Sally Breslin: My Life

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Monday, September 29, 2025

THE HEAVENLY PANTS AND THE MUTANT EGG...AND I'M FINALLY HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL!

I honestly could write at least another five blogs about the adventures (misadventures?) I had while in the hospital this past month…but you’ll probably be pleased to know I’ve decided to spare you the details and finally end my saga with this one.

I mean, I think I’ve pretty much covered just about every bodily function known to science by now anyway (and even a few that aren’t).

Speaking of bodily functions, last week I left you hanging. I’m talking about the fact that everyone in my hospital wing, or so it seemed, was waiting for me to pass gas – a sign that my bowel blockage was unblocking on its own and I likely wouldn’t need surgery.

Alas, I’d been in the hospital since Saturday morning, and by late Sunday afternoon, the “big bang” still hadn’t happened. I was getting worried, thinking I’d probably end up celebrating Halloween, or maybe even Christmas, in the hospital at the rate I was going. So I decided I’d walk a few laps up and down the hospital’s hallways in an effort to stimulate my intestines into doing their thing.

First, however, there was something I really wanted.

“Is it possible to get pajama bottoms or maybe some drawstring pants like I’ve seen the male patients wearing?” I asked one of the nurses. “My hospital gown would fit a Sumo wrestler, and I’m pretty sure I'm flashing everyone! I’m also feeling chilly with my whole backside exposed.”

It was no surprise I was feeling chilled, and not just because of the huge gown that could have doubled as a tent for a family of five. My bed was located directly beneath an overhead air-vent that blasted cold air 24/7, even when the temperature dropped to 40F degrees outside at night. That also might explain why my temperature was 97.6F the entire time I was in the hospital. I practically could see my own breath.

“Hmm, I’m not sure if I can find any bottoms for you,” the nurse said, rubbing his chin. “But I’ll go look.”

He returned a few minutes later with an enormous pair of boxer-type shorts that looked and felt as if they were made of recycled newspaper. They also were men’s size XL. I put them on and they were so big, I pulled them up to my chest. And even then, they still were so baggy, they made me look as if I had two rear-ends…one in the front and one in the back.

My roommate and I were having a good laugh over the shorts as I modeled them, when another nurse walked in and asked where on earth I’d found them.

I was tempted to tell her I’d stolen them as part of my plan to make my escape that night by jumping out of the window and then floating gently to the ground as the shorts caught air and acted like a parachute.

“I’ve been feeling chilly,” I explained, ”so I asked for some pants, and these are what I got.”

“Well, those won’t keep you very warm,” she said, shaking her head. ”Let me see what I can do.”

To my delight, she returned with some thick, warm, fleece-lined sweatpants. They were so soft and cuddly when I put them on, I could swear I actually heard the goosebumps on my legs thanking me. They also fit perfectly. The nurse then brought me two new pairs of cushiony slipper-socks. I felt like a new woman.

And an hour later, following my walk through the halls, I was stretched out in my bed and feeling warm and cozy, thanks to the sweatpants. That was when it finally happened…the trapped gas made its grand entrance into the free world. It wasn’t the earth-shaking blast I’d anticipated, merely a tiny “poof.” But nevertheless, it was there. And I’d been told to be sure to let someone know the moment it happened.

There were two nurses in my room at the time – one tending to me and another tending to my roommate – when I made the big announcement.

You know, all of my life, I’ve always wanted to do something that would be worthy of excited cheers, thunderous applause and a standing ovation…but never could I have imagined it would be for something like passing gas. The response was so enthusiastic, I expected a bottle of champagne and a local TV news-team to arrive at any minute.

My victory celebration was short-lived, however. Passing gas meant the blockage wasn’t blocking me 100 percent any longer. That was the good news. The bad news was everything that still had been backed up in my digestive tract and hadn’t been sucked out yet by the NG tube, now was free to “go with the flow” and come out of my southern end.

In other words, the flood gates had been opened.

...All over my lovely, warm fleecy sweatpants.

Talk about a mixed blessing. I didn't know whether to celebrate the unblocking or to mourn the much-too-early demise of my precious pants.

I spent a good portion of the next six hours in the bathroom. And then, when the doctor decided to do another scan that required about a quart of contrast solution, which he said probably would cause diarrhea, I spent about another 6 hours in the bathroom.

