get off your "high" horse

There is a commonly held belief about having cancer that drives me insane. I hate it. Every time I hear someone talking about it I want to scream. And yet, it never fails, in any class whether it is ethics, speech, or just a class where the discussion can circle around to it - someone is going to say it. It is always said with the utmost conviction and the last time it came up and I politely tried to "myth bust" I was told that I had done something wrong. They had the facts right and me, the person who underwent cancer treatments, had it wrong.  I didn't do it right apparently. I wish that people would get off their "high" horse. Yeah, I had cancer. Yeah, I've smoked pot. I'm here to report back that the only thing it did for me is waste time that could have been spent on the couch half-watching TV or perhaps counting ceiling tiles (arguably things that one does after smoking pot and not instead of). It did not cure my cancer. It did not in any way shape or form help alleviate any of the symptoms and side effects I was suffering from. I wish that it was the drug that people want it to be. I wish I could have had relief. But I didn't and that, surprise surprise, isn't uncommon among cancer patients.

We decided to see what pot would do for me after my doctors suggested it as a "worth a try since we've done everything else" kind of thing. I was no longer eating and had been on a liquid diet for about two months. Because I am so blessed I  happen to be allergic to most of the medications they give you during chemotherapy to treat nausea. I learned this the hard way after several allergic reactions during treatment. The hope was that it might entice me to eat and help my constant nausea. As it stood there were only two medications that I could take for nausea and two is definitely not enough. So I figured, why not?

After acquiring some Vermont homegrown from an extended relative, we set about preparing the bathroom for this adventure. This involved close inspection of all the ventilation fans in the bathroom and towels being tucked around them and the bottom of the door. It also involved my father rolling his eyes and going out on the balcony until we were done. Even at my doctor's suggestion my father wasn't going to endorse something illegal. Those darn substance abuse counselor dads! My Mum, the nurse and woman who had spent roughly eight million hours holding my head while I vomited and another eight million trying to get me to consume food to vomit up later, was all in. My brother thought that it was too funny to pass up. He's a police officer and sat on the edge of the tub the whole time with a towel over his face so that he wouldn't breathe anything in but I don't think he would have missed it for the world.

My relative, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that giving me marijuana and a pipe would be the way to go. I was 20 years old and had never smoked anything in my life. I also had the added complication of not having a sinus. My surgery, in a nutshell, means that my right nostril is simply open down all the way through the opening that is the roof of my mouth. I can't use straws, I hold my breath to blow my nose, etc. 

So we settled in. I sat on the floor, Mum on the toilet seat, and my brother perched on the edge of the tub. I stared at the pipe in bewilderment. Mum realized she needed to show me how it was done. Then it was passed back to me. I tried and the smoke went right out my nose in spite of the cries to, "Pull it to your lungs! Hold it in!" Mum showed me again. I tried again and again did the straight out my nose routine. I realized I had to do something to keep it from escaping through my sinus. This time after Mum handed it back to me I plugged my right nostril with one finger while holding the pipe with my other fingers.  It's a small wonder I didn't burn myself with the way I was balancing that pipe.

Okay! That worked much better. My lungs were on fire! My lungs were on fire! I started coughing like it was my job. With tears streaming down my face I asked what on earth the fuss was all about. It went something like, "What -hack hack hack hack- is -hack hack hack hack- wrong - hack hack gag gag - with -gag choke hack- people? This.... is..... so -cough- gross!"

I waited a few minutes to recoop and didn't think I had done it properly so I tried again. This attempt was followed by, "IT HURTS! IT BURNS!" and coughing so hard my eyeballs nearly fell out of my head. As soon as I could stop coughing I would try again. It felt like I was dying when I held that smoke in my lungs but I was determined to make sure I did it right so it would work.
One more try and I was going to give up. I was starting to think if this was what I had to do to feel good than it wasn't worth it.  I did my crazy finger grip on the pipe and plugged my nose and held it in my lungs for what felt like three years. It was probably closer to three seconds. This time it burned so bad I had to jump up and lean over the sink and heave while I coughed.

Once I was done dry heaving I did what every sophisticated woman of the world does after smoking pot. I pulled out my prosthesis and then shouted unintelligible profanities as I frantically brushed my teeth. Now, I will grant you that someone looking at me cross-eyed made me nauseous that year but the taste of pot is not something that anyone can possibly enjoy. I have never tried it but it's what I imagine cat urine must taste like.
So pot didn't cure my cancer. I didn't get the munchies. I didn't even get any relief from my nausea.  I resent being told that pot is a wonder drug for cancer. It may work for some patients but among all of my survivor friends I only know one person who managed to get any relief whatsoever.

 It wasn't an entire bust though. I did gain a story that will last a lifetime. While I happen to be a pot smoker failure - my Mum? She's a champ. In teaching her daughter how to smoke pot we discovered that my Mum doesn't even cough! She is what you could call a natural! She spent the next four hours in the bathroom because she was too embarrassed for her children to see that she accidentally got high. I thought it was great that my hardworking and overstressed nurse got to take a vacation. Marijuana transformed my Boston apartment's shower into the "rain forest."  It sounded like quite the trip. I'm really quite jealous - all pot gave me was a funny taste in my mouth and a huge stain on the top of my first obturator.