West Magazine, the Sunday Supplement to the San Jose Mercury News
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The Doobie Mothers
Medicinal marijuana is a hit at the senior citizens' home
By Mary Patric

I had just hung up the phone with my mother, 60, who was visiting with my
motherinlaw, 85, at my motherin law's retirement complex. They were
getting stoned.

Now I don't want to know all about my mother's illicit drug habits any more
than she wanted to know about mine back when I was a vagabond teenager and
pot could be purchased for 10 bucks a bag. In those days my mother warned
me that marijuana was the cause of crimes galore, not to mention her own
nervous breakdown, and if I didn't want to lose my mind I'd better lay off.
So I tried iton a number of occasions.

Eventually the glamour of defying my mother wore off and I decided that the
drug wasn't for me. It made my mouth pasty, and I ate too much, became
paranoid and laughed like an idiot. Still, I thought my mother's scare
tactics were ridiculoussmoking pot did not seem that dangerous. At least
it didn't until today. The news of reefer madness at the retirement home was
stunning for two reasons: I am the one who bought the pot, and it wasn't
meant for my mother.

I'd originally decided to get my motherinlaw I'11 call her Winnie some
marijuana as an act of compassion. She lost her husband, who was 91, a year
ago and has been sick with grief and physical ailments ever since. Her
weight dropped from 130 to 90 pounds and she was constantly nauseated and
unable to eat. She took exhausting and humiliating medical tests, which came
up with nothing, and I grew increasingly worried, feeling certain she had
undiagnosed cancer and was going to wither away from me completely.
Halfjokingly, Winnie said she wished she could get her hands on some pot.
She said maybe that would help and, what difference did it make to the world
if an old lady smoked a little dope?

At the time, there was a lot of discussion about the medicinal use of
marijuana to decrease nausea and increase appetite. When California's Prop.
215 passed last year, legalizing medical marijuana, I decided it was time to
get the old babe Smoking doobies. Maybe it would even prolong her life.
But since our lawmakers weren't making provisions for physicians to
prescribe the stuff, I set out to get it the old fashioned way.

Back in my youth I could make a phone call and get my hands on an illicit
drug within hours. But now I'm a thirtysomething Oakland hausfrau and
mother whose main connections are at the supermarket and PTA.

It's been more than a decade since I've even known anyone who knew someone
who might have a friend who could get illegal drugs.

After months of inquiry I was able to place an order with a reputable drug
dealer. I checked with friends, a few soccer morns, and even the teenage
children of old high school buddies all of whom were sympathetic to my
cause but no help at all. I even asked our pediatrician, since she was the
last grownup I'd ever seen smoking pot (at a party). Unfortunately, she
had given it up so she could lecture her patients and her own children with
a clearer conscience about the evils of drug use.

I finally nailed down a source at my dad's condominium complex in Los Gatos.
Gasping at the impact of inflation on the drug trade, I wrote this lovely,
welldressed, retired HewlettPackard secretary a $100 check (yes, a check),
and waited. In a few weeks, we met for lunch at the newly renovated Beach
Chalet, a micro brewery and bistro facing the crashing surf along the Great
Highway in San Francisco. As we enjoyed the panoramic view, chicken Caesars
and iced tea, this woman handed me a "quarter bag" sealed in a floral
envelope.

Back at the senior citizens' home, Winnie was getting sicker. She was
nauseated and weak. I tried every kind of herb and supplement to nurse
hershe's not the kind of motherinlaw you'd ever want to lose. She's a
friend who laughs easily, takes my side in a fight, and sneaks me a
cigarette if I'm feeling a little stressed. She never tells on me, she
always has chocolate, and she wears a cute white bow in her pretty gray
hair.

Despite my best efforts, Winnie had to be hospitalized. She was diagnosed
with emphysema and told to stop smoking immediately. Winnie felt she could
do without nicotine if she had a little pot to take off the edge.

Enter the devoted daughterinlaw with the zipper plastic bag full of a
potent weed. I know for a fact it was potent. After three puffs of a joint,
a pint of ice cream, some leftover spaghetti, and at least 15 cookies I
spent the rest of the evening laughing hysterically at the cuttingedge fart
jokes on "Mad TV." After that, I was happy to pass the pot along to someone
who could put it to more productive use.

So the next Friday night my husband and I made the delivery. Even though we
knew smoking anything could exacerbate Winnie's emphysema, we figured that
an occasional puff from a joint was much better for her than incessant
cigarette smoking. And, my husband reasoned, how much pot would an
85yearold woman be able to smoke anyway!