Believe me, when I later saw a new patient being wheeled into her room and she was holding a four-pack of Charmin Ultra-soft toilet tissue in her lap, my first thought was, “This woman definitely has been here before." My second thought was to offer her all of the cash in my wallet for just one roll...or even just a few sheets of her private stash.

I commented to one of the nurses about how the toilet paper in my bathroom was rough enough to sand the rust off metal. She laughed and said, “That’s because our toilet paper here actually is paper…you know, like the kind you write on.”

She was joking, but I and my extremely raw and sore backside were more inclined to believe she was telling the truth.

She then took pity on me and brought me a pack of wet wipes and a tube of ointment…for diaper rash.

The news turned out to be good, however. My latest scan showed clear sailing from one end of my body to the other. No more blockage! No surgery needed!

Actually, that really wasn’t news to me. After all, I previously had been experiencing the proof of the “clear sailing” all night.

I was sure I’d be allowed to go home the next day, considering the blockage was gone, but I soon learned it wasn’t quite that simple.

“First,” a nurse explained to me, “we'll want to make certain your NG tube is no longer draining anything at all before we remove it. Then once it’s removed, we’ll start you on liquids. If you can tolerate those, then we’ll try soft foods. And if you don’t feel nauseated or vomit after the soft foods, you’ll be able to try small portions of regular food. Of course, we’ll also want to make sure you can have a bowel movement before we allow you to go home.”

“Have a bowel movement?!” My eyebrows shot up. “What have I been doing for the last 250 hours?”

“Getting rid of all of the old backed-up stuff,” she said. “Now your system hopefully will be able process and digest any new food you put into it.”

I sighed. I was beginning to think I just might end up eating Christmas dinner in the hospital after all.

But things moved along pretty quickly, to my surprise. The NG tube didn't drain anything else – probably because all of it had raced out of my body in the other direction when the dam broke. So the tube, to my relief, finally was removed. My much-anticipated first drink of ice-cold Poland Spring water, however, hurt a lot because the tube had made my throat so raw.

And as a celebratory gift for the removal of the tube, one of the nurses went on a search that took her down three floors in the hospital until she found another pair of those fleecy sweatpants for me, as the only ones still available on my floor were a men’s size 2-XL.

I was thrilled to get the new pants and to feel warm and cozy again.

The other sweatpants, the ones I’d messed up, I tossed into the laundry bin in my room. I mean, they belonged to the hospital, and the laundry bin was where they flung all of our soiled hospital gowns and other washables, so I figured why not?

Well, the employee who gathered the laundry for washing, came into my room and was putting the laundry into a big bag when she suddenly came across the sweatpants and held them up using only two fingers. She cast an accusing glance at me and said in very broken English, “Thees belong you's?”

I said no, they were the property of the hospital. She only stared at me, not understanding. I could tell by her expression she thought I might be trying to get some free laundry service for my own street clothes, which made me wonder what the other patients who had those same pants did with theirs when they were dirty. Trash them? Hide them under the bed?

A nutritionist met with me a short while later and told me to call room service and order a real egg and have the cook crack it open and then scramble it in a dry, ungreased pan, for my first soft food. Not those eggs poured out of a carton, she said, just a fresh, plain egg, scrambled. So I called and ordered it. The person who took my order said it was no problem and they’d send it right up.

Ten minutes later it was delivered to my room. I lifted the lid on the dish and immediately could tell the egg had been cooked in grease...that had black specks of something in it.

“Is this a fresh egg?” I asked the guy who’d delivered it.

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s powdered.”

Normally, I would have complained, but these were far from normal circumstances, so I wasn’t about to be fussy…not if I wanted to go home before 2026. So I ate two bites of the egg.

Funny, but when you haven’t eaten any food whatsoever, not even so much as a breath mint, in over 5 days, even powdered eggs in second-hand grease can taste like gourmet fare. But I didn't dare to eat more than those two bites, just to be safe. I mean, the last time I vomited was way back in the 1970s, and I wasn't eager to break that record anytime soon.

Fortunately, the powdered egg in recycled bacon grease stayed down.

I was officially discharged from the hospital late the next day, after I also managed to keep down a few bites of an al-dente baked potato.

Hate to admit it, but I was in such a hurry to leave, I didn't even bother to put on my jeans. I just wore the hospital sweatpants home.

And I have the feeling I’ll probably see them itemized on one of my bills...as designer originals for $500.

