Friday, May 24, 2013


So my husband decided to stop chewing.

Just like that.

He called on Monday and said, "I stopped."

My heart began hammering in my chest and I could feel the nic-fits begin.  We've been through this before.  And it is HELL on earth.  At times, it is SO bad that I feel like I (insert bold, italics and shouty capitals!) want to start chewing.  He's a terrible husband, short-tempered father; he's nervous, anxious and an all-around awful person.   There is always this moment of panic when my husband makes these snap decisions.  I feel like I should run in circles, pray, chase my tail, be a helper, whip out a cheer, grab a box of tissues (for my tears, not his) and maybe buy him a can.  

The cheerleader in me wants to say, "You go, Hubby!  You can do it!"
The realist in me says, "Fuck, here we go again."

There was a time in our dating life that he promised to quit.  He said he would when the time was right.  Job stress and family stress always seemed to trump the desire to kick the habit.  About five years into our marriage, I made a conscious effort to quit thinking about it.  I settled.  I resigned myself to being married to a nicotine addict.  

My personal view on chewing tobacco goes like this, "Eww, gross."

It's because of the smell.  Have I said that I have a sense of smell like a werewolf?  I can smell a beer popped from two yards over.  My hubby would never be able to sneak a smoke or come in smelling of another woman.  I can tell when he has been to the gym by the very, very faint smell of gym body wash and his quick dip in chlorine.  People who chew emit this odor when they talk, breathe or are otherwise in your personal space.  There is no kissing.  Ever.  I'm certain I can live out the remainder of my life without ever being kissed again.

My husband has been chewing for years.  And by years, I estimate that to mean on the order of a quarter of a century.  In our married life, he's never been tobacco free.  That'll be 15 years in July.  In our dating life, we was never tobacco free.  Add a year to that plan.  He estimates he started before his 1st marriage was over.  Add five years to that.  So, yes, 25 years is likely very accurate.  

He's using Nicorette, which he asked me to "pick up" for him about 2 years ago.  Yes, I noticed it expires this month.  Whatever . . . . I think he needs Nicoretee, Nicoderm, some herbal snuff and to pick up the phone and call Colorado quit line.

Now . . . on to me .   . . .

I have kind-of had a shitty string of months.  I'm friggin' exhausted.  Beyond exhausted.  Exhausted to the point I thought there might be something clinically wrong with me.  I had some testing done.  So desperate was I that, I, (you know the one who only goes to the doctor when I'm almost dead), went to the doctor.  He's a good friend of mine.  He took one look at me and I started crying.  It was all over from there.  So . . . .

(a) eight weeks ago on Thursday, I fell off of a curb while running.  I sprained my ankle.  Bad.  Bad, bad.  It swelled and turned black and blue with some nice purple and green and yellow streaks.  Four weeks after, it still hurt enough that I opted for x-rays to make sure I hadn't fractured it.  Good news:  it's not broken, BUT  .  . now almost eight weeks post-injury, it's STILL swollen, and still hurts a fair piece.

(b) . . . but I haven't complained much about my ankle because I had another ginormous ovarian cyst diagnosed by my doctor during my very teary visit . . . . . and quite frankly . . . those suckers hurt.  Worse than ankle sprains.

(c) Well, you know when you limp and favor one part of your body, it just throws everything out of whack, so insert moderate to intolerable lower back pain here.  Sheesh, I'm falling to pieces (sing with me . . . I love that song!)

And, I had a bad day yesterday.  Field trip, major disciplinary moment with Little, fatigue, exhaustion . . . . and I was ready to have a loving, supportive husband come home so we could chat.  Decompress.  Discuss.   Scratch that.   I'd forgotten during the day, the point of this post . . . . when someone is quitting a habit, everything is all about them.  Everything.  Husband came home grumpy.  I don't mean grumpy like the cute little dwarf.  I mean, "take cover . . . where's my gun" grumpy.

And there you have it.  That's where I am today.  And where I've been for the last several weeks.  Now, on to happier topics.  Pictures coming soon.

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