Me and Mary Jane

When I pictured what a dispensary looked like, I thought that it would be kind of like a store.  There would be different flavors with maybe price tags and I would pick what I wanted.  Maybe there would be a sale.  Then they would ring me up, thank me for my patronage, and I would be on my way. 

Instead, I found myself in what seemed to be a 1970’s detective office.  I had somehow made the jump from Alice in Wonderland to Columbo.  Man, what was life going to be like when I actually did start smoking pot?Perhaps this would all start making sense?  Doubtful. 

Dreaded Alice asked for my pot packet so she could verify my identity (like I could have ever found this place on my own).  I handed her my packet across the table.  I casually looked down and realized that it wasn’t a table at all, but rather an aquarium with A GIANT SNAKE!!!  WTF? HOLY SHIT!  WHO LET THE SNAKE IN HERE?  Ok, breath…play it cool.  We don’t want Dreaded Alice to think we are uncool.  We’re casual, but not too casual remember.  So I tried to smile like it was no big deal.   Sure it’s a snake, this happens all the time. 

I’m pretty sure my smile came across more as constipated than breezy.

Ok, so before my pot doc shuffled me out the door, he did take the time to give me a recommendation to his favorite medical marijuana dispensary. He explained that some of them can be very shady and it’s important to find one that is trustworthy. His dispensary of choice was called Wizard. Odd name but I couldn’t be happier for the recommendation! You see, although I was very very nervous about coming to the pot doc, that paled in comparison to the severe panic I was feeling about actually picking up the goods. I almost wanted to hug him. Maybe he really was Captain Stubing.

Next I met with the nurse outside who gave me my official pot packet. This contained my official medical marijuana certificate (apparently the card comes in the mail later), the pocket-size version, the version to give to the police, the “how to talk to the police” / attorney phone number / jail hotline card…as well as coupons for my friends. What? Whatever, I’m outta here.

I decided to ride this wave of confidence and go straight to Captain Stubing’s dispensary. I jumped in my car and tucked the pot packet under my seat. I mean, what if I got pulled over and the cops saw it? Or there was an emergency and I had to shuttle a pack of school children or kittens to safety? I can’t have any of these people / innocent animals thinking I’m a pot head.

The address of the Captain’s dispensary was 1399B. I was relieved when I pulled up to the strip mall and it was all sorts of normal. No adult book stores or bars that opened at 6am (sorry Kerny Mesa, I’m working on my stereotypes). I couldn’t see the exact address from the road so I parked and continued on foot. There was 1397, 1398, 1399A, then a big open lot and then 1400. Oh crap, please please please don’t let this place be in the alley.

“Ok, Katie, it’s 10:15am in sunny San Diego. You can certainly go down the alley and check it out.” So I puffed up my chest and went down the alley in search of Wizard. In the middle of an alley there was a single creepy door with an ominous doorbell (yes, I’m serious). I thought for sure there would be a sign that said “Drink Me,” but it was more Anita Bell than Alice in Wonderland and it simply said “Ring my Bell.” So I did.

After what seemed like forever, a barefoot woman with long dreadlocks came to the door and said “I’m sorry it took me so long, I’m just soooo out of it today.” You’ve got to be kidding. Am I being punked? Or is this some new reality TV show hosted by Ashton’s sidekick Wilmer Valderrama called “Stereotypes”? But, in her defense, she was very sweet as lead me down her rabbit hole…I mean hallway…to the dispensary.

Since I had a half hour I was able to read every word of the legal disclaimers on the wall (I can recite them if you’d like).  I also did some final run-throughs of what I would say to my pot doc.  I need to make sure to use the word cannabis.  I had learned on the internet that was the correct terminology. Cannabis, cannabis, cannabis.

Gradually people started to trickle in.  The first was a hippie looking girl in her mid 20’s.  Her appointment was at 10:10, 10 minutes after mine.  Hmm, that’s weird.  The next was a man in his early 30’s: business casual, but not too casual, like myself.  His appointment was at 10:20.  Finally, an older woman who had a distinct air of strength, pain, and cancer.  My heart went out to her.  Her appointment was at 10:30.  I was surprised about the quick 10 minute turn around for the pot doc and relieved I had taken the extra steps to organize and sticky tab my medical records.  He was clearly busy. 