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NOTE: I’ve been home for nearly three weeks now and it’s taken me a while, but I’m finally feeling better. My body had to recover from the effects of the NG tube, the drugs, the rough toilet paper, and a diagnosis of severe malnutrition, thanks to the blockage. But so far, I've gained back 4 of the 11 lbs. I lost. The first week I was home, my stomach sounded like the Indianapolis 500 when the guy shouts, “Start your engines!” because it was trying to get back into the routine of digesting food once again. It actually kept me awake a few nights, it was so loud.

But now I’m finally back to feeling about 90 percent like my old self.

And tomorrow I have an appointment with a new doctor for a check-up and a follow-up.

So if you don’t see me on here next week, it might mean he found something else wrong with me...because he’s a perfectionist and 90 percent just isn’t good enough for him. 😉

Love you guys!

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Tuesday, September 23, 2025

MY ENTIRE FUTURE DEPENDED ON A FART?

Last week, I told you about my unexpected ride through the countryside in a luxury vehicle worth about $200,000.

I’m talking about my ambulance ride to the hospital, where I was informed I had a 100-percent blockage in my small bowel…and how the surgeon was going to try to unblock it by stopping the bowel from all activity until it finally screamed out from starvation to demand food…and in the process, unblocked itself.

This, he said, would be accomplished by putting a nasogastric (NG) tube down into my stomach and draining out all of the backed-up gunk, then allowing me nothing by mouth, not even a sip of water, for a “few” days. If, after all of that, the blockage still remained uncooperative and decided not to open up, I would need surgery.

This information instantly brought to mind the old saying, “Be careful what you wish for.” I mean, how many thousands of times had I wished I could drop some weight? Well, I’m no psychic, but I was pretty certain that what I was about to endure probably was going to make that wish come true.

And for the first time in my life, the idea of dropping a few pounds didn’t appeal to me at all.

My heart sank even lower when a nurse who was carrying a coil of clear tubing attached to a big plastic container entered the room and told me I probably was going to end up not liking her very much by the time she was through.

No argument from me there.

She held up one end of the tube. “The objective here is for me to insert this into your nose, where you then will swallow it until it reaches your stomach…hopefully without gagging. Remaining calm helps.”

Calm? Easy for her to say! Just the thought of swallowing something even as thick as a strand of hair made me want to gag, never mind something the size of an entire braid! (Well, maybe a Barbie-doll-sized braid, but still…).

She handed me a cup of water and then explained that after she inserted the tube into my nose, she wanted me to quickly lower my chin to my chest and start drinking the water as fast as I could...and continue to do so until she told me to stop.

On the subject of gagging, I honestly never had been able to stomach the tap water at that hospital, so I was just about to ask if I might be able to get some bottled water instead, when I suddenly felt the tube slide into my nose.

“Now drink,” the nurse said to me. “And keep swallowing! Keep swallowing!”

Panicking, I gulped down that water faster than if I were a dying explorer who’d been lost in the Sahara for a week. Before I knew it, the nurse said to stop. The tube was in place.

I just stared at her. That was it? I hadn’t felt anything, not even a slight urge to gag. And I barely could feel the tube in my throat.

“That’s honestly the easiest NG tube I’ve ever inserted,” she said.

Her words made me feel just smug enough to think this NG tube, the mere sight of which had terrified me more than the shower scene in the movie “Psycho,” actually was going to be a breeze.

How naïve I was…

Immediately, the tube started to drain out everything that had been backed up inside of me for…maybe the last 30 or 40 years, judging from the way it looked. I could swear I even saw a few prehistoric fossils in it. And most of it was a stunning shade of green. To my relief, as more and more of the stuff came out, my stomach pain finally began to let up for the first time in about 16 hours. At that moment, I think I realized how new mothers must feel after suffering through seemingly endless hours of labor pains and then at long last, giving birth.

The big difference, of course, was that the result of the new mothers’ pain was much, much cuter than the result of mine, which kind of resembled what Linda Blair had hacked up in the film “The Exorcist.”

I finally was wheeled up to the sixth floor to my new home. The room had a huge picture window with a breathtaking view of rolling hills, fields and trees. I was impressed. There was a bed near the window, but it already was occupied. So I ended up with the bed near the door…and directly facing the bathroom.

This, in retrospect, turned out to be a very good thing.

