I'm going to try to keep this updated on a near daily basis. Being a new vaper, reading what I can on here, and hopefully sharing my experiences as a new person trying to get off analogs.
Since I'm a few days into it, this will be an introduction post, as well as a catchup on where I am with vaping.
I started smoking when I was 13 years old, by stealing cigs from my old man. The standard thing of hanging out in the woods beside my house in Alaska, walking out to the "smokers area" in school, smoking whenever I had a chance. I didn't openly smoke around my parents until I was 19, and while they weren't happy about it, they never gave me too much of a hard time. My father was a lifetime smoker, my mother had one drag in her life, and hated it.
First time I quit, was when I was 18, when I joined the military. No smoking in basic training, and I can say, it was the only time I quit easily. Literally, only thought of cigs for 1 minute, one time. It would have been fine, but after basic training, get to tech school, and our "tour guide" drops a pack of smokes on the table, and tells us "grab one if you want one", hadn't thought about it, until it was offered, that was it, I was a smoker again. I smoked between 1 and 1.5 packs a day until I was 35, never attempting to quit. I talked about quitting more times then not, but never took the step. When my oldest son was born, I talked, and I cut down to about half a pack a day, but still, never really tried to quit. I ended up back at a pack a day. I tried to quit when he was 4, because one time I went to head outside, and he said "Daddy's going outside to smoke". I didn't care for that, I didn't want him thinking it's what "Dads" did. I went to the doctor, got a prescription for the Nicatrol Inhaler. It worked for about a week, then I was back on cigs. When my youngest son was born, I talked about it, cut down again, hoping to quit.
During this time, my father was diagnosed with emphysema and was progressing rather fast, and he was 52 at the time, and had just retired from the military. When he was diagnosed he was only given about 2 years to live. That scared me, but didn't help me quit. He's a tough old ......., and fought with every breath he could manage, and was passing the 10 year mark of living with the terrible illness that was eating him alive. I watched as he withered away, unable to walk, shower, or even use the bathroom without aid. I watched as it killed my mother, aging her well beyond her years trying to take care of this man who couldn't take care of himself. With our youngest grandchild now in the family, we decided to head back and see my parents (we lived in Colorado, they lived in Michigan). I decided, that I wasn't going to smoke during the trip, and I was going to quit. I decided the patch was the next thing for me to try, went for the patches, damn did they burn and itch at first. After a couple false starts, I finally got it going, and by the time we made it to Michigan, I had been smoke free for 3 months, still on the patches, but no cigs.
I was very happy to walk into my parents house, and not walk out for a cig. My father was extremely happy as well, not wanting me to go through what he went through. He talked openly about what it did to his life, and what little life he had left. He was fighting with all his willpower to stay alive for my mother (even though the stress of caring for him was killing her, him being alive provided significant more financial security, due to disability and retirement payments).
We arrived on Thursday night, spent all day Friday at their house. My father got to hold his youngest grandchild (I'm an only child, so my kids are it for my parents). Friday was a good day. Saturday, he was very tired, and couldn't handle the commotion of the whole family being there, so we kept the visit a little short, took my mom out, let her spend time with the kids. Sunday morning at about 1am, my mom calls my cell phone, letting me know that my father was being taking by ambulance to the nearby hospital. He had fallen when trying to get to the bathroom, and his breathing had stopped. At the hospital, they determined his pulse-ox was way too low, and he wasn't doing too well. They transfered him to the VA hospital at University of Michigan, which had been about a twice a year thing for him. He had gone through it 20 times before, and been out, while it wasn't the way we wanted the vacation to go, it wasn't anything to be too concerned about. It's funny how dealing with someone so sick, that you get used to ICU visits, and they don't ruffle your feathers. We spent the rest of the vacation trying to keep the kids entertained, and not get them too far down, having their grandpa in the hospital when we're supposed to be visiting him.
However, by the time came for us to head back to Colorado, and my father still in ICU, we knew this time was different. Not once during a visit did he wake up enough to know we were in the room. We decided that we needed to come back, because the kids had school, I had work, and we had no idea what would come. We had spent 8 days in Michigan, and had only really seen my father for one of those days. We flew home on Saturday, and on Sunday night, my mother calls, the doctors state there's nothing they can do, he's basically in a coma, and he will never come off life support. He's not responding to anything they've tried, and he's worsening by the hour. I jump back on a plane Monday, heading back to be with my parents, leaving my family in Colorado, because we didn't know just how things would progress.