When I was finally face to face with my pot doc, I realized he was not Captain Stubing at all.  Perhaps Stubing after a bout of ocean sickness, but much more gruff than my original observation.  As he looked through my medical records (I use the word “looked” loosely because he clearly thought it was an animated flip book) he gave me some papers to review.  The first outlined the four ways to ingest cannabis:

1. Smoke (clearly)
2. Eat (been there, done that)
3. Vaporize (whoa! sounds fancy)
4. Suppository (what!! in your butt? oh dear!)

Then next paper told me that I could still be fired for cannabis use.  This was more of a tactic to get me riled up about how unfair the current marijuana laws are.  Unfortunately I was still riled up about sticking cannabis in my butt. Then the pot doc’s cell phone rang and, to my astonishment, he took the call! He excused himself, walked out to the parking lot (where I had just seen him 30 minutes earlier), and had a laughy-chatty convo while I sat in his office. WTF?? My 10 minute clock was ticking!

Anyway, back to my literature.  Next was an explanation of what a vaporizer was and why it was the best (more on that in later posts).  The last piece of paper told me that I was now able to grow cannabis, but I could only grow 24 plants at a time.  The pot doc came back in and made a point to discuss this one with me. He was very adamant about this: If I had a 25th plant and the cops raided my place, they would charge me with intent to distribute.  Why is he telling me this?  First of all why would I grow this stuff when I could just buy it at the store?  Second of all where would I put 24 plants?  (And this is when I thought pot plants were the size of a small basil plant; apparently they’re more like a small tree.)  Third of all, in my butt?!?!

This was a lot of information, but I still had questions.  How much to I use?  What if I use too much?  His response: “Well Katie, if you take too much pot you just have to ride it out, just ride it out.  Understand?”  No, I don’t understand.  Ride it out?  Ride it to where?  To the hospital?  To the drive through?  And, I didn’t think we were allowed to use the word pot.  Isn’t it called cannabis? Unfortunately at that point it was 10:10 and my appointment was done.

Finally the day came.  More preparation went into this day than into my college application, sorority rush, and first job interview combined.  First, I need to pick out an outfit.  It was important that I look professional, but not too professional.  I chose a nice navy shirt with a sensible pair of grey slacks.  Normally I would call them pants, but slacks seemed like the right terminology for this day.

Next I had to take time off work.  I mean, it was a doctor appointment…but it was to get pot.  There was much emotional turmoil and soul searching over this, but I ultimately made it out the door.

Then there was the drive over.  This was my rehearsal.  Actually, I had been rehearsing potential questions all week, but this was the final run through.  (Doctor: “How much pain are you in?” Me: “Knife sticking out of my pelvis.” Doctor: “Is the nausea really that bad?” Me: “Remember the time you ate sushi from that questionable street vendor?”) I wanted to make sure I didn’t downplay the severity of my situation, but I was also afraid of being too whiney.  I wanted to be vulnerable, but secure in my decision.  Really I just wanted him to help me and was terrified of screwing it up.

So terrified that I showed up 35 minutes early.  This was early enough to see my new pot doc sitting outside on his cell phone.  He was a perfect mix of Merrill Stubing (Captain of The Love Boat) and Mr. Cunningham (the dad from Happy Days).  The ideal grandpa.  I do have to admit that it was a little weird seeing him on the phone out in the parking lot.  Kinda like seeing your teacher at the mall.  They aren’t supposed to be real people.

Next I went inside and checked in with the receptionist.  She asked me if I was aware I was over a half hour early and that they weren’t open yet.  I laughed, acting as breezy as possible.  Something along the lines of being in the area and happy to wait.  She motioned over to the waiting area and I headed in that direction.  Casual, but not too casual.

So, if you need to find a medical marijuana doctor, don’t google “medical marijuana doctor.” Instead, google “medical marijuana clinics.”  A little tip from me to you.  This finally lead to an actual listing of places.  How do you choose?  Well, I’m not sure if I would recommend it, but I chose the one that kept coming up highest in each of my searches.  Kudos to their Search Engine Optimization guy. 

