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Local Writing . Another
Average February Day The smoke filled my lungs before I let it out in a perfect ring. It was dim, smoky and depressing in the pool hall. Perfect for a few games of pool. It was the best time of day to hustle the newcomers out of a couple hundred bucks. I’ve been playing pool for as long as I can remember, you might call me pro. Pro or not, pool pays my rent. I make enough a week hustling people to pay for food, clothes, and the rent. This is where I spend most of my time. I only have my apartment or the streets otherwise. No friends or family to visit. No job to go to. No one will hire a chain smoker these days, especially a chain smoker without a high school diploma. The few jobs that would are already taken. I’ve no diploma because of my cigarette addiction. I was kicked out of three different high schools because they caught me smoking in school too many times. Finally my parents refused to pay for me to go to a different school. It’s too bad, I always did want to be a lawyer. I had dreams before cigarettes hid them behind a cloud of smoke. Now I know that smoking is bad, but I didn’t when I started. There had been no warnings about cigarettes in 1969. At 13 drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes were the way of life. There was no warning until later, and by then it was much to late. Everyone was addicted. At least that’s what it seemed. Now there are Surgeon General warnings on the box that say that smoking may cause cancer, heart disease, emphysema, strokes, or impotence. I’m only worried about cancer. To me cancer means death. I haven’t been diagnosed with cancer yet, but I have a checkup tomorrow morning. I dread it with my heart and soul. I’ve now been smoking for 21 years, 21 years still fairly healthy. With each checkup I know I’m closer to the inevitable. After each physical, I vow to myself that I will quit. I haven’t been able to. I never will be able to quit, I already know that. Believe me, I’ve tried after each physical. The nicotine patches are like drinking saltwater to quench your thirst, worthless. Nothing helps. I’m beyond addiction. There’s nicotine running in my veins. Today I smoked even more than usual in fear of tomorrow. No matter how much I smoke, though, tomorrow will come. . It’s a nice sunny morning with the sun just shining into my window. No alarm had to wake me up this morning, a wracking cough worked just as well. The pain was nearly unbearable. It just made me all the more worried about today’s physical. If I am diagnosed with cancer then I will submit myself to be a guinea pig in the tests to cure cancer. But as I pour myself a cup of coffee, I worry even about the other diseases. I’m trying to think of another way to procrastinate. The next three hours will pass. Time can’t stop. I suppose I shouldn’t think about it. Time will go slower, and that’s just more time to worry. I figure that if I go shopping until the last second then I won’t have a nervous breakdown. The clothes I put on would barely keep me warm in this frigid weather. Just another average February day in the city. I put on my jacket, hat and boots. Then I unconsciously put a cigarette in my mouth. I light it, and leave. . The waiting room’s always the worst. You’ve checked in so it’s too late to leave. But even though you checked in on time the doctors are always late. You wait, thinking about the upcoming checkup. You already read every magazine the last time you were here. They never change the magazines at the doctors’ office. It happens every time I go to the doctors. Finally I hear the nurse call me. ... I stand up and walk down the hall with her. A long hallway, of course, to give you even more time to worry. Except now you’re even closer to your unavoidable fate. The nurse finally stops at a door on the left side. It opens into a nearly claustrophobic room completely white with a bunch of posters. “You’re here for a routine checkup. The doctor will be in as soon as he can.” All I can think about is the fact that this will be the checkup that diagnoses me with cancer. More time to worry. My mind races, my heart races, and I desperately want a cigarette. After another long wait, made longer by my fears, the doctor comes in. He has the big folder that says everything that happened in your life. Then he starts looking through the file. The only sounds are the papers being flipped and the beating of my heart, which, I’m certain, can be heard over the paper.
Then he goes to the X-ray. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. I waited. He was a long time coming. When he came back he had the images and a worried look on his face. My heart dropped into my stomach, then to my feet before he even spoke. “I found something abnormal around your lungs.” He continued, “Remember, this was only a preliminary test. We don’t know anything for sure yet. I would like to take a sample to look at so we can know for sure.” He may have thought that nothing was for sure, but I knew that it was a sure thing. That wasn’t the only thing he had to say, though. “Although this may be incorrect, it does look like cancer.” It makes it worse to hear the doctor say it. “I don’t want you to leave without having some idea of what this is. Based on past experience this,” he indicated an area on the X-ray, “is cancer. I may be wrong. That’s why I want to bring you in for a biopsy in a week. But I’d say cancer.” The words went in one of my ears and out the other. Yet each thing said made more of an impact on me. By the end I thought I was going to faint. “I understand you’re upset, but it’s much better that you know,” he said. “Thank you,” I choked past the lump in my throat. I stood up only to find that my legs couldn’t hold me up even though I felt so very light. The doctor caught me before I fell and put me back in my chair. I was too dazed to even realize. He was speaking again but I wasn’t listening. All I cared about was leaving that oppressive office where I learned of my death. I stood unsteadily and started to leave. The doctor said something louder but I paid no heed to him. I paid the bill and got out. Wishing I’d never gone, yet glad I had. The anxiety was gone. It was replaced only by the knowledge that my life was over. I walked and walked. I was at the bus stop, then my stop, and then home without even realizing how I got here. My life was over. Plain and simple. There was nothing left to worry about. I have cancer. I’m sitting here and wondering who I should tell. There is no one. No one who cares. When I'm gone, whenever that should happen, there will be no one to grieve for me. There is no cure. I put a cigarette in my mouth to think about what I should have done with my life.
Sam Wisniewski is a sophomore at CVU. In addition to his writing, Sam devotes some time to painting & drawing, as well as his more recent interest, photography. He likes basketball and tennis, but loves golf ... which may explain why he's grown to hate the winter. ... And, of yeah, Sam does not smoke.
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