I fear I may be made out of marijuana. I dance with the devil’s lettuce daily, from breakfast through bedtime, consuming enough of this polarizing plant to knock down an elephant. And I’m doing this to save my life — that’s right, marijuana is helping to keep me alive.
I’m on the verge of 40 years old, and the past decade has not been kind: Amid both of my parents dying unexpectedly, my health unraveled into a morass of wicked diagnoses, including multiple sclerosis, Lyme disease, and metastatic pancreatic cancer of the neuroendocrine variety, made famous by Steve Jobs. I’m a regular at Stanford hospital, and if my doctors are to be believed, this cancer will kill me.
But death is not what I’m after. I have a daughter named Sawyer and a wife named Anna, and I plan to grow old with both. So in March 2016, when tests showed my cancer on the rise, I began pursuing cannabis as medicine, far beyond the usual toke of a joint or nibble of a brownie to feel better. Two years later, it’s become a critical tool in the fight of my life.