When we got back to her spot, behind a Whole Foods on Wilshire, she had the pullout couch set up in the living room.

AC humming.

Impeccably clean.

I’d forgotten what rooms like this felt like.

That rooms like this were even a thing.

I plunked down my stuff and wanted to pass tf out. But my mom was like Hell no.

Not in this state.

We’re going to get you some sustenance. Then take you to Urgent Care.

“C’mon, there’s one around the corner,” she said, urging me back onto my feet.

It was honestly so nasty removing my 4’s in the examination room.

Fkng putrid.

It wasn’t even bumps anymore; there were heel-to-toe bubbles that had busted open.

Huge gashes down the middle.

Dead skin dangling.

The nurse, he was such a champ. Made me feel like not a leper. Grabbed a bucket and carefully cleaned my feet with saline solution.

I felt like Jesus.

Then he flipped me over and shot my right butt cheek full of some anti-inflammation antibiotic.

Went to a dermatologist out in Fullerton the next day, that the app Zocdoc—which linked you with doctors according to your insurance, but which showed no results for Medicaid in Philly, closest one was in Delaware, with the first available appointment months away—set me up with.

More a Botox-type rather than medical dermatologist, which made sense, given this was LA.

Had to take what I could get.

Homie took one look at me and said: roids.

Topical (triamcinolone), to lather all over the bod; internal (prednisone), to take at a high dose (60 mg/day) for one week, before tapering down over the next.

Plus an antibio to prevent further infection.

I started to say “Is that OK to do? Given the side effects?”

But it wasn’t a discussion.

Just look at you bro.

Sorta outta options here.

You a fkng dumbass for not dealing with this earlier.

Touché, I said.

“Just don’t make any life-changing decisions rn,” he added. “The roids will make you energized/manic initially, emotional/sad later.”

•

Lil sis actually left for a weeklong yoga teaching conference at Esalen the day before I arrived, but texted me that M, her new boo, whom I had yet to meet, would be hitting me up about bringing by some cannabis meds.

Lil sis had me text M pics of my bod, to give her a sense of what she was dealing with.

“This is what M does,” lil sis added. “And she really wants to help. You’re in good hands.”

The next day, M pulled up with the weed.

She treated cancer patients, leukemia patients, and others with chronic conditions. Using cannabis.

Before handing over the goods, she explained what we were dealing with.

A toke, or standard hit, was ~5–10 mg.

A blunt to the face was ~200 mg.

“This syringe,” she explained, brandishing it, “is 2 g. Or 2,000 mg.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “This is no joke.”