I spend the next two days from sunrise to sunset in my fathers hospital room. Trying to make sure that my mother remembers to eat, drink, and take her medication. Talking with extended family, talking with doctors, hoping that something will change. My father made it "easy" on us, and had a living will, that if he's on machines for more then 3 days, let him go. Now I say easy, only with the experience of months of sarcasm, because it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Even with the assurances of the doctors that kept him going well past his supposed expiration date. Doctors that refused to put a time limit on his life anymore, because he had pulled through every time they thought they'd lost him. We had the advantage of having top notch doctors that had cared for him for over a decade, and trusted them like family. If they said there was nothing, there was nothing. My father actually went past his living will cutoff, because the doctors refused to let him go, because he had become almost a brother to many of them. Finally, they stop the machines, and wouldn't you know it, he almost instantly start to improve. Now mind you, improvement is subjective, things like pulse ox coming up 2 points, breathing improving by 1%, but for several hours, it seems like he's fighting. Mind you, he never came out of the coma, never opened his eyes, never responded to our presence. The machines told us he was refusing to let go. At about 2am, after 18 hours of sitting in his room, willing the machines to give us just a bit more hope, we crawled into a closed waiting room, found some chairs, and tried to sleep. At 5am, a nurse came in and got us, she said it was time. We walked into the room, my mother holding my father's hand, me with a hand on his shoulder. The room was completely quiet, minus the sounds of my father's body working for what little air it could manage. The nurses had turned off all the monitors in the room. We had been in the room for less then a minute, when his chest expanded for one big breath, biggest one we'd seen in years, and it was over. The nurses came in a couple minutes later, it was time for me to get my mother home, and try to get her some rest, rest she hadn't had in 10 years.
Funeral arrangements, travel arrangements, and everything else kept me busy. Days seemed like hours, and I still didn't let things get to me. I cried when my wife and kids arrived in Michigan, but it was good to have someone to lean on, so it was just a small outburst of emotion. I cried a bit at the service, but who can blame me, I had just lost my father. Now, it finally hit me when we made it to the cemetery. My father was buried with full military honors at a national cemetery in Michigan. As we came around the corner, to where the ceremony was to be held, it was a sight to behold. There was a small stone chapel, perched on the edge of a gorgeous lake. It had snowed the night before, so all you could see were snow-capped trees and water. As the hearse pulled in, there were 10 men in uniform from funeral brigade, standing at full attention, who slowly saluted as my father's body pulled in. I had to stop the car, and couldn't get out for a good three minutes, it hit me so hard. Even now, typing this, it gets me, because I can see it plain as day. It's something that will always be a fresh memory.
The night after the funeral, with all the family trying to offer their sympathy, I needed a break. I stepped outside for fresh air, and bummed a cig from a cousin. I was a smoker again. I hated that I was doing it, but I couldn't stop. Just one, became two, became 3, became a pack.
That was 11 months ago. I should have been quit by now.
So, that's what led me here, my refusal to put my family through something like that, again.
So, with that, that's the history, on with how things are going now.
Since I'm a few days into it, this will be an introduction post, as well as a catchup on where I am with vaping.
I started smoking when I was 13 years old, by stealing cigs from my old man. The standard thing of hanging out in the woods beside my house in Alaska, walking out to the "smokers area" in school, smoking whenever I had a chance. I didn't openly smoke around my parents until I was 19, and while they weren't happy about it, they never gave me too much of a hard time. My father was a lifetime smoker, my mother had one drag in her life, and hated it.
First time I quit, was when I was 18, when I joined the military. No smoking in basic training, and I can say, it was the only time I quit easily. Literally, only thought of cigs for 1 minute, one time. It would have been fine, but after basic training, get to tech school, and our "tour guide" drops a pack of smokes on the table, and tells us "grab one if you want one", hadn't thought about it, until it was offered, that was it, I was a smoker again. I smoked between 1 and 1.5 packs a day until I was 35, never attempting to quit. I talked about quitting more times then not, but never took the step. When my oldest son was born, I talked, and I cut down to about half a pack a day, but still, never really tried to quit. I ended up back at a pack a day. I tried to quit when he was 4, because one time I went to head outside, and he said "Daddy's going outside to smoke". I didn't care for that, I didn't want him thinking it's what "Dads" did. I went to the doctor, got a prescription for the Nicatrol Inhaler. It worked for about a week, then I was back on cigs. When my youngest son was born, I talked about it, cut down again, hoping to quit.
During this time, my father was diagnosed with emphysema and was progressing rather fast, and he was 52 at the time, and had just retired from the military. When he was diagnosed he was only given about 2 years to live. That scared me, but didn't help me quit. He's a tough old ......., and fought with every breath he could manage, and was passing the 10 year mark of living with the terrible illness that was eating him alive. I watched as he withered away, unable to walk, shower, or even use the bathroom without aid. I watched as it killed my mother, aging her well beyond her years trying to take care of this man who couldn't take care of himself. With our youngest grandchild now in the family, we decided to head back and see my parents (we lived in Colorado, they lived in Michigan). I decided, that I wasn't going to smoke during the trip, and I was going to quit. I decided the patch was the next thing for me to try, went for the patches, damn did they burn and itch at first. After a couple false starts, I finally got it going, and by the time we made it to Michigan, I had been smoke free for 3 months, still on the patches, but no cigs.
