A Smoker's Tale

I was a smoker for over 40 years. I started, in earnest, when I met my husband. I was 17 and, up until then, I'd had the odd drag but could take it or leave it.

I was over 60 when I gave up. I knew it was affecting my health and I realised it was going to get worse. I was a bit short of breath and I had a nasty cough, every now and then, but I thought giving up would cure all that.

My nemesis year was 2007. I'd been ill over Christmas with what I imagined was flu but I recovered and carried on working part-time, 3 days a week, which I'd done since I turned 60. In the July I took Laura to Malta for a week. It was tremendously hot and my energy levels had sunk to rock bottom but I put it down to the heat.

I'd only been back 2 weeks when I went down with - something. I was finding it hard to breathe and I just felt very ill. The doctor gave me an antibiotic and it helped - I went back to work after 3 weeks but I found it hard going and I finally gave my notice in. I would retire at the end of October.

With the leave due to me I actually finished work at the end of September. It was strange at first, not working, and I felt a bit guilty but I was so very tired. I had no energy and I felt more and more ill. I wondered about diabetes and hypothyroid, both in the family, but tests showed I was just on the "right" side of both.

In the middle of December I got a cold and I just went downhill. By the week before Christmas I was spending most of my days in bed. I was weary, felt dreadful and my feet had swelled up like puddings. I missed out on Christmas for the 2nd year running, by December 25th I was really poorly. My children all came, as usual, on Boxing Day and held a family conference resulting in the resolve to get the GP in, without delay. I was, apparently, looking as close to a corpse as it's possible to look while still (just about) breathing.

The doctor said I had possible pneumonia and heart failure. He gave me a strong antibiotic but it made no difference what so ever. On his 2nd visit, a week later, he ordered me into hospital where it was discovered I did, indeed, have pneumonia and heart failure exacerbated by moderate COPD.

I got out of hospital on January 18th 2008, my 65th birthday, after nearly 2 weeks in there. I would have been in several days more but I begged, cajoled and harangued the consultant to let me out for my special day. The hospital arranged oxygen for me, at home, and out I went. There was no party, no nothing really, but my oldest and dearest friend (an Ossy lass like me - we've been friends for 60 years) had sent me a lovely bouquet of flowers for my birthday. She had no idea I was ill.

I had the oxygen at home for a while but, eventually, I saw the consultant and was discharged. I was now under the care, solely, of the Respiratory Care nurse. She's a lovely girl called Carol and we have a laugh when I go to see her. Carol has to ensure that I don't relapse into breathing difficulties but she gets a little concerned as my oxygen saturation levels, though not dangerously so, are sometimes lower than they should be. She wanted me to go back on home oxygen but I refused. To me, this would be the end of the line and I'm damned if I'm going to live as an invalid for the rest of my life.

Well, we've now agreed that I will go for Pulmonary Rehabilitation classes. It means I will go to the gym, at Warrington Wolves Rugby Stadium, twice a week for 6 weeks, to build up my stamina and improve my lung power. I've started going swimming twice a week too so that's a help.

For my exercise classes I have been provided with a portable oxygen cylinder, so I can "go for the burn" without gasping for breath. The damned thing weighs a ton! I can only say that when I've done the exercises with that thing on my back I will either be supremely fit - or dead.

God, I wish I'd known all this was in my future in 1960 when I started to smoke.