I accidentally got my grandmother hooked on "fancy coffee." She used to drink her coffee black, and, upon her introduction to the coffee cart, she went nuts! In no time at all, her order had graduated to White Chocolate Vanilla Frappaccino, no whip, caramel sauce in the bottom of the cup.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a full blown princess!
She hasn't had one in awhile, so I stopped at a little gas station store and used their cappuccino machine: half white chocolate, half french vanilla. It cost $1.50 instead of the coffee cart production of a whopping $6 + tip.
Let me just say, "I have no regrets, what-so-ever, and plan to 'spoil her' a little more often."
She was sleeping when I got back from the gym; but, when she saw the cup, she immediately burst into a HUGE grin!
She has dementia, and isn't always "with-it," so I kept reiterating how hot it is and to be careful, to which she saucily replied, "I have a sleeve!" Then, seemingly out of NOwhere, she produced a small cardboard cup-sleeve and proudly placed it around her "special brew."
I cannot deny that I was somewhat surprised, but so was she about to be, if she thought that sleeve was going to protect her tongue!
I dutifully continued reminiscing about burning my tongue so badly I couldn't taste anything for days as she tentatively took her first sip and sighed deeply in pure pleasure and delight.
I had gone over and made my uncle's regular batch of canna-cookies the night before. We live in Oregon, which is a recreational state; however, my uncle had a third of his lower intestine removed, due to cancer, so he very much qualifies under the medical use guidelines. As do many of the family members I have left. It just so happens that, after making a fresh batch, my uncle sends me off with whatever he had left and I sometimes get a couple fresh cookies, as well.
Now, my grandma has never cared for marijuana. She never consumed it prior to legalization, and doesn't like the smell of the flower, neither fresh nor burnt. But, a few years ago, I got to talkin' to her about how HER mother had died, of kidney failure, and all the medications she had been on, and how those medications made her daily pain level more tolerable while simultaneously worsening her life-taking condition.
Her mother, my great-grandmother, passed away on Christmas morning when I was seven. Some might assume I wouldn't have had an understanding of what was happening, at that age, but the truth is: one of my aunts, who passed of brain cancer a couple years ago, was a CNA and my great-gran's caretaker. My great-grandmother and I were very close, and I learned how to perform her kidney dialysis twenty-eight years ago to give my aunt the occasional night off. So, for a small child, I had a higher understanding than one might expect.
Since my gran is in Stage 4 Renal Failure; only has one kidney; and had been calling to inquire whether I could spare muscle relaxers, when I began my litany/lecture, she was quite willing to hear me out about the difference between smoking and eating cannabis.
Happily, though the conversation was pre-recreational lagalization, I had my medical card with the Oregon Medical Marijuana Program, and my gran was able to have her first marijuana experience, instead of further harming her liver/kidneys. My card had been issued, for my blown out shoulder, after my second shoulder-surgery. In fact, paired with my hiatal hernia (stomach moving into chest cavity), the prescribing doctor joked that he wished he could give me TWO cards, "but that's just not how it works." The original injury occurred in 2009 and included torn rotator cuff, bicep tendon, and labrum. When I do a thing, I really do it. "Gma," as I often refer to her on social media platforms, is much the same way.
I like to joke that I come by my stubborness naturally, because it came straight from my matriarch. That isn't the only trait we share.
Gma's first cookie experience went very well, and she claimed she hadn't slept so well in twenty years!
Knowing all of this, and seeing how pleased she was with my little treat, I could help but suggest she indulge. After all, I had used 3 ounces of leaf and buds with 2 pounds of butter to make the canna-butter, so that was already a strong batch. THEN, I used 3 CUPS of canna-butter, when my double-batch cookie recipe only called for 2, and had to free-hand the rest of the recipe so the cookies WOULDN'T fall apart and WOULD still be sweet enough! Uncle said they were my best batch ever. FURTHERMORE, Stage 4 Renal Failure ALWAYS hurts.
I made 55 cookies. This woman is wearing the biggest smile I've seen her don in well over a week. I wanna stretch it out!
I offered a cookie and she accepted.
She's taken several falls over the last couple years, and broken a couple bones, so (knowing the effect fluctuating blood pressure can have upon rising, and the fact that being stoned can be a bit discombobulating) I placed her walker next to her chair and a cane in the bathroom, so she doesn't have to struggle with the walker in the door way.
An hour later her cheeks wear a warm glow and her lips a soft smile. For some reason, every time she has a canna-cookie, she wears her hoodie. With the hood up. It never fails to make me think "gangster-granny," and just cracks me up entirely!
I asked how she is feeling, and she admitted that her back had been hurting pretty badly, but that's she's "feeling pretty good, now!"
For this reason, I save almost ALL of my edibles for my grandmother, and pretend to be "old fashioned," preferring flower or "bud."
"How, in the name of everything anyone has ever held dear, does marijuana and its derivatives compare to diamonds!??"
Well, my grandmother's first husband was a golden-gloves boxer, from Arkasas, named Bob. Bob was a mean old son-of-a-bitch. And Bob liked to drink. He liked to drink a lot.
