My home is poisoned by second-hand pot smoke
There’s no such thing as a right to fresh, clean air. Although I’ve fought for it from childhood, it has eluded me, right through non-smoking bans in workplaces and public buildings. It’s a losing battle. I grew up with smoking parents. Back then, no one seemed to connect the dots. Smoking was cool, acceptable and social.
But surrounded by the cigarette smoke of family and friends, I spent a lot of my childhood in bed almost dying from asthma, waiting for the doctor to arrive with the magic syringe that would release the chains from my chest.
It was so bad the doctor taught my clergyman father how to boil the syringe, draw the adrenalin from the ampoule and instructed him on just how much could be administered to keep me going, but not kill me.
(I still remember the comfort I got from seeing those little ampoules lined up in the fridge. It eased my anxiety.) During my frequent attacks, my mother would keep an eye on my breathing while shouting down the back staircase, “Hurry up, her lips are blue,” as my dad prepared the meds.
Talk about a whacking high. That adrenalin would nearly lift me from the bed — I was shaking and nauseous, but I could breathe.
I was overwhelmed with joy when the first pocket inhaler became available. I was 10. It was a small glass bulb and it had one hell of a kick. But oh, the freedom! I could ride my bike and do kid things without the fear of being felled, gasping and wheezing.
I’ve been through various brands of inhalers in my life. As I grew up, newer and more effective inhalers came along. They were always with me — in my purses and coat pockets. I wouldn’t go to school, on a date, for milk, anywhere, without it. I still don’t. I got married carrying a puffer. They’re in my car, my husband’s car, almost every bag I own, and various jacket pockets.
Now the disease is manageable with newer steroid puffers and other inhalers that do double duty treating asthmatics and people with COPD. It’s a miracle. Asthma is often “outgrown,” but I’m well over 60 and as I write my puffer sits beside me. The condition often goes hand in hand with severe allergies and eczema and I’ve got both.
The allergies are aided — to some degree — with antihistamines.
But there is no cure for severe allergic reactions. You can only be wary of those things that cause the reaction, stay away from them and carry an EpiPen.
After years of homeowning, we find ourselves in a pretty OK building with lots of people who are a heck of a lot older than us. And some are younger.
Lots of them smoke. Their choice. You can run air purifiers — we have three — and it deals with the problem.
But no air purifier can really handle pot smoke, and I’m deadly allergic to it. Truly and overwhelmingly allergic. At the first whiff, my throat itches and closes in, my lungs spasm and I start to wheeze and gasp.
I open windows, sliding doors. The air purifiers go on. But we have some diehard pot smokers on our floor and we are between a rock and a hard place.
Because our building is older, the smoke seeps in — we’ve blocked off vents — via various spaces, invading our bathrooms and storage cupboards.
There is nothing I can do about it because, as I’ve been told a million times, “it’s legal.”
I know I’m not alone in suffering with this allergy. But there’s no cure, except to run; no solution, except to move. And that isn’t easy for us.
On these colder days, I sit with my emergency puffer in one hand and an EpiPen in the other. It’s scary.
The property manager is mildly sympathetic but powerless. We are all powerless.
And I’m sick. Physically and at heart. It is imperilling my health and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. This is the dark side of legal marijuana.
No clean air for me. It’s illegal, apparently.