Hitting the Wall ... of Self, and
then Other ... lessons born in Ganja Excess
the Crash and Burn -
(each part below represents a trip to the ER, all three
taking place in a total of about 15 to 21 days time,
counting days “inside” the system)
part one: the Rape of a Soul
part two: the War of Words - a temporary
part three: My Words = Victory
regrets and recriminations, upon
review - or not
Thirty years ago I was able to become “clean and sober”, after
many years of psychological addiction to Ganja/Weed/Dope, with
occasional excursions into LSD, psilocybin, and similar exotic
I sought a Ganja free consciousness for many reasons, not the
least of which was that I had been having visions (of quite a
variety of kinds/types/strangeness) for many years.
Having encountered during this time the works of Rudolf
Steiner, and his principle students, I realized that I had to
leave the intoxicants behind, so as to properly assess the
visions, and bring them into connection with the discipline of
my own will-in-thinking.
That journey is collected in my book Sacramental Thinking (http://ipwebdev.com/hermit/SacramentalThinking33x.html).
Conventional medicine had been unable to help me deal with
chronic pain from arthritis of the knees, including a trip
into oxycodone country. Having been an addict before, I
soon realized the folly there, and to the surprise of my
primary care physician rejected any more offers of this pain
It came slowly to my attention that medical Ganja might be of
service, so I obtained the necessary orders that made
available to me the modern powerful incarnations of this
substance. I conveniently forgot that I had been an
addict before in the face of the THC variety. I reasoned
(if we may call it such) that if I was going to be a stoner
again, I might as well jump in with both feet.
I indulged. Oddly enough, I used the lowest dosages, but
which still went mentally flying into new places in the
thought-world, which had been opened to me by me previous 30
years of inner disciplines. I wrote a great deal, in a
new and freer fashion than before, as following Steiner had
limitations, given his pursuit of the spirit via scientific
disciplines, which wore a tendency to an excess of
carefulness, literary plodding, and a vain belief that the
spirit could be put in exactly categorized
thought-forms. The Living Spirit can't really be thereby
caged, for its own reality is full of the Wild.
My writing soared and most of that is located here: the
Worcester Hills Gazette (http://ipwebdev.com/hermit/WorcesterHillsGazette.html).
This included a new masterwork: “Americans, ... among the Lost
- notes from inner-space, ... the true Final Frontier ...
confessions of a white American shaman” (http://ipwebdev.com/hermit/finalfrontier.html).
People, with little imagination, and interested in esoteric
self-development, tend to shun the use of spiritual
perceptions enhanced with drugs. I urge such to become
aware of the German romantic poet Novalis, and his English
somewhat counterpart, the poet-scientist S.T. Coleridge.
Both used opiates (not the modern synthetic that causes
so much fuss this days, but the real syrup of the poppy).
Coleridge felt his scientific works far superior to his poetry
(e.g. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla
Khan). Owen Barfield saw fit to open our eyes to
his genius (drugs or otherwise), devoting a whole book to it:
“What Coleridge Thought” (https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=What+Coleridge+Thought).
Meanwhile, I also forgot that addicts (of even cigarettes)
know that the first dose of the day is the best, so I began to
pursue the returns of those early morning flights of thought,
upping my daily dosage of THC to 20 milligrams a day of
edible, with intermittent vaping to add something that wasn’t
I was also losing weight. A long unnecessary story, but
I was eating little, and gaining energy for the day from the
THC high. In 6 months I lost 70 pounds. Then one
day I felt very light headed, as if I might lose
consciousness. Two days later it happened again, and at
that moment I called 911. Needless to say, my judgment
had also become somewhat compromised.
the Crash and Burn -
(each part below represents a trip to the ER, all three
in a total of about 15 to 21 days time, counting days
“inside” the system)
part one: the Rape of a Soul (qualia-ignored) ER visit#1
There is a discussion, among a too too powerful fringe of the
philosophically inclined, concerning whether or not the taste
I experience eating a tomato is real. These same folk do
not hold that my experience of a self is even real, nor do
they hold that I have free will. Their view is that the
brain does not actually comprehend the real, but only a
self-generated delusional view of experience. Further,
this brain-thing in fact acts independently (on its own).