Not knowing what time he'd ever be home, before the era of microwaves, his dinner had to be HOT & READY when he walked through the door. I'm sure you can imagine the issue of not knowing, depending on hunting day or working day, whether he'd be in at 2 p.m. or 2 a.m. It was also a very dramatic situation if the dinner were dried out. Gma became very creative with assorted gravies and sauces. It was difficult, with three little ones of her own, and babysitting her sister's two, but she managed to miss a lot of food related beatings.
I recall one specific story regarding my uncle as a toddler. Bob was bitching from the couch, and my uncle came in, fussing about something or other, so Bob just threw his boot at my little uncle! Of course, great hunter that he was, Bob was quite the marksman, he managed to nail my toddler-uncle smooth in the ear! Which, naturally, set all hell lose.
Tiny-tot struck up a REAL ruckus to the sudden onslaught of what was surely staggering pain, even for an adult! And, boy, Bob really had a reason to be mad, then!
My Gran didn't stand up to Bob often, and I imagine the reason I've heard this particular story so many times is that this may have been the first occasion. What I know, for sure, is that Gma says she'd never moved so quick in her life as she did to put herself between him and that baby! Bob didn't like it when she tried to stand up to him, by golly. He was the man, and this was HIS castle!
Clearly it escaped him that what makes a home a castle is love, laughter, and oneness. A familal unit. No-one is perfect, but some things are inexcusable.
It makes me cringe to say this, but that man struck my grandmother SO HARD, in the right kidney, that she told me, years later, she had pissed blood for 10 days.
THAT'S the kind of man Bob was. He died, alone, in Arkansas. I don't even recall what year. My only regret, regarding that particular bastard, is that I didn't take the trip, before he died, just to have the opportunity to slap that racist old fuck about the face and body with a flip-flop. I like the idea of how little pain it would actually inflict, while just shredding his ego. I take the fantasy one-step further, and describe every minute detail of every sexual act I could conjur while repeating dirty words for appendages of a shade I'm quite certain he would not enjoy envisioning his grand-daughter, of dubious lineage herself, impaled upon. But, I Digress.
They were separated for 6 months, during which Bob was on his "best behavior" with the kids 'n' all. During the "dating and working things out" phase, they had intercourse ONE time. This was when my mother was conceived.
Back then, divorces were not so common and were very much frowned upon. My Gran was embarrassed and ashamed that she was unable to make her marriage work. If only she'd been better, stronger, faster, smarter... if only she weren't always so tired... and ever recuperating from the previous beating.
If only that diamond ring had been worth more than pain and heartache.
And, though SHE was unaware, at the time, death. Diamonds represent death. Not unbreakable vows. Though that is a cultural norm, in America, it's mostly just because the diamond industry collapsed in the 1930's and marketing became crucial. Prior, diamonds were for the very wealthy, an expectation of royalty, and not so common an expectation for the "average proposal."
Further, now, many diamonds are burnt, straight from the ground, to keep demand high and supply low, so they can charge top dollar. In the thirties, "Diamonds are Forever," but if you didn't buy one, your love wasn't. That slogan has lingered to this very day. That's successful marketing.
My Gma was born in 1941 and this, she had excitedly thought, in the mid-late fifties, as a young girl, might be true. Her mother, from the depression era, was certainly impressed. At first. Until she was rudely awakened to the reality of her daughter's life with her dashing husband. And, what, now? What is she supposed to do with three little ones and a fresh babe on the way?
She stayed with her mother, for a time. And, she worked. She worked a lot. She missed a lot. But, she fed and clothed her family. She, herself, had only two outfits. That she had made herself. But, her kids were clean and clothed and fed. And safe. Surely, whatever trouble they might find couldn't compare to the angry and accurate ham-sized fists of her ex-husband. And, when they were no longer looked after by her own mother, they looked after one another, of course; she was certain.
Eventually, she met the "love of her life," and, for a time, everything was perfect. Ken had a son about my uncle's age, and they were both very involved in sports. The family had regular game nights and everyone packed up and went to all the games and other school functions. Whatever they did, they did it TOGETHER, and It. Was. Fun.
This, she knew, was what marriage was SUPPOSED to be. Marital bliss. And it was glorious. She couldn't believe how lucky she'd gotten and couldn't wait to spend the rest of her life with this man!
Sadly, those were not the cards she was dealt this hand; it was not meant to be. Ken had a sudden and severe heart attack, in the middle of the night, when my biological mother was fourteen and I had not yet even been thought of. The coroner, to comfort my grandmother from thinking he'd suffered on the floor, alone, told her that it was so sudden he was dead before he'd hit the floor.
I don't know whether that helped or made things worse. But, she was alone. Again. Without her usual brood. They were pretty well old enough to take care of themselves, she figured; my uncle and his step-brother were both 17 and went their own ways. Not long after, my uncle joined the Coast Guard and deployed to Puerto Rico, where he met his wife, who gave birth to two of my cousins. My oldest aunt got married; the next aunt in line, the future CNA, moved in with a friend; Jane, my mother, slipped through the cracks of my grandmother's overwhelming despair.
