Me and my brother in our stoner days
My older brother Mike and I grew up in a liberal household. We never had bed times, we could eat all the sweets we wanted and as we got older, my brother smoked a lot of pot in his bedroom much to the knowledge and acceptance of my nice middle-class folks.
My parents aren’t stupid and in their younger years, they too puffed, so that whiff of burning weed which wafted down the stairs wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar odour to them. I must have been about 18, my brother 21 and my mum hitting 50, when she decided to be ‘down with the kids’ and hang out with my brother and I while we toked on joints in his room.
One night, out of the blue, she simply asked for a pull on his joint and who the hell were we to say no? She puffed. And she puffed again, pulling on this fat joint like it was a cigarette (she used to be a hardcore Marlboro smoker). The problem was, this wasn’t just a harmless bit of weed we were smoking. It was super-strong skunk – a variety of marijuana that’s essentially the Mike Tyson of the pot scene – heavyweight stuff, guaranteed to mong you out and probably cause a whitey.
My mum. Smoking an actual cigarette, not, you know...
As my mum carried on smoking, I retired to bed - my brother continued messing around on his computer while she chilled in his room with him.
And then it happened.
Suddenly I was yanked from my slumber by my now freaking out mum. She stormed into my room, grasped me by the shoulders and started shouting ‘Dan, Dan, i’m dying. But it’s ok, I’ve accepted it, it’s going to happen, but it’s ok. I’m dying, I know that now’.
Obviously at this news I sat up in my bed as my mum kept trying to embrace me, whilst telling me on on auto repeat that she was dying. I climbed out of bed shuffled her out of the room and told her to go and speak to my brother, but she wasn't to be deterred. Over the next few hours, mum dipping in out of consciousness as she continued to talk about her about her impending death.
In the end my sibling and I relented, and sat with her in her bed waiting for her to pass out once and for all. Over and over again, she insisted she was dying and having palpations, occasionally shouting 'feel me, feel me, I’m going!' until she eventually conked out. We reassured her everything was going to be ok, held her hand, tried to make her feel safe. And then like a character from a horror film, her eyes would flip open, again: 'kids, I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to die now. But it’ll be ok, cause I’m ready to go’.
Eventually mum drifted off into a deep sleep. My brother and I checked that she wasn’t actually dead a couple of times in the night, you know, to be sure. The next day she was right as rain. She remembered everything (as she still does to this day) and of course, she’s never touched pot since.
The moral of this story? Parents: not safe with your weed.