Madison NORML

So, it was in 1997 that I began having cardiac symptoms and reluctantly submitted to a third open-heart surgery, this time at UW Hospital. On August 7, 1997, a replacement valve was inserted, and I went home a few days after, recovering nicely.

Later in the month, a doctor removed the staples in my groin that had closed incisions where the heart-lung pump had been inserted. The incision bled a little and the she said, “I’ve got half a mind to give you some antibiotics.” But she didn’t and two days later I was deathly ill and 3 days later I was back at UW Hospital with a 105-degree fever and a spreading staph infection in my groin.

The infection was removed, leaving a gaping hole in my groin. A 28 square inch skin graft was then taken off my thigh a few days later, to cover the hole. Once the hole was patched, it would not stop bleeding because I was on blood thinners. I had a morphine pump in my arm, and was receiving blood transfusions and several kinds of the strongest antibiotics available as well. Then, a small leak was discovered at the replacement valve. Worries were expressed the valve was infected and might need to be replaced in yet another surgery. In short, it was the worst experience of my life. I was sick from the morphine and I thought I had reached the end.

But I hung on and fought. I put up with indifferent, occasionally even mean staff members, some who didn’t seem to care whether I made it or not. There were a lot of good caregivers too, but the bad ones deepened my despair.

To make matters worse, Princess Diana’s accident and aftermath was the only thing on television.

I went 9 days without cannabis in the face of a fight for my life. Finally, on Day 10, a kind friend delivered a roll with some sautéed cannabis. The following day another friend brought me a “Leary Biscuit” click here. Having my medicine again really helped speed my recovery. I was ready for the next step after yet another cannabis angel brought me a couple joints.

So, on the 11th day, armed with a joint and lighter in the pocket of my ratty hospital issue robe, over my ratty hospital pajamas, I took the elevator down to the hospital lobby and mailed a letter at the mailbox outside, found a suitable niche, then lit up one of joints.

The cannabis was average, but medicinal nonetheless. The joint itself transcended cannabis. It was freedom rolled up in a paper. Things were starting to look better. I was feeling stronger. I was going to make it! On the 13th day, I was released and began the long recovery at home.

And somehow, taking it day by day and with the help of medical cannabis, I have managed to hang on another 10 years!