There is a special place in Hell for the boyfriend who turned her out.
She was pretty. She still is but it won’t last.
She is 24 years old and has been using heroin for the last 8 months.
The monkey has been on her back since she met him 8 months ago.
*****
Her family is just starting their ordeal.
She hasn’t hit rock bottom yet.
She wants to argue with us as we try and talk some sense into her.
She used to,
“shoot it.”
Now she only,
“smokes it … you can’t OD from smoking.”
The argument passes over her lips but even she knows it sounds weak.
We all know … maybe she’s smoking now but as the monkey grows and gets wings … she’ll go back to the needle.
Between her toes … web of her fingers … between her legs, high up in the crease of her groin … anywhere to hide the track marks.
She knows. She has the far out stare of junkie eyes. Even as she argues that she is not an addict … her eyes betray her, and she knows.
She looks into our eyes and sees that we know too.
We have seen her before.
We will see her again.
She thinks she is different … she is not.
She is no different than the one we met last week. She is no different than the one we will meet next week.
She is the same.
*****
Momma stands on the porch.
She sits on our bumper – in handcuffs – because she was hiding in the neighbor’s bushes.
Momma wonders out loud if she …
“deserves to be in handcuffs.”
Momma is trying to save face. Trying to show support without showing support.
We shrug with the indifference of time and experience.
We know Momma is just making noise, so she can say she was trying to be supportive when we leave.
I shrug and speak with resigned authority,
“there is no discussion to be had about the handcuffs … people who get caught hiding the neighbor’s bushes get handcuffed.”
“This is the way our world works … deal with it.”
*****
She is angry now.
She points an accusatory voice towards Momma and screams at Momma’s co-conspiracy … momma gives her money to buy drugs … momma gives her $20 here … $20 there.
She is angry at momma because momma won’t give her money tonight.
Momma won’t give her a ride to buy her drugs.
This is all momma’s fault.
We are not swayed by her anger or her accusations.
*****
Momma squares her shoulders … crosses her arms … anger flares in her eyes.
She starts to defend herself.
Momma claims the money for drugs is at the recommendation of her doctor. Momma believes by giving her money momma can control the amount of stealing in the house.
Momma has a defensive tone of voice … defensive body language.
Momma has misread our stoic … flat … facial expressions as a sign of judgment … our silence as a sign of disapproval.
*****
Preacher … teacher … drug counselor … family counselor … therapist … mental health professional … medical doctor … nurse.
I am not any of these.
I have no special training … no years of college … no internships to fall back on.
No words of wisdom come to mind.
My partner has a better gift of gab … he is better at talking sense into people than me.
I don’t have it in me.
I search for the words and find none.
My partner talks to the girl in handcuffs … trying to get her to see the light being snuffed out at the end of the tunnel.
I speak to Momma … I speak the words in my heart.
They are not words of comfort … I am sure … but they are the truth as I see it.
“This addiction is your family’s cross to bear, not just hers but everyone’s. How you and your family chose to deal with it is entirely up to you. If you decide giving her money for a taste will keep her from stealing shit from you, then that is what you must do. I am not going to judge you. I say good for you, I hope it works for you. What I hope you understand is tonight, we can’t help you. She hasn’t fallen far enough down the rabbit hole to be suicidal. She hasn’t committed any crime in our presence. She must be one or the other, otherwise our hands are tied. Trust me, I know, she is falling into the rabbit hole, and trust me, I would love to help, but until she tries to kill herself or tries to kick my teeth in, there is nothing we can do.”
A visibly relaxing posture and a quiet thank you are my reward.
Momma knows.
Momma knows I understand and I do.
The whole family is addicted even though they don’t use the drug. Each one bears a piece of the cross.
*****
*****
Across town … 10 miles away … she has been in rehab for 8 weeks.
She got out yesterday or the day before.
She immediately went and got her kit … bought a taste … cooked it up … and stuck the needle in her arm.
She has made a mistake.
She used the same amount as she was using when she went into rehab.
She hasn’t used in 8 weeks … she has no tolerance.
Heroin is evil like that.
She is in trouble … her systems are shutting down one by one … it’s happening quick … seconds count.
*****
The call to 911.
There is no pulse … no breath.
The family is in panic … adrenaline is flowing … fight or flight has kicked in … gross motor skill has been lost … it’s next to impossible to recognize small signs of life.
*****
The call is dispatched.
A request for AED … 31-year-old female … OD … not breathing … no pulse … CPR in progress.
*****
I have the closest AED and am the first to arrive.
It’s a quick short walk into the house and I take the stairs … two at a time.
A quick glance into the bedroom … the room is cramped and small.
She is lying on the bed, wearing pink panties and matching bra.
She is so skinny; she can’t weigh more than 90 pounds.
