*WARNING* Overdose and possible death

I think about our overdose crisis a lot. It’s just after 5:00 in the morning and I am thinking about it, again. Still. And the escalating numbers of deaths. I think about how these numbers are people, loved ones, with names. With the right to be helped and cared for when needed.

In the Eastern Fraser Valley, where I live, people are dying in great numbers. Our region has some of the highest numbers in the province. In 2023 we saw the largest number of overdose deaths yet in this crisis, across BC: 2511. Think about that for a moment. Two thousand five hundred and eleven, almost seven per day. 

CBC, on January 24th, quoted Chief Coroner Lisa Lapointe, that “Each day, coroners across B.C. go into communities and retrieve the bodies of the dead. More than 2,500 families who lost a loved one this year didn’t know they’d be among the statistics. How many more will join these statistics next year?”

In December I was out shopping and getting dinner for my family when, as I was leaving with my nice warm meal, I came around the corner on my way back to my car where I saw a young man sprawled in front of a bench outside the restaurant. Another man was standing over him. I immediately knew it was an overdose and I started asking questions, learning that this young man, let’s call him Jim, had just got out of prison and taken fentanyl. The older man, homeless, let’s call him John for now, had given it to him but swore it was clean as he had had it tested. John had no phone and no Narcan and mine was still at least half a block away. Neither John nor I could roll Jim over to give him air and honestly, I felt helpless. I couldn’t do anything and John, the man who gave him the fentanyl was coming down off his own high. 

The ambulance and fire arrived very quickly, gave him Narcan a few times, and then put him on the stretcher to take him to the hospital. The same hospital that had discharged my son, who then died within hours of that discharge. Discharged him after he had overdosed and arrived by ambulance, been held involuntarily, and then sent away without being offered a bed. I was worried.

My son, Jacob, wasn’t homeless or just released from prison. He had a place to go to and had money to comfortably get by. But he was rejected. To my knowledge, and I have all his health records, this was the first time my son had been brought in by ambulance for an overdose. And the last.

Back to Jim. People gathered in doorways and stared. The first responders had become very quiet and very focused while they worked on him. I couldn’t stop hoping that this young man couldn’t become number seven, please, no, not number seven. I had tears, strong emotions, and fear. And I felt helpless, still. As the ambulance drove away with lights and sirens I saw it stop, and the sirens silenced. My own heart stopped. I put my head down and walked to my car. 

I am not sure what happened to Jim. Or to John. My own grief caught up with me again creating that stranglehold of fugue, of just going through the motions without thinking. I needed to get home. Just getting to the next step. 

I honestly don’t think he made it. I think it was too late.

The Abbotsford first responders were outstanding, doing a job few of us can face. Lisa Lapointe references the coroners, her people, going in to retrieve the bodies of the dead. Our people – family, neighbors – go in to try to keep them alive. And when that – not they – fails, the coroners pick up the bodies. And we grieve.

In an emergency or crisis?

If you are in a crisis or emergency, or are worried that you or a loved one is at risk of harm, please speak with someone immediately:

• Call 9-1-1 or go to the nearest emergency room if you are afraid of hurting yourself or someone else, or if no other options are available.
• Call 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433) if you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide.
• Call 310Mental Health Support: 310-6789 (no area code needed) to speak to a crisis line worker 24/7.