Medical Marijuana in Timid New Hampshire

In 2013, the NH House passed HB 573, a bill that was supposed to enable access to medical marijuana. Twenty-eight months later, not a single patient has benefitted from it. One might think that there’s some foot-dragging going on. One would be absolutely correct.

In the interest of full disclosure, this is personal. David Emerson, my husband, died of multiple myeloma. That’s cancer of the bone marrow and blood plasma. The disease weakened his bones so much that he could break a rib just breathing.

In December 2008, David was having serious neck pain, and so we wound up in the ER one night. No one paid us much attention. Christmas vacation in a resort area meant that there were many more interesting things going on – until the X-rays came back and 3 people came screaming down the hall with a backboard. It seemed the bones in his cervical spine had deteriorated to the point where his head was in danger of falling off his neck. He would have been paralyzed. He had neurosurgery at Maine Med, where a titanium infrastructure was fused to the remaining bone. His head was secure - in fact, he’d never be able to move it again. David also had to have a three week course of radiation to protect the remaining bone. It was aimed at his neck. As a result, everything he ate or drank tasted like sheet metal.

He needed to eat and drink in order to recover from the surgery. He couldn’t muster up the will to do it. David was not a complainer, but this was more than even he could bear. One of his friends brought over a joint, which stimulated his appetite enough so that he could eat and drink, despite the taste. It also helped with his anxiety.

David was able to get unlimited prescriptions for opiates. The state he loved so much denied him legal access to medical marijuana. Cancer made him a criminal, and he hated that. He deserved a better death. That’s why this is personal.

The NH legislature passed 3 prior medical marijuana bills. Governor Lynch vetoed them all on the advice of law enforcement and his wife the pediatrician. Law enforcement mostly hates the idea of legal marijuana. The war on drugs guarantees them all kinds of extra money and shiny toys, and they’ve become addicted to those things. The reality that our drug policies are a failure does not matter. They want more money and bigger toys, because somehow more law enforcement will stem the tide. It’s akin to the believers in trickle down economics. Both have been failures for over 30 years now, but the believers in both are determined to keep on trying.

Here’s the thing. No one has died this year from injecting an overdose of marijuana. We aren’t hearing about a marijuana crisis.

Sure, we have a medical marijuana statute in our state, but it’s going nowhere. A byzantine system of approval for marijuana dispensaries was created. Apparently there will be four of them. The locations haven’t been officially decided. There will not be one in Carroll or Coos County. There may be one in Lebanon. A person dying of cancer in Colebrook or Pittsburg can look forward to a 2.5 or 3 hour road trip. It’s clear that this process wasn’t thought out with any kind of empathy or interest in job creation.

Our neighboring state of Maine passed a medical marijuana bill in 1999. In 2009, they added more qualifying conditions and created 8 dispensaries. Maine has a very humane system, one that involves a number of choices. Patients can grow their own, cultivating up to six plants. They may choose to use a registered caregiver, who can supply a small number of patients with marijuana, or they can use a dispensary.

New Hampshire has chosen a far more dictatorial system. A very small list of qualifying conditions. No growing. No registered caregivers. Four dispensaries. If you live out of range or you’re poor – well- tough noogies for you. You can either keep taking opiates or be a criminal. Have a nice death.

Last week, a woman named Linda Horan filed suit against the State of New Hampshire. Linda has stage 4 lung cancer. She is suing the state to get a card that certifies that she is a medical marijuana patient, so that she can go to Maine and access their humane system, given the absence of humanity here in the state where she lives. Linda may not live long enough to be able to access a dispensary in slow moving NH. She would prefer to live the remainder of her life without being stuck in an opiated haze. She would prefer to live out the rest of her life without being a criminal. This should not be too much to expect.

New Hampshire is often touted as a place of independent thinkers and “libertarian” philosophy. What that mostly means is that we get to live free of the kinds of amenities (like infrastructure) that other states provide as a matter of course. We are a state full of timid, wincing conservatives. We’re too afraid to eliminate the death penalty, because it upsets law enforcement. We’re too afraid to have a legislative study committee on end of life issues, because it upsets the governor. We’re too afraid to enact our medical marijuana statute because it upsets law enforcement, our AG and our governor. We are a state ruled by bumper sticker slogans (Ax The Tax!) and that, dear readers, has robbed us of any ability to have adult conversations.

