Living

<< Previous   of   Next >>   ADVERTISEMENT   CONTACT THE HERALD Melanie Munk, Features Editor munk@heraldnet.com   Published: Sunday, August 17, 2008 The sad final act of a lifetime of smoking By Linda Bryant Smith Herald Columnist This is Anna's back porch. She comes here first every morning, still in her pajamas, carrying a cup of black coffee. The cigarettes are there, on the cluttered table next to a well-worn rocking chair. This is Anna's place. Cigarette first, followed by the body-wrenching cough. Then a sip of coffee. The cough interrupts the only other sounds: quails chirping at their young, wind dancing on branches of evergreen trees. Evergreen shade holds off the unrelenting summer sun that bleaches color from the sage and meadow grasses beyond her yard. She spends hours here, soaking in the beauty of her now-limited world. Finally, reluctantly, she agrees to have a little breakfast. Two or three spoonfuls of cereal, a little fruit. More coffee. Then, back to the porch and the cigarettes. She is three days away from her 71st birthday, but deep wrinkles and the trauma of cancer make her appear much older. Only her smile, the one I've known for decades, is the same as the 20-something mother I met in a drugstore holding a baby girl swaddled in pink wool and lace. I watch the Emmy-nominated drama "Mad Men" that portrays ambitious young advertising execs in the 1960s and it seems so familiar. We wore those dresses with the tiny waists and full skirts. We had that bouffant hair. We had the cigarettes all "fashionable" women smoked to stay thin. Later, when petticoats were out along with sweater sets and pearls, we heard the warnings. By then Anna did not want to stop smoking. When the lung cancer expanded to a brain tumor last year, before the disease was finally diagnosed, cigarettes were still her constant companions. The siren call of nicotine was so strong she actually "escaped" from a presurgery examining room to head outside for a smoke. My beautiful, funny, loyal friend survived that surgery and the radiation treatments that followed. For a time the lung cancer was held at bay. Chemo helped, gave her more time. She wears a blond Doris Day-style wig to cover baldness and a jagged surgical scar. Still, the weight has slipped from her body despite her husband's effort to ensure she has a healthy diet. Ignoring the pleas of her family, orders from her doctor and the advice of a visiting health nurse, she refuses to use a walker. She falls and can't get up. So far no broken bones. "You are one stubborn Norwegian," I tell her. "If you fall and break a hip, you'll wind up in bed," I say. She ignores me, listening to a bird song that pleases her more than my voice. Temperature on the back porch is close to 90. Time to move to the front porch. This one looks across an emerald lawn, past peach and apricot trees with summer's golden fruit, to the lake, bluer than the sky it reflects. There are cigarettes and a lighter on the table, and yesterday's coffee cup. It is so quiet we can hear the flag on the pole unfold in the breeze. She is silent. Old friends don't need to talk. We are comfortable just being together. We know each other's memories. We know each other's regrets. We hold secrets sacred. Our birthdays are just 15 days apart. The tradition has always been to celebrate them on a special girls' day out. This porch is as far as "out with the girls" gets these days. "Mad Men" should air an episode like this, the aftermath of all that '60s glamour and nonstop smoking encouraged by brilliant marketing campaigns. Those cigarettes fulfilled their destiny. My beautiful friend is dying thin. Linda Bryant Smith writes about growing older, surviving and finding a little gold in the golden years.You can reach her at ljbryantsmith@yahoo.com.

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