The coroner in St. Louis has run out of facilities to store dead bodies.
A fire chief in West Virginia is haunted by a child, âstaring at us with a blank face,â as she attempted to revive his father.
In the small New Mexican town of Rio Arriba, one man has lost his brother and much of his social circle to overdose deaths and prison. He blames poverty, hunger and insecure housing â a constellation of injustices that he sums up as âhistorical traumaâ â on the high rates of addiction in his majority Native and Latino community.
During HuffPostâs Listen to America tour at the end of 2017, reporters encountered stories â some heartbreaking, some triumphant â of opioids and their effects. The fearsome impact of this public health crisis weighed heavily on peopleâs minds in every town HuffPostâs bus visited. It is a truth so universally acknowledged as to seem cliche: Overdoses are sweeping the country.
Opioid overdose deaths more than quadrupled between 1999 and 2014, and have only continued to rise in recent years. In total, more than 63,000 Americans died of drug overdoses in 2016, according to the latest data from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. And that is likely an undercount, due to investigations that delay results.
âThis crisis has been brewing for a long time,â said Nancy Campbell, a professor at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York, who has published several books on drug policy and treatment.
âWe have to ask ourselves why it came in the form that it did, when it did,â Campbell said. âThose answers do not lie entirely with the medical profession and with changes in how we treat and think about chronic pain. We have to look at deindustrialization and the changes in our lives in different regions in the country.â
To that end, HuffPost sent reporters to the front lines of the opioid crisis across the country, to talk with people in the throes of addiction, as well as the men and women trying to pick up the pieces in a landscape devoid of widespread and accessible treatment options.
There were some reasons to hope things would get better: A nurse who became addicted to Percocet after knee surgery found an outpatient program that has her clean for the first time in 20 years; an east Tennessee native who used to drive several hours a day to North Carolina to get a dose of methadone now has a clinic closer to home, thanks to a relenting local zoning board.
Previously resistant communities are enacting policies that save lives: equipping local emergency personnel with Narcan, the opioid overdose reversal drug, and enacting âGood Samaritanâ laws in which those who report overdoses to the police will not be charged with drug-related offenses.
The Affordable Care Actâs Medicaid expansion provision has made addiction treatment affordable for many people who couldnât pay for it in the past. And medication-assisted treatment, like methadone and buprenorphine, once rejected by abstinence-only treatment programs, are gaining support among lawmakers in states that have been hit hard by opioids.
Still, Campbell doesnât think policy has progressed much.
âWeâve evolved all kinds of new strategies, which are actually based on old strategies, like drug courts and diversion,â she said. âWeâre trying to meet that problem with slightly more benevolent, but still quite punitive, responses.â
In the meantime, people keep dying.
How We Got Here
While the opioid crisis has been getting steadily worse for the last several years, many experts identify the 1990s as the inflection point.
The movement then to treat pain patients more compassionately dovetailed with aggressive opioid marketing from drug companies, which touted the drugs as safe and non-addictive.
âThere is a growing literature showing that these drugs can be used for a long time, with few side effects and that addiction and abuse are not a problem,â Dr. Russell Portenoy, then a pain specialist at the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, told The New York Times in 1993.
That turned out to be untrue â and not based on much evidence to begin with.
âEverybody kind of got on that bandwagon before adequate research was done to really understand the long-term consequences of opioid use,â said Dr. Michael Hooten, an anesthesiologist and pain clinic physician at the Mayo Clinic.
Doctors across the country increasingly prescribed painkillers to patients, with annual non-cancer prescriptions for OxyContin, a popular opioid, increasing almost tenfold between 1997 and 2002, from 670,000 to 6.2 million prescriptions.
But in many cases, opioid prescriptions werenât well suited to the conditions for which they were being prescribed. In long-term studies of opioid use for lower back pain, for example, opioids donât work very well at relieving pain.
As opioids became much more prevalent in society, many who took them also noticed and enjoyed the obvious side effects. Opioids have intense effects on the brain, including facilitating sleep and reducing anxiety, leaving many people to feel a sense of well-being after taking them.
âThose may be the people who need the most help,â Hooten said, about those who use opioids for emotional relief or mental health reasons. âSuffering is a part of chronic pain. Opioids are great at treating that suffering component.â
Itâs that relief from suffering that appealed to many Americans, who perhaps didnât realize they were plagued by more than a physical injury. One man in recovery who spoke to HuffPost described the first time he took a painkiller â a half dose of Lortab, he said â as a revelation. âNot only did it make me feel better, it made me feel good,â he said. âI had a lot of energy â I was walking on clouds, euphoric.â
Medical professionals argue that unaddressed mental health challenges â from mild depression to schizophrenia â coupled with a lifetime of poor access to proper health care underlies much of the current crisis.
