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Smoking: The hook, the habit, the hope  

What was all the fuss about? Smoking was definitely the thing to do if you grew up in the '50s. My parents smoked. The movie stars wielded their cigarettes like weapons, providing an effect that was as glamorous as it was powerful.

I was 9 when my father gave me the responsibility of buying his cigarettes. . . .

I wish I could say that watching my mother die was the catalyst that caused me to quit smoking. I wish I could say that I quit for my children. I wish I could say it was for my health, or at the very least, to save money.

It was none of those reasons. I quit smoking because I was ashamed!

It was April 15, 1971. I belonged to a women's club, and that night, we were seeing a spring fashion show. As I excitedly joined the others at the large table, I lit a cigarette, unaware of the persistent cough that usually accompanied my chronic bronchitis. The lights dimmed and the fashion parade began. As I relaxed with a cigarette, I exchanged eye contact with some women nearby -- and suddenly began to feel ill at ease. I continued to see glances my way. With pursed lips and furrowed brows, the looks increased, occurring with each cough, and amplified as the glow of my match signaled yet another cigarette.

Was I imagining this? My heart pounded and I took a closer look. At a table of 14, I was the only smoker. I inhaled and coughed and realized that my coarse, hollow cough was annoying those around me. I sat shrouded in a blanket of shame that assaulted both my ego and my self-worth. I knew I would never be the same again -- and I never was.

I am ashamed to admit these events that finally caused me to quit, but it's a shame I can live with.

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