I can't remember the sequence of events, but I think there was a house-fire, and my Gma lost EVERYTHING! Once again, she worked long and hard hours, but basic needs were met. Nobody was going hungry. She, again, only had a couple hand-made outfits, but she was working enough that she could afford to get her hair done regularly. So she did. A lot. Because it was the only thing that made her feel any better, at all. She had the shortest hair in town.
She's middle European as fuck, but Native Americans would recognize that as the mourning/grieving process it truly was. Frankly, I'm shocked she didn't cut herself. The poor woman was devestated, and KEN WAS NATIVE, so I always imagined that she could have turned to scarification, if she'd known anything about that particular.. artform.
I know this has been a lot of back and forth, hither an' yon, but bear with me.
Two marriages down, in her forties, her youngest daughter has a daughter of her own. At sixteen years old. Shamefully, she cannot even name the father. Jane wanted to name me Ashleigh Jale Byrd, to hear her tell it. Classy. My Gma named me Amanda. Worthy of Love.
Jane was a junkie. Drug of Choice: methamphetamine; but, if ya got it, she'd do it.
I remember, when I was very little, Gma would bring over LOADS of groceries. She didn't like feeling like she was supporting Jane's drug habit/addiction, but she didn't like thinking us kids (I have three younger brothers, but they weren't all born, yet) might be going hungry, either.
I remember helping carry things in, but probably being in the way more than anything. It seemed like there were just Never Ending Bags! I couldn't imagine how she'd gotten it all in her mini-van!
Eventually, Jane went to prison. My grandmother took myself and my brother, D, into her home. My brother, Ry, was barely more than an infant and went to live with the wealthy grandparents who had adopted his biological father. D had a lot of separation anxieties and as soon as he hit school-age, was medicated for A.D.H.D. Six year old on synthetic-methamphetamine compound, anyone? (United States heavily medicates it's youth, and then wonders why the youth attempts to self-medicate, later in life, when our "supplies" dry up; cute. Welcome to the creation of today's American Opiod Epidemic.)
By now, my grandmother had met and married her current husband. A hard-working widower from Missouri. She didn't expect to ever have another great-love match. A body is lucky to find that sort of love even once in a lifetime, and, too short though it was, she felt blessed for having had the opportunity to experience it.
This marriage wasn't about some magical spark. Her spark was already gone. This was a marriage of convenience. A union of security and comfort and companionship.
They both got more than they bargained for, attempting to raise Jane's two eldest!
My brother, D, and I lived with Gma for seven years. He was three when we moved in and ten when he moved out. I was seven and fourteen.
My Gma had a hard time "giving us up," but was at her wits end on how to deal with us kids and feared she might just be TOO OLD for the job! She regrets it to this day. Things went horribly sour with an amazing swiftness.
Before she knew it, there was a drug bust, and her golden years were not going to be her own, after-all.
Ry had stayed with his wealthy grandparents, in the next town over, so his position was secure, but now there was another baby. My youngest brother, Garrett.
Gma didn't have room for us all, and there was nowhere else for the toddler to go. I literally didn't have any other family. Gma regretfully relinquished custody of D to the Native American couple assumed, at the time, to be his paternal-grandparents. She later discovered it was impossible to retrieve custody of a Native American boy, once he'd been physically claimed by Native American family members. It's this fact she has continued to lament, over the years.
At this time, Garrett had already suffered neglect and abuse. Before D and I ever arrived on the scene to help look out for him. Or fight with the little shit, as the case may call for. At least take portions of the adult ire, so he didn't suffer it in complete solitude.
We, the children of Jane, were all pretty wrecked.
No matter the physical and emotional toll we forcibly wrung out of my grandmother she always did everything she could. We didn't have all the things we wanted, but we had everything we needed! And she did the very best she could.
Over the years, whenever she was able and for every birthday or holiday, she got in the habit of ordering jewelry off of QVC and HSN and, later, JVC.
With the onset of dementia, her stroke last year, and all the other changes, Gma can no longer afford her beautiful shiny things. And, neither can I. But, she deserves them. She deserves gold and silver and peridot and lapis and all the beautiful things!
But, all I can do is provide canna-cookies and minimize her discomfort after coaxing a smile with a bribe. I mean a coffee.
Yes, my grandmother is Too Good For Diamonds and the pain their circulation brings into this world. No, I'm not capable of doing all I wish I could. But, I do what I can; she has more than two outfits; doesn't go hungry; and, in the winter, when there are no flowers, we can bust out her sparkle collection and have a gander.
I don't know how long it took me to actually WRITE this, but she spent the majority of that time resting comfortably, and only woke up because my youngest brother, Garrett, came in and heated her up some left-overs. She had the munchies and ate like a ravenous four year old. She's bloody adorable. Her cheeks are still rosy and her pain is still managed. If she's still awake, I'll giver her another half-cookie before I go, and leave instructions with my brother for 6-8 hours between the following dose.
canna-cookies > opioids