EXAMINING THE EXAM

A Journey into One of Tucson's New Medical-Marijuana Clinics

When Arizona voters passed the Medical Marijuana Act, I was a happy
camper.

Finally, after the better part of two decades here, I would be living
in a state with some sense about something. Finally, the nation's eyes
were on us for something good, not for our wacky Legislature or goofy
governor.

I decided to wait for the dust to settle before I got a card. Then,
when the Tucson Weekly posted this writing gig, I decided to embark on
the pot-clinic route to certification. I wanted to see what the
street-corner-sign-waving was all about, to get a peek inside the
circus tent for potential publication.

Before I tell you this story, you should know that I'm not accusing
anyone of violating any laws or medical standards or regulations or
oaths or creeds. I am not accusing anyone of anything; I am telling
you a story. Your mileage may vary, so to speak.

Anyway, when I started Googling, I quickly found USA Cannabis
Physicians Group (www.eMedicalMarijuanaCard.com). It has a Tucson clinic.

"If the physician does not approve you, you do not have to pay any
fees," the website says. How could I lose? I called (888) MY-420-MD
for an appointment.

I started to get concerned when I saw the sign on the clinic, at 3816
E. Fifth St. It was a sheet of paper, straight from the printer,
hanging from the glass by a single piece of tape. There was no brass
plaque with the doctor's name, and not even a cheap plastic sign from
OfficeMax.

This was going to be interesting.

I walked into the waiting room. "Interesting" is one way to put it.
The aged, well-worn furniture didn't match. There was no music. It
seemed stuffy and droll. I told the scrubs-clad receptionist my name;
she handed me a questionnaire and took my credit card. Cha-ching. The
bill was $143.

"The doctor will see you in a few minutes," she said. She didn't
smile.

While I was waiting, I heard a snippet of tense conversation between
the receptionist and the doctor.

"If we don't, then we'll have to do a refund," the receptionist said.
She sounded a little pissed. Great.

After a few minutes, the nurse called me for my exam. It turned out to
be just like any medical exam--except it didn't seem medical in any way
whatsoever.

Usually, when you wait for the doctor, there are interesting, colorful
diagrams on the walls: How Your Colon Works. Your Spine Revealed.
Where Fat Comes From.

Here, the walls were bare. The exam table had a hole for my face, not
stirrups. There were no potential roach-clip hemostats to consider
stealing.

The nurse came in.

To her credit, she did have a stethoscope--a real one, not the pink,
plastic kind my daughter had when she was little. The nurse wrapped
the cuff around my arm and listened very carefully, as if she were
actually taking my blood pressure. I think she did.

I went back to the waiting room, and after a few minutes, I went in to
see the doctor.

I sat down as he glanced through my questionnaire, making a few notes
on it while he asked about the severity and frequency of my pain. He
looked out the window at the parking lot.

"Do you like your motorcycle?" he asked in a thick Slavic accent. "I
just came here from New York, and I was thinking about getting one. Is
it a good place to ride a motorcycle?"

"Yes. Tucson is a perfect place to ride a motorcycle," I said,
wrinkling my brow. He seemed more interested in my motorcycle than my
health.

He wasn't even looking at me. He was talking to my
questionnaire.

"This isn't enough. I need to see your medical records," he said
dispassionately, glancing up at me.

He directed me to the front desk, where the tattooed
receptionist/nurse gave me a form she would fax to my doctor. She
assured me she would send it out that day, and I left.

As I was enjoying my ride home in the Arizona sunshine, I realized the
doctor hadn't even told me his name.