My mother was a devoted smoker until about a decade ago, when my brother and I finally decided to put down our collective feet and tell her she had to quit before the darn things ended up killing her.
“Oh, I will,” she would promise over and over again, and in her own defense, she did try from tome-to-time. But nothing really seemed to work until she made the fateful decision one day to have some cosmetic surgery on her feet.
“This is our chance,” I quickly informed my brother, and soon-to-be co-conspirator.
“Chance for what?” he asked.
“To make Mom quit smoking once and for all.”
“And just how do you plan on doing that?” he asked with interest.
“Well,” I explained, “after the surgery, she’s going to be confined to her bed for at least a week, right?”
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“And she won’t be able to put any weight on her feet, much less run off to the store to buy a pack of cigarettes, right?”
“But she already has her room stored up with cartons and cartons of her favorite cigarettes,” my brother quickly reminded me.
“No problem,” I said confidently. “Once we get her nice and comfortable in her bed after the surgery, we’ll collect up all her cigarettes, take them all with us when we go home, and then she’ll have to quit whether she wants to or not.”
”You mean you’re going to make Mom quit smoking cold turkey?”
“That’s the only thing that’s going to work,” I assured my brother.
“But she’ll kill us!”
“But she will also thank us someday,” I said.
“You wanna bet?”
Anyway, to make a very long and agonizing story short, once my mother had successfully undergone her foot surgery and was safely back in her own bed, one of her first requests was for a cigarette.
“Sorry, Mom,” I bravely told her, “but we’ve taken all your cigarettes away.”
“You’ve done what?” she screamed with fire in her usually kind and caring eyes.
“I’m afraid your smoking days are over,” I explained, “and someday you’re going to thank us for helping you do it. If I could quit cold turkey years and years ago, believe me, anyone can. Plus think of all the extra years it’s going to add on to your life. Really, you’re going to be happy that you did this.”
Then, being the very bright woman she is, my mother decided to go about getting her cigarettes in another way.
“But you wonderful boys wouldn’t do this to your poor, poor mother,” she pleaded with the saddest eyes imaginable, “who has just got home from surgery and is in such pain. And I promise I’ll quit smoking once and for all when I’m feeling a little better. Really!”
“Sorry,” I said, having already prepared myself for just such an argument. “And remember,” I added, “someday you really are going to thank us for this.”
Well, for the next few days, I don’t recall hearing any “thank you’s”, although when the silent treatment wasn’t in effect, my mother did make considerable mention of never talking to us again, trading us in for sons who would never do such a cruel thing, and of course disinheriting us. But in the end, she finally did quit smoking and as of today, she’s more than 80-years old and going strong.
“I can’t believe you did such a horrible thing to your mother,” a friend of mine told me when I mentioned the subject to her just the other day. “You’re lucky she didn’t throw something at you.”
“Oh, she did,” I said, “and if her feet hadn’t been so sore, she probably would have given me a good swift kick in the butt.”
“Are you sure you’re back in the will?” she asked.
“Good question,” I said.