Me and Mary Jane

A pot newbie's clumsy foray into the world of medical marijuana
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    October 25th, 2009Mary JaneMedical Marijuana Clinic

    graypantsFinally 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.

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    October 21st, 2009Mary JaneMedical Marijuana Clinic

    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.

    medical-recordsThey 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.

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    October 16th, 2009Mary JaneBack Story

    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, uncle_remus_disney_screenshotI’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??

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    October 12th, 2009Mary JaneBack Story

    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.

    GiftBagA 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?EasyMac

    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.

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    October 8th, 2009Mary JaneBack Story

    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, 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.

    boilingspaghettiIt 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.

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    October 4th, 2009Mary JaneBack Story

    marijuanaclipartsmallOk, 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 headachepounding headaches on a daily 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 doctors2relate 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.

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