Summary

A young man battles Hodgkin's disease and survives--with more than a little help from his Mom--in this wry and uplifting memoir about life, love, and beating the odds. When Dan Shapiro's decidely anti-drug mom put aside her convictions and grew marijuana in her backyard garden (behind a discrete screen of sunflowers), he learned that in the face of a crisis we all have the opportunity to decide what is most important to us. In this hilarious, high-spirited, sometimes harrowing memoir, Shapiro invites us into his battle with cancer, his romance with an oncology nurse, his journey through graduate school, and his most important life lessons. He tells his story with wit and grace and indomitable spirit, showing us that only when the rhythm of life is stirred violently are able to discover its full beauty.

Author Biography

Dr. Shapiro is a regular commentator on NPR's <i>All Things Considered</i> . He lives in Tucson, Arizona.

Part One: The Beginning

(46)

Dictated Chart Note

(1)

Mom's Marijuana: Part A

(2)

Pretzels

(6)

Mom's Marijuana: Part B

(8)

Waiting Rooms

(1)

Edi

(8)

Integrative Medicine

(3)

Cowboy Hats, Earrings, and Doctors

(6)

Lime

(3)

Dice

(1)

Literary Therapy

(1)

Dad's Clarinet

(3)

Dictated Chart Note

(2)

Part Two: Transitions

(26)

Dictated Chart Note

(1)

Red Line Magic

(2)

Really Deep Intellectual Courtship

(5)

Blue Towels

(1)

Mom's Marijuana: Part C

(3)

Creedence Clearwater Biopsy

(4)

Balance

(1)

Relapse

(1)

Jodi and the Snow Leopard

(7)

Part Three: Bone Marrow Transplant

(42)

Dictated Chart Note

(1)

Unfriends

(2)

Time

(1)

Bird Counts

(2)

David

(4)

Dirty Pencils

(2)

Water Medicine

(5)

Basketball Dreams

(1)

Summertime

(2)

Clams and Ballet

(3)

Parole

(9)

Food Appreciation

106

(4)

Blazers

110

(2)

Soup

112

(2)

Dictated Chart Note

114

(1)

Part Four: Respite

115

(38)

Ron

117

(4)

Laboratory Coats

121

(3)

Animal

124

(1)

Jacob's Exit

125

(2)

Mixed Blessings

127

(1)

A Roller Coaster

128

(2)

Jennings

130

(8)

Satchel's Boomerang

138

(1)

Saul

139

(3)

Against Advice

142

(4)

A Last Will

146

(3)

Sergio's Very First and Only Free Haircut

149

(4)

Part Five: Salvage

153

(44)

Dictated Chart Note

154

(1)

Spirit Doctors

155

(2)

Enlightenment Under Pressure

157

(1)

Coach Douglas

158

(3)

Hope Junkie's Lament

161

(2)

Hail to the Prince

163

(4)

Hope

167

(5)

Night of Fire

172

(9)

Hurricane Andrew's Pupils

181

(7)

Gallium Oracle

188

(7)

Dictated Chart Note

195

(2)

Part Six: The Years Since

197

(24)

Slowball

199

(2)

Finding Fault

201

(3)

Hunter

204

(1)

MFB: Measure for Box

205

(5)

Otter Bar River Wisdom

210

(2)

Blindfolded

212

(2)

En-trance

214

(5)

Dictated Chart Note

219

(2)

Part Seven: Learnings

221

(16)

Mantra

223

(1)

My Kind of Garage Salesman

223

(2)

Phosphorescence

225

(1)

Body Bonus

226

(2)

Speed

228

(1)

Nana's Legacy

229

(2)

Bedrock

231

(2)

Dictated Chart Note: Radiology

233

(1)

Mom's Marijuana: Part D

234

(3)

Epilogue

237

Supplemental Materials

What is included with this book?

The New copy of this book will include any supplemental materials advertised. Please check the title of the book to determine if it should include any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.

The Used, Rental and eBook copies of this book are not guaranteed to include any supplemental materials. Typically, only the book itself is included. This is true even if the title states it includes any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.

