“—how cannabis is a dangerous, unregulated drug—”
“Your own literature admits that THC and CBD levels can vary significantly within the same plant!”
“—or really, your voice at all.” Nomi grips the steering wheel with both hands. “You’re prohibited from speaking once we are inside with clients. Do you understand?”
“So I’m supposed to sit there while you engage in the unauthorized practice of medicine?”
“I’m not practicing medicine—I’m practicing listening, I’m practicinghelping, I’m practicing compassionate care for people who are out of options.” Nomi navigates into a parallel spot. “And you’ll sit there as my shadowsilently, or else the deal is off. Got it?”
“Fine.” I fold my arms and sullenly look out the window, then do a double take at one of Sparrow Nook’s biggest houses. “Your client liveshere?”
“What’s wrong, Julian?” Nomi grabs her bag from the backseat. “Doesn’t gel with yourpotheads are losersnarrative?”
I stare up at the beautiful, sea-blue Victorian mansion and the wide, grassy lawn flanking it on all sides. Nomi makes a curt zipper motion across her lips, then knocks on the front door.
“Nomi!” A woman with silvered black hair answers. She’s in her fifties, fit and dressed sharply in cream-colored slacks and a silky tank. She glances at me. “This is the young doctor you’re helping out?”
“Yes, this is Julian D’Angelo. Thank you so much for letting him sit in on our visit—he’s here to listen and learn. Julian, this is Hillary Frankel, one of my favorite clients.”
“Nice to meet you,” I mumble.
“But you didn’t mention how handsome he is, Nomi.” Hillary winks. “Just how annoying.”
A startled cough exits my throat as she leads us inside. Ms. Frankel settles onto a chartreuse velvet couch in the parlor. With her arms draped along the back and her long legs crossed at the knee, she explains she hasn’t slept a full night without medical assistance since 2023.
“That’s the year I started menopause. The doctor told me to exercise, that it’d wear me out. That’s what doctors always say to women. In pain? Lose ten pounds! Have migraines? Go for a run! Can’t sleep? Must not be moving enough. As if I haven’t seen a personal trainer four days a week for the last twenty years.” Ms. Frankel huffs. “It didn’t matter—nothing could shut my brain off. It makes sense when you’re the founder and CEO of a successful development company, but how can I lead my business effectively when I can’t sleep? I was exhausted all the time. My doctor started prescribing pills, and while some would knock me out, I’d wake up groggy after these horrible, vivid nightmares. After I started sleepwalking and had to stop, my doctor just shrugged and referred me to someone else.” Hillary shakes her head. “That doctor tried the same course of interventions and when those didn’t work, he referred me to someone else, too. On and on. Everywhere, I heard the same thing—everyone experiences insomnia from time to time.Everyone suffers from menopause.Well, if everyone’s suffering, why haven’t we come up with a solution yet?”
“Menopause is a major cause of insomnia—more than half of women experience sleep disturbances that significantly decrease their quality of life.” Nomi’s eyes flash with righteous anger. “Loss of sleep is debilitating, and just because it’s common doesn’t mean it’s something you have to live with.”
I sit with that, turning their words and anger over in my head. The fact is, lack of exerciseisa major problem for many Americans, but the idea that anyone would look at Hillary Frankel and think her problems could be solved with exercise is ridiculous. She looks like she could out-plank a piece of wood. It’s a cop-out of a treatment recommendation, especially for a condition where the culprit is known. It’s not lack ofexercise—it’s lack ofestrogen, and no amount of push-ups and prescription sleep aids are going to change that. I feel annoyed on her behalf, and also, a little embarrassed of my profession.
“I’m not a candidate for hormone replacement therapy, so I tried every natural route next—melatonin, valerian root, ashwagandha, magnesium, warm baths—nothing worked. I felt like I was going insane.” Hillary’s eyes crinkle fondly at Nomi. “Until I found good old marijuana.”
Nomi pulls her tablet out and taps the stylus against it in a rapidrat-a-tat-tat. “Last month, we tried the Frankenbush. How’d that work for you?”
“I liked it,” Ms. Frankel says after a beat. “It certainly helped me sleep.”
“But?” Nomi looks up. “Did you experience any unwanted side effects?”
“Unwanted? No, I wouldn’t say that.” She lets out a soft laugh, her fingers lightly touching her silky, straight hair as she pushes it over her shoulder. “Let’s just say it had me looking for batteries and a juicy Beverly Jenkins novel.”
My eyes widen. Thehorny pot.
Nomi snorts but makes a note in Ms. Frankel’s treatment plan. “That’s the linalool and limonene terpenes at play.”
Linalool. Limonene. I commit the horny terpenes’ names to memory.
Just in case I’m quizzed later.
Nomi pauses, her stylus poised in front of her lips. “Would you like something with a similar ratio of THC to CBD but without the libido-boosting effects?”
“No, dear—I’d like more, to be honest. That’s the kind of exercise I’d enjoy more of.” Ms. Frankel winks at me again, and my entire neck flushes with heat. “Reminds me how good it is to feel things. There’s more to life than working, you know.”
Nomi procures a small, discreet jar of Frankenbush flower, the smokeable, dried buds of the cannabis plant I learn, and hands it to Ms. Frankel in exchange for an envelope presumably filled with payment. After Nomipromises to research other alternatives for Ms. Frankel, we head out, and it’s official: I’m a drug dealer’s accomplice. A legal drug dealer, dealing legal drugs, sort of legally, but still. A weird rush of taboo zings up my spine.
“Well, she liked you,” Nomi says as we scrunch inside her car.
“I have no clue why. I barely said a thing.”