I was a little apprehensive at first because it was located in Kearney Mesa.  Now, I feel as though I’m going to offend many Kearney Mesans out there, but up to that point my only experince with this area of San Diego was that it was a mecca of strip clubs and nudie magazine shops.  Oh well, google seems to support this guy and I’m pretty sure google knows everything.  I called and made an appointment.

They asked me to bring my medical records for the appointment with the pot doc.  This made me feel much more legit and I was happy to provide it.  So happy that I spent hours reviewing my file and organizing it with dividers and neon sticky tabs.  Originally I wanted to rearrange my history in order of importance: Of course my pot doc would be more interested in my surgery than my sore throat in the late 90’s.  But then I panicked!  What if my pot doc noticed the altered records and denied me??  I left it as is.  Phew, close one.

Now came the waiting.  I swung between being giddy with excitement and stricken with fear of being denied!  I wanted someone to share this with, but I was still so apprehensive.  I had this amazing little secret that I was sure would change my world.  But I couldn’t tell my parents (what if they asked me about sex next?) and I couldn’t tell my co-workers (what if they told my boss…or asked me about sex? Awkward!), so I just sat and marinated in my excitement/fear.

The next day I awoke with a new take on life.  I sprung out of bed feeling better than I had in ages.  I can’t be 100% sure, but there may very well have been an animated blue bird on my shoulder.  Or perhaps it was the residual effects of the easy mac (who knows, I’ve never done this before).  However, the main difference was not physical: it was emotional.  For the first time in a year and a half (aka 547 days; aka 78 bouts of incurable pain), I had hope.  Again, I don’t really know how to describe this.  The idea of hope.  The idea of a solution when you had resigned to a certain way of life.  I know that there are those out there that will relate.  Those with stories much more dramatic than mine.  But I’m sure that we will all agree — it feels good.  Really good.  And you don’t ever want to lose it again.  So where does one go with a pocket full of hope and an animated blue bird on their shoulder?  To the internet!

I became obsessive about learning about medical marijuana.  I googled everything you can imagine.  Let me assure you I am no novice when it comes to the internet.  I can find any piece of information, you-tube video, or long lost high school friend in a matter of seconds.  But when it came to this search I found very little.  At least very little that I could apply.  There were plenty of white papers.  Tons of debate.  Lots of smokey fraternity pics.  But nothing that told me, is it really legal?  Where do I get it?  What are the steps I need to take?  Ugh, where is the pot practicality?

Finally I found out that I needed to go to a doctor and get a prescription.  After that point I would be able to go to some sort of facility and they would give me the goods.  Ok, got it.  Well, I clearly wasn’t going to go to my primary care physician.  I am way too embarassed.  It’s kinda like admitting to your parents that you have sex.  Yes, it’s legal, yes it’s natural, but still way to embarassing, so it’s best left unsaid.

In the midst of my internet search, my zip-a-dee-doo-dah feeling was starting to fade and…ugh, is that my headache again??

Unfortunately my decision to pick up pot came at the same time as our economic downturn. Like everyone else in the US, I was at risk of losing my job. The last thing I needed was to lose my job and then never get re-hired because I failed a drug test. So I swept the idea under the rug.

A few months and a pseudo-secure job later, I found myself where I had become accustomed: at home, curled up in my bed, unable to leave the house. My good friend Kary texted me, asking if she could drop by for a second. When she arrived she had a small gift bag. Little did I know that it contained the answer to my pain…and that it would be banana flavored.

She had obtained a small amount of fruity-flavored pot from an undisclosed location in hopes that it would make me feel better, at least for a little while. I was on board. If it could cure the vajones, it could cure me! What we didn’t know was how to do was get it into me. A call to a friend for advice lead us on a scavenger hunt around the house for some sort of smoking paraphernalia–after which, all I knew was that I didn’t have papers, a pipe, a can, or any type of fruit. Crap, my new pot smoking lifestyle had stopped before it started. Then we thought of pot brownines. I certainly didn’t have brownie mix (come on, I didn’t even have paper), but we figured that all we needed for it to work was something edible and some sort of heat activation. What I did have was Easy-Mac. What screams pot louder than macaroni and cheese?

