Mea Culpa my love/hate affair with smoking

I was 12 years old, cocky, bit out of control. I was sitting astride Phil's 750 worn but impressive Yamaha, chatting. Phil was 17, a friend of my older brother, long hair, leather jacket smelling of petrol and cigarettes. I asked if I could have a draw of his No 6, chuffed when he handed it to me, mostly chuffed that he and his mates were treating me like a was a teenager and female. I was attempting flirtation, smoking like I was an expert, confident that I looked older with my khol eyeliner and scarlet lips. We were talking about some obscure lyrics  from a band that I had not heard of but was pretending I loved. I felt the displaced air around my left ear before I felt the pain. My scarlet smile died, just like the easy going ambience. I fell forward and twisted into a spin jump,landing catlike, facing my father.' HOME ',he snarled. I ran ahead, fuck fuck fuck, I'm so dead, my feet beat into the pavement. At home I raced to the bathroom and locked the door. 'Give me a stick, ' my father yelled 'a big stick, I'm gonna break that wee girl's bones!' I looked frantically around the bathroom, I used to be able to fit through the small, uppermost window, but since*cringe* I had become a woman ( I hated the term menstruation) and had the beginnings of hips and baby breasts , I couldn't fit anymore. A row ensued outside the door, my Mum was demanding to know what the problem was and was drawing my Dad's fire. I unscrewed Dad's razor and thought 'Do it, end this fucking useless existence, I'm nothing but a pain to everyone anyway, I hated them all but myself much, much, more. He didn't kill me, I didn't kill myself, and smoking became a part of who I am.
Now, once again, I am attempting to turn my back on smoking, to convice myself, this is NOT who I am. It makes no sense. My mum and Darren's dad both suffer from a smoking-related disease. I have stopped so many times I have lost count. I am a serial stopper. I stopped once for 6 years, never smoked when I carried or breast fed any of my 3 children. Last time I gave up, I stopped for 6 months and felt better, looked better, had so much more energy. Then one of my homeless clients was murdered. Stabbed to death, in June of this year. I knew him for 2 years. I liked him. I ran to the newspapershop and greedily sucked the deadly fumes deep into my lungs, as if it was oxygen and I had been suffocating. Now I am starting to feel the minus health effects again, too frequent colds, using my asthmatic meds more often, post midnight wheeze. My Dad is not around to get a big stick to beat the evil out of me. I am my own judge, jury and executioner. 3 days.............and counting.

A week is an awfully short time/ Tiny's story

I cannot believe it has been a week since I last posted on our return from Amsterdam, God that was a fast week! Work has been hectic, a lot of young homeless people with a host of complex needs. I have been working with homeless clients for over two years now, and it has flown by! No two weeks, or even, no two days are the same in this job. I talked with my eldest daughter about the stresses and strains of the job and she said I don't know how you can detach yourself from the plight of your clients, when you come home, and the truth is I can't. Not without my family, dogs, home, Rose Wine, and twitter to keep me balancing precariously on the sane side if the fine line. I don't let it go entirely, but I can't bring all my clients home to live with me, although every so often I feel like I want to. Especially the young ones. Kids really. Which brings me to the one time I brought home, not a client but his dog, Tiny.
I had been visiting this patient as his CPN for a few weeks. I called to see him more often than my role warrented, but I was very concerned about him.Tiny's owner, I will call him Tony, was in his 50's but looked more like 80. He smoked 80+ a day and had schizophrenia. He lived alone, except for this wee jack russell. Tiny. Tiny was his life. He also suffered from chronic heart disease. He had problems with fluid retention, due to his weakened heart function, and didn't have trousers that fit. So he sat in one room, unable to stand, trousers around his knees, unable to wash, or walk any distance. He spent all day/night watching a tv white noise screen( not tuned in for picture or sound) He refused to allow me to tune it in as he saw all his favourite movie screen goddesses, Marilyn Monroe, ect on the screen. He had a care package, carers called 3 times a day to help him wash and make him meals, but he refused their offers  to walk to the bathroom and they didn't argue. Just made him ready meals and pre-packaged trifle, and left. I logged their visits as lasting 6 minutes. He was so dirty I didn't know he had brown hair until he was in hospital. He had weeping leg ulcers that a district nurse called to dress daily, but as soon as she left, he undid the dressings to let Tiny lick, he thought the dog had a better chance of healing them. I tortured the Care Manager, and his GP with telephone calls. I was afraid he would die alone. His sister in law brought him groceries and cigarettes and managed his benefits but had her own burdens to bear, and couldn't spend much time. He wheezed, the dog wheezed, he smoked, so the dog smoked with him.The GP finally agreed to me at his home one evening and called an ambulance to take him into hospital. He agreed only if I would take and look after his beloved wee dog. I visited him in hospital and the staff kindly let me bring Tiny in to see him on three occassions. I gave him a photograph of her he kept at his side. When he died, within a matter of weeks the same photograph was buried with him. I brought Tiny to the funeral, and she was the centre of attention. Sometimes when I look at her I swear I see Tony's expression. She sleeps with us, is on my knee as soon as I am through the door (makes it difficult to manage on the loo!)and is the source of much happiness. She no longer wheezes, can run(almost) as fast as our collie, Rachel. I do not forget where she came from. As she is an wee old doggie, she may not be with us for too many years to come, but I know someone who will be very glad to welcome her to wherever he may be, and I sincerely hope Marilyn Monroe is also there to say Hi!