On Friday, I was driving west on Highway 9 when all hell broke loose. The rain had begun to come down, and I recall there was a bit of hail. I proceeded on my course despite the radio’s urgent calls to take shelter far from a vehicle. I was crossing the overpass heading due west before the road bends onto Interstate 35 when I saw it: a portion of the dark-grey sky dipping to the ground. A tornado was manifesting itself before me, and I was driving right into its path.
No, it can’t be like this, I thought.
I don’t want to die in fear.
I want to express myself more. I want to take more photos, write more stories and have more sex.
Do the people driving in front of me, acting like cattle, know what could happen to them?
Well, come to think of it, this actually is a fairly badass way to go out.
I didn’t accomplish anything. I didn’t finish anything. For what will I be remembered?
I really wanted to have more sex.
My heart was palpitating, I slowed the car and then sped up. I was going to outrun it. I was going to Bill Paxton the Twister.
I made it about a mile when I heard the tornado had crossed the highway at Lindsey Street. I was going to be fine, and in that brief minute, when I was faced with one of nature’s most destructive juggernauts, I genuinely appreciated my life. I had the will to make something of myself. I acknowledged the fragility of my life’s vessel and had an urge to truly take care of it.
I realized these things, took them to heart and then smoked a pack of cigarettes.
I wasn’t able to quit thinking about death. I imagined my eulogy:
“Sam Higgins is a person who was, and he always will be that. Oh, and he wrote some articles for a student newspaper. Donations will be accepted for Sam’s grieving parents, and there also is a bar in downtown Tulsa that has been losing money hand-over-fist since the loss.”
After Monday’s university-sponsored cessation session, it has become more apparent to me that I don’t really want to quit smoking. I just know I have to. This is causing something you psychology students may identify as cognitive dissonance.
I love something and want to want to quit doing it. It’s a great thing that’s bad for me. I have to stop, and I’m stopping because of fear.
What feeling will rush over me when a physician tells me the bad news? When they tell me the irreversible consequences of my habit, will I feel that chilling sensation akin to having my skin filled with ice like a plastic bag?
If I continue, I’ll know death is right there in front of me, sooner than I had thought, and of course there is no turning back.
But right here and now, I do have a chance to turn around and avoid that perilous situation, watching the others go in — like cattle.