I warned Winnie that a little would go a long way, that after three puffs I
was three sheets to the wind and to take my advice: Go easy.

With a little help from my husband, Winnie finished the first joint and told
us she felt nothing. "Nothing my husband slurred, as he picked up the bowl
of Hershey's Kisses and went to his mom's room to lie down. No, nothing,
she insisted, "Give me another."

Winnie fired up the second joint and tried harder to hold the smoke in her
lungs for a minute. She told me that it wasn't as much fun as smoking a
cigarette because you couldn't really hold it and it kept going out. My
anxiety level increased as I explained that I didn't get it to replace
cigarettes, I got it to help her feel better and eat more and since she was
already feeling better maybe she shouldn't have it after all. At least let
me take it back and bake it in a batch of brownies. Take my advice, Winnie,
don't smoke it, eat it.

No, honey, she insisted, just let me have a few more puffs. Really, honey.
Don't worry, it's not doing anything at all.

As my husband and I left her apartment that night, she leaned over and
licked his face. She then collapsed in a fit of laughter. '"Jeezus, Mother!"
he yelped, wiping his face.

We made our way out the front door in the cloud of spicy smoke. Two
apartment managers were standing in the hall, frowning and asking us if
everything was OK. Yes, yes, we said. We were just laughing.

Even though I hadn't touched the joint, my paranoia set in. I whispered to
my husband that they probably smelled the pot and I'd be turned in for the
lowdown dirty drugdealing daughterinlaw that I am. I told him we'd made a
bad mistake and why did we think they called it dope, anyway? My husband
chuckled, patted my shoulders and continued to munch on the candies he'd
swiped from his mother's apartment.

But when I spoke to my mom, my fears were confirmed. Barely one week had
passed and already Mom and Winnie were toking up on weekday afternoons. As
happy as I am that my mom and motherinlaw are buddies, I huffed and puffed
and clucked my disapproval. I did not buy the pot for their wacky
recreational useand didn't it make Mom crazy before! "Come on, Mary, come
up and smoke a little with us," my mother said, laughing.

Naturally I wanted to be cool about the whole event. Ha, ha. Mom and
Winnie, the Cheech and Chong of the Golden Girls set. But instead of
appreciating the humor in the situation, I was gripping the phone hard,
feeling surprised at myself.

Just say no, Mom!

My mother did have a brief interlude of pot smokingsometime in the late
1960s, before I was 10. She traded her suburbanshort hairdo, pearl necklace
and smart suits for a shag cut, love beads and a fringed leather vest. I
wasn't sure what to make of it when the house reeked of incense (as she
liked to call it) and I worried about what my friends would think as I
emptied cans of Lysol through our hallways. During this time my mom seemed
softer and more playful and laughed more easily, so I didn't mind all of the
change until she was shipped off to a hospital hours from our home to rest
and recover for six months.

All we saw of Mom then were the fruit and vegetable sculptures she sent from
her hospital arts and crafts class. When she returned she spent more time
painting and gardening, but eventually she stuffed her paint brushes and
leather vest into a storage closet, got a real estate license, and restyled
her hair, clothes and life to resemble a suburban mom.

Now on the phone I could almost hear my mother's eyes roll around in their
sockets as I expressed my disapproval of her antics. "Mom, you told me our
family had a low tolerance for pot. You told me that pot made you crazy and
would also make me crazy. What the hell are you doing up there getting
stoned! Just say no, Mom!"

"Sheesh," my mother said, sighing as she handed the phone to Winnie. Sensing
my anxiety, Winnie promised that she'd give up the pot because the skinny
little joints weren't helping her much, anyway. She'd rather have a
cigarette.

Despite my pride in my ability to score marijuana while maintaining my
position with the PTA, I discovered that I'm not as hip or tolerant as I
thought I was especially when it comes to relatives known as Mommy. I
vowed to drive to Winnie's apartment that night to confiscate the pretty
envelope stuffed with drugs before Mom and Winnie started cruising the
hallways in love beads and leather vests, licking anyone in their path.

While I'm there, I plan to admit to my mother that she was right. Pot did
make me crazy. But instead of landing in a mental health facility, getting
detoxified and taking art classes, I was sneaking around a senior citizen
facility, rolling joints and contributing to the delinquency of my elders.

I plan to keep the pot handy when I get home. Every once in a while,
especially after an ordeal like this, even the most dutiful daughter needs
doobies.

MARY PATRIC is a marketing and research consultant in Oakland, California.