This all says something ugly about what kind of state we are. Guns in the State House – NO PROBLEM! Managing your own illness – BIG PROBLEM!

My husband didn’t get to die the way he wanted to. I hope Linda Horan does. I hope her lawsuit moves the state forward in enacting our medical marijuana law. People with chronic or terminal illnesses should have choices in how they live and die. Opiates are ravaging our state. We have the ability to provide a humane alternative. All we need now is the courage.

This was published as an oped in the November 13, 2015 edition of the Conway Daily Sun newspaper. 

Live Free or Die on Someone Else's Terms

The 2014 legislative session has begun. This week marked the first day of voting. In the NH House, this meant beginning with dealing with some old business, including possible overrides of three bills that were vetoed over the summer by Governor Hassan. One of those bills was HB 403, a bill to establish a study committee to examine end of life issues. Hassan’s statement on the veto essentially said that we have great advanced directives, and therefore the study committee isn’t necessary.

Governor Hassan has a son who has developmental disabilities. The DD community and their advocates have serious concerns about end of life issues and assisted suicide. People who have developmental disabilities may experience indifferent medical treatment, especially in hospitals, where they are sometimes regarded as something less than human. Their fears of being fodder for euthanasia are not unfounded.

I don’t think Hassan’s (very legitimate) fears should determine our public policy. This was a bill for a study committee. A study committee would involve a lot of different views from all over the spectrum. It would be a big and potentially rich conversation - if it were allowed to happen. It’s great that we have strong advanced directives in NH, but that still means dying on someone else’s terms.

Death is something we apparently aren’t adult enough to discuss or plan for. We have a whole language of euphemisms created to avoid and disguise it. No one dies any more. They “pass away,” or simply “pass.” In a world of sophisticated medical treatment, we need very much to have a big  conversation about how we die, and what our rights in that process are.

Unfortunately, the ability to have thoughtful discussions becomes less likely with each passing day. A look at the comment section of any online WMUR story provides an illustration of the level of public discourse present in our state. The study committee would have been able to transcend that. In fact, the study committee would have provided Governor Hassan and other DD advocates with a platform to educate the public on their concerns, and the awful history of how people with developmental disabilities have been treated. I wish she’d chosen to trust the process.

The House voted not to override the governor’s veto, on a vote of 218-124. Thanks to the shiny new voting system in the House chambers, roll call votes are posted almost automatically on the General Court website. A look at the way folks voted was interesting. There were very clearly those who voted not to overturn the veto out of partisan loyalty to the governor. Just as clearly, there were those who voted to override the veto as a statement of partisan opposition to anything the governor does. There were also those who voted to override the veto for thoughtful reasons. I don’t believe that Gene Chandler or Karen Umberger voted for the override out of sheer partisan mean spiritedness.

The votes from the Free Staters and their allies were also illustrative. These are folks who love to lecture us about freedom and gummint interference, so one might expect them to have been united in their votes to override the veto, and have the conversation about getting Big Gummint out of our personal decisions. One would be sadly disappointed.

Free State Representatives Laura Jones, Carol McGuire, Keith Murphy, Calvin Pratt, Emily Sandblade, and Mark Warden all voted nay on overriding the veto. They love lofty theoretical discussions about freedom and liberty, but when it came right down to the freedom to have a discussion, these liberty lovers voted to shut it down. They’re okay with the state telling you how you get to die.  

Free State Representatives Michael Garcia, Dan McGuire, Tim O’Flaherty, Joel Winters, and Michael Sylvia voted to override the veto, which is consistent with Free State philosophy.

Some of the FSP’s loudest allies voted inconsistently as well. Representatives Burt, Rideout, Itse, and Lambert all voted not to override the veto. George Lambert is so concerned with freedom that he wants to eliminate sugar packets from restaurants, to free you from the awful tyranny of sanitation – but he doesn’t think a study committee on end of life issues is relevant to freedom.

As for those who voted nay out of loyalty to the governor – you disappoint me.

Should someone with a terminal illness be allowed to opt out when they choose? I vote yes for that. The late David Emerson wanted to die about 6 months before he actually did. He should have been able to make that decision. Whose body is it, anyhow? Whose life is it? We ought to dive in and discuss all of the fears, doubts, religious beliefs, and hear all of the pros and cons. Put it all on the table and talk about it – all of it - with respect for every position. If only we could.

