Monty Got A Raw Deal

This patch thing is not going to be pretty.

I was born of the tobacco. A memory distinctly rests in my brain of a four year old Grace, standing outside the cab of the pickup truck my father had for a moment, learning how to rhythmically play a pack of cigarettes against my hand to push the tobacco together.

Marlboro Reds, no less.

My father was the cowboy killer, my mother was the Gold Marlboro box. She eventually quit and I grew up in a house of echoing warnings.

Until I went to college. I found myself in January standing outside with Quixote, stressed more than I knew with my EMT knowledge, asking for a cigarette.

And one the next day.

And then I was a smoker.

Sunday mornings I would wake up to an empty cardboard box and a little less air in my lungs.

Summer mornings included driving on 95 with a cigarette out the window and a bottle of Febreeze poised to mask the smell with flowers and exhaust fumes.

My mother was good about it. She disapproved, but what could she possibly say to the younger version of herself repeating a similar mistake?

My father didn't know. I didn't want to give him that pleasure.

And so back to the college that Marlboro pays for, smoking in between breaks from the car that tobacco supplied.

Note the irony yet?

I love smoking. It is in my blood. I grew up with ashtrays and Philip Morris stock quotes.

But my career is pressing in. How can I be an advocate for a healthy birth if I am constantly ducking out of the building for a few minutes only to return smelling like ash?

good effort or not, I am not pleased with this outcome.

The patch on my back feels like the rapture is about to occur.

And I'm going to be stuck here on earth with countless cigarettes and no more babies.