication, now I could use some of that.
“But, I tell you what I could really use and that’s a cigarette. Sean, let’s go for a cigarette. Get the wheelchair and I’ll tell you some war stories.”
“Sounds good,” I replied and took off to find a wheelchair.
When I returned, wheelchair in tow, Mrs. Adelson had begun a ‘smoke break squashing’ dialog.
I never called her by her first name; always Mrs. Adelson. Calling her ‘nurse’ Adelson sounded hokey; calling her by her first name, too disrespectful. She represented a unique rank – different from most of the other hospital staff – civilian.
Mrs. Adelson looked dignified, wearing a wrinkle free white uniform and for some reason, regardless of the weather, a white sweater. If I had to describe her hair color, I’d have to go with ‘antique yellow-grey.’ She folded it into a stacked bun on her head giving her that ‘grandma’ look.
She had a royal manner about her, an upper crust California ‘wine estate dynasty’ demeanor. She spoke in a soft yet commanding voice. I never heard her yell, yet I’d seen her get upset. An excellent communicator, she didn’t need to raise her voice to express anger or disappointment. She had an even keel about her.
Mr. Flarity wanted a cigarette but Mrs. Adelson had other ideas.
She communicated her position with clarity, “Mr. Flarity, have you looked at your toes lately?”
“My toes, what about my toes?”
“Mr. Flarity, your toes are blue. You know how they got blue?”
“Never thought about it.”
“From smoking, your toes are blue because your smoking is cutting off the circulation. Do you want to lose your toes?”
“No, but I want a cigarette.”
“If you keep smoking you’re going to lose your toes. You need to stop smoking.”
“OK, I’ll stop but I gotta have a smoke break now. I’ll stop after this smoke break, how’s that sound?”
“You’ll start now. You are not going for a smoke break. You need to stop smoking. I won’t allow you to kill yourself.”
“Oh, c’mon, you can’t deny me a cigarette, that’s cruel.”
“No cigarettes for you Mr. Flarity, not while I’m on duty. Maybe the other nurses will let you, but not me, no cigarettes for you on my watch.”
I stood there, a helpless observer, watching Mr. Flarity practically break out in tears while Mrs. Adelson, acting as judge and jury, delivered the verdict.
I felt bad for Mr. Flarity. His look spoke to me, ‘What’s the sense in living if I can’t have a cigarette?’
I viewed the situation in two-minds.
First, I thought Mrs. Adelson acted courageous, making a stand for Mr. Flarity’s health. She had his best interests at heart, doing what’s right – maybe not popular, but right. And, even though Mr. Flarity pressed, she stayed the course, giving no quarter to protesting, pleading or any other patient ‘tricks of the trade.’
On the other hand, I felt she came on too strong. I figured, ‘Hey, if Mr. Flarity wants to smoke, let him.’ If you tell him the consequences and he still wants to smoke, so be it. He’s a grown man, he knows the score; he can decide what he wants to do.
But, the call had been made. Mrs. Adelson said, ‘No smoking,’ so no cigarette for Mr. Flarity. I accepted the final verdict … for now.
Mrs. Adelson and I left the room, leaving Mr. Flarity in a virtual state of panic about not getting a cigarette. As I walked out, I could feel his eyes peering into my back; visions of him screaming silently, ‘Don’t leave me Sean! Come back, let’s go for a cigarette. Don’t listen to that old hag, I fought in the war, both wars, I was in the horse cavalry for Christ’s sake and now I can’t get a lousy goddamn cigarette!’
I followed Mrs. Adelson as she made her way to the nursing station break room. She stopped at the door entrance, I scooted past and she began talking, “Mr. Flarity will use every trick in the book to get his way. I’m not giving in. That guy’s going to kill himself if he keeps smoking. He needs to stop; it’s for his own good.”
I listened and nodded in agreement. After all, she’s right. Why help the man kill himself? Why help him makes his toes bluer than they already are? We’re here to make him healthy, not make him sick; not make him worse – right?
I kept thinking about all the reasons why it made sense to deny Mr. Flarity a cigarette. Mrs. Adelson’s sermon convinced me, won me over; brought me over to her side. But then she did something that countered her entire argument; something that told me her sermon ‘had no legs,’ no basis in truth; just a load of ‘this sounds good’ talk. Without saying a word, her actions did all the talking; her actions told me, ‘DO AS I SAY NOT AS I DO!’
I observed Mrs. Adelson lift a cigarette to her lips. She took her hand away and the cigarette drooped down, held up only by her squeezing lips; gangster fashion. She tore a paper match from the half-used pack, snapped it along the black ‘friction’ line creating fire; then torched the end of the cigarette with her lit match.
She inhaled and, just like the cigarette, her face lit up. She had that, ‘Life’s good!’ look.
She exhaled. The cigarette stayed lit and so did her face. Now she had that, ‘smoking is the greatest’ look; that ‘what’s life without a cigarette?’ look.
I’d seen ‘that look’ before. Dad used to make it after the evening meal.
He’d clean his plate with a heavily buttered folded slice of white bread, chomp it down and then fire up a cigarette.
Then he’d make his first ‘inhale-exhale’ look. No words needed, his expression said it all, ‘… what’s the sense in eating if you can’t have a cigarette afterwards? If you can’t have a cigarette after the meal, why bother eating?’
And now, Mrs. Adelson is giving me that same look. That far-off-eyes, contented smoker look that says, ‘God almighty, life is good. Give me a cigarette and I’m in heaven. I ain’t got no problems when I’m smoking. Yeah, give me cigarettes or give me death!”
I grew angry. Mrs. Adelson’s ‘don’t smoke’ argument blew up in smoke as she puffed away making the same pose as a high school kid looking cool in the smoking area. I thought, ‘If Mr. Flarity saw her, he’d get up out of his wheelchair and kick her ass! He’d go through the roof. He can’t have a cigarette but it’s OK for her to have one? ‘
I made a decision.
I walked past the smoking Mrs. Adelson, out onto the medical ward hallway, grabbed a stray wheelchair and delivered it to Mr. Flarity’s room. I parked it next to his bed and called out, “Mr. Flarity, hop in, we’re going for a smoke.”
Mr. Flarity gave me a look I’ll always remember. He had that nine-year-old kid on Christmas morning look. I felt like Santa Clause as I loaded Mr. Flarity, holding his cigarette and lighter, into my sleight – I mean wheelchair – and we ‘dashed’ off to the medical ward smoking area.
I watched as Mr. Flarity went through his smoking ritual. He placed the cigarette between his lips kissing it with the same affection reserved for the likes of Greta Garbo or any of the Hollywood beauty queens. He cradled the lighter in both hands, ‘thumb rolled’ the striker causing a flame; then lowered his head reverently, dipping the far end of the cigarette into the fire.
Mr. Flarity completed the ‘first puff’ maneuver with grace and eloquence. He respected the procedure, carrying it out with military precision. He stared off into oblivion as he inhaled, concentrating on just the right amount of smoke to take in. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment savoring the glorious fleeting sensation, finally releasing the ‘happiness giving’ smoke into the medical ward hallway. Then he delivered the most eloquent ‘after-first-puff’ speech I’ve ever heard, “Sean, it’s my last pleasure in life, I ain’t gonna be around much longer. Tell me, why would she deny me a cigarette, my last pleasure; my last pleasure in life; why?”
