Before my husband died, when the pain and cramping was so bad he couldn’t shampoo his own hair or grip a pencil, I baked. I have asthma, so we couldn’t smoke — so the marijuana went in the butter, then in the brownies. He probably did it ten or eleven times, four times I joined him. Solidarity, I suppose. I guess I justified it: it was an herb, it helped, his mother knew about it.
After he died, there was some of it left over in the house. I think it got used, but not by me. Maybe I threw it away.
But look at me. I’m white, a scholar, a woman. No one’s going to search my house. I’m aware of that privilege.
I would do it again: it was such an obvious and correct decision.
My husband, a marine who couldn’t untwist his hand to hold mine, for a short while felt a little bit better. In that context, it was okay; it wasn’t drug use, it was something else.