Excerpts

My parents always kept a small plot of land in the backyard as a garden. It was roughly the size of an average bedroom. Pretty small. But they hovered around that garden all spring and summer. They plowed, fertilized, hoed, mulched, and sampled the soil. They watered. They pinched leaves. At night they pointed to pictures in books and seed magazines, which eventually accumulated and took over the dining room.
And then, a few months later, there was a crop of something. Usually a crop of mutant something. One year it was zucchini. Thousands of zucchini crawled out of the garden as if cast in a late-night horror film. Neighbors came home to anonymous zucchini breads, pies, and cakes delicately balanced inside of screen doors or stuffed into mailboxes. Dad kept a huge zucchini next to his bed in case there were intruders.
I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease in April, the planting month. Dr. Brodsky talked with his arms crossed in front of him, listing the chemotherapy agents I would be taking and their side effects. Prednisone. Procarbazine. Nitrogen mustard. Vincristine. The latter two would cause nausea and vomiting. It sounded unpleasant.
A few nights before I was scheduled to start treatment, I called a friend, the only person my age I knew who'd had cancer. He muttered five gruff words into the phone: "Chemo's grim, man, get weed."
I trotted into the living room and nonchalantly announced to the family that I was going to buy marijuana to help with the nausea and vomiting.
There was an oppressive silence, punctuated only by the rapid tapping of my mother's finger on an armchair. Then she began, her voice carrying that staccato edge she generally reserved for my father. She told me in no uncertain terms that there would be no drugs in the house. She berated me about the dangers of illicit substances, the horrors that visit lives filled with addiction, and swore to me that her roof would never shelter a drug user. She ended her diatribe with an outstretched finger.
With the vigor of an adolescent with a cause, I argued back that for me, marijuana would be medicine, the only medicine that could temper the violent treatment I faced. That it wasn't addictive, and that my body would soon process toxins far more dangerous than marijuana. At the end of our conversation we were where we began. I knew my mother. Once she was entrenched in a position, argument was futile. I retreated.
I still wonder what happened to her during the night. Maybe she studied the pamphlets the doctors provided, maybe she woke up in a sweat, the remnants of noxious dreams about her son and chemotherapy still etched in her mind's eye. I don't know. But I do know this. The next morning my mother ran her finger down the "Smoke Shop" listings in the phone book. She called a number of establishments, asking detailed questions and jotting down words like bong, carb, and water pipe. Then she gathered her keys and purse, and thirty minutes later was walking down the aisles of a head shop called Stairway to Heaven, taking notes and carefully checking the merchandise for shoddy workmanship. My mother is a Consumer Reports shopper.
I was sitting on the ground in the backyard when my mother's car pulled into the driveway. A few moments later she appeared on the back porch waving a three-foot bong over her head. She proclaimed her find with the same robust voice she'd used for years to call my brother and me to dinner: "Is this one okay? They didn't have blue. . . ."
When I entered the house she delicately handed me the bong and some money. She brushed dust from my shoulder and softly told me to do whatever I needed to get the marijuana. After a quick phone call I left to make my purchase. When I returned with the small Baggie my mother asked to see it. I felt a sharp adolescent fear, conditioned from years of living under my mother's vigilant eyes. I handed it over. She looked into the small bag. Incredulous.
"Where's the rest of it?" she asked.
"That's it, Ma," I said. She squinted at me. "I swear, Ma. That's it."
She murmured quietly, "Honey, give me the seeds."
I thought of huge zucchinis.
When my father learned of my mother's plan he clipped two articles out of the paper with the titles "Police Raid Yields Results" and "Drug House Seized." He put them under a magnet on the refrigerator and underlined the worst parts. That night, as we prepared for dinner, Mom read them, nodded soberly, and said, "Bring them on."
That summer my parents plowed, fertilized, hoed, mulched, and sampled the soil. They watered. They pinched leaves. And that August the mutant crop arrived. Ten bushy plants grew over eleven feet tall in our backyard, eclipsing the sunflowers in front of them. Far more weed than I could have smoked in a lifetime.

Excerpted from Mom's Marijuana: Life, Love, and Beating the Odds by Dan Shapiro
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.