This is basically outrageous bullshit! Why do we know
this? Because if you meet these folks they know they
don’t dare treat friends, family, and colleagues, as if they
were “its”, and not regular people with the usual range of
personality quirks, feelings, and other not-visible inner
Even the not-so-rabid researchers into consciousness use a
tool they do not understand, or examine in an empirical
fashion. This tool is their own mind. There is no
investigation of consciousness (or conscious experience), from
where it stares itself in the face - our own world of thoughts
and thinking. I wrote an essay (of course) “I am not my
brain, the map is not the territory” (http://ipwebdev.com/hermit/brain.html).
Yet, these qualia - these experiences are the whole of what it
means to be human. All the same, scientific materialism
has decreed that there is only matter - spirit does not exist
at all. This false picture infects the arts of medicine,
which tries to emulate physics by reducing human health and
illness to numbers - to only the quantities, not the
This is not to say those who practice the medical arts, from
the great surgeons to the lowly nurses aides in hospitals, do
not try to care about the person they treat. It is just
that the mental-model lacks the full sophistication that will
be possible once the scientific knowledge of soul and spirit
becomes more widely understood. Oddly - maybe not - the
aides and bringers of food and picking up garbage folk in the
hospital, tend to be minorities, recent immigrants, and are
much more friendly than the “professionals”.
In a sense, the ER, and the other units in major hospitals,
are kind of like factories, in which patients come for a
while, get help as help can be offered, and then out they go
where care is not so intense. Would that hospital care
was not so frenetic, either. There is no real rest for a
patient needing their “vitals signs” (numbers) taken every
three hours, even when attached to electronic monitors and
I arrived at the ER needing help, for something that I barely
understood. I reported being “dizzy”, in answer to a
question asking that, and because I had a heart history off we
went into worries over whether I was having, or had had, a
I tried to explain that I had lost over 70 lbs in the last six
months, suspecting there might be something there. I
also passed on to the staff my excessive THC use during the
same period. But “dizzy” I was to the tunnel vision in
the ER, which has to save lives, and send you elsewhere for
fuller evaluations. This was a big teaching hospital,
and a lot was going on.
So off I went to x-rays of my heart. No problems
indicating a recent heart attack. This was followed with
blood tests looking for enzymes that also suggest a recent
heart attack. This was done twice, separated by 6 hours,
with the same result: no evidence of a heart attack.
Since I remained somewhat a mystery (various other factors not
explained - who among the staff was after all actually
listening to me?), I was transfered for an overnight stay in a
Unit designed to look more carefully than does the ER, but is
not actually a hospital admission.
The next morning their cardiac interested folks wanted to do
more “tests” (heaven help them if I die untested). They
recommended a “nuclear stress test”, which is promoted as less
obnoxious than the “treadmill stress test”. In promoting
this test they all essentially lied, down playing what was to
Even as I was prepped in the testing area the lying continued
in the forms of don’t worry, this is basically painless, and
if their are side affects we’ll be prepared to give additional
injections. While they were injecting me with the
primary mover (a large tube of lemonade colored stuff), I
naively asked what that does.
Well, the nurse explained, it will forcibly dilate your
arteries, so the radium die we will next inject can be better
distributed to the heart, making it possible for our picture
machine to see the insides of your heart. One injection,
two injection (the radium die) and then low and behold
magically both side-effects that had been explained as not
always happening (bullshit, they already had the two
injections prepared, so that when asked if I was suffering, I
exclaimed: gosh jee, I sure am suffering).
Next the move to the picture machine, and oh please lie very
still or this won’t work if you move. CT and MRI scans
aside, this is brutal when in pain, and your body is old and
gets knots in its muscles at the drop of a hat. I was
quietly screaming get me the fuck out of here, when the voice
finally says: your done, its all fine, don’t worry about a
After which I am moved from my torture bed to a wheel chair,
put in a hallway outside the dungeon and left alone for twenty
minutes - before the low paid driver takes me back to my
room. The next victim is then moved inside, just after
they abandon me to lonely waiting.
So, here I am still loaded to the gills with an excess of
Sativa THC, but who gives a fuck for the “qualia" (experience)
which is the essential inner nature of all human beings.
Physics and Biology have made it official: Soul and Spirit are
not real, only the matter in brain.
Thus: the Rape of a Soul
No physician who gives this test should get to order it,
unless they have a gold-plated certificate that says: been
there done that. Some with the gastrointestinal folk who
like sticking tubes up your ass and down your throat.