I was given painkillers, from morphine to dilaudid, through my IV, so I slept soundly until 3 AM, when I was awakened to have my vitals taken and also to have someone listen for “sounds” in my digestive tract. Sounds meant progress, but I didn’t have any yet. Not a rumble, a gurgle or even a squeak. I had to be patient, I was told.

Later that morning I awakened with the worst sore throat I’d ever had. When I was a kid, I often would get strep throat, which would be so severe, my throat actually would nearly swell shut and I barely could swallow even as much as saliva. The doctor finally had told my mother the only solution was to have my tonsils removed. But she refused.

Well, this sore throat was worse than any of those childhood bouts of strep throat. I even found myself wishing my mother had agreed to have my tonsils removed because at that moment my left one felt as if it had a porcupine sitting on it.

I rang for the nurse. After several medical professionals wielding penlights peered down into my throat, I was assured it was just an irritation from the NG tube, and it would improve as my throat grew more accustomed to it being there. In the meantime, they said they would add some Tylenol to my IV drip.

Tylenol? No way, I thought, was something that wimpy going to knock out my intense pain. I also asked if I could suck on ice to help soothe my throat.

No…nothing by mouth, they repeated. It was a wonder they didn’t find someplace to also re-route my saliva, even though I doubted I had any left at that point.

But to my surprise, the Tylenol worked, so I promised myself I never would refer to it as wimpy again. It actually made the sore throat bearable, which was good enough for me, even though my voice sounded like a 13-year-old boy’s who was going through puberty.

The next day passed fairly uneventfully. I joked with my roommate, who fortunately shared my sense of humor. I joked with my nurses, even if they didn’t share my sense of humor. They all were terrific, however, and treated me as if I were royalty. If I rang the buzzer, they immediately arrived. If I asked for a pillow, I got two. And I constantly was asked if I needed anything.

I have to admit I really enjoyed the pampering part.

I watched a lot of TV, despite the fact most of my favorite stations weren’t carried in that hospital. I would have given anything to trade one of the sports channels for one of my favorites, like the Game Show Network, especially since I felt an urgent need to sharpen my drug-fogged brain cells.

I also walked laps around the sixth floor three times a day, which was difficult because every time I wanted to take a stroll to stretch my stiff muscles, I had to ring for a nurse to come disconnect my NG tube from the container it drained into, and then clamp off the end of the tube. That way, all I had to drag around with me was the IV stand with the bags of fluid and medications hanging from it. I called the IV stand George…after a guy I’d once dated who really annoyed me.

When I’m at home, I usually walk 45 minutes every day, which I enjoy. So I looked forward to my laps in the hospital. The only thing that ruined them, however, was the aforementioned clamped-off NG tube. It always leaked. So I left a trail of green slime wherever I went, which made me feel like some giant, mutant snail. It was embarrassing…and messy. The nurses tried a variety of different clamps and gizmos to make the seal tighter, but that stubborn sucker chuckled fiendishly at all of us and kept right on dripping.

And let’s just say it didn’t smell like roses in bloom.

My roommate was allowed to eat, so I lived vicariously through her and her meals as she dined on creamy fruit parfaits, fresh salads, grilled fish and even a cheeseburger with oven-baked fries. Oh, and iced tea. My throat felt so parched by then, I wouldn’t have cared if the tea had been made from toilet water, I still would have gulped it down.

I finally dared to ask a physician’s assistant how I’d know when or if all of my starving and suffering with the NG Tube From Hell might be working.

“The first sign will be when you pass gas,” came the answer. “After that, we’ll do another scan with contrast to see if the blockage is opening and if the solution clearly can be tracked all the way down to your rectum. If it can be seen all the way down, then the NG tube will be removed and we’ll start you on liquids. However, if the blockage is still there, our only other options will be to wait a bit longer to see if it still might improve on its own…or if it will need to be surgically removed.”

So all I had to do to get things rolling was pass gas? Then, no more tube? And I’d finally be able to drink something cold and refreshing?

Never in my life have I wanted to fart more than I did at that moment…

I’ll wrap up this saga next week and let you know what finally happened! But be forewarned…it won’t be pretty.

# # #

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Monday, September 15, 2025

WHAT STARTED OUT TO BE A GOOD DAY, SWIFTLY TURNED INTO A REALLY BAD ONE

First of all, I must apologize for skipping my blog posting last week, but I have what I feel is a pretty good excuse…I nearly died.

