How To Get A Medical Marijuana Card In California

I just got my first California State Medical Marijuana Prescription ID card!  Despite the recession and Federal government prohibition, medical marijuana dispensaries seem to be  popping up all over Los Angeles.

I wish that a prescription for medical marijuana wasn’t necessary but I’ve had chronic body pain since my early teens and morphine addiction just isn’t my idea of sexy. The last medication I was prescribed nearly poisoned me and had me puking my guts out, but there is hope! I got my script today and immediately had it filled in the dispensary located downstairs.

The clinic I visited reminded me of a county mental health facility with the tiny bullet proof glass and metal bars. The beautiful twink receptionist had me fill out a basic medical history questionare which included questions about past and present marijuana use. I was also required to read and sign a sheet advising patients of the possible consequences of medicinal marijuana use: drowsiness, forgetfulness, aggravated symptoms of schizophrenia, marijuana addiction and withdrawal. The form went on to detail withdrawal symptoms  including “depression and tearfulness.” I often feel depressed and tearful when I run out of pot but that mostly has to do with the fact that it relieves the chronic stiffness and pain in my body.

Always looking for a deal, I made sure to text a few friends to find out where they had gone for their cards. One friend had gone on a whim to some placeon Venice Beach and paid $150. Another friend opted to go see Dr. Patel who has her face plastered on billboards all over Los Angeles. I love her ads because she is a super sexy femme and a large caption reads: Actual Doctor, Trusted And Experienced For Over Three Years.

Medical Marijuana Maven, Doctor Patel

I was all about visiting the hot WOC femme who’d plastered her face all over L.A. to entice stoners to spend $95 to be in her presence for fifteen minutes.  I really love this about her. My friend had assured me that she was even hotter in person, but the bargain hunter in me insisted that there must be a less expensive route.

So I found a place on that advertised a $45 a consultation. I called about eight times to confirm how much cash and what documentation I’d need to bring with me (medical records and any prescription pill bottles) and I hopped on a bus to find the indiscreet clinic on Echo Park Blvd.

I was pleased as punch when I was greeted by a pretty femme boy receptionist and even happier to discover that my doc was a woman of color. She looked like a photo of someone’s first girlfriend in college. She shook my handed, mumbled something and handed me a blue and white box.

“Um, what is this?” I asked.

“Pregnancy test. Use the dropper inside the box.” She said. She handed me a white polystyrene cup and gestured toward the restroom. I grinned sure that I had nothing to worry about and swaggered into the restroom. The restroom was relatively clean with the exception of a small trash-can which overflowed with pregnancy test boxes, paper towels and styrofoam pee cups. I read the instructions carefully and dropped five drops of pee into the “reservoir.” The box only called for 3-4 but I added the fifth, because I’m always afraid there won’t be enough.

I looked at the over flowing trash can and wondered how many poor women had found out they were with child on the day they had gone to go get their medical marijuana car; What a shitty surprise that would be.  Surprisingly the restroom didn’t smell like pee at all and I think that they’d just had a really busy day. I crafted a clever pee test holder out of the cardboard box so that the doctor could clearly see my results without having to touch my pee tainted items. I was giddy when I presented her with my ‘negative’ test. She aknoledged me with a nod and motioned to another overflowing trash-can this one located in the hall. To my surprise she did not look embarrassed, only tired.

The consultation was 100 times less humiliating than any psychiatric consultation I’ve ever had.  She evaluated my information and gave me a fancy looking letter and a card plus a fax cover sheet requesting that my current doctor fax her my medical records. I gasped.

“What if my doctor doesn’t agree with this line of treatment, ethically?”

“He won’t know it’s for a medical marijuana clinic, it’s just a request from another doctor.” She said and I breathed a sigh of relief. That was one conversation I really didn’t want to have with my psychiatrist.

After my consultation I hopped on downstairs to the pharmacy where I was greeted by a handsome southeast asian man. He smiled as he unlocked the wroght iron screen door. He welcomed me into an atrium filled with ashtrays and flat screen televisions and some baby pot plants. Then I was ushered into a beautiful lounge decorated with colorful silk cushions and curtains clearly made for lounging around and smoking.

“For you, we have a very good deal.” I laughed even though I really beleived him.

“Oh yeah, you have a good deal especially for me?” I laughed.

“I’m serious!” Said the older of the two. The handsome boy behind the counter was super sweet and helpful and seemed genuinely glad to see me. I explained that I had only the vaugest notions about what kinds of differnet strains of pot did what and that  that I needed something to relax my muscles and offer pain releif but that would allow me to function at a high level without feeling stoned.

“Don’t get me wrong – I like to party but seriously like need this for pain.” He laughed and seemed surprised. He took out a small few jars of beautifully crystalized specimens for me to examine.

“This ones great, I just smoked this a few minutes ago and I am fine!” He  said. I asked for an eighth and the older gentleman came up to the younger man and set a large glass jar down.

“Giver her one free gram!” he said, beaming. “Next time, I will also give you a very good deal!” The younger guy weighed out a gram of keefy shake and tossed it into a little container.

“Miss, if you have any questions about your medication – I am here seven days a week. You can call me anytime.”

“Oh? I am sure that I can.” I said smirking. I walked out the door with a big grin and an even bigger stash.

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