Contributor: Stephen J. Morgan
We all want the best for our elder family members, right? I mean, that pretty much goes without saying. In their golden years, as it were, we want them to feel like they have everything they could possibly need, in order to live a super fruitful, incredibly carefree life for the remainder of their time on Earth. That’s just the way it should be, in my opinion. And what better way to accomplish that goal than with a bit of cannabis every now and then, right?
But, despite its wealth of benefits, both mentally and physically, you’d be surprised to learn that there are very few (if any) cannabis nursing homes to be found. The task of trying to look for a cannabis nursing home is damn near impossible, too, as there is no online database or company that could guide you in the direction of a marijuana-friendly facility of this nature.
Which, to me, doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Why Most Nursing Homes Prohibit Cannabis Use
Personally speaking, my grandfather and I had a very close relationship. So much so, he was one of the first people I talked to about cannabis. It wasn’t an awkward, coming-of-age conversation, either. It was an open and honest dialogue about the plant, and its many benefits. He, himself, had been an avid cannabis enthusiast and advocate for multiple decades, so he knew what he was talking about.
In addition to giving me my first joint roller, my grandpa bestowed upon me a plethora of pot-related knowledge that I still utilize to this day. The thing that really sticks with me about my grandpa is how he would practice what he preached.
He didn’t just fire up to get baked, like the majority of millennials these days. He barely even smoked around us, to be honest. And that wasn’t out of shame or anything, he was doing it out of respect for my mother and father, who kindly requested he take his “medicine” to the backyard or the garage.
Once I was old enough, I’d join him in these sessions, and when I tell you we had amazing conversations, that doesn’t even come close to doing it justice. The man was a walking book, one full of various tales of heartbreak, triumph, and all-around clumsiness. That was something we loved about grandpa, he was a known klutz, but he was always able to laugh it off whenever he tripped over something.
He was the best.
But, as time grew on, he would laugh less and less after a physical mishap. Those once chuckle-worthy moments of accidental slapstick comedy turned into moments of cringing pain and worry. Sure enough, his old bones were starting to ache him more than ever before, making each accident that much more intense. Soon after these became a common occurrence, my family saw no other option but to place him in a nursing home.
Now, they didn’t just go about such a duty “willy-nilly.” They did their due diligence and researched pretty much every facility in the state, as they should have. They ultimately landed on one that wasn’t too far away, and had hoards of positive reviews and comments.
I remember the day I helped him move in. It was pretty bittersweet.
As my father and I loaded box after box into his tiny room, we continued to see my grandpa fall deeper and deeper into a state of sadness. He knew this would be the last place he would ever live. He started to spiral into a mini-depression right then and there, as my father and I unloaded the last box.
Seconds before we were due to leave, he broke into tears. He was heartbroken at his lonely state of affairs, and didn’t know how he was supposed to be happy again. Needless to say, we all shared a tear in that moment. But, once we gathered up our muster, I realized that I had a forgotten joint in my truck that could possibly liven up this otherwise sullen mood.
I told my poor grandpa to hang tight, as I jogged out to my parked vehicle, which was only a minute or so away. I quickly returned, with the joint in my ear, and asked if he’d like to hold onto it for a rainy day. He looked up at me, with that familiar smirk of his, the same one he’d sport after stubbing his toe on a coffee table, and said, “Why wait?”
Roughly five minutes later, we were sitting in my truck, and I fired up, what ended up being, our last joint together. We smoked and talked, per the usual, as my father patiently waited in the room, as he chose not to partake. It was our best smoke session ever. We laughed, we cried, we calmed down, and most importantly, we realized that, no matter what, everything was going to be okay.
Just as I put the joint out in my truck’s ashtray, a nursing home employee walked up to the window. She politely asked if we could please stop smoking in their parking lot. To which, we complied, I mean, we were done with our joint anyway, so that wasn’t too big of a chore to complete. It was then, however, that I felt inclined to ask where my grandpa could plan on smoking a joint or two, when he felt like he needed to relax, or calm his anxiety.
It was as if I asked this woman how to get to the moon, because she simply laughed and said that they don’t allow such a thing at nursing homes – anywhere. My grandpa and I inquired as to why that was the case, and she was more than honest with her response. She said that most employees don’t have a problem with it, but it interferes with Medicare, along with a litany of other rules and regulations that are put in place by the state and federal government.
With nursing homes being extremely regulated, the allowance of any sort of substance of this nature, even if legal on the state level, would be prohibited. In short, until the federal government allows cannabis to be legal nationwide, the chances of finding a cannabis-friendly nursing home is slim to none, despite the hoards of medical and scientific evidence proving that it can help seniors live better lives.
I thanked her for her time, and bid her a not-so-fond farewell. I turned to my grandpa, who was now more dejected than ever.
That was going to be his only respite from this new living arrangement, and I couldn’t help but feel for him. That’s when I reached into my glove compartment, and handed him the rest of my weed, my papers, and that joint roller he gave me all those years ago.
I placed them in his hands, with a knowing smile. He tried to give them back, but I told him to keep it for a “rainy day.”
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He smiled, and covertly shoved the various items into his pockets. We hugged, and I walked him back to his room, where my father and I bid him one last goodbye.
A week or so later, my dad got a call from the nursing home, informing him that my grandpa had unfortunately passed away. When he asked for more details about it, they said he went peacefully in his sleep, with a smile on his face. They also said the only other times they saw him smile was when he’d return from his solo “nature walks” that he would go on every afternoon.
If I know my grandpa, those nature walks were definitely cannabis-infused, and it’s probably the only reason why he was able to pass in a serene state of mind.
That’s just one example of how cannabis can greatly benefit the lives of senior citizens living in nursing homes. But, until the federal government removes their stubborn anti-cannabis stance from law, there likely won’t be any changes that would allow the use of cannabis to take place on their premises.
Hopefully, that sort of change will happen sooner than later.
Who knows how many lives could be improved and enriched with cannabis-friendly nursing homes? I suppose, only time will tell.
