Seven years ago today was the first day of the rest of my smoke-free life. I smoked my last cigarette the day before.
The previous fall I had chosen January 4, 2004, as my quit date. In anticipation thereof I had already started taking Wellbutrin, and I had put in a supply of nicotine patches. Michigan’s big cigarette tax increase, effective January 1 of that year, provided further motivation.
And, as if that were not enough, I caught a cold the week before that turned into pneumonia. I could barely breathe on January 4, 2004, much less smoke a cigarette.
All these factors, along with herculean willpower, combined to make my quitting a success. I now cheerfully refer to myself as a recovering nicotine addict.
The magic seven-year cycle of cell regeneration is now complete, and although pink is not my favorite color, I think it is the perfect shade for lungs.
I would be remiss if I failed to note that my beloved partner in life (with patches and determination, but not pneumonia) quit smoking that same day and has also remained smoke-free. That’s two more pink lungs for the record books.
Congratulations to us, I say.
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