MY MOTHER was dying in the winter of 1986. A metastatic tumor clasped her spine. She couldn’t walk. Radiation therapy was undertaken to burn the growth out, and, after ten sessions, a CAT scan found her spinal compression much reduced. In itself, though, radiation can be traumatic. It nauseated my mother: the mention of food was repulsive. Even with intravenous sugar her weight fell from 105 to under ninety pounds, and she couldn’t answer my grip. An already fragile 76-year-old constitution had shrugged and given up: she was wasting. And so I went out and committed a crime.
I bought marijuana in the untidy neighborhood around 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue. At home I made dough and baked pot cookies. Crumb by crumb I force-fed my mother. She had little saliva: often cookie bits were regurgitated. But the appetite-arousing chemical in marijuana got to her system. Three hours after I had begun feeding pot to her, my mother signaled me near with her hand. I bent to listen. “Maybe I could try just a taste of cheeseburger,” she said.
Comments