POT'S THE ONLY THING THAT EASES WOMAN'S PAIN

THE MARIJUANA issue hasn't been mentioned yet by either of us.

Sipping tea in Jane Parker's living room, I wait for her to raise the topic.

Which is silly, really. After all, it's the drug thing that's brought me
here to this straggle of houses on the South Mountain, near Bridgetown.

Jane Parker is a rare individual; she smokes marijuana on a regular basis,
and it's all quite legal. This mother to seven has Ottawa's permission to
smoke it for medicinal purposes.

Jane, 40, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four years ago. She says
only marijuana offers her a modicum of relief from the pain.

"This was not my first choice of drug," she assures me. "I tried everything
they gave me (but) I got tired of living with the side effects."

Jane is one of 834 people who has Health Canada's permission to possess
marijuana for health reasons. Of that number, 700 may also grow their own.
Jane is one of them, too.

This feisty woman contacted me, shocked and angered by criticism I'd
levelled at another sanctioned marijuana smoker.

"Coming from you," she'd remarked, "I wondered how the rest of world felt
about us."

So here I am, hoping to learn what life is like for someone in such pain
that she resorts to an illicit drug for relief.

Frankly, this isn't easy for me. I don't do drugs and have little time for
those who do, especially the hard kind. Not that I'm perfect. I tried
marijuana back in the 60s, but it didn't do anything for me.

Jane, too, tried marijuana when she was younger. Like me, she wasn't a big fan.

"I gave it up for motherhood and alcohol," she remarks, grinning.

But then came the multiple sclerosis, the same disease which was to claim
her mother last December at age 61.

Jane was in such discomfort that she took up marijuana again in 1998.

She can't work and has no private medical insurance. Her only income is a
federal disability pension of $7,000 a year.

Despite her battle, she hasn't given up on life. She's studying for a
nutritional practitioner's degree, which will allow her to teach others how
to eat properly and use vitamins in their diet.

Gary Kilburn, whom she married a year ago, is with a private security firm.

As we chat, Jane arches her back, trying to get comfortable on the
sprawling old couch.

"I took it for granted for 36 years," she says through gritted teeth. "The
feel of grass beneath my feet, the feel of my hair through my fingers."

"And now?" I ask

She shrugs.

"Every time I walk, it feels like sharp shards of red-hot glass going
through my feet and up my back."

She says even her toes are affected. I lean forward. Sure enough, they're
twitching uncontrollably.

Jane neither sleeps nor eats properly. She's as slender as a whippet,
standing 5-7 and weighing barely 110 pounds.

These days, she rarely leaves the house because of the pain.

"It's unrelenting," she says.

And because she falls down a lot, she's equipped with a cane, a walker and
a wheelchair.

She's also incontinent.

She rolls her hazel eyes.

"This disease doesn't have the decency to kill you outright," she growls.
Life is "stolen from you day by day."

Gary kisses her forehead.

"I feel helpless," he says. "There's not a lot I can do except try to look
after her."

Jane has given up on prescribed medications because of the side effects.
Today, the only one she takes is clonazepam, a sedative.

And, of course, the marijuana.

As we talk, she rises unsteadily from the couch, takes a regular cigarette
from a pack, lights it and shuffles to the open back door. There, she
squats, blowing the smoke outside.

"I didn't want my second-hand smoke blowing in your face," she calls to me.

Concerned about her frail health in the chill morning draft, I beg her to
return.

"You'd rather be smoking a joint, right?" I exclaim as she sits.

She nods, the pain in her eyes now quite noticeable. I urge her to do what
she has to.

Eagerly, Jane stubs out the cigarette, goes into the kitchen and returns
with a lit joint. She says it's her third this morning.

Easing onto the couch, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply. The pungent
aroma fills the room.

Within minutes, literally, Jane is a changed woman. The arched back is
gone; her limbs are relaxed; even her toes are still.

The effect is remarkable.

So is her determination to continue using marijuana, even if she has to do
it illegally, just like before - which, she tells me, may soon be the case.

Saturday, Part 2: Ottawa changes the rules, causing a crisis for Jane.