Needles are everywhere in the room … lying on the bed … the floor … dresser.
Some are capped.
Others glint silver in the light of my flashlight … uncapped … exposed … and dangerous.
*****
Dad is on the bed … straddling her.
Tears are running down his face. He is doing CPR one handed.
He is not doing a very good job and he knows it.
His relief at my presence is visibly etched across his face.
I am glad I don’t have to speak to him.
I have too much to do.
I would hate for him to learn the truth.
My truth … his truth … our truth.
I am better at this game than he is, but I don’t win this game very often.
We have five minutes before the EMT’s show up and ten minutes before the Paramedics.
If we are at this point … we are way behind … and my heart sinks.
I seldom win this game.
*****
I need to get her out of this room.
We need to get her to a safe environment for us where we have room to work.
There are a lot of people coming and we will need room.
They bring a lot of equipment and we need room … room to work … room that is not contaminated with needles.
We need room.
*****
There is no political correctness here.
No pretense of being nice.
No pretense of anything but desperate need.
Dad steps back and I grab the right wrist.
This is not cuddle time.
This is put my big ass into it time.
She comes off the bed … across the floor … and out into the open hallway like a rag doll.
It is flat … ugly …and necessary.
*****
And then a surprise!
*****
She opens her eyes … looks at me and says …
“what the fuck?”
*****
She wasn’t as far gone as she looked.
Dad panicked when he found her.
Her systems were crashing to be sure, but heart and lungs were still working … just barely.
Her life signs so shallow … Dad hadn’t felt them through his panic.
She was far enough gone … and his CPR bad enough … the commotion did not wake her up.
My flat … ugly … violent drag from the bed forced its way through her intoxication.
She is groggy but awake when the Paramedics walk in.
I don’t even wait to learn her name.
She is the Paramedics problem now.
*****
*****
He lies in a puddle of urine and puke.
His chin is resting on the toilet seat.
He has been in the McDonald’s bathroom for a long time … no one is quite sure how long.
It’s a Friday night and McDonald’s is packed.
The manager wants him gone.
Customers are sitting in the lobby … craning their necks and jockeying for better positions … everyone is excited to see the live Cops show.
*****
I don’t have time this.
There are two domestics and an unknown problem holding in my City.
The unknown problem is a 10-year old screaming … no one knows why.
I don’t have time for this.
I need to go.
*****
As I walk in … the manager meets me and says,
“all I want is for him to be gone … I don’t want to press charges … I just want him out of the bathroom … out of the store.”
No problem.
I can make that happen.
*****
I’m inside the bathroom but I don’t yet know what the problem is.
Is he still in the stall or did he leave?
Do I just peek over the top?
I am not sure, so I knock.
There’s no response, so I try the door.
It’s locked from the inside.
I can hear movement from behind the door … slow … shuffling … lethargic … dragging noises.
Repetitive knocks … “Sheriff’s Office,” … and “hey are you okay” … brings no response.
“Talk to me or I am going to have to look over the door” … brings no response.
A quick glance over the top tells me everything.
A spoon on the floor … cotton ball and syringe … a lighter lying next to the hat … chin on the edge of the toilet.
It all reads like a book.
*****
It takes a while but eventually he pulls himself up by his boot straps.
“What’s your choice of poison, meth or heroin?”
“I don’t use drugs.”
“Bullshit, you are addicted to something, what is it, heroin or meth.”
“I just use medical marijuana, I don’t use drugs.”
“Bullshit, you don’t smoke weed from a spoon. You are injecting something.”
“Okay … okay … I used to be a heroin addict … I’m trying to get off it.”
He rattles off the names of a couple of drugs.
I have no idea what they are … nor do I care.
*****
He is now on his feet … stoned out of his mind.
He has a weird red rash around his eyes and nose.
His pupils are the size of pinpoints.
He is swaying back and forth but he is on his feet.
“Listen, I am not going to bust your balls because you are an addict … I don’t have time … get your shit cleaned up.”
He picks up his hat and his cigarette lighter.
“Throw away your spoon … don’t leave that shit on the floor.”
He picks up the spoon and the cotton ball … and throws them away.
I’ll take care of the needle as soon as he’s out of the stall.
He is talking, but it’s the stoned … incomprehensible … blabber of intoxication.
I have no idea what he is saying … I don’t care either.
I don’t have time for this.
“Listen to me … listen to me … fight through your high … I need to go deal with other shit … you are leaving McDonald’s and getting out of sight … don’t come back to McDonald’s tonight and get off the streets … if I see you again tonight … I’m going to arrest you … do you understand?”
“Yes Sir! … Yes Sir! … I’m gone …I promise.”
*****
As I walk to my car … will this come back to bite me in the ass?
He is so stoned … what if he tries to cross the street and gets waffled by a car.
