Yesterday I saw the pulmonologist, and the news landed with the quiet weight of reality: my breathing problems aren’t just anxiety. They’re likely COPD, damage left behind after years of smoking.
That’s a hard sentence to hear. Anxiety can tighten the chest and steal the air, yes. But this was different. This was the body keeping records. The lungs, it turns out, are historians. They remember every cigarette.
The doctor explained that anxiety still plays a role in how breathing feels and functions, but the physical damage is real. The next step is a specialist follow-up with my primary care doctor. That appointment needs to get scheduled. No denial. No delay. When your lungs send a warning letter, you don’t leave it unopened.
The message was clear: quitting smoking isn’t optional anymore. It’s not a lifestyle upgrade. It’s maintenance on the life itself.
I’m still using Chantix, but the reminder was important. Medication can help, but it can’t carry the whole load. I have to lean into the support systems, the routines, the daily decisions. This isn’t about one pill. It’s about changing the pattern.
I’m working with California Kick It, and I sometimes attend Nicotine Anonymous meetings online. I won’t go in person. I’ve learned the hard way that some environments that promise recovery can also carry unhealthy dynamics. For me, distance and discernment are part of staying well. Recovery isn’t one-size-fits-all. The right program is the one that keeps you moving forward, not the one that pulls you back into chaos.
And speaking of what’s actually working…
Pet therapy is becoming the real medicine.
Whiskey and I have entered what I call the hand-holding phase.
I stretch my hand toward her, and she lies down, reaching out with her tiny little paw like we’re making a silent agreement:
You stay. I’ll stay.
She’s also spending long stretches curled up with Mom while she watches TV. Mom and I joke that we’re competing for her affection, but the truth is, there’s no competition. Whiskey is an equal-opportunity love machine. She has enough comfort to go around.
And that comfort is powerful.
When a cat settles against you, the world slows down. The urge to smoke doesn’t disappear in a dramatic thunderclap. It just… loses its urgency. The craving shows up, looks around, sees a warm purring creature, and quietly backs out of the room.
Whiskey Kitty isn’t just a pet anymore. She’s becoming a love cat, a living reminder to breathe slower, sit longer, and stay present.
Right now, that’s the most effective distraction from smoking I’ve found.
COPD is serious. The road ahead isn’t imaginary anymore. But neither is the progress.
Support programs. Medical follow-up. Medication used wisely. A house full of quiet moments. A tiny paw reaching out like a lifeline.
Step by step. Breath by breath.
Once again, I got this. 🐾
by Dan and Bonkers
SUPPORT MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS TODAY!!!