“I know of no country in which there is so little independence of mind and real freedom of discussion as in America.”  Alexis de Tocqueville

© sbruce 2014   Bi-weekly column published in the Conway Daily Sun newspaper. 

FUIMUS

I grew up during the low-tech days of record albums. My dad had a big music collection. He loved jazz, swing, and the big bands. I grew up listening to Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller, and Errol Garner. And every now and then he’d pull out the music he loved the most – the bagpipes. He especially delighted in playing one of those albums on mornings when we were getting up for ski trips. My sister and I, sleeping like little stones, screamed in horror at the assault on our tender little ears when he put on some pipe and drum band and turned the volume up to full blast in order to wake us up.

Dad really did have a sadistic streak. He loved the old wooden hotels of the White Mountains and would take us on an old wooden hotel tour every summer. We would stop and marvel at Gray’s Inn (my favorite) and the pre-renovation Wentworth. Dad would give us a rundown on the history of each one.  Eventually we’d make our way up to the Mt. Washington, and go up and around and come back down through Berlin. The paper mills were still booming. It was before pollution controls. It was before air conditioning was a standard feature in cars. We would scream in horror at the assault on our tender little noses, and beg Dad to put up the windows. He would smirk as he drove through Berlin. The only thing that would have made his delight complete would have been the ability to play a bagpipe album at the same time, but sadly (for him) that technology was years away. 

Dad was never able to infect us with his enthusiasm for the music of our ancestors. An amateur history buff, he had a number of books on the history of Scotland, and our clan. All Bruces claim kinship to King Robert, the legendary freedom fighter. As a snotty teenager, I thought the music was awful and the food sounded worse. Haggis – OMG! And that was before I knew what it smelled like.

My father died in 1998, in the hospice wing of Exeter hospital. The hospice nurses were wonderful to us all, and suffered through hours of bagpipes droning away from my father’s room, with big smiles, pretending it was great.

It is.

I don’t know when it all changed for me, but in 2002, I found myself dragging David Emerson to the Highland Games at Loon Mountain. David had not grown up with exposure to the bagpipe, and couldn’t possibly have been prepared for all that awaited him that day. He bravely faced down all that plaid, and all that sound. He watched the tossing of the caber with delight. David marched off to the food tent, and came back saying words I never thought I’d ever hear strung together in a sentence: “They’re out of haggis.” We found a small band of wild men (and one wild woman) lurking in a corner playing loud drums and pipes. It was loud, tribal, and completely irresistible. I bought their CD. It was the first of what has become a small collection of bagpipe CDs. There is always at least one in the car, and usually more like half a dozen.

This year I hadn’t planned on going to the Games. I had several other commitments. Then a friend won tickets to the first day, and called and very generously asked me to join her. I got out my clan sash, and polished my father’s sterling silver clan badge. Wally would have giggled at thought of me with a clan sash. Add a clan badge, bagpipe CDs in the car, and a trip to Lincoln and he would have been clutching his sides and weeping with laughter. He and David are the ghosts whom I bring to the joyous celebration of all things Scot and many things Not. My ghosts were surely amused that I drove home through the fiery fall hills -  half deaf from being in the front of the stage while Albannach played just before we left.

Back in 2002, I spoke with the Bruce clan chief about the family motto: Fuimus, which means, “We were.” That sounded a little defeatist, I told him. Couldn’t we add “and we still are – or we might be again?” He just laughed at me – but surely the descendents of King Robert deserve better. (That holds true for the tartan as well.) Thanks to Braveheart (and its highly romanticized version of history) everyone loves King Robert. John McCain tried to claim that he was a descendent of Robert The, back in 2008 when he was running for president. His claim was speedily (and mockingly) debunked.

I don’t know when it all changed for me, but when my daughter and I go to visit the cemetery where my family is buried, we visit all of the graves, and usually have some offbeat offerings to leave at Wally’s grave – small toy tractors or trucks. And we park the car as close as we can to where my father is buried, and we roll down all the windows, open the sunroof and all of the doors and put on a bagpipe CD and turn the volume up as high as it will go.

Can the sound of those loud bagpipes reach all the way into the afterlife where my father can hear them? There is, of course, no way to know.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that while we are there we’re telling stories, we’re remembering, and he’s there with us for a while. We laugh. We cry a little. We remember – and we take a little of him with us when we go.