Upon returning to my room, I was told to hang on because
they’d like me to lie in the picture machine for a second
turn, in case their first pictures were not adequate
enough. I thought about this for a couple of hours, and
called the nurse, and told her I wanted out of here as soon as
possible AMA (against medical advice). This was done,
but in the process of my signing the paper work, the nurse
told me that “they” had seen something and remained
concerned. This last factoid is crucial to the next
part two: the War of
Words - a temporary defeat (ER visit # 2)
At home, left to my own devices, but at least my Linda-love
was there, I remained seriously ill (and confused). A
couple of days later, she goes to church, and I decide to take
a shower. This requires an extreme effort of soul-will
to make happen, but I am resolute, although lacking much good
judgment. At the least I had titrated myself off the
Ganja, and rediscovered what I had known thirty years ago - I
tend to like my ordinary consciousness more than getting high
(something I had been indulging in for 6 months).
After the shower I was so weak and shaking that I didn’t even
wait for my Linda to get back from church, but dialed 911, and
while waiting used another phone to call Linda on her cell.
I still did not know what to say, used the word “dizzy” again
(should have used the terms extreme exhaustion, and
weakness). Off we were to the races, so after clearing
the ER I’m back in the unit the deals with the undecided
mysteries, who insisted that I go get the second set of
pictures, but would once again require me to lie still in the
rotating machine. I begged for anxiety relief and was
slightly sedated, which help.
Later, gosh, nothing found, and even the mysterious previous
sighting (used to try to guilt me into not going AMA) might
have only been a flaw in the system or dust on the machine.
Later a teaching cardiologist brought her student crew to
visit, and while I spoke of weight loss and THC detoxing
(which my California first born son had - after ER #1 - given
advice regarding diet and such), there was much
confusion. I did advise them that I was a wave front of
soon to come cases given the recent recreational legalization
of Ganja in Massachusetts; and, really how hard can it be in
this age for even a doctor to use Google to learn something
Blank faces all around, so I took the opportunity to recommend
other modes and kinds of studies, connected to the Rudolf
Steiner work and anthroposophical medicine. Politely
nodding heads and we are releasing you home, with orders for
home-care services. Comprehension - nil.
As I told my story to the young woman who came two days after
my return home, to set up the visits and explain the
opportunities of physical therapy, she then explained that the
ER people were trapped by their understanding of the word
“dizzy”. She helped me see that “exhaustion” and
"weakness" might have worked better, but given my heart
history (two heart attacks the same day in an ER in
California, resulting in two stents in two different coronary
arteries) made for the looking for an explanation that fit
their mind-sets, and was not to be found with subtle outside
the box new-thinking - doctors tend after all to be highly
educated and trained know-it-alls.
All the same, trying follow diet advice from first son, and
Linda and my own lack of knowledge, seeking bone broths etc. I
was still weak and getting weaker. Linda, her heart so
dear, didn’t know what to do, and I realized that I had to
make the decision, so once more 911 was called, and I got to
make the joke to the Paxton ambulance guys: “we have to stop
meeting like this” (it was after all, the third 9ll call in
part three: My Words =
(ER visit # 3)
There I am in the ER gurney, when a nurse comes up and
identifies herself as my nurse. I start to speak, but
halfway through the sentence an attending doctor comes by,
wanting as well to know why I am there. I went for shock
and awe: “If you do not listen to me, you will kill me”.
As events proceed over the next hours (I was in the ER gurney
for about ten hours there being no bed available yet), the
supervisor of the ER (disguised as a mild looking grandmother
type) came by, and I said the same to her. There really
was not much of a reply, but a careful shift of emphasis that
the ER was going to see that I got admitted to the hospital
(passing the buck, which is actually very sensible).
Then came by a man who described himself is the “hospitaler”
(a verb), which produced no medical knowledge, but rather the
fact that he made the paperwork dance. He also said
there was a “team” being assembled that would soon be visiting
me, and they would be overseeing the hospital stay.
Two young doctors came by, the worker bees of the team, and I
gave them the same story: If you don’t listen to me, I may
well die, and by the Way, you will be getting more cases of
THC toxicity, so best to pay attention. The boss
of the team came by with a friend in tow, and she was clearly
the boss, making suggestions to the first two.
