Medical Marijuana and Me

Medical Marijuana and Me

By Rosemary Rains-Crawford

            After my sister told me marijuana could help with arthritis pain in my right wrist and left knee, I decided to investigate.  I had managed to avoid exposure to it as a recreational drug through my childhood, adolescence, and my adult life. I decided that if it indeed had medical properties, I deserved all that saved usage for when I needed it as I suffered aches and pains in my geriatric years.  Since I don’t operate heavy machinery, work for wages, or even drive myself much anymore, I couldn’t see how it could hurt anyone else.

Even though marijuana for medical use had been legal in Washington state for several years, I had no idea what that involved.  Was it a license through the state?  Was it just a prescription from a doctor who was willing to write it?  Where did I get the product once I had the authorization?  Was it possible for me to grow it myself?  The last question was of most interest to me as I have a large garden, love plants, and didn’t want to be involved with the druggie type people who had it for sale.  My only source of information on marijuana was my younger sister who had used it since she was a teenager for recreational purposes.  She lived in a different state, so she had no idea how to make me legal with the State of Washington.  I had seen ads in the “Little Nickel” throw-away newspaper for “guaranteed marijuana license”, but that seemed like just another way for recreational users to get their drugs.

“I am going to grow a marijuana plant or two.” I announced to my husband, Ron in the spring.  “Luna gave me three seeds, and I am going to try to grow them.”

“Doesn’t that put our whole life at risk?” he asked reasonably with some alarm.

“I don’t actually think so.  I may not even be able to make them grow, and I will make sure they are hidden in the far reaches of the garden if they do grow.”

“Well, I don’t think it is a very good idea.”

“If they grow, I promise I will figure out how to get a license.”

He reluctantly agreed to that, and I immediately put my three seeds into a wet paper towel to see if they would sprout.  Four days later, they all had nice sprouts, so I potted them in a small flower pot and left them in a sunny window, where I tended them carefully as they poked through the soil.

Within two weeks, the plants were becoming a bit ungainly and the weather had warmed.  We were past danger of frost, and the soil felt good in the garden, so I picked a sunny spot that was shielded by the grape arbor inside my garden fence.  Soon, the plants were growing literally “like weeds”.  I knew I had to figure out the license thing.

Coincidentally, an old friend from high school and I reconnected and began to share our love of plants and all things do-it-yourself.  I finally felt I had someone I could trust to show off my beautiful plants.

“I just have to figure out how to get a license.  Ron is getting anxious having them on our property.”

“You know, I have a friend who has a license.”

“Really?  Do you know how she got it?”

“I’m not sure.  We were up visiting and Lonnie saw a plant when he was out looking at something in the barn with Bob.  Bob told Lonnie that his wife Sandy had arthritis really bad and she had a license to use it and to grow it.  Do you want me to see if they will give you some information about it?”

“Oh, boy, do I ever!”

A couple of days later, Karla called to say she had set up a meeting with her friends at their place up by Mt. Vernon. “We can go on Tuesday morning, but Sandy has a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon, so they have to leave the house around noon.

“Let’s ride together, and we can go out to lunch after we meet them.”

Tuesday morning found us on the road to Mt Vernon, and we arrived at Lonnie and Sandy’s farm around 10 a.m.

“Want to see my operation?” Bob asked as soon as introductions had been made.

“Yes!”  None of us realized they had an “operation” going on.  Lonnie had seen only one plant and assumed that was the extent of their growing.

“This used to be our kiln,” Bob said as he unlocked the door of a square building with no windows and only one door that had been fastened securely with a padlock as well as a door-handle lock.

The first thing that struck me as I entered the brightly lit room was the smell.  Even with my limited experience with marijuana, I immediately recognized the overpowering spicy smell that hung over the room like a blanket.

As we walked through the aisles between rows of plants, Bob expounded on the virtues of each different type of plant.  My head was spinning – partly from the smell, but also with the amount of information we were getting.  In my naivety, I had thought all marijuana was the same.  Some plants had much darker leaves than others, some were even variegated in color, some were much taller, some had purple buds and some white, and so on.  In retrospect, I guess I should have realized that marijuana had as many varieties as such things as roses and dahlias, but it was a bit overwhelming as we walked through the building.

“This area is our cloning area,” Bob explained as we entered yet another building that was also full of plants.  These plants were smaller – some only four or five inches tall in small clear plastic drinking cups, some in 12” pots, and the largest ones in 24” pots. 

