Quits

I had been trying to quit smoking for years before I finally found something that worked.

Oh Lord, the things I tried. Patches nauseated me every time I had a cigarette while wearing one, the oral sprays and gum were just nasty. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled, drank fresh cold water until I sloshed when I walked. I even stuffed an empty pen casing with tissues and pretended it was a cigarette.

I griped and moaned constantly to my friends about my inability to quit, until one of them snapped and threw the idea of hypnotherapy at me. I think the idea came out of a desperate need to shut me up, but I felt fresh hope. Maybe it would work, certainly wouldn’t hurt to try. And it did work … after a fashion.

I researched hypnotherapists who specialised in helping people to quit smoking. Who knew there were so many of them! I narrowed the list down to the ones within an hour’s drive, then read reviews of each and every one until I found The One. Quite frankly, I put more effort into finding a good hypnotherapist than I ever did in finding a man.

Monday morning found me sitting beside a large, frondy pot plant in the offices of Dennis R. Stratfield, hypnotherapist extraordinaire. We chatted for a while, discussing the issue of my nicotine addiction and what I hoped to achieve through hypnotherapy.

To my surprise, I started feeling sleepy almost immediately despite my best intentions to resist. But Mr Stratfield assured me he hadn’t actually started the treatment yet, and it was more likely due to my going to bed late the night before. His lips quivered briefly, and I suspect he was holding back a giggle at my expense, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Finally, his assistant, Melissa, showed me to what looked like a deckchair that turned out to be more comfortable than it looked, and turned the lights down to an intimate, soft dimness.

The doctor … are they actually doctors? I didn’t think to check. Anyway, Dennis fussed about, making sure I was comfortably settled and relaxed before he took a seat just behind my head, told me to stop craning my head to look at him, and to just shut my eyes and concentrate on his voice.

It wasn’t what I expected at all. He didn’t tell me I was feeling sleeeeeepy, my consciousness didn’t go spiralling off in a riot of colours. It occurred to me that I should probably stop basing my knowledge of these things on late night B-grade movies.

He waited patiently until I stopped fidgeting, then had me imagine writing the number one on a blackboard, drawing a circle around it, and erasing it. Then number two … you get the picture. While I was thus occupying myself on a conscious level, he was busy channelling into my subconscious. “You will listen to my voice. You don’t want to smoke anymore. You will listen to what I say. You will never have a craving for a cigarette ever again. You will listen only to me. You will … oh … eh … erk … nggggg … arghhhh …”. Thump.

Then Melissa’s squeaky little voice. “Oh my God! Caroline, call an ambulance. I think he’s just had a heart attack!”

Sound of slamming doors, feet running over carpet, hysterical phone conversations. Sound of a distant siren, more slamming doors, paramedics grunting with lifesaving effort before someone called it. Dennis R. Stratfield was no longer with us.

A stranger’s voice just behind my head, “Um … does someone need to do something about this chick on the lounge? I mean, is she okay?”

Then Melissa’s voice, “Ms Friedman. Laura. You need to … I don’t know … snap out of it. Now!” Sound of fingers being frantically clicked.

Pfft. They weren’t going to fool me. I had my orders. Maybe this was a test or something. I wasn’t to listen to anyone else’s voice or follow anyone else’s orders. I could wait. And I did. I waited, and I waited …

I don’t know how many months I have waited now. I can breathe on my own, but I am aware of being fed through a tube. A little uncomfortable, but it gets the job done.

And I don’t feel like smoking anymore.