As it was late at night, I asked for some sleep medicine (not
having slept well at all since the whole “adventure”
started. The young doctors offered benedryl, but the
boss pointed out that I had sleep apnea (she reads the chart),
and there was some dialogue (over my head) about importing my
C-pap machine to the hospital, rather than give me a pill.
My Linda then needed to bring in the machine the next day, and
later that evening a man came by to install it next to my
bed. Clearly neither the doctors or I were on the same
page. I sent the tech on to other activity, talked to my
evening nurse, and she obtained an order for the
benedryl. Another example of failed communication,
coming I suspect, from the habit of not listening to carefully
to the patient. There I am in a narrow bed, with an IV
in my arm, and someone thinks it is possible to set another
machine next to me that has a mask and tubes and such.
Habits without thought.
There was another similar event, which illustrates the central
lesson. I have a rash near my groin - yeast infections
from the wet interior of fat folds. Very common
condition, so I asked my nurse for some of the dermatologist
proscribed medicine I use at home. She seeks an “order”
from the doctor-team, and they want to use something different
- not my prescription, but their own assumption about what I
need - again without listening to me, who has had the
condition for many years. Eventually my complaints to
the nurses about what they are giving me not working (a powder
instead of a cream), wake up the doctor-team, and so they
write an order for the cream. Opps! The order is
incorrect, so the nurse has to chase someone from the team
down again. The medicine I asked for three days ago,
finally arrives the day of my discharge.
When home my Linda takes a look (she’s been applying and
cleaning me for quite awhile), and literally screams. In
all the years of these rashes, she’s never seen it so
bad. The cream usually fixes it in a couple of
days. I am now 7 days out of the hospital, and still the
rash (while greatly reduced) is there.
The team comes up with a diagnosis (of sorts - its more a
description, while the real diagnosis is buried in the
paperwork. It seems I was starving, which is a good
reason for being very weak and very exhausted. The Name:
“Severe Protein Calorie Malnutrition”. Or, as was buried
in the release material: life threatening "metabolic acidosis"
- my body was eating itself.
Turns out I’m not very nutritious.
My vitals become stable. I eat some of the hospital
food. I am anxious to get out of there, and they are
glad to see me go. Orders are given from me to receive
home care of a sort. They did notice one matter, for
which I am happy. They were seeing blood pressures that
were too low, and so took me off of one of my three blood
pressure pills (a change connected to the value of the weight
loss as a thing in itself).
While waiting by the 6th floor nurses station, all dressed and
needing a driver to take me in a wheelchair to the front door,
one of the young doctors from the teams walks by, notices me,
and stops to say a few words.
I begin by saying I am thankful that all they did (its the
mental medical model that’s the core problem). Yet, I
say, there is still a mystery. If the blood chemistry
shows the metabolic acidosis now, why didn’t it show during
the blood work on the first two ER visits?
At 76 I have some experience in reading faces. Though
controlled, there was a moment where the question was very
embarrassing. He temporized, always a clue to the
invention of a lie, and said that maybe it was not yet bad
enough to show up in the blood work.
Were they negligent? Not really. Just trapped in a
system where the patient’s experience (qualia) is discounted,
and only the doctor has any real or useful
information&understanding that has to be supported by
tests, machines, and numbers.
regrets and recriminations, upon
review - or not
I’ve had hard life-lessons before. No need to tie
yourself in knots over them. If you get lemons, make
lemonade - is a very workable approach.
My writing and thinking was given a dose of freedom that they
needed. Even in ordinary consciousness those skills are
still present, its just that I drive them, they do not drive
me. I actually even appreciate more the life of doctors,
trapped in a weak mental model, and surrounded by corporations
using the doctor’s and nurse’s and aide’s etc. skills to make
a profit. Managed care is a disaster, but we already
9 weeks after titrating off the ganja, I started using it
again. The reason is two fold. A main aspect is
that this is the only relief available to the chronic pain,
and still the larger society offers people only the very
addictive oxycodone. The ganja is made by nature, which
is a real viture, and is not some synthetic big pharma money
maker. The second reason is that my freedom as an artist
of the word is greatly enhanced. The thirty years I
spent learning certain mental/spiritual discplines has paid
off - the ganja only enhances, and enriches the picture
thinking/feeling aspects. I don't write mathematical
stuff, but believe that good sentence can convey a lot, if
given some freedom from gramatical prisons, and other
requirements to follow more rigid forms of expression.
For example, my latest: "Tales
from the Collective Imagination".