“The biggest ones are ready to move into the budding area,” he continued.  “There we control the light and ventilation to maximize their fruition.” 

I had lost track of all the stages of development, but clearly, this was a scientific growing operation. 

“You can see our authorizations on the wall of every building,” he explained.  “Each licensee is allowed to grow 15 plants.  We have the maximum five licensees allowed by the law.  My wife and I both have licenses, and our three children are also licensed.  The patient has an authorization for using marijuana, but can also identify people who are her suppliers, which gives them a license to have plants.” I wondered if the kids all had pain and were users or if they were just suppliers for Sandy.  I realized they had to have user’s licenses because even with a bunch of providers, I thought the law only allowed Sandy to have 15 plants.  This was really confusing.  I had a sudden wish for a copy of the whole law so I could study it.

“Do they all work here?”  It was sort of a dumb question, but the best I could come up with as my mind swirled with all the new information.

“Well, it is mostly mechanized, and Sandy and I can do most of the work, but they do come by and help occasionally.”

We didn’t even ask the most obvious question:  “What do you do with all of this?”  Surely it was way more product than any five people, even five people in considerable pain, could use in a lifetime.  Politeness forbade us asking, but it was certainly on all of our minds.

“Here is the information about my doctor,” Sandy said as we walked back to the car.  She had thoughtfully made up an envelope of stuff – a card for the doctor, a couple of recipes, and a sample doctor’s authorization.  “Be sure and mention that I recommended her because she gives me a discount when I send patients to her.”

“I am really worried about Bob and Sandy.” Karla confided after we thanked Bob and Sandy for the tour and drove away.

“That is quite an operation,” Ron stated the obvious for all our benefit.

“I had no idea they had all those plants.”  This from Lonnie.

All of us were a bit shell-shocked and almost at a loss for words.

We weren’t far from one of our favorite restaurants, “The Conway Pub”, where I like to go for an oyster burger and Ron likes the fish and chips.  I had noticed in the car every now and then a little waft of marijuana odor, and smelled one just as we walked through the restaurant door.  We had all been immersed in it for over an hour, so who knew how much stronger the smell would be to someone else?  Fortunately we sat outside so our little group of old people reeking of marijuana wasn’t too obvious to the other patrons (I hoped).

When I asked the others if they could still smell it, they all started sniffing the air. Just then, the waitress came with menus we all burst out laughing like we had just heard the funniest joke, and all of us wondered if we could have gotten silly from all the fumes.  For sure it was a lunch where we giggled a lot.

Marijuana and Me

Starting today, I'll be posting a short story or essay every week.  I've written a bunch of them myself, but would love to feature stories by others as well.  So until I get stories submitted, I guess I'm stuck with my own.  This one is an essay about my quest for natural pain relief from my arthritic knee and wrist.

Marijuana and Me

by Rosemary Rains-Crawford

            When I was in high school, we spoke in hushed whispers about drug usage.  While most of our parents drank alcohol, and some quite a lot of it, they never considered using marijuana or any other illegal drug.  They didn't even think warning us about it necessary, as it was so unimaginable.  So I managed to pass through my entire childhood, teenage years, and most of my adult life without too much exposure to “weed”.  Ten years after I graduated high school, my younger siblings had a different experience, as by then marijuana was as much a part of their exposure as alcohol was to mine.

            As the years passed, of course I became more aware of marijuana, but I remained firmly opposed to any drug use.  I assumed the term “medical marijuana” was a euphemism used to legitimize marijuana use in people who used it for the head rush it provided.  Even if it did provide medical solutions, smoking something for medical purposes seemed a bit medieval to me.  Alcohol makes me dizzy, an extremely uncomfortable feeling for me, so I have always avoided getting high on anything.

            Fast forward 50 years – my aging body is protesting.  Sometimes pain in my right wrist and my left knee keeps me awake at night.  I control the pain in my wrist most of the time with one or two aspirin, but if I have been doing heavy weeding in my garden, I suffer.  When I mentioned this to my sister, she assured me that marijuana was the safest and most effective medicine for pain.

            “But I can’t bear the thought of smoking anything!”

            “There are lots of ways to take it without smoking it.”

            This was news to me.  I had heard of brownies, but that didn’t exactly sound like a medication so it hadn’t even occurred to me.  “You mean brownies?” I asked incredulously.

            “Not just brownies – they have capsules, topical creams, and all kinds of food you can bake it into.”

            “I like the sound of topical creams if they work.  Maybe it would be worth a try.”

