Where There's Smoke, There Might Be A Clinic

It is never an easy decision to lie.

I recently did something both strange and empowering. I got a medical Marijuana card. I did not do this for myself - I got it for my mom to see if marijuana, or marijuana related items (other wise known as edibles) could help her with pain relief.

I walked into Dr. Sona Patel's office on a Saturday afternoon. If you don't know who she is, she is that exotic and beautiful doctor on billboards around the city who has over "3 years experience" with medical marijuana. She is an MD.

Her office is located next to a laundry mat on Melrose. The walls are covered in 70's victorian felt wall paper - part brothel, part bail bondsman. You walk up, sign in, and fill out a fairly simple form with the reason why you need a card. I wrote "chronic pancreatitis" and wrote down the pain medication which my mother takes.

My internal dialogue was entertaining me: do I just say the card is for me? I am a horrible liar and they'll know something is up! I am getting the card for true medical reasons - they are just not mine. Don't be a dummy, Leslie, just lie!

As I was wrestling with my decision, I got thirsty. There was a soda machine with an "out of order" sign on it. The woman behind the counter went up, dropped in her change and I heard the tumbling can hit the slot. I went up and said "So the soda machine works?" "Well, It's a take your chances type machine."

In that moment, I knew that is was ok to lie. If I was in a "take your chances" type of place, then they were going to have to take their chances on me telling the truth. I got myself a soda, and was called back to the institutional cubicles. It felt like I was going to take a test at the DMV.

My doctor was not exotic and beautiful, but he did wear a white lab coat. "Do you use marijuana currently?" "No." He seemed a bit puzzled. "And you have chronic pancreatitis?" I suddenly panicked and sensed things weren't adding up to him. "Well, you see, it's for my mom…and…I'm her caregiver…and…" the truth just tumbled out of my mouth like that soda can!

"Oh, I see. Let me go see what I can do."

He was gone for a few minutes and when he came back he said "We're just going to give the card to you. Thanks for coming in." I walked away like I had just hit the Staples Button. "That was easy"

As I headed out the door, I noticed Dr. Sona's Patel's Motto: "I am a person first, a scientist second and a friend always and I believe in your right to choose your medication." I had just been given a choice and was going to make the best of it. This seemed more profound than the soda machine epiphany and I took it - I'll get my inspiration anywhere I can.

And now, many months and several healing lollipops later, I am a true believer.

Next Up: Part 2 - Lollipop, Lollipop (or: I've always wanted to be part of a collective)

A Room With a Pew

I bought a pew. For those of you that know me and my home furnishings, it will go nicely with my cross laden lectern that looks like it was taken from the basement of a midwest Lutheran church. I also have some crosses scattered throughout my house, and although I do not consider myself a religious person, there must be some draw for me to these artifacts.

My memories of church are mostly from spending summers with my Grandparents and attending their service. Church is a childhood memory, and not a bad one at that, but more of an activity than anything relating to God or religion.

I also used to pretend I was a preacher. I would set up a TV tray pulpit, wear my '79 peach leisure suit, and preach to my Great Grandmother Pinkerton, a woman often described as a Saint in our family. She had broken both her hips over the course of her lifetime and was confined to a makeshift lounge chair in the living room, but was always kind, patient, and loving.

I asked her "If God came down right now and asked you for your right arm, would you give it to him?" "Why yes, I believe I would." I was shocked at her answer! "You would? You'd really give up your right arm?" "Well, if he asked, I guess I'd have to." This was not an unthinking answer - it was a peaceful, faithful response. I was a punk trying to trip her up - I think I even asked her a third time, and the answer was an unwavering "yes."

Looking back, I thought that faith was something that happened later in life. To adults. I even answered a question in our marriage and family class in High School: "Why do you think married couples go to church?" I raised my hand and seriously said "Well, the fun's over, it's time to settle down." This got a lot of laughs - but I was serious. I didn't question my response or feelings about faith (or marriage for that matter) - they were fact as far as I was concerned.

Sometimes I will just sit in my pew. There is peace in this spot that is not present in other areas of the house. Perhaps it is because I am taking a moment to be mindful of life. Perhaps I am taken back to my Grandparent's church and I can't help but feel nostalgic. Or perhaps, the fun is not over and I am simply blessed.

Way to Be.

Naturally, I was always a B student. 80%. Not great, but good. Not the best, but good enough. I am not so proud of this status, but it's who I was, and honestly, who I still am. It comes easy, so why try harder? But lately, I've been aiming for a B in my life…and it's not as effortless as it used to be.

First, there's my plumbing. I had to replace my main plumbing line. My plumber did a great job and this line surely gets an A! But there is fall out....the water pressure in my shower now runs at a trickle rate...the previous owners had kept their water pressure way above code...and now my pressure is legal but my shower is unbearable. And so I thought, if we could somehow get the pressure back to 80% of what it was, that would meet my almost high standards. My plumber adjusted some levels, cleaned up some "Crud" and thankfully, my showers are back to my old standby - a solid B.

