The Kool 100

I picked up the newspaper the other day and read the following:
Patients at risk for abdominal aortic aneurysm (AAA) will soon be eligible for ultrasound screening under the Medicare system. An at-risk patient is defined as a male over 65 who has smoked more than 100 cigarettes in a lifetime, or a woman with a family history of aneurysms . . .A triple-A! I read on in horror, scarcely able to contain myself as I learned that the AAA kills 15,000 people a year in the United States. It is a silent killer, a ticking time-bomb. The aorta, the story explained, is the largest artery in the human body. In the abdomen, under the pressures and stresses of a lifetime, it may bulge outward, forming a pulsating egg that grows and grows until it finally and catastrophically bursts. I could be gardening, doing the laundry, cutting grass, or watching TV, when BAM, my aorta bursts, and, as Homer says, darkness is swirling before my eyes.
I had never heard of the AAA before, but the more I thought about it the more certain I was that I had one. I had to have that test. Even as I sat and read, the paper resting against by protuberant belly, I could see the newsprint bob up and down as my throbbing Triple-A ballooned. There was not a moment to lose.
I made an appointment with my doctor the next day. The nurse showed me to the examination room, and I waited anxiously to make to plead my case for this lifesaving ultrasound.
A few minutes passed, and Dr. Hebert came in. He read my chart and my request. "So you are afraid you may have an aneurysm?" he asked.
How could I explain it to him? I have a AAA until proven otherwise, my mind screamed, but I said, calmly, "Doc, I don't know. But I have had these stomach pains, and I am worried . . ."
"I would be happy to order the test, Mr. Kent, but you know the Medicare rules. You read the article. I read it too because you left it under my windshield wiper in the hospital parking lot yesterday. You don't meet the criteria."
"I am 66 years old . . ."
"But you don't smoke. Oddly enough, this is the one time in life when there is a material advantage to smoking. Of course, if you want to pay for it yourself, you could get it for a few hundred dollars."
"Can't do it, Dr. Hebert." I was crushed, having blown all my money on lottery tickets. After choking back a sob, I finally said, "I'll figure something out."
I stumbled out of the office in a fog. At home, I fixed myself a cup of coffee, and lay on the sofa thinking. As I stared at my stomach, I swore I could see it pulsating, that evil AAA ripening like an August watermelon. How many minutes did I have left? Then I got an idea.
Without a word to my wife, I got into my car and drove over to the convenience store. Running up to the counter, I said to the clerk, "I need 100 cigarettes."
He made a funny face. "You mean you want a carton?"
"Whatever it takes to make 100 cigarettes. See, I gotta make criteria."
We figured it out. Twenty-five cigs a pack, so I needed 4 packs. I couldn't believe how much a pack cost! Each pack had a warning that said, "SMOKING IS HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH." But the Surgeon General certainly would approve under these extraordinary circumstances. These 100 smokes would save my life.
I took the cigarettes home, emptied the packs out and laid all 100 out on my kitchen table. My wife then walked in and asked what I was doing, though not as polite as all that.
"I am saving my life by qualifying for an ultrasound," I said.
"Not in my house!" she hollered, and I obligingly picked up all the cigarettes and went out to the yard.
Tobacco, of course, is the most addictive substance known to man. If I was to smoke 100 of them, I knew I had to make it as unpleasant an experience as possible to minimize my chance of getting hooked. To achieve this, I intended to smoke all 100 cigarettes in a one-hour period.
I lined them up side-by-side, and then picked up 5 and lit them. I stuck all 5 in my mouth. They were pointing in all directions, and with my fat head in the middle I looked something like a bagpipe. I inhaled. Presently I felt very dizzy, my heart beating faster and faster. I spat them out and lit up five more.
By the time I had gone through thirty I began to feel a horrific burning in my stomach. Along with it there was a buzzing sound in my ears. The bagpipe was revving up. As the stomach burning converted into intense nausea, I fell to my knees. I vomited over and over again, and then rolled over on my side, the whole world a haze.
My wife was standing over me. "What kind of fool are you," she said, and tried to pick me up by the collar. "It's bad enough that you are making yourself sick. You also set the lawn on fire."
She turned on the garden hose and snuffed out the blaze on the grass. Sick as I was, I made sure to gather the remaining cigarettes to my bosom so they would not get wet.
"I only have 55 to go," I murmured, and fumbled to find my matchbook. There was no going back now.
"Why don't you smoke them one at a time, instead of making yourself sick like a moron?" she said.
"I don't want to get addicted," I said, my heart palpitating. "If I make myself sick doing this, I won't want to smoke again." I grabbed 5 more cigarettes and stuffed them between my lips. The tips waggled up and down, and with my trembling fingers it was almost impossible to light them all with a single match.
I took a few more puffs, choked, and all 5 butts landed in the grass. I threw up again, and my wife doused the fallen cigarettes with another burst of water from her hose. When I vomited yet again, she hit me in the face with the water. I was on my hands and knees staring at the ground in near-defeat. A string of mucus ran from my nose down to the ground.
"Oh, you won't get addicted. If you ever pull this again I'll pound your head in with a frying pan."
How I did it, I will never know, but somehow I got through with all 100 cigarettes before everything went black.
The next thing I remember is waking up on the sofa. My wife had dragged me in somehow, and I found myself with a cold cloth on my forehead and a glass of water at arm's reach on the end table. After a few minutes, my wife came in. "Oh, you're awake," she said, and then launched into a tirade that I choose to block from my memory.
The next day I was in the doctor's office. I still looked rather wan, and Dr. Hebert was observing me suspiciously. "You smell like smoke," he said.
"I want that ultrasound test," I said. "I have smoked 100 cigarettes in my lifetime, so I qualify. If you don't believe it, you can ask my wife."
"Oh, I believe you," Dr. Hebert said. "I have already talked to your wife."
"Good. When can we get the test?"
"January 2007. Medicare is not starting the program for another 10 months, John. You will have to wait until then."
I thought I was going to faint. Deep in my abdomen I could feel that aorta, stretching, tearing, on the verge of explosion! Could I afford to wait another 10 months? I guess I had no choice. "Book it," I groaned, "on January 1st. At 12:01 am, if possible."
As I got up to leave, another thought passed through my mind.
"Doc, I just smoked 100 cigarettes yesterday. Think they would pay for a chest X-ray? I swear, I have been feeling a tumor in my chest ever since I woke up this morning."

