Smokey
Age: 68. Deputy Sheriff, retired; National Park Ranger, retired; disabled; advanced diabetes, with complications; amputee, wheelchair bound.
I learned of Smokey from his doctor. When I encounter a patient who has a doctor who will not write a prescription for marijuana--Kaiser patients are a good example--I refer them to a list of physicians who are willing to write prescriptions in support of medical marijuana patients. Smokey's doctor is one of these.
The federal government has physicians unnecessarily intimidated, afraid to think and act freely with regard to marijuana, despite complete legal protection for doctor/patient consultations.
Doctor John is one of the doctors on my referral list. He is not an activist. He is a quiet, conventional, old-fashioned physician and grandfather. He thinks inside the box and is not the turkey to raise his head above the flock.
Years ago Doctor John had occasion to use marijuana on himself to control a painful condition that no other medication would affect. He had an attack that was accompanied by a severe debilitating headache and nausea that produced vomiting. Nothing in his black bag had any effect.
Knowing that marijuana has an effect on nausea, he smoked some marijuana. Immediately the nauaea and vomiting ceased, and the headache began to soften. He was impressed, not only with the effectiveness of the marijuana, but also with the speed of its effect. He began prescribing it for some of his patients.
One day he said to me, "One of my patients is very poor. He is a man with no family, few friends, no money or resources of any kind, beyond public assistance. He is crippled and wheelchair bound. He lives in an urban convalescent home. He uses marijuana when he can get it. I believe he spends his public assistance income for it. It keeps his spirits up, in spite of his depressing situation. He could use a friend."
Doctor John wrote a prescription, with the name and address of the hospital where the patient lived. The next time I was in the neighborhood, I stopped by to meet him.
It was late morning on a sunny day. After I parked in front of the hospital and was walking toward the entrance, I spied a skinny, bald-headed old man sitting in a wheelchair enjoying the sunshine at the end of the building near a dumpster. He chose to be outdoors (that's what I'd do) instead of being cooped up inside the hospital. He has a good attitude and is a positive person. I enjoy his company.
When I came within hearing, I called "I'll bet your name is Smokey." Coming from a stranger, that got his attention. "You'd win!" he returned.
As I drew closer, I said "I'm Chemo Sabe, a Buddhist monk. I grow marijuana and give it away to sick folk. Your doctor told me about you and said you could use a friend." I held out my open hand and he gave me a huge handshake for a skinny old man in a wheelchair. I asked him if he'd like me to be his caregiver. "Yes, sir!" he said, "And god bless you for it!"
"Do you have any marijuana right now," I asked? "No, sir," he replied. I pulled a small jar of Blueberry buds from my bag and handed it to him. He had a small corncob pipe and a lighter in his jacket pocket. He immediately filled the pipe and offered it to me. But I make it a habit not to smoke or drink after patients, so I declined the pipe, produced a joint from my pocket and fired it up while Smokey lit his pipe. We moved from the sun to the shade of the building, Smokey in his wheelchair and me seated on the stone planter near the hospital entrance, puffing the medicine plant and watching people.
"Where did you get the name, Smokey?" I asked. "It's because of my background in law enforcement. I was ten years a deputy sheriff and ten years a National Park ranger. But I like to think it's because I sit smokin' in my wheelchair 24/7," he grinned.
Smokey can be found sitting in his wheelchair in the parking area in front of the hospital, 24/7, smoking his corncob if he has any marijuana, and watching the world go by. He likes the outdoors. At night it generally gets cold, and the skunks come out to see what has fallen from the dumpster. So Smokey wheels himself inside the entrance to the parking garage, just far enough so it isn't too cold and the skunks have their space, but so he can still see and feel the outdoors.
As I got to know Smokey, I learned that he receives $799 monthly from social security. Of that he pays the convalescent hospital $776 for his room and board. The remaining $23 he spends for marijuana at the local co-op. It buys a tiny amount of medicine, enough for an average patient to last a day. It leaves nothing for other things, like clothing, books, movies. When I'm in his neighborhood, I'll stop and sit with Smokey awhile and watch the world go by together. I might bring some deli sandwiches to share, or some Chinese noodle soup. Sometimes I bring CDs to play on his boombox. Or a warm sweater or jacket with no holes, left behind by a patient who has passed on.
We talk about all the mundane things people talk about. But we most like to talk about marijuana. About how years of breeding have improved the strength and quality of marijuana. About the different strains and flavors and effects of marijuana.
Smokey may have lived his life as a deputy sheriff and National Park ranger, but he knows his marijuana. He likes to tell you that cops always smoke the best pot. From the bags they confiscate, they always choose the best for themselves to take home. A patient who is a prostitute says the same: "Date a cop. They always have the best pot and the best pills." Ironically, the cops she dates are providing some of her medical marijuana.
One evening, as Smokey and I sat puffing and musing, a frail, skinny, stoop-shouldered, squint-eyed granny wearing slippers and shawl, approached from the direction of the hospital using a walker to slowly make her way. As she drew near, I gave Smokey a heads up and cautioned him to put his pipe away. He turned to look, then responded by saying he thought she might like to join us. Sure enough, when she reached us, Smokey offered her his pipe. Her eyes slowly got big and round and a wide smile spread across her toothless face. She sat down in her walker, took the pipe and drew in a hefty lungful. "Blueberry?" she said. "Yes'm," I replied. Precious moments.
There are others at this hospital who would like to have marijuana who cannot afford it. It would be so great if all the 200 poverty cases at this place could have enough marijuana for their needs. But I'm just one caregiver. Sometimes I feel like Ma Joad must have felt, in Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath, in the migrant tent camp when a group of hungry children stood hopefully watching her cook a pot opf soup for her family. Ma felt helpless because she could not feed all who were hungry.