© sbruce 2013

published as a biweekly column in the Conway Daily Sun newspaper

Serendipity

The Oxford Dictionary defines serendipity as the occurrence and the development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way. Other descriptions include: a happy accident, pleasant surprise, or fortunate mistake. Serendipity is the act of finding of something good or useful while not looking for it. The Urban Dictionary defines it as, “A very good coincidence, often leading to something really awesome.”

The term serendipity comes from “The Three Princes of Serendip” by Horace Walpole.  It’s a fairy tale that takes place in the country of Serendippo, where the sons of the king were heroes who “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.” Serendipity has been voted one of the ten hardest English words to translate. It is a word that is nearly impossible to say without smiling. It is a word that feels good in one’s mouth.

It was one of David Emerson’s favorite words. He saw serendipity everywhere, happening all around him, all the time.

David and I met at the Conway Library, and bonded over a discussion of the sorts of cards Hallmark doesn’t make, but ought to. They don’t seem to make cards for unusual family situations – or for unusual families. Over the years we laughed often about the differences in our childhoods. He was surprised (and a little horrified) to learn that my family didn’t raise chickens. Of course he grew up on a farm, and I grew up in middle class suburbia, which was not chicken friendly in the sixties and seventies. Neither one of us turned out the way we were supposed to. I was supposed to marry a doctor and David was supposed to become a Baptist preacher. Oops.

David loved chickens, an enthusiasm I never shared. I came to embrace some of his interests, but not the chickens or any of his birds. Some who are reading this will remember David’s giant turkey Jerome, who loved to ride with him in the car. Jerome didn’t love me.  He had a parrot named Darwin who talked incessantly to him, but never said a word if I was in the house. Fortunately he had plenty of bird-obsessed friends, so it didn’t matter that I didn’t share his enthusiasm. He often went on chicken related adventures that resulted in some excellent stories, like the night a guy in a Wal-Mart parking lot taught him how to artificially inseminate a chicken with a plastic spoon. Those were the kinds of things that happened to David with some regularity, and the kinds of stories he most loved to tell.

My family belonged to a small ski club in N. Conway when I was a child, something that David relentlessly mocked me for, in the way that only a native can. (Or would.) We came up on ski trips in the winter and work weekends in the summer, where the men would work on the club building, have barbecues, and then we’d all swim in the Saco. It was always my parents’ dream to move to North Conway, and in 1974 they did, not long after my daughter was born. They went to live in the mountains, and I stayed in the city in Massachusetts. In the late seventies my father went to work at the Reporter, the old weekly newspaper. For a couple of years he gave me a gift subscription. The papers would arrive every week, and I would read them with great curiosity. What I saw in those papers bore no resemblance to life as I was experiencing it. I was a young mother living in a city, reading about rural, northern, small towns. It was like visiting a foreign country.

The Reporter had weekly columns from town correspondents, a tradition that is carried on to this day by the Conway Daily Sun. The content was a bit more formal back then, with updates on the social lives of various town members who received callers all very formally written: “Mrs. Alexander G. Bell received Mrs. Model T. Ford and Mrs. Oscar Myer for tea on Wednesday afternoon.” These weeklies were an important source of news and carefully couched gossip for the community. It’s sad to see them disappearing or being taken over by conglomerates that churn out sanitized blandness as a means of selling advertising.

In the Reporter, my favorites were the columns from Stow, Maine, written by the late Gwen Tarbell. Stow sounded like the strangest place in the universe to a young city dweller. Gwen Tarbell lived on a farm, and that was what she wrote about. One year she wrote about getting a bunch of new chicks in the spring, and naming them all Doris – or something like that. They all got the same name. Her stories of the farm, the comings and goings of her family, and the doings in Stow, Maine were all told with warmth and good humor.

I’d never been to Stow. I had no frame of reference – and this was long before Google. It was a strange, almost exotic place for me, and I was fascinated. One of the regular characters in Gwen’s stories from Stow was a young man who lived up the street. His name was David Emerson.

Serendipity.

There was no way to know as I was reading those stories that twenty five years later I would marry that young man.

Serendipity.

I’m sorry that I never got to meet Gwen and tell her that story, but she was long gone by the time David and I figured it all out. I like to think she would have gotten a kick out of it. We certainly did.

“History is an intricate web of timing, people, circumstances, and serendipity.”  Don Rittner

David Emerson: March 27, 1949 – August 30, 2009 

© sbruce 2013    Bi-weekly column for the August 23 edition of the Conway Daily Sun newspaper.