MEDICINAL POT ISSUE IS ABOUT THE SICK, DYING

Strip away the hoopla and the circus atmosphere from the big pot rally at
Santa Cruz City Hall this week and what you're left with isn't the high.

It's the dying.

More specifically, the grace in dying. Sure, it might have been a rally,
complete with provocative signs and catcalls at the federal Drug
Enforcement Administration, which two weeks ago raided the Wo/Men's
Alliance for Medical Marijuana and seized 100 medicinal marijuana plants.

City council members, the mayor, ex-mayors, county officials and 1,100
people showed up for support. But at the heart of the rally were a bunch of
sick and dying people who stood up together.

It was a beautiful thing.

Having a terminal illness and a doctor's prescription are prerequisites for
patients in the collective known as WAMM. Leukemia. AIDS. Pancreatic cancer.

And here's a sobering thought. The stark reality of WAMM is that someone
has to die before somebody new can join. WAMM has seen a lot of that
lately. Eighteen of its patients have died since January.

Unless you pay special attention to the medicinal marijuana movement, not
many people outside of Santa Cruz are familiar with the sense of community
engendered by this group. So 20-some DEA agents

weren't ready for the reaction when they barged into the Davenport home of
Valerie and Mike Corral, forcing them to the floor, holding guns to their
heads and cuffing a paraplegic on oxygen for good measure.

Compassion and care

Why did more than 30 supporters come to the remote farm and block the
agents, who had arrived in seven SUVs and two U-Haul trucks? Why did more
than 1,000 people support the Corrals, the collective's founders? Why did
state Attorney General Bill Lockyer warn U.S. Attorney General John
Ashcroft that the move ``seriously threatens to wreck the . . .
relationship of the DEA with California's state and local law enforcement''?

Because the issue is about real compassion, not made-up compassion you use
for a campaign slogan.

WAMM patients and caretakers work very hard to make sure their members are
surrounded with care when they need it. Discussions at meetings are not
``Who needs a toke?'' They are about ``Who needs a ride to the doctor? Who
needs help in home care? Who's losing a home? Who needs a place to live?''

And more importantly, how can we care for our members when the end might be
near?

``The most precious time of your life is when you're facing death,''
Valerie Corral said. ``We make sure you're not left alone without support
and care. What a gift to be invited to be a part of that. That's what's
made WAMM members so strong.''

It's been widely reported how Corral, 50, found relief from debilitating
epileptic seizures through marijuana. Less reported is the transformative
experience she had in taking care of her dying grandmother (who took
marijuana in her tea to ease her leukemia) and her father, who died of an
inoperable tumor. They set her on this course, she said.

Disservice to sufferers

There's always a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge aspect to talking about
medicinal marijuana when it comes up in cocktail parties or talk shows.
Riiiii-ght, someone always says, all you gotta do is find one doc who will
write you a prescription for your debilitating case of, uh, athlete's foot
and you've got doobies for the weekend. And you can always make fun of the
'80s-style feminist lexicon in WAMM's name.

That insults the people really affected by these DEA shenanigans. That does
a disservice to the concern over an administration that mouths ``state's
rights'' but ignores California voters' voice in legalizing medicinal
marijuana and treats scrupulous people like thugs in a crack-house raid.

WAMM's work is ``just a profound experience,'' Corral said. ``The marijuana
is what brings us together, but it's not the story of who we are.''