earth angel

I guess you could say my assignment was to procure illegal drugs for a grieving mother.

Did I accept? Of course.

I had been a hospice social worker close to a decade by then, accustomed to walking blind into rooms, apartments, RVs, broken down trailers, Santa Fe mansions, assessing needs, finding resources, sitting with the dying and offering song, water, a last chance to tell their life stories to a listening heart, the cheeseburger they craved we both knew they’d throw up, a brief walk outside to let the winter sun warm a tired happy face.

So maybe I was prepared as best I could be when I met Michelle, 24 years old, in the last days of stage 4 ovarian cancer.

The walls of her tiny apartment were covered with posters of Michelle, the featured tightrope walker, in her beloved troupe of acrobats and aerial performers. Always in glitter, always eating the spotlight, always a shit eating grin on her gorgeous face because she knew just how fabulous she was.

She was bedridden now, weighed 76 pounds, flesh hanging off bone. We spent hours together that first week while I arranged for overnight help and the delivery of soft foods through our local non-profit, Kitchen Angels.

What I wasn’t prepared for was meeting her mother the following week. A woman younger than me, still limber, still lovely despite the grief carved into her pale skin, she showed up during one of my visits. I watched as she cautiously, tenderly, embraced her daughter. They cried and I could not look away. They held each other and cried and told me the whole story of their love for each other in their tears.

What do you need, I asked her lovely mother as we stood outside, ready to leave for the day.

She hesitated. I think I need some marijuana, she said. And then backtracked. I know it’s illegal. I know it’s asking a lot.

I touched her soft cheek. Give me your number, I said. I’ll call you.

What I did next I did frantically. Yes at the time it was still illegal, but I’m a girl from New York City, and illegal is a close cousin of mine.

I phoned around and found a friend who had a medical marijuana card and a drawer full of medicinal lollipops.

I need them all, I said, and drove to her home to retrieve them. I called Michelle’s mother. Can you find the Whole Foods parking lot? Yes she could. Meet me there in 30.

So I handed over a paper bag with a dozen lollipops laced with enough THC to get this mama through the next dozen days sitting with her daughter while she slowly slipped away, until she slipped out the door and onto her next high wire adventure.

We cried together when she got into her car, heading back to the Midwest to a life I knew nothing about.

I was simply there to follow instructions, to carry out my assignment, to deliver the goods when they were needed where they were needed without asking why, because when you say yes to an assignment like this, you already know why.