When I made my first doctor appointment in 15 years for my “Welcome to Medicare” physical shortly thereafter, the doctor I chose assured me that that physical is “kind of a joke”.  WHAT?  No doctor visit to me is “kind of a joke”.  I spent my first few years out of high school working in an Army hospital, so I insisted on blood tests, agreed to the mammogram that he suggested, and while I was at it, had him xray the wrist that had been troubling me a lot that week.  Bottom line, I ended up taking 10 mg a day of Lisiniprol for my newly found high blood pressure, and knowing that my suspicions were correct:  I had arthritis in my wrist.  While he was willing to prescribe any pain medication I might have seen on a TV commercial, he refused outright to prescribe cannabis even though it is legal for medical purposes in the State of Washington. 

“I would prefer a natural remedy to a chemical compound.”

“There is no difference between natural and chemical.  There is nothing magical about being natural, and marijuana is a class 2 drug – meaning it has no medical uses.”

“My sister swears by it and I would like to try it.”

“I won’t prescribe it because it is illegal.”

“But it isn’t illegal if you prescribe it to me.”

“I can’t do that.”

So ended my “welcome to Medicare” physical and my interest in revisiting any doctor.  Still my pain persisted, and sometimes even four aspirin didn’t dull it enough for me to sleep.  Worried about stomach bleeding from aspirin usage, I decided to pursue the cannabis solution a bit more.  I had no idea how to proceed.  I had seen ads in the “Little Nickel” newspaper for “guaranteed license for medical marijuana”.  They sounded so sleazy and addict-oriented that I couldn’t visualize myself calling.  Falling into the hands of a medical marijuana quack seemed as bad as falling into the hands of any other medical person.

“Do you still have contact with your ex-husband?” I asked my sister.  Her ex was a very interesting guy.  One of the last old hippies, his background as a horticulturist had always given us things to discuss as I love plants and always have a large garden.  I had known for many years that his one goal in life was to produce the best bud from the best plants ever cultivated.  I had lost touch with him over the years when he and my sister divorced.  “I would like to see if he can get me a marijuana plant.”

“Yeah, he still lives near you. I am sure he can help you. I think this is his number.”  She gave me a phone number.

When I called, I got a standard message delivered by a monotone female voice:

“The party you called is not currently available.  Please leave a message.”

Not sure what to say as I wasn’t sure if it was the right number or of all the legalities of “legal marijuana”,  “Hi, you may not remember me, but I’m Luna’s sister, and I have a horticulture question for you.”  And left him my number.

A couple of days later, Don returned my call.  “Hi, Rosie, of course I remember you.  What can I help you with?”

“I want to get a marijuana plant.” I blurted out.

“I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, but I may be able to help you.” He said quickly.  But he gave me directions to his farm in northwest Washington and we agreed to meet the next week.

My husband has a Honda Goldwing motorcycle that we ride often in the summer, so we decided a visit to see Don would make a nice ride.  With a minimum of backtracking, we were able to find Don’s farm where he sat in the sun in a rocking chair on his large front porch waiting for us.

“Hi, Don, long time no see.”

“Yeah, good to see you.”

We sat in the other chairs on the porch and proceeded to go through updates on my entire family, his entire family, the weather, politics, etc. for about an hour before I finally asked.  “Can you get us a plant?”

“Well, maybe, but not right away.  I have some cannabis here if you want a smoke.”

WHAT?  First of all, we were riding a motorcycle. We had no interest in getting high, especially when we had a 150-mile trip ahead of us on a motorcycle!

“Gosh, Don, we really don’t smoke at all.” I said gently.  “Our interest in a plant is so we can experiment with making salves and ointments that might help with my arthritic wrist and knee.  How soon can you know if you can get a plant for us?”

“Well, I can call Mickie – he might have a plant.”

He left us sitting on the porch while he went inside and made a few phone calls.

“Well, he doesn’t have a plant, but he can sell you some dried for now and get you a plant later.”

I was ready to abandon the whole project, but Ron knew how much I needed some pain relief at times, so he said, “We can do that.”

“Let me go make another call.”  Don left us again sitting on the porch.

“It is getting kind of late – we are a couple of hours from home and we don’t want to be on the freeway in the dark.” I said worriedly.

“Well, it is better than waiting for a possible plant next month or next year, so let’s just do this for now.”

“Okay.” I said, but began fidgeting while we waited another 15 minutes for Don.

Finally, he came outside and told us, “Mickie only sells in one ounce increments – is that okay?”