I was very happy to walk into my parents house, and not walk out for a cig. My father was extremely happy as well, not wanting me to go through what he went through. He talked openly about what it did to his life, and what little life he had left. He was fighting with all his willpower to stay alive for my mother (even though the stress of caring for him was killing her, him being alive provided significant more financial security, due to disability and retirement payments).
We arrived on Thursday night, spent all day Friday at their house. My father got to hold his youngest grandchild (I'm an only child, so my kids are it for my parents). Friday was a good day. Saturday, he was very tired, and couldn't handle the commotion of the whole family being there, so we kept the visit a little short, took my mom out, let her spend time with the kids. Sunday morning at about 1am, my mom calls my cell phone, letting me know that my father was being taking by ambulance to the nearby hospital. He had fallen when trying to get to the bathroom, and his breathing had stopped. At the hospital, they determined his pulse-ox was way too low, and he wasn't doing too well. They transfered him to the VA hospital at University of Michigan, which had been about a twice a year thing for him. He had gone through it 20 times before, and been out, while it wasn't the way we wanted the vacation to go, it wasn't anything to be too concerned about. It's funny how dealing with someone so sick, that you get used to ICU visits, and they don't ruffle your feathers. We spent the rest of the vacation trying to keep the kids entertained, and not get them too far down, having their grandpa in the hospital when we're supposed to be visiting him.
However, by the time came for us to head back to Colorado, and my father still in ICU, we knew this time was different. Not once during a visit did he wake up enough to know we were in the room. We decided that we needed to come back, because the kids had school, I had work, and we had no idea what would come. We had spent 8 days in Michigan, and had only really seen my father for one of those days. We flew home on Saturday, and on Sunday night, my mother calls, the doctors state there's nothing they can do, he's basically in a coma, and he will never come off life support. He's not responding to anything they've tried, and he's worsening by the hour. I jump back on a plane Monday, heading back to be with my parents, leaving my family in Colorado, because we didn't know just how things would progress.
I spend the next two days from sunrise to sunset in my fathers hospital room. Trying to make sure that my mother remembers to eat, drink, and take her medication. Talking with extended family, talking with doctors, hoping that something will change. My father made it "easy" on us, and had a living will, that if he's on machines for more then 3 days, let him go. Now I say easy, only with the experience of months of sarcasm, because it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Even with the assurances of the doctors that kept him going well past his supposed expiration date. Doctors that refused to put a time limit on his life anymore, because he had pulled through every time they thought they'd lost him. We had the advantage of having top notch doctors that had cared for him for over a decade, and trusted them like family. If they said there was nothing, there was nothing. My father actually went past his living will cutoff, because the doctors refused to let him go, because he had become almost a brother to many of them. Finally, they stop the machines, and wouldn't you know it, he almost instantly start to improve. Now mind you, improvement is subjective, things like pulse ox coming up 2 points, breathing improving by 1%, but for several hours, it seems like he's fighting. Mind you, he never came out of the coma, never opened his eyes, never responded to our presence. The machines told us he was refusing to let go. At about 2am, after 18 hours of sitting in his room, willing the machines to give us just a bit more hope, we crawled into a closed waiting room, found some chairs, and tried to sleep. At 5am, a nurse came in and got us, she said it was time. We walked into the room, my mother holding my father's hand, me with a hand on his shoulder. The room was completely quiet, minus the sounds of my father's body working for what little air it could manage. The nurses had turned off all the monitors in the room. We had been in the room for less then a minute, when his chest expanded for one big breath, biggest one we'd seen in years, and it was over. The nurses came in a couple minutes later, it was time for me to get my mother home, and try to get her some rest, rest she hadn't had in 10 years.
Funeral arrangements, travel arrangements, and everything else kept me busy. Days seemed like hours, and I still didn't let things get to me. I cried when my wife and kids arrived in Michigan, but it was good to have someone to lean on, so it was just a small outburst of emotion. I cried a bit at the service, but who can blame me, I had just lost my father. Now, it finally hit me when we made it to the cemetery. My father was buried with full military honors at a national cemetery in Michigan. As we came around the corner, to where the ceremony was to be held, it was a sight to behold. There was a small stone chapel, perched on the edge of a gorgeous lake. It had snowed the night before, so all you could see were snow-capped trees and water. As the hearse pulled in, there were 10 men in uniform from funeral brigade, standing at full attention, who slowly saluted as my father's body pulled in. I had to stop the car, and couldn't get out for a good three minutes, it hit me so hard. Even now, typing this, it gets me, because I can see it plain as day. It's something that will always be a fresh memory.
The night after the funeral, with all the family trying to offer their sympathy, I needed a break. I stepped outside for fresh air, and bummed a cig from a cousin. I was a smoker again. I hated that I was doing it, but I couldn't stop. Just one, became two, became 3, became a pack.
That was 11 months ago. I should have been quit by now.
So, that's what led me here, my refusal to put my family through something like that, again.
So, with that, that's the history, on with how things are going now.
