Because I Could Not Lie to Him

When Bru and I married, we promised to be truthful with each other, no matter what the circumstance.  It served us well over the years because when one had to admit to something – small or large – the other did not get angry.  We wanted real values in our marriage.  Those included being truthful, being true to each other, being steadfast when the other needed strong arms instead of angry words and sticking together when setting boundaries for our children.

All went well for sixteen years, until I decided to give up smoking.  There were other times I tried this challenge and failed miserably.  Bru succeeded a few years after we married; I took another ten years.  Frankly, I have no clue how he stood being around a woman who smelled like stinky smoke.  Yet he hung in there through colds and sinus attacks made more miserable by my incessant habit.  Never once did he complain or push me to quit.  In fact, during one attempt, when he came downstairs, smiling and hugging me with a declaration of his love, and my growling reply of ‘Can’t you say anything else!?”spewed forth, he begged me to start smoking again.

I could not understand why he quit and seemed to have no change of personality, while I became a she-Godzilla.  Three times the attempt failed, but the fourth, I intended to succeed, come hell or high water!

The nicotine patch came out about that time.  He urged me to try it, even though our budget could scarce afford the hundred dollar price tag.  As always, he willingly did anything he thought made me happy.  My sense of smell improved.  The flowers he sent to my office smelled delightful.  The smoke in my daughter’s hair, from her babysitter’s cigarette habit, did not.  I asked the sitter to smoke outside from that time on and to keep Jaimie out of the sitter’s bedroom, since that was her private area to smoke in bad weather.

I noticed yellow streaks on bathroom walls after showers or baths.  Never had it occurred to me that all that tar and nicotine stuck to every surface in the house.  We scrubbed walls, ceilings, door facings and every cabinet until the natural colors shown through the filth left by years of cigarettes.  I repainted the walls, while Bru was away from home for over a week.

One night while cleaning the kitchen, the urge for a cigarette hit so hard, my hands trembled with the need.  The patches made my skin stink as much as the cigarettes, so I stopped using them.  With nothing to replace the nicotine, I stood in the kitchen feverishly making a plan to get a fix, foolishly figuring my husband would never have to know.

“I’m going to the pharmacy.  Do you need anything?”  Like most who lie, I thought I needed more added to the reason for going.  “I-I need some aspirin, for this headache.”

“No, I’m fine.  Be careful.”  He smiled as I went out the door.  The tiny shopping center sat at the end of our road, so I was not going a long distance.  Still he always urged me to be careful, even going to the mailbox at the end of our driveway.

I scrambled out of the car, slamming the door in my haste to get just one cigarette.  Just one.  That’s what I told myself.  With trembling hands, I handed the clerk the money and grabbed the gold and white pack of Merit 100’s out of his hand.  No smoking in the store, darn it, so I hurried back to the car.

Looking back on that pitiful scene, it was like some ridiculous comedy skit.  My fingers could not get the wrapper undone, so I resorted to my teeth tearing off the silver top.  Tapping the pack expertly on the edge of my hand, one glorious, gleaming white cigarette followed the golden brown filter, separating itself from the others.  I pulled it out, bending it slightly in my rush.  It felt so natural between my lips, so right.  I scrambled for the lighter, buried deep in my purse.  The flame leaped high, reaching for the tip of the cigarette.  And…that’s when it hit me.

I lied to my husband.  I lied to him for something that, literally, went up in smoke.  For something that stunk.  For something that could kill, although it might take a long time.  I lied to him for something I did not want my children to take up.  I lied to him for something my son told me I could not do if I ever rode in his car.  I lied to him for a filthy habit.  I marched back to the store, found the outside trash can and threw the cigarettes away.

Back home, I hated going back inside and facing Bru.  How could I tell him I was so weak that I almost traded his confidence in me for a tube of tobacco, for five minutes of guilty pleasure?

“Bru, I didn’t go to the store for aspirin.  I went for cigarettes, but at the last moment, I couldn’t smoke one, because I lied to you when I left the house.”

“Honey, I knew it when you went out the door.  But I also knew you would tell me the truth when you got back.  I just wasn’t sure how long it would take.”  His smile was not accusing or one of supremacy.  It was one of pure, unadulterated love and pride in his wife.  Love and pride in me.

After that, quitting came naturally.  All I had to do was find something more important in my life.  That night, I found that something.  My husband’s love and trust held more importance than a rotten habit.

He put his arms around me, arms that held me so often during our forty-four years, and as always, I felt safe from anything we might need to overcome during our lives.

I conquered smoking because I could not lie to him.  And maybe, because he urged me to be careful that night, I now do the same for our daughter.  Born with Down’s syndrome, she announces she is going to the mailbox.  She will not go until I tell her I love her and to be careful.

Maybe one day, when her big challenge comes, she will remember those words and be extra careful in making her choice.