Dreams of a Non-Smoker

by Chris Ridder

Intense, vivid dreams are a common side effect of the nicotine patch, and last night was no exception...

We've just hired a talented, very attractive woman to be an editor of some sort. Her attractiveness is as much personal as physical. We're playing video games over the computer network, and she's good enough to win. Who cares if this is company time; we exist in a dream. And, being a hard-boiled journalist, she smokes like a fiend.

I can't take my eyes off her cigarettes. One after another, she puffs, inhales deeply. The second-hand smoke just isn't doing it for me, and the withdrawals are that gut-wrenching, delirium tremens, can't think of anything else type thing. I start taking drags off her cigarettes. A drag now and then, to stave off the pain, then a drag or two per smoke, then it gets ridiculous. I'm bumming them as often as she's smoking them, bumming them faster, smoking more and more until finally I don't even find relief in constant chain smoking.

Smoking is cool. But more important, it's a tremendous pleasure, a forbidden pleasure, especially here in health conscious Southern California. These are the scumbags who invented smoker harassment, who pioneered first non-smoking sections, then outright smoking bans in most indoor places. Now, the effort to ban smoking in all workplaces, including bars, has succeeded. I'm not sure whether to feel good or bad about being cast out of mainstream society: not sure whether I'm quitting for me, or for them.

Don't get me wrong. Environmental tobacco smoke definitely needs to be brought under control, the way we worked to eliminate lead based paint and asbestos. But around these parts, the effort amounts to a religion. These are the people who discovered that workplace smoking bans force people to quit smoking or quit their jobs, who spread a discourse through the culture that smoking is a disgusting habit; who reduced smokers to 15% of the population, one of the lowest rates per region on the planet.

They know a lot about putting the pressure on smokers, even if they don't value personal freedom as much as the rest of the country. And they got me right after I hit town.

I'm running through the casino with a very large semi-automatic handgun. I'm carrying it for protection, backed up against the wall out of the cameras' view, catching a smoke as I plan my next move. This casino is controlled by the notorious 18th Street gang, 20,000 strong, and this wimpy gun just isn't enough against their superior training, their crank-enhanced enthusiasm, their Russian made rocket launchers.

They say I'll have a 60% chance of quitting when I finish these patches. That in 10 years my risk of cancer and heart disease will be near normal. That if I still feel I need the patches, I should consult with my doctor. I hope it doesn't come to that, but giving up three or more dreams each night, completely remembered and often lucid, will be tough.

We're preparing for an arctic expedition. Our base camp is a small barn-like structure heated by a wood-burning stove. One of us has adopted a pet, a 'cucumber mole,' also known as a 'rattlesnake mole.' They look less like moles than downsized raccoons. When we smoke its fur, we get pleasantly high. The only problem is, when its fur comes into contact with human skin, it produces a profound numbing effect, limiting one's ability to move.

I'm trying to limit my smoking to half a pack per day, but it's an uphill battle. It's a bit easier now that I'm smoking mole fur as fast as cigarettes. "They breed faster than rabbits," someone says. "That's okay, I only brought one," comes the reply, just as I see another, this one quite large. Suddenly, dozens of them are running around, paralyzing our legs. We fall to the floor. Damn, I hope these things aren't fatal.

Two more options have become available since I quit not two months ago. Welbutrin, the antidepressant, is supposed to be effective. And perhaps best yet in the 'gum category', the nicotine inhaler. Imagine the unbridled pleasure of absorbing nicotine through the lungs, the way it was meant to be delivered, without all that destructive smoke. This ultimate in instant gratification is rumored to be nearly as effective as cigarettes, with the wonder drug reaching the brain twice as fast as an IV injection of heroin.

I chose Nicoderm CQ. Just quitting didn't seem so good. I started out by cutting down, which was proving difficult. Dammit, I wanted to smoke like a fiend; I loved smoking, almost more than my health. I'd used the gum before, to help me survive the dreaded workplace smoking ban, and found the delivery system woefully inadequate, like substituting that tube-feeding sludge for a gourmet meal. Nicotrol is 15 mg. while Nicoderm CQ is 21 mg, and we all know the more drugs the better. Plus, it has a weaning-off period, a proven method for managing withdrawal.

No matter what you do, they said, a support group will improve your chances of quitting successfully. Smoking cessation is surrounded by a discourse of probabilities, cost-benefit analyses, worst-case scenarios. Caught up in the hype, I spent two weeks searching a city of 13 million inhabitants.

It was too late to get into Freedom From Smoking, you have to quit on one of four days each year. 12 Step programs are too far removed from my personal convictions about addiction and drug use. Addiction isn't a disease, it's an addiction; and I feel no need to relinquish my sense of control to a higher power. I was never out of control: I had freely chosen addiction for the unbridled pleasure of smoking like a fiend, and now I would freely give it up.

There was really nothing else available. After a brief flirtation with starting a decent group, I decided to go it alone, nurtured solely by regular mailings from the Nicoderm CQ Committed Quitters Program. "Don't forget to breathe deep," they say. "If you've started smoking again, save your patches for the next time you quit."

Funny thing is, out of over a dozen mailings, they never mentioned the dreams. The only mention occurs in the safety warning: "If you experience vivid dreams or other disruptions of sleep, use the patch for only 16 hours, or discontinue use." When I called them, Patch Headquarters said only that intense dreams are "...very common, but probably not dangerous."

I'm walking through a hilly portion of San Francisco, smoking. A man motions me into his garage, where he offers to sell me a car. Before I know it, I've purchased a cross between a Karmann Ghia and a Porsche, but about 1/10th actual size. I barely fit. It runs poorly. Instead of tires, it has a snowmobile tread and runners.

And I'm blasting up the hill, further and further. The runners grind against the asphalt. Sparks are flying. My shoes scrape against the pavement, because this car has no floor. Smoking in high winds is difficult, but I manage, squinting against the flying embers and the bright snow above. Asphalt turns to snow. I'm climbing, descending, climbing, descending, into an arctic wilderness overlooking the city. A dead body lies covered by a yellow tarp, the murderers breaking for a cigarette not 20 feet away.

Funny thing is, though, I kind of enjoy it. Despite the occasional pangs of feeling like a mindless sheep lost in an Orwellian nightmare, I've triumphed over Big Tobacco. I've turned my back on an addiction I never intended to hold on to for a lifetime. I breathe easier, climb faster. I've diverted my tobacco budget to other, equally-important entertainment and equipment expenses. And at last count, I'd inspired three other people to quit smoking, a few others to break habits they found troublesome, and caused a number of people to rethink their connection to tobacco and other drugs.

The rewarding journey I embarked on years ago, a love affair with tobacco, has come to a close. I will walk into the next millennium without the addictive drug I embraced so warmly, relying solely on my inner strength and a slowly waning series of risks.