Will armchair quarterbacks find fault with my way of dealing with this problem?
I worry but I don’t have time to care.
He is on his feet and talking.
He is a big boy.
Somewhere in my city … two couples are fighting and a 10-year old is screaming for some unknown reason.
I don’t have time to care.
*****
*****
I listen to conservative argue with liberal and liberal argue with conservative.
Each voice is sure that their voice has the answer.
Drugs should be legal.
Drugs shouldn’t be legal.
I am not sure I have an opinion anymore.
My opinions are drowned in a sea of muck.
There is a war on drugs and it doesn’t make a bit of difference.
Drugs are illegal, and it doesn’t make a bit of difference.
Addicts were addicts are addicts will be addicts regardless of the war on drugs or whether it’s legal or not.
They smoke bath salts and eat Tide pods to get high … bath salts for Christ sake.
We can’t stop this.
We can’t win this war.
All we do is sweep the mess under a rug so a room full of opinions can pretend their hands aren’t dirty.
And they’re right … their hands aren’t dirty.
Mine are.
*****
*****
Up the street … she lies half in the ditch.
Her head lolling back off a pile of rocks.
She is out … unconscious.
As my partner and I walk up … it’s clear by her labored breathing and foam around her lips and nose that she is going down.
I lift her eye lids and shine my light into her eyes.
The whites of her eyes are flat … dull … and gray.
The pupils barely react.
My partner checks the carotid artery and says,
“shit, she is going down fast.”
I trust his judgment. He was an EMT in the Coast Guard.
His training excellent … his experience top notch.
If he says she is going down … I can trust she is dying.
She is dying.
*****
I have no idea how long till the Paramedics get here.
It could be a few seconds.
It might be 5 minutes.
Where are the politicians … the liberals … the conservatives?
Where are the opinions now?
They sure as hell aren’t standing here with me … listening … feeling … hearing this girl die.
I don’t have time for opinions.
I spend my time laying out the tools that we will need.
The bag valve mask … set on the ground next to her head.
The mask connected to the bag and turned the proper direction so when I pick it up … it falls into position.
The AED opened and turned on … set on the ground next to her chest.
My IFAK kit open and accessible …scissors in my left hand.
Ready to strip her clothing off the moment we need to start CPR.
*****
Everything is set.
We are ready to take over for her when her heart and lungs stop working … until then we wait.
If she is breathing on her own … we wait.
The waiting is the hard part … when the mind runs rampant and uncontrolled.
The fear and adrenaline flowing through the veins so thick and heavy it’s palpable.
*****
The relief as the ambulance pulls up.
The Paramedics are here.
Our Paramedics are good … on par with the best.
Within moments … they have administered the Narcan.
She is conscious … stabilized.
It’s an unbelievable relief as the stress flows out the bottom of the feet and radiates off the top of the head.
What else is there to do but repack the kit … put everything away … and get ready for the next one?
*****
*****
Down south by the racetrack … he walks out of his room into the living room … looks at his roommate and falls to the floor.
He is not breathing … no pulse … and a call for an AED goes out.
*****
It’s a little far outside my city but only one officer is going.
It’s a long way out. It’s going to be a long time till the medics get there.
It’s hard to do CPR by yourself.
*****
When we arrive …we have our hands full.
It’s just the two of us and he is in full code … no heart beat … no breath.
The other officer sets up the AED and starts chest compressions.
I have airway management and start to breath for him.
The victim is young … his roommate can’t give us any information.
We have no idea why this is happening
*****
I am having trouble with the airway.
His throat is filling up with fluid and foam.
I talk to the other officer through our work …we should buy our own suction unit … like the EMT’s have … they can’t be that expensive.
We hold a conversation about the section unit and still we work.
Breathing … chest compressions … breathing … chest compressions … breathing … chest compressions.
We are a good team and have good rhythm … and still we work.
CPR takes a lot of energy … sweat drips off the nose of the officer doing chest compressions … we may have to switch … and still we work.
*****
The EMT’s and Paramedics arrive and take over.
I start poking around his room.
That’s when I find his little black kit … his works.
Spoon … needles … tin foil … all wrapped up nice and neat in a black leather case.
I lean in and tell the medic,
“Hey, this guy is an addict … I just found his spoon and needles … this is probably an overdose.”
*****
A quick administration of the Narcan and the medics stabilize his heart beat … get his rhythm back.
The monitor shows a good … solid … organized rhythm.
He is alive.
He will not die tonight.
*****
As we walk out the door … I laugh and say to the other officer,
“We should buy ourselves a suction pump … did you see the medic get mad at the EMT’s … I almost thought he was going to kick the EMT’s off and put us back on … we couldn’t have done any worse … good job … see you on the next one.”
*****
And so it goes … again …. and again … and again.