As I pondered my fate right after I quit, I was in the drug store check out line
when I noticed the tiny elderly woman standing behind me. Our Lady of the
Respiratory Assistance. She had tubes in her nostrils and was hauling
around a heavy canister of oxygen on a little wheeled cart.
She reeked of smoke.
Abject terror mounted inside me as I realized how close to her condition
I actually was, while being younger by decades-maybe. You can never
tell with chronic smokers. In a raspy, failing voice, she asked for two
cartons of the cheapest generic filtered brand. It was the most frightening
mirror I’d ever stared into. She was never going to quit. Seeing her
stopped me from buying a pack. Hearing her convinced me that I could
never go back. Whoever and wherever she is, I’d like to thank her.
I’m sure she doesn’t realize how much she helped someone that day.
But I'm not buying her a pack of cigarettes.
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