I’ve never really told you this story before, so I must ask you not to tell anyone. I can trust you, right?
As some of you know, I discovered six years ago that I had a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer that was supposed to kill me within a year. (Spoiler: It didn’t. I’m not even slightly dead.)
I was sent to a surgeon who seemed bored. He provided almost no information, until I used my finely honed investigative reporter skills to pull it out of him.
Yes, it wasn’t good that I had three cancers all rolled up into one. Yes, it was likely that it would kill me fairly soon. Yes, I needed to have all my lady parts cut out. No, he couldn’t tell me anything else until he’d gone into my innards and seen what was there.
While I was waiting impatiently to get this thing cut out of me, friends told me I should get some cannabis gummies to relax and cut the pain.
I smoked pot in college, but I’d lost interest long ago. I knew there was a weed shop near me — you can tell by the green crosses — so I drove into the parking lot, looking furtively around to see if any of my neighbors were watching. (As if they would care.)
After producing my ID, I was buzzed inside the shop, where I was gobsmacked by glass counters showing the breathtaking varieties of marijuana products available, their clever names and all the ways you could take them.
I think maybe I’d been expecting to find shady looking guys in sunglasses, pulling plastic pouches from their inside pockets. Instead, attractive, wholesome-looking young women stood behind the glowing counters, smiling and offering to serve. It felt more like a wellness clinic than a drug dispensary.
It was rather dark in there, which I assumed was because potheads’ eyes are always slightly dilated. However, the counters and their cornucopia of offerings were brightly lit.
Want chocolate bars? Nasal sprays? Gummy bears? Bath bombs? Tinctures? Vapes? Mints? Jellies? Peanut butter cups? Lemonade? Fruit punch? Or, of course, traditional cannabis buds with funny names like Face Melt and Maui Wowee.
I almost had a panic attack at the level of decision-making required. I was not prepared. However, the smiling young woman behind the counter was obviously familiar with brain-addled cancer patients, and she guided me through the selection process. I walked out with a small assortment of lemon gummies that were expensive but didn’t require me to mortgage my house for too many years.
I went home and decided to take one as a trial that night at bedtime. My surgery was the next morning, and I hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks. Greatly to my surprise, I slept like a baby and woke up refreshed. Then, I went in for the surgery.
Not to surprise you or anything, but when I woke up after the operation, my body felt like I’d been run over by an Amazon van. Still groggy, I decided the answer to this problem was to take another cannabis gummy.
Then, my friends started arriving to check out whether or not I was dead, and I was happy to report in the negative, although I was too out of it to do much but lie there and drool. My friends Laura and Jamie arrived, and the nurse asked them if they’d get me out of bed and walk me around the hospital floor, pulling my IV pole with me.
I was really out of it by this point, thanks to the combination of pain meds and medical marijuana. I have no memory of this walk. But, apparently, when I got back into bed, I looked up at them and said, “You can go now.” They still find this funny.
I then fell deeply asleep, and woke up disoriented, because they’d moved me into the ICU and I didn’t even remember it. “Why am I here?” I asked the nurse when she came in.
“You were behaving so strangely after the surgery that we worried you’d had a stroke, so we sent you to get a brain scan and then moved you here,” she said.
I guiltily remembered that I hadn’t told anyone about taking the gummy. It didn’t seem like a good idea to do so now. The doctor came in, and also said he was worried about a stroke, but he was happy to report that I hadn’t suffered one. Oops. Maybe I should have told him, too.
If you’re a medical professional and you’re reading this right now, you’re undoubtedly shaking your head and thinking that I’m a moron. Well, yes, yes, I am. But I’m 69 years old and if you can’t be a moron when you’re in your golden years, when can you?
But I do learn from my mistakes and I now know: If I have surgery again, don’t take cannabis. Or at least tell someone you did so. I am a little curious about the chocolate.
Note: If you want to tell me what an idiot I am, find me here: mfisher@scng.com. Don’t worry. I’m used to it. Or you can find me at facebook.com/FrumpyMiddleagedMom. Join my page. We have fun on there.