Every day, I carry my father’s memory with me—his life, the moments of joy and struggle we shared, as well as the stark reality of an opioid epidemic that took him far too soon. The cruel irony of spending years working alongside a plant I truly believe could have saved him only deepens the ache of his absence, like trying to rewind a moment that’s already vanished, leaving behind only smoke and regret. Tragically, his story is far from unique. In Utah, opioids have shattered countless families, leaving wounds that never fully heal. Over the years, we’ve shared many of these stories in our pages—each one a painful reminder of the staggering toll this crisis has taken. For too many, the hope of medical cannabis arrived far too late to make a difference.
Now, eight years after my father’s passing and nearly five years since the legalization of medical cannabis in Utah, with almost 100,000 registered patients, the evidence is clear: this plant holds the power to address one of the most devastating public health crises of our time. But this story isn’t just about those whose lives cannabis has saved—it’s also about those we lost before it ever had the chance to make a difference. Their memory drives my passion for normalizing cannabis in Utah, striving to ensure that no other family has to endure the heartbreak of losing a loved one to a crisis that could have been prevented.
Brent Fullmer: A Personal Story
Born in 1955 in American Fork, Brent Fullmer was a man of remarkable strength, resilience, and an enduring connection to the outdoors. Standing tall at 6 feet 3 inches, he loomed large in every sense of the word, not just in stature but in character—a stark contrast to my own 5 feet 9-inch frame, though we shared the same unyielding spirit. My dad had a deep love for football, playing through high school and briefly in college, before answering the call to serve in Germany during the Vietnam War era. After his service, he found his calling in the oil industry, pouring his heart and grit into life as a roughneck, working in some of the harshest and most unforgiving environments—Montana, Wyoming, the Gulf of Mexico, South America, and finally, back home in Utah. He thrived in the outdoors, whether enduring the grind of a tough day’s work or finding solace in a quiet moment within the Wind River Range, his favorite mountains.
But even giants have their breaking points. During 2012, my dad underwent a hip replacement to address chronic pain—a surgery that would change the trajectory of his life. During the procedure, his femur split, leaving him with more damage than relief. What followed was a painful cycle of surgeries, mounting medical bills, and the introduction of prescription opioids. These pills, intended to help him manage his pain temporarily, became a new and silent adversary.
By 2015, opioids had taken an unrelenting hold on my father’s life. What was meant to be a temporary solution had become a permanent and devastating dependency. A family intervention, a desperate attempt to pull him back, failed to break through. In December of that year, consumed by despair, he attempted to take his own life. Miraculously, he survived—a second chance that sparked a glimmer of hope for all of us. His recovery was grueling, a slow process of relearning and rebuilding, but for the first time in years, we began to see flashes of the man he once was.
He spoke of travel plans and a future free from addiction, his voice carrying the familiar optimism we had missed for so long. That same December, I got sober—not because of the fear of losing him, but to break the cycle that had haunted our family for generations. For the first time, we were keeping an eye on each other, building a camaraderie we had never shared before but felt deeply. There was a unique bond in our shared struggles, as though we could see a reflection of each other’s pain and determination in one another’s eyes. It added a weight to the situation, but also a strength I’ll forever cherish. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the corner had finally been turned for both of us.
But hope was fleeting. In April 2016, another hip surgery brought a return to narcotics—a step backward I’ll never fully understand, but one that proved devastating. Just days later, my father’s life ended in a single-car accident. While we may never know exactly what happened that day, I can’t shake the belief that the post-surgery medications played a critical role in his death and the choices leading up to it. His loss was a crushing blow, tearing apart the glue that held our family together and leaving a void that can never be filled. To this day, one question haunts me: Could medical cannabis have saved his life? Deep down, I believe the answer is yes. And that belief makes another question burn even brighter: Why the hell wasn’t it available to him in Utah in 2016?
Utah’s Opioid Crisis: A Grim Picture
Between 2010 and 2016, Utah’s opioid crisis left a devastating mark on communities across the state. By 2016, Utah ranked among the top 10 states for opioid-related deaths, with 466 lives lost to overdoses that year—a number etched into my memory, as my dad was one of them. Prescription rates soared to alarming levels, with over 70 opioid prescriptions per 100 residents, while rehab centers struggled to keep up with the surge in addiction-driven admissions. When medical cannabis was finally legalized in 2018, it offered a glimmer of hope as an alternative for pain management. But for far too many Utahns, including my father, that hope came tragically too late.
The Cannabis Impact: Post-Legalization Data
A 2024 study of Utah’s medical cannabis program highlights the plant’s transformative role in tackling the opioid crisis—a subject explored in depth by our writer Benjamin Adams in this issue’s featured cover story. The study reveals that among 186 chronic pain patients, 84.4% experienced a significant reduction in their reliance on opioids, with an average decrease of 53.1% in their monthly Morphine Milligram Equivalents (MME). The impact was particularly profound for patients with neuropathic pain, who reported a 73.5% drop in opioid prescriptions. Most patients benefiting from medical cannabis were between the ages of 36 and 65, favoring products like vapes, gummies, and tinctures. These findings reinforce the growing evidence that cannabis offers a safer, more effective alternative for managing chronic pain and potentially saving lives.
Relief Too Late
My father is just one of countless Utahns whose lives were stolen by opioids before medical cannabis became available in March 2020. The War on Drugs didn’t just criminalize a plant—it denied countless people a chance for relief, trapping far too many, like my father, in a relentless cycle of pain, prescriptions, and dependence. His story is tragically familiar, echoing through thousands of families across Utah who mourn loved ones lost to a crisis that might have been prevented. If you carry this same grief, please know my heart is with you. For families like ours, cannabis arrived too late—but together, we can fight to ensure no one else has to endure this kind of loss.
A Green Future
Utah has made significant strides, but the battle against the opioid epidemic is far from over. Medical cannabis has become a critical lifeline for many, offering hope where conventional treatments have fallen short. Yet hope alone is not enough. Broader acceptance of cannabis as a legitimate medical option is essential, coupled with better education for both patients and healthcare providers about its transformative potential. Access remains a major hurdle—too many Utahns are still unable to consider cannabis as an alternative due to prohibitive costs, lingering stigma, or limited availability.
For families like mine, who grieve for “the patients who never were,” this fight is deeply personal. It’s about more than laws—it’s about changing lives and challenging perceptions about this plant. It’s about ensuring that no more lives are lost to a crisis that could have been prevented and that every Utah citizen has the opportunity to find relief before it’s too late.
Disclaimer
Statistics sourced from state health departments, CDC data, and a Management Science Associates 2024 white paper.