Seriously.

Last Friday began as a normal day. I woke up and went out for my daily two-mile walk. Birds were singing, the sun was shining, the sky was blue. Definitely a good day.

After doing my usual chores, running a few errands and then answering phone calls and messages, I grabbed a cup of tea and settled down to relax for the evening. By 9:00 PM, I felt hungry, so I decided to heat up some soup.

But when I stood up, a pain suddenly struck me right above my navel. I figured it was just a gas pain and that a good belch (or the equivalent from the opposite end) would get rid of it, but no gaseousness seemed to be involved.

I tried to ignore the pain, but it continued to intensify with each passing hour, no matter how much I swore at it or threatened it to go away. About midnight, as if taunting me, the pain zapped its way straight through to my back and then spread out in both directions across it. This forced me to walk around with the same posture as Quasimodo. I honestly couldn’t stand up straight.

By the time 3:00 AM rolled around, I was curled up in a fetal position on my bed and groaning into my pillow. No position was comfortable, and believe me, I tried them all – on my side, my back, my stomach, and even with the top half of my body hanging over the edge of the mattress.

Finally, as morning dawned after what felt like the longest night in the history of the world, I convinced myself to do something even more frightening than running nude through a field of thorns…I called 911. Immediately afterwards, as panic set in, I wanted to cancel that call. But, as I quickly learned, the second anyone calls 911, there is no turning back. Even if you say, “Everything is fine now, never mind,” they won’t believe you. So essentially, you are doomed.

Two police officers and two EMTs arrived within minutes. The latter two set to work taking my vitals and asking questions about the location and intensity of my pain. To my surprise, they said my vitals all were fine, and judging from their faces, I got the distinct impression they also thought I might need nothing more than a good window-rattling belch or two. When they asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, I was tempted to say no. But as if on cue, my stomach chose that precise moment to jab me with a pain that made me feel as if I’d just been impaled by a shishkebab skewer.

So I said yes, I still wanted to go to the hospital, even though it pained me to do so. With only my purse and the clothes on my back, I was loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled out to the ambulance. I overheard the two EMTs discussing the route and whether they should use the lights or siren. They decided they wouldn’t use either one.

Their words made me think I was making way too much of a big deal over nothing more than an old-fashioned stomachache, and I probably would end up having to pay $3,000 for the ambulance, only to be told to go home and take a few swigs of Pepto Bismol.

The ambulance ride was more like a casual drive through the country – except for all of the bumps and pot-holes. Each time we hit one of the approximately 12,000 of them, it caused me to cry out…and made the attendant sitting in back with me ask, “Are you in pain?”

Wonder whatever gave him that idea?

When we finally pulled into the hospital’s lot, I breathed a sigh of relief because I figured my past 12 hours of torture nearly were over.

Little did I know they were only the beginning…

The first hint that my pain might not be immediately resolved, however, was when one of the EMTs contacted the hospital personnel to inform them we had arrived and asked for instructions about what to do with me. I could hear the responder instruct them to take me to the emergency room’s waiting area and leave me there for triage. Oh, and to transfer me into a wheelchair because they no longer allowed stretchers in the waiting area.

Lying on a stretcher had been nearly bearable for me. But sitting up in a wheelchair was nothing short of agony. I had my vitals taken and was asked to describe my pain and rate it on a scale of one to 10 (about 150). After that, I promptly was wheeled to my sitting spot in the waiting area, where I was wedged between a woman with a possible broken toe and a man with a gash on his finger…for the next two hours.

During those two hours, I mentally made amends with everyone I’d ever known, prayed for a swift and easy death, and asked to be absolved of all of my sins. As the pain continued to increase, I was pretty sure I would see the Grim Reaper walk in at any moment and whisk me away.

Finally I was wheeled down the hall for a CT scan and then wheeled right back to the waiting area. This time my chair was parked next to another woman in a wheelchair. She was carrying on a full conversation with the palm of her hand, as if she had a phone in it. At that point, I was worried she actually did have a phone and I was going blind from pain.

Then, at long last, I was brought to a room in the emergency area where I was helped into a bed, hooked up to a bunch of monitors, had my blood drawn and an IV inserted into my arm. All that was left to do after that was wait for the verdict.

