How new federal taxes convinced me to quit smoking
“I think the world would be a better place,” says my friend Brian Darby, “if you remain a smoker.”
Darby’s concern is understandable. I first lit up when I was 16, celebrating my birthday at a Springsteen concert. In the intervening years, I’ve become a veritable inferno, inhaling a staggering 300,000 cigarettes — give or take a few.
Despite the health risks, a few deathbed promises and the sheer stench of the habit, I just love cigarettes. Somehow, I find the time to smoke nearly two packs every day.
But frankly, I can’t afford to keep it up. The recession, coupled with an unfiltered attack on tobacco users in the form of taxes, makes it difficult to justify the expense. With most cigarettes priced over the $6 mark, the ka-ching of the cash register hurts my ears more than death metal.
There’s a story here for sure, I tell Creative Loafing’s editor, the villainous Cooper Levey-Baker. He asks, “Are you willing to quit and write about it?” Gallingly, he further suggests “it might work best if it’s a personal, first-person story, with you writing about your decision to quit and the struggles to do so.”
Motherfucker. After a delay of several months — and several hundred dollars more in the pockets of the Marlboro man — I decide I am willing. But will I be able?
With the help of a free service that provides counseling and nicotine replacement products, I quit smoking on June 29. Three days later, when withdrawal symptoms peak, I crawl in bed with my husband, and spoon him. My fingernails dig into his shoulders. “Please give me a cigarette,” I beg, suspecting he has a secret stash somewhere. “Please.”
Earlier this year, the federal excise tax on every pack of cigarettes rose from 39 cents to $1.01, warming the tempers of smokers across the country.
In June, Gov. Crist turned this brushfire into a conflagration by approving an additional $1 surcharge on every pack of smokes (and most other tobacco products) sold in Florida, effective July 1.
Ouch. Consider this, though: Prior to the surcharge, Florida ranked 46th in the nation in the amount it taxed per pack. On a recent trip to Baltimore, I paid nearly $8 for my Marlboros. With the tax increase, the Sunshine State moves squarely into 22nd place.
And it seems the tax hikes are mostly for our own good. Because of them, the American Cancer Society predicts 175,00 Floridians will quit smoking, 303,300 kids will never start and 143,500 tobacco-related deaths will be prevented. In just its first year, the $1 surcharge will generate $945 million for the state, and save an estimated $6.9 billion in the long term.
But the surcharge hits those who can least afford it. Like me, the majority of smokers don’t earn much and lack insurance. And unless you make like Thanksgiving leftovers (stopping cold turkey), quitting can be an expensive prospect. Though both my doctor and pharmacist recommend the prescription drug Chantix, I quickly rule it out. It’s about $140 a month, and treatment typically lasts 12 weeks.
Since I occasionally benefit from traditional acupuncture, I call my practitioner. Dianne Glass, a board-certified acupuncture physician, says, “Clinical studies have proven acupuncture is an effective treatment for all addictive disorders. It also addresses anxiety and anger that can erupt from the withdrawal process.” But Glass is conducting workshops in New York this month, so I’ll have to look elsewhere for the time being.
There are several over-the-counter smoking cessation products: nicotine-replacement patches, lozenges and gum. They cost a lot of money, too, ranging in price from $49.99 to $71.99 per week for six weeks or more.
I also knew I’d need psychological help to quit. After my quick survey of the costs involved, I begin to investigate whether there are any low-cost programs available.
I find one through the American Cancer Society and its nationwide Quitline. In Florida, the ACS has partnered with the Florida Department of Health to provide a free six-week supply of nicotine patches, gum, or lozenges to tobacco users who want to quit, and agree to participate in four brief counseling sessions via phone.
When I call the Quitline, I’m assigned a personal smoking cessation counselor. John helps me set a date to quit smoking. He also gives me strategies to make quitting easier: I identify smoking triggers (in my case, breathing), list the reasons I want to become a non-smoker, and cut out pictures of my nieces and nephew — the people I want to quit for the most.
As my quit date approaches, I’m anxious. But I’m also excited by the opportunity to quit. Mon., June 29 arrives. I slap a patch on my shoulder, and begin both my life as a non-smoker and this article. As the day progresses, my typing and spelling skills deteriorate to the point that Word redlines nearly every word I manage to key in.
By day two, I feel like shit. I want a cigarette. The skin on my face is tight. My fingers and hands twitch frantically, like they’ve been soaked in Red Bull. That night, I have dessert at Euphemia Haye with visiting family (non-smokers all). After a towering wedge of cake and three Tanqueray and tonics, I really, really want a cigarette. I take a walk around the parking lot instead.
That works for a few minutes. Then I start to scratch the nicotine patch, hoping it will release the toxins I need. I drink four glasses of water. Finally, I insist that my husband take me home. On the way, I hang on to the oh-shit handle over passenger door, white-knuckled. I decide if I can make it home, I’ll be okay.
When I arrive, I slap on another nicotine patch. Double-patching is a no-no, but clearly the one I’ve worn for 12 hours has lost its efficacy. I change clothes, grab the dog and take a run through the neighborhood at midnight.
That craving passes, but they keep coming. Relentlessly. I crunch ice. I chew on a straw. I do yoga. I slam a door or two. I eat so many Altoids that I may transform from a smoker into a walking, talking, curiously strong mint. The only one feeling lucky in my household is the dog, who gets walk after walk after walk. Both exhausted, we finally fall asleep.
Day three continues in the same agonizing manner… until yes, my husband reveals the secret stash. Now I don’t know which is worse: the exquisite torture of withdrawal, or the guilt and failure I feel for having had a cigarette.
During another counseling session scheduled a few days later, I confess that I’ve been smoking three or four cigarettes a day. John assures me that most people slip more than once before they quit for good. The materials he’s sent me are equally encouraging. “Returning to smoking is not a failure, but a step along your smoke-free path. When you are ready to try again, you will have more experience behind you.”
Even though becoming smoke-free seems more like an ascent of K2 than a path to me, I’ll attempt the summit again soon. After all, I quit for three days. I’ve kept my daily habit below half a pack in the two weeks that followed. I no longer panic if I don’t have cigarettes nearby. I don’t cough anymore, or hurry outside as soon as I wake up to puff my breakfast smoke. And I’m saving money.
I’m at base camp again, but I’m better prepared this time. Wish me luck, and don’t give me a cigarette, even if I beg.
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