So we diced the pot on the cutting board. I don’t know why, maybe to activate it? I then added it to the microwavable meal, nuked it, and ate it. After that we waited. And when I say waited, I mean gossiped. I mean, even with severe nausea and a pounding headache you can always find time to talk about Brangelina and their 34 kids. But after 30 minutes, something happened that brought this squawk fest to a halt. My stomach wasn’t hurting. My head was still the same, but I felt no nausea. Usually it takes about 4 days to feel better, but I had gotten better in 30 minutes. After that, Kary left and I curled up to watch CNN (ok, Gossip Girl). After another hour, my head stopped hurting. I was back to normal! And then I passed out.

So, 8 doctors, 6 months, and 1 fake out brain tumor later I’m still in my bed with the lights out trying to figure out how to make it through the next minute.  Now, I’m not sure if it’s because I live in southern California, or maybe it’s because I’m in my early (ok mid) 30’s, but for every blanked-face doctor I had at least 3 friends, co-workers, or strangers encourage me to smoke pot to stop the pain.

I had never smoked pot and had planned to live the rest of my days without partaking in the wacky tabacky.  I’ll go into more details as I get to know you better (I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am), but the point is I paid no attention to pot-head gallery and their smokey suggestions.  That was until I heard one startling testimonial.

My cousin-in-law smokes pot for his severe “migranes.”  I put “migranes” in quotes because we all know that medicinal marijuana is a cover for pot-heads to smoke legally. (Just kidding, Ron! I’m one of you now!).  But this testimonial is not his.  It’s his wife’s, my cousin Tina.  Tina falls more into the supermom category than the daily pot smoker category.  I’m sure she tried it in college, probably didn’t inhale, but now she spends her days fixing dinners and wrangling kids.

It was one of these dinners where she had a dramatic spaghetti incident.  The details are unclear but the result was a pot of boiling water poured all over her nether region:  that’s “fanny” for the Brits, “pee-pee” for the children, “vajayjay” for the Oprah fans, and “vagina” for those lost up to this point.  As you can imagine, Tina was in pain.  Severe pain.  P-A-I-N!!!  So her husband suggested she try some of his “migraine medicine.”  At her wit’s end, she did.  And it worked.  And as far as I know, her vajones still does too.  All thanks to this forbidden weed. 

So if supermom can do it, maybe I can give it a try.

Ok, so before I get started, we need to go into a little about me, what got me here, and my reluctant relationship with mary jane. I have endometriosis and interstitial cystitis. No need to go into all the details. (If you are really interested you can click on the words above. You know that because they are underlined and this isn’t the first time you’ve used the internet. Gentlemen: beware of those links! There are some women issues involved!) How this relates to this story is they make me insanely nauseous and give me pounding headaches on a weekly basis. Not “I had a little too much to drink” headaches or “Oh wow this boat sure is rocky” nausea. Uncontrollable lock myself in the room, curl up in a ball, hurl myself out the window sick. I wish I had an analogy that everyone could appreciate, like Carol Burnett equating child birth to pulling you lower lip over your head. But I don’t. Maybe one will come to me, but for now just take my word that it made me feel my life was not worth living. Sorry to be such a downer.

So, I’m in pain…and what do you do when you are in pain? You go to the doctor. I actually went to 8. In 6 months. I told each of them about my situation and they all had the same reaction. Now this one I do have a way for you to relate to. Please turn to the left and look at your closest wall. What do you see? Nothing? Yup, that’s what each doctor gave me. Nothing. Oh wait, that’s not true. One doctor told me it was either a brain tumor or I was being too emotional. I don’t remember being emotional before he told me it was a brain tumor, but my head was pounding so I could have been wrong. But as far as solutions go, I got nothing. So I had to find my own.

Now this isn’t a blog to bash doctors, or western medicine, or people who wear white jackets after labor day. It’s just to tell my story.