Reflections ►
Cannabis and Grief by Dolores Halbin , contributing writer
One night , my husband and I were dancing in the kitchen when Eric Clapton ’ s version of Autumn Leaves came on the radio . I like Nat King Cole ’ s original recording of the song . Regardless of whoever was singing Autumn Leaves , the song always made us cry .
Autumn Leaves , lyrics : Falling Leaves drift by my window The autumn leaves of red and gold I see your lips , the summer kisses The sun-burnt hands I used to hold
Since you went away , the days grow long a And soon , I ’ ll hear old winter ’ s song But I miss you most of all , my darling When autumn leaves start to fall ... ~ by Joseph Kosma & Jacques Prevert
Autumn was our time , my husband ’ s and mine . We were married in late September and honeymooned in Colorado in the fall of 1975 . The Aspens at that time of year are as yellow as the sun . We cried when we heard this song because neither of us could fathom autumn without each other , and yet , here we are .
Our final fall together was in 2015 . He made it through my birthday , our 40th anniversary , and his 60th birthday . With some help , he was able to sit on the porch with his beloved dogs and me and watch the trees turn one last time . He made it past the first freeze and died at five minutes past midnight Thanksgiving night of 2015 .
Gene has been gone for nearly six years , and autumn has not gotten a bit easier with each passing season . Well , a bit easier . With the passing of Amendment 2 in 2018 , I have used cannabis . I truly don ’ t know how I ’ d deal with my grief without the plant , which got me to wondering — if it works for me , surely it would work for others , and why ?
48 October 2021
Another Roach
The Monday before Thanksgiving , four days before my husband died , I had a court date . My husband was medically released from attending our court hearings for our Class B Felony cultivation charges because he was dying . I was not . The dogs started barking , and when I opened the door at 9 a . m ., there was a hospice show of force on the porch . I had no idea why four members of the team had converged on my home at once and unannounced .
Gene and autumn leaves .
Turns out , the bath aid had found and reported the presence of a roach on my husband ’ s nightstand to her superiors . Those little roaches can sure stir up a world of trouble . Hospice was there in force that morning to terminate us from their services because of said roach . I didn ’ t even know this was a thing , but they had a termination contract in hand — pretty distressing . I couldn ’ t help my husband out of bed anymore by myself , and I didn ’ t have any other help . He could barely hold a joint , but with my help , he could still smoke .
Their meeting was so distressing , and I was so sleep-deprived , I plumb forgot about court . Our attorney and dear friend Dan Viets kept the judge from issuing a “ failure to appear ” warrant for my arrest while I tried to talk hospice out of abandoning us the week my husband died — over a damned roach .
That was the Missouri of 2015 . I share this story to remind us of how far we have come . Old guys with glaucoma can grow a garden now , and Ayden ’ s Alliance , in addition to their work with kids , works with hospice to provide cannabis medicine for the dying .
My choice that Monday morning was to go it alone or sign a contract to “ have no illegal drugs ” on the premises . No problem . There weren ’ t any “ illegal drugs ” — flowers maybe , but not drugs . The whole experience was unconscionable and twisted the knife of grief in my gut another turn . Today , my comfort comes from knowing the misery my husband and family were put through will not happen again , at least not in Missouri .
Cannabis and Hospice
COVID has brought us excruciating grief , which is just in its infancy . We drop off our family members and watch the ER doors close between us . We turn them over to exhausted nurses and doctors to die in a COVID unit surrounded by masked faces . I think that would be the hardest way to lose someone , not to have the chance to say goodbye .
The nurse who came the night my husband died told me I could smoke for him . He was from Jamaica , and I will never forget him . I crawled into bed and snuggled with my husband , I shared a joint with him , and that is how he died , with my head on his chest and the sweet smell of cannabis in the air . I got to whisper everything I wanted him to hear before he left . Very few family members of those who have died , especially from COVID , have had this blessing .