My experience with measurements is that an ounce is about a tablespoonful, maybe a little bit more, but it sounded about right, so I quickly said, “That is fine if we can get it pretty soon.  We don’t want to be in rush hour traffic through Bellingham or on the road after dark.”

“No problem – but it is kind of expensive.”

“How expensive?” Ron asked.

“It will be $300.”

Three hundred dollars?!?!?!  I was appalled but before I could protest, Ron said, “That will be fine.” And immediately pulled out his money clip and peeled off three one hundred dollar bills that he gave Don.

“I can meet him right away, but he doesn’t want you to come to his house, so maybe you can follow me and wait somewhere while I meet him?”

“Okay.”

“But I do need to make a quick stop on the way and get some hay for the horses – is that okay?”

“Sure.  We will just follow you.”

So we set off in caravan – Don in his big old carryall and Ron and I on the bike.  After a confusing series of turns, Don suddenly pulled into a driveway along a white plastic fence bordering a large pasture with a few horses grazing along the edge.  We followed him until he came to a series of barns.  When he suddenly drove straight into one of the barns, we pulled over in the parking lot of one of the other barns and waited, even though we could no longer see his vehicle.

“Can I help you?”  An angry looking woman in a blue Jeep drove up alongside the bike and looked at us suspiciously.

“We just followed my brother-in-law here so he could pick up a load of hay.  We are taking him out to dinner later, and….” I realized then that I was babbling so I shut up.

“Well, fine, but he should have let us know!”

We waited uncomfortably for another 15 or 20 minutes until Don’s vehicle came out the other side of the barn and approached the road.  We fell in behind him and followed him to his next stop – a gas station in Bellingham, where he pulled up to the pump and began filling his rig. 

“Do you want us to just wait here?” I asked as he finished filling up.

“That would be fine.”

So we sat for about a half hour before we realized that we were a bit conspicuous on our bike just sitting there as people came and went looking at us skeptically.

“Let’s just move to that parking lot,” Ron suggested, pointing to a large vacant warehouse looking building about a half block away.  “We can park behind those trees but still watch for Don to come back.”

After nearly an hour, we were both getting nervous.  “Shouldn’t he be back by now?” I asked tentatively.

“Boy, you would sure think so!”

“It is nearly 5 p.m.  We will be riding in the dark for sure.  Maybe we should just go home and forget this.  By then I was feeling like the biggest drug addict on the face of the earth.

“He already has my $300 and has put most of it into that big land boat of his.” Ron answered reasonably.  Still after another 20 minutes, even he was ready to just head for home, when our phone rang.

“Hey, its me – I am over at the Shop and Save – do you know where that is?”

“No.”

“It is just around the corner – take a left at the corner by the gas station and just go straight and you will see it as you approach the freeway.”

So at least we were moving toward home, which made both of us happier.  Sure enough, in the parking lot, we spotted Don standing outside his vehicle.  As we rode up, he handed us a grocery bag.  We put it in the trunk of the motorcycle, said goodbye quickly, and headed home.

To our dismay, when we got home and looked in the bag, we found a whole quart zip-lock bag full of marijuana buds.  “Good grief! That has to be a life-time supply, and we are probably well into felony mode!” I observed.

“Well, honey, you can start your experiment now!” Ron said happily.

I froze the bag and started my research. I found that to make brownies, which seemed the easiest for a beginner, I first needed to melt a pound of butter in the crockpot, add a quantity (how much?) of buds, and cook slowly for 24 hours.  Then discard the plant matter and use the butter to replace the oil called out in the brownie recipe.  I tentatively added five buds to the butter.  For the next 24 hours, we anxiously watched the driveway, worrying that anyone might visit, as our entire house smelled of marijuana.

The next day I used the Costco brownie mix to make a batch of brownies, using a third of a cup of my new butter.  Even though my wrist wasn’t bothering me that evening around 5 p.m. when the brownies came out of the oven, I ate at least a full brownie as I cut them into squares and ate the crumbs left in the pan. 

By about 7 p.m., the TV picture seemed to be fading in and out and I felt almost dizzy.  Not entirely like being dizzy – more like being in a trance or something.  I went to bed early, had strange dreams all night, but slept through the night and woke up refreshed.  I was encouraged to continue experimenting when I woke with a feeling of well-being.

That was three years ago.  I have come a long way since with my knowledge of cannabis and its effects on my body and mind.  In the interest of keeping this a short story and not a novel, I will tell of my quest to grow a plant, make salves and ointments, and become legal in the state of Washington in future stories.