Next is my foot. I had foot surgery. It has not turned out. My foot is worse than before surgery and sometimes I lay awake thinking it will never get better. I sound like a stock analyst waiting for the market to return to pre-bunionectomy levels. But just like the housing market, I am going to have to sit on my investment and walk before I run.

And finally, my mother. She has had chronic pain for 2 years which has obviously been very debilitating emotionally and physically. I said to her with supportive optimism that our goal was to have her back at "80%" - 80% feeling good, 80% of her weight and normal functioning level - wouldn't that be wonderful? If someone told me that a B was a sufficient grade with my health, I think I'd probably slap them...and yet I was promoting good enough when great would have been the thing to go for.

I had a music teacher in 7th grade who was all about positive thinking. He had a poster on his wall that said a "C is the best of the worst and the worst of the best." This has always stuck with me. I also know that this same teacher become an insurance agent shortly after I left junior high, so I guess he left the scholastic grading business for another kind of rating system - risk factors and fear. Did he get sick of giving C's? What did he think of B's?

For the 80% to work effectively, there are some criteria. You must give 80% 100% of the time....or 100% 80% of the time....for If you give just 80% 80% of the time then that surely boils down to a C. And we know what that means.

Old habits are hard to break. I must push myself to be a better student, worker and person. My mind may be slightly sharper than in 10th grade, but my 'good enough' will remains deeply intact. And what's wrong with a B anyway? Sometimes a B is the best you can achieve, sometimes it is all you can hope for, and sometimes it is simply Good.

An Age Old tale

My mom's nurse thought I was 25. This was great...until she found out I was 42. And then an immediate shift in the room occurred. Doom and gloom draped over me as I heard the calculations clicking in her head.

At 25, I could walk out the door in my jeans and tennis shoes looking like a kid; at 42, I should really think about dressing more age appropriate.

At 25, she was impressed that I had a house; at 42, she was wondering why I lived alone in it.

At 25, I was a kid stepping up the plate to help her mom; at 42, I was an old maid living with her mother.

"You never married?" That word never has such finality to it!

Well, no, but I'm only 42 and you think I look 25. Something in that equation seems to work in my favor. I felt like the spinster in a Victorian novel whose stoicism and virtue outweigh her looks and charm. Suddenly, I was my age again, but now it felt older than before.

"No, no…I am not married." It was like going home for the holidays and explaining that really, I have a lot of close friends, a very fulfilling career and oh, 2 cats. This thing I perceived as a compliment suddenly backfired into all my insecurities about my actual station in life - and wondering if the train had left it.

I don't know which is worse: looking 25 and being 42 or being 42 and looking 42. Ok, I do know which scenario most people would prefer….but what do I get when someone thinks I look younger than I actually am? Is it mere vanity that makes me happy or do I actually think I have those extra years their mind has tacked on me? Unfortunately, even if we look 5 or 10 years younger than we are (and in this particular case 15, thank you very much) our skin, legs, and eggs are still their actual "born on" age.

The thing is, it doesn't really matter. What people think is not going to change anything except perhaps their expectations. It will brighten my day for a while, but it won't change the facts: I am 42 and somewhere in the middle.

The Circles I've Been Running In

The phlebotomist called this morning. How many people can say that? And how many people can actually say phlebotomist for the first time without sounding it out?

The phlebotomist specializes in drawing blood. My mom's veins are cheapskates, they don't want to give away an ounce. So once a week they call in the special forces to poke, prod and pull a sampling of her miserly platelets to test her body's potency and resolve. Like an inverse milk man, he carries away a little tray of pastel colored tubes filled with my mom's blood. As an added bonus, she thinks he is cute.

There's also the gastro guy, the nurse practitioner, the pancreatic specialist, and the TPN person. TPN stands for Total Parenteral Nutrition - in laymen's terms: a big bag of liquid food that is given through one's veins. I can talk the talk, and my mother is walking the walk.

You see, these are the circles I've been running in. My mother's health has declined in the last year, and my social network has taken on a slightly clinical tone with a whole new set of conversations, vocabulary and circumstances that seem second nature to me now. If only we could meet for drinks!

When I was 8 years old, my Grandmother spent 3 months - one very long summer - in the hospital in Athens, Ohio. She was gravely ill with ulcerative colitis. Thankfully, she survived and had 30 more years with us. Part of my daily activity as an 8 year old that summer was giving "the update" - recounting for family and friends the state of things when they called. These updates were not complex, it was much like reporting baby's first year: she slept, she ate, she pooped. I am reminded of that summer now, but obviously am an adult without the luxury of a generation between me and a weakened parent.

I have conversations with the medical team. It seems good, it seems bad, it seems like a crap shoot. I witness nurses doing their duties and am taught a few things myself. Wearing rubber gloves makes it official…I can perform some of the basics: I can fill a syringe, prime a feeding tube, and change a dressing. I think the physician's assistant is foxy and start rating the cuteness of comfortable shoes. While it may not be much of a social life, it is still social. Talking, listening, asking questions - elements of communication and ritual that any community takes on.

This is the company I keep - partners in my mother's quest to regain her health. And now, via email, I can pass on the information to family and friends and spell check "phlebotomy" all at the same time.