“Have you considered marijuana?”
My head spun. Twilight zone? No, just my doctor suggesting pot as the right drug for me. It would deal with a variety of issues. He wasn’t even suggesting “medical marijuana” because though theoretically we have it, actually we don’t. Yet.
“Uh, yes,” I said. “The downside, other than the price tag, is coughing. Right now, coughing is a bit rough.”
“Take in more air when you inhale,” he said. “You’ll cough less.”
I grew up in a world where getting busted for having a couple of joints in your pocket could land you in jail for a very long time. A world in which marijuana was the gateway drug to a life of dissipation and degradation. Which would end with you face down in a gutter in some part of town where even the cops won’t go.
Now I live in a world where one’s doctors recommend smoking pot.
My mother was born in 1910 and passed in 1982. Growing up, horse-drawn carts were far more common than automobiles. She was a child during World War I, a married woman and a mother in World War II. She survived — somehow — the Great Depression and marched with friends and family in a spontaneous parade of celebration when the New Deal passed. Even though the Depression didn’t really end until the war came and brought employment to everyone who wasn’t fighting.
By the time she passed, there was cable television and home computers, two cars (at least) in every driveway. One day (I was a kid) I shouted “Oh look, a horse and cart!”
She looked bemused. “When I was your age,” she said, “We used to shout “Look, a motor car!”
And today, my doctor suggested I smoke pot. What a world, eh?