I didn’t have to wait long. A doctor who introduced himself as a surgeon entered 15 minutes later. The fact he was a surgeon immediately caught my attention...and pretty much ruled out my Pepto Bismol theory.

He was looking down at my info the entire time, but when he finally looked up at me, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He then blurted out, “Wow, you look much better than your CT scan!”

To me, his statement was a double-edged sword. I mean, it was great to know I looked better than he’d expected, but not so great to know my CT scan had revealed something so heinous it had made him think I'd probably look as if I’d already been embalmed...or needed to be.

“You have a 100-percent blockage in your small bowel,” he said, before I could respond. “In less than another hour you'd probably be vomiting fecal material…or worse.”

Worse? Let me say right here that I have heard plenty of disgusting things in my life, but all of them paled in comparison to that statement. Had I been forced to sit out in the waiting room any longer, I could only imagine what those other poor, unsuspecting patients would have had the misfortune of witnessing.

I figured the doctor’s next words would be about surgery, so I wasn’t at all prepared for what he actually did say.

“I think we might be able to unblock you by essentially starving you,” he said. “First we’ll insert a nasogastric tube through your nose and into your stomach, where we’ll remove all of the backed-up material. After the first three liters or so are emptied, your pain should begin to subside.”

Three liters? I knew a gallon was 3.7 liters. And he’d said the first three liters were going to make me feel better? How many liters were backed up in there anyway? Enough to warrant a visit from Roto-Rooter or maybe Bob’s Septic Service?

Suddenly the Grim Reaper didn’t seem quite so scary to me anymore. In fact, I was kind of hoping I'd see his nose peeking around the corner at that precise moment.

“Once the NG tube is in,” Dr. Bad News continued, “we’ll keep it in there for a few days so your bowel can have complete rest. That means no food or water…nothing whatsoever by mouth.”

No food? No water? And a tube shoved into my nose, down my throat and into my stomach, pumping out the aforementioned fecal material?

Talk about a great way to kill a perfectly good weekend.

It took a lot of courage, but I dared to ask the surgeon exactly what was causing the blockage. I honestly expected him to describe it as something really disgusting again, like the carcass of a giant Madagascar cockroach.

“You’ve had major surgery in the past,” he said (which had been one of the questions I’d been asked in triage). “It caused scar tissue. That tissue thickened over time and now it’s causing an adhesion, meaning the two sides of your bowel are sticking together. Sometimes we can get them to unstick without surgery. If not, I’m sorry to say there will be no other option but to operate. Still, I’m trying to avoid that because another surgical procedure might lead to forming even more scar tissue.”

So, I thought, I could be facing a week of torture worse than being held in some foreign prison (at least the convicts get bread and water) all for nothing? And then still have to face surgery?

“But my previous surgery was nearly 40 years ago,” I said. “Why would I get an adhesion now?”

“Sometimes they develop quickly, sometimes they take years to form,” he said.

“And how do I prevent them?”

“You can’t.”

That wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. The thought of being on a tropical cruise and having this happen out of the blue again, made me seriously consider becoming a recluse for the rest of my life.

At that moment, a nurse holding some tubing and what resembled a big Tupperware container entered. She looked at me, smiled tightly and said, “You’re probably going to end up hating me by the time we’re done.”

I was pretty sure she was right.

(I will continue this saga next week, as I’m feeling really tired. I promise I’ll let you know then whether I lived or died).

# # #

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Tuesday, September 2, 2025

SMOKERS MUST HAVE TO BE WEALTHY NOWADAYS

The other day I passed by a store that had a big sign advertising cigarettes on sale for $8.50 per pack.

I nearly drove into the gutter. Times definitely have changed since I was young.

Immediately I thought about my boyfriend back when I was in the eighth grade. At that time, it was considered “cool” to smoke the minute you became a teenager. So he was a heavy smoker, as were most of his friends. His fashion statement in the summer was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt, so he always had a rectangular-shaped bump on his shoulder. And if he didn’t have time to finish a cigarette before going into a building, he’d snuff it out, tuck it behind his ear and save it for later.

He ended up with a lot of scorched sideburns that way.

Also, there were cigarette machines everywhere. Put in a quarter and out popped a pack. It didn’t matter if you were 62 or 12, anyone could buy cigarettes.

Fortunately, I never had any interest in smoking…and there were two good reasons for that.

