STONE COLD

As Steppenwolf's John Kay sang back in the day, "the dealer is the man
with the love grass in his hand." Conversely, "the pusher is a
monster... he ain't a natural man." Advocates for the medical marijuana
community in this country want the public to know that they need a
legal "dealer," so they don't have to cop their dope from "the pusher"
- -- or, in extreme situations, become somewhat like them.

Alison Myrden is a thirtysomething woman trying to cope with the
debilitating pain of Multiple Sclerosis. She is afflicted with one of
the most rare manifestations of the disease, a condition known as
trigeminal neuralgia.

The pain from TN causes Ms. Myrden to continually finger-jab at her
cheekbone in a vain attempt to subdue the agony.

Alison suggests a visual analogy to convey some idea of what she lives
with all the time -- Edvard Munch's painting, The Scream. She describes
the hurt as a "bolt of lightning shooting through my face," a nearly
continual excruciating pain, suffering so complete she says it causes
some afflicted to commit suicide. However, she claims that high-grade
medical marijuana will take the edge off the pain and allow her to
lead a somewhat more comfortable life.

As one of only 52 federal exemptees, Alison is allowed to possess up
to 360 grams of weed for her personal stash.

She has a Health Canada ID card that most stoners would sell their
souls for. In the line of duty, I examined the pungent and herbal
"contraband" and found it to be primo. (I think I obtained some
medicinal therapy just sitting in her living room breathing.) Alison
says that her custom-made joints--with filter--that she has been smoking
for eight years now, need to be provided directly from the government,
and at a price that is affordable. "Because the pain in my face is
really unusual," says Alison between tokes of her baby finger sized
joint, "[and] nothing else will help, this is the only thing that
gives me relief." But despite the relief, Alison also criticizes the
government for implicitly bogarting that joint.

"The guy who grows it won't give a cutting, a clone, or a seed because
they know they have a good strain," she complains. "So they thank me
for putting their air conditioning in, and sending them to Jamaica."
"And I'm not happy because I pay $1200 per month to these assholes for
my medicine.

That's what people don't understand." So Ms. Myrden wants the feds to
get off their asses and get rolling as "compassionate" dealers
themselves, vouchering medical pot for the standard $2 prescription
fee. Otherwise, she feels she (and others like her) are forced into
dealing with street vendors who have a compelling interest in keeping
the price high. (So-called "compassionate" grass houses provide high
quality marijuana at prices about three-quarters the going street rate.)

As Myrden is forced to exist on only $6000 in disability pension,
she's entirely dependent on the good will of friends and family to
supplement her meagre stipend, and get her marijuana. And herein lies
a huge moral dilemma for the terminally sick, like Alison, who have
virtually unlimited legal access to heavy-duty narcotic pain relieving
drugs like Dilaudid, which is often called pharma heroin.

Ms. Myrden, who can gobble up to twenty 8Mg Dilaudid in a day if she
runs out of grass--the average person would OD immediately from such a
dose--obtains the drug for $2 from the drug store for 200 pills,
through her doctors. (Under federal drug assistance, patients pay only
$2 per script dispensed.

In the case of a maintenance drug like Dilaudid, used for chronic
pain, doctors usually prescribe a month's supply, so as to make the
cost to the patient as low as possible.) Dilaudid can sell on the
street for between $20-$30 per pill. Do the math.

"I've had people offer me to sell my medication to make me rich,"
claims Alison. "It's lucky that I am a good girl. I could sell
anything to get my medicine, but I don't." "[I know] that sick people
sell their pills all the time. It's not right. I've been desperate but
I've never done it," maintains Alison, who pegs her non-marijuana drug
bills at $25,000 for last year.

So while the federal government stumbles around the issue of a medical
marijuana grow site and distribution mechanism, very sick people like
Alison continue to vulnerable. Ms. Myrden points out that since she is
allowed to "spark it up in restaurants and bars," she is highly
visible, which also translates into highly vulnerable. "What if I lost
my ID card in a bar?" she asks. "It has my picture, my name and
address, and how much I am legally able to possess." To anyone
unfamiliar to the oft-deadly street drug dance, the loss of the ID
card or the overhearing of conversation from Alison in a public place,
could lead to a rip-off and all the attendant danger. "We're begging
[the government] to just give us an ID number, [instead of the card]
because I don't want to be a target."

So, faced with a classic Catch-22, Ms. Myrden soldiers on with a
high-octane media campaign, designed to raise awareness to the point
that the feds must do something to protect the legal users of medical
marijuana, who are often among the sickest people in Canada. "I want
to fight this out in the public eye," she states. "I believe sick
people should be able to get their weed for $2."