First of all, when I was about four, I decided to pick up a lit cigarette my dad had momentarily left in the ashtray. I’d watched him smoke every day and he seemed to really enjoy it, so I figured I was missing out on a lot of fun.

I’d always thought that people smoking cigarettes looked as if they were sucking on drinking straws, so I put the cigarette up to my mouth and sucked hard on it, as if it were a straw. A huge puff of smoke went right down my throat.

I choked so hard, I was terrified I’d find my tonsils lying on the carpet.

And if that weren’t enough to turn me off to smoking for life, my fourth-grade teacher really clinched it for me.

Back then, full-sized candy bars and ice-cream bars were only a nickel each, so a dollar could buy 20 of the delicious treats. It also could buy 10 of my favorite Nancy and Sluggo comic books. That’s why I was more than just slightly upset when my teacher, Mrs. McCarthy, did what she did.

“For any of you who are thinking about smoking in the future,” she said one day as she stood at the front of the classroom, “I’m going to show you exactly what you’ll be doing.”

She then removed a crisp dollar bill from her purse and held it up for all of us to see. Twenty pairs of beady little eyes immediately became riveted on that money as visions of what we could buy with it filled our heads.

That’s when Mrs. McCarthy did the unthinkable. She removed a book of matches from her purse, struck one and calmly proceeded to set the dollar bill on fire (luckily, she didn’t trigger the sprinkler system).

She held up the bill until half of it had burned, then she walked over to the sink at the back of the room and doused it with water. Our mouths collectively fell open as we stared wide-eyed at her, certain that our recent rowdiness in class finally had sent her over the brink and she’d soon be taking a long and restful leave of absence.

“When you smoke,” she finally explained, “all you are doing is turning your money into a pile of ashes! You’ll have nothing at all to show for your money but ashes! Is that what you want?”

I vigorously shook my head. No, I wanted to turn my money into a pile of Three Musketeers bars…and maybe even a few Snickers.

I have to give Mrs. McCarthy credit, though. She really knew how to make a point.

But I really wished she’d have set fire to something else instead…like my recent math test.

And I’ll never forget the day, back when I was a senior in high school, when my friend Alice gave me a ride home from school. To my surprise, before she started the car, she took a cigarette out of her purse, lit it, and proceeded to smoke it. I’d never seen her smoke until then.

“When the heck did you start smoking?” I asked her.

“Today,” she said. “Last night, my new boyfriend (Haaccck! Cough! Choke!) told me he thinks girls who smoke look (Haaaack! Wheeze! Cough!) really sexy!”

Sexy wasn’t exactly the word I would have used to describe her as her complexion turned greenish-gray and every time she breathed, she sounded like a motorcycle that was having trouble starting.

Even worse, only two months later, her boyfriend broke up with her. But by then, she was so addicted to cigarettes, she couldn’t quit.

To my dismay, my late husband also was one of those guys who'd started smoking back when he was in his early teens. After we were married, I threw a lot of hints for him to quit, but if I had gone outside and talked to a pine tree instead, the results would have been about the same.

However, something finally happened one day that miraculously made him quit. It was as if a divine power from above looked down upon him that morning and said, “Okay, big guy…today is the day you will be smoking your final cigarette.”

That afternoon, were on our way to meet friends for dinner at a restaurant in Manchester and were dressed in our dinner finery, which was mostly polyester. As we drove down the highway, my husband lit a cigarette and then immediately dropped it. He felt around, searching for it, but couldn’t find it, as I gently reminded him (a.k.a. screamed at him) to keep his eyes on the road.

I also tried to find the cigarette, but I couldn’t see it anywhere either, so I figured it probably had fallen onto the floor and then rolled underneath the seat.

Sighing in defeat, my husband finally pulled the car over to the side of the road so he could do a proper search.

Within seconds, however, he jumped out and launched into an impressive impersonation of a male exotic dancer – wiggling his hips and grabbing his crotch.

I actually was enjoying the impromptu performance until he nearly got flattened by an 18-wheeler.

That was when I noticed the cigarette lying on his car seat. It apparently had fallen between his legs when he’d dropped it. Later, upon further inspection, we discovered it quickly had melted a hole in the crotch of his brand new, forest-green, polyester pants.

He never smoked again after that.

And he never bought another pair of polyester pants.

In my opinion, it was a double victory.

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