âMost of the drug users I meet here and everywhere Iâve been, have underlying mental health stuff thatâs not being treated,â said Hillary Brown, the founder of Steady Collective, a harm reduction program based in Asheville, North Carolina. âAnd if they had more money, they would be getting legal versions of the illegal stuff theyâre using.â
âWe donât live in a country that sides with the poor,â Brown added. âSo we donât have health care and we donât have mental health care.â
Finding Treatment That Works
The punitive social response to the crack-cocaine era of the 1980s favored by politicians and law enforcement casts a shadow on the present-day approach to the opioid epidemic. Back then, fear about crime and drug-addicted babies fueled a series of drug policy changes that targeted city-dwelling black Americans, and filled jails and prisons with drug offenders.
In addition to the racial injustice of disproportionately incarcerating black Americans, the carceral response to drugs in the 1980s meant that the United States never developed addiction treatment systems to adequately address the current opioid epidemic.
What that infrastructure would look like is a tougher question. Integrating addiction treatment into general health care settings, where addiction could be treated like other chronic conditions, would be ideal, but itâs a big lift, explained Tom Hill, vice president of addiction and recovery at the National Council for Behavioral Health.
Treatment is also completely counter to the way the medical system traditionally framed recovery from addiction.
âInitially the treatment systems were designed with addiction as an acute illness,â said Hill, who has been in recovery for 25 years. âYou get people in, you fix them up and you get them out.â
Today, the consensus of health care professionals is thatâs not a realistic depiction of addiction, which is a chronic, often lifelong, condition.
âThereâs no one-size-fits-all approach,â Campbell said. âOftentimes people donât know what treatment approach will work for them and they have to try more than one, and more than one time. Very few people find an approach that puts them into long-term recovery the first time.â
Given that the majority of people with addiction will need to attempt recovery multiple times, accessibility and affordability are key.
The biggest takeaway from HuffPost reporters during the Listen to America tour was that the story of opioid addiction in America isnât a monolithic narrative. In some places, like in New Mexico, opioid addiction has been raging for decades, long before doctors started overprescribing pain pills. In other areas, like Montana, opioid addiction is a concern, but not as big of a crisis as meth addiction, which started in the 1990s and never left.
Addressing the unique addiction profiles of different states, cities and among different demographics is something that keeps Campbell up at night.
âHistorically most drug crisis situations have been local,â she said. âTheyâve been confined to particular areas, particular places, particular populations. Whenever we represent them as national, we probably lose our best chance to understand them.â
â Erin Schumaker and Meredith Melnick
âChildren are the forgotten victimsâ
HUNTINGTON, W.Va. â âI had maybe five years on the job, the first time I noticed a child watching us,â Huntington Fire Chief Jan Rader told HuffPost in September, as she drove through her town. âHis father had overdosed on the couch.â
âWe started doing CPR, and about 10 minutes in, I look over and his son is in the next room. He was probably four years old, sitting on the floor, staring at us with a blank face.â
Rader, featured in the Netflix documentary Heroin(e), is on the front lines of the opioid crisis that has been decimating communities across America.
Her team of firefighters are first responders when 911 is called to the scene of an overdose in Huntington. West Virginia is one of the epicenters for the opioid crisis, with the highest overdose death rate in the country in 2015. Huntington has been hit particularly hard, with one overdose outbreak last year that saw more than a dozen overdoses happen in the area in one five-hour period alone.
âThat really bothered me for a long time,â Rader said of the young boy watching his father overdose. âBut thatâs the norm now.â
As a firefighter for more than two decades â and the first woman fire chief in the state, as well as the only woman on her staff of around 90 firefighters â Rader has seen the opioid epidemic worsen first hand: West Virginiaâs overdose death rate has nearly doubled over the past 10 years.
One of her biggest concerns is for kids. She estimates that 70 percent of the time her team responds to the scene of an overdose, a child is involved.
âChildren are the forgotten victims here,â Rader said. âChildren who grow up watching mom and dad overdose, theyâve experienced a whole lot of trauma.â
When it comes to opioid abuse, children can be affected in any number of ways. Rader said sheâs seen kids as young as 12 overdose themselves. And some children have been affected before they were even born: An estimated 21,732 American infants in 2012 were born with neonatal abstinence syndrome, a drug withdrawal syndrome resulting from mothers using opioids during pregnancy.
But most often, kids are simply silent witnesses to their parentsâ drug abuse â an experience that can have a long-term negative impact on their development.
âTheyâre growing up in this environment,â Rader said. âSometimes theyâre playing video games in the next room like [parents using is] no big deal. You go into a house [where] there are children, thereâs not even a bed, theyâre sleeping on the floor, thereâs no food in the refrigerator.â
As firefighters, there is relatively little Raderâs team can do for kids. One local program, Handle With Care, allows law enforcement to send a note to a childâs school if they were present at a police or emergency incident, to let educators know that the child may need some extra support the next day.
But overall, local groups in Huntington â from Boys and Girls Clubs and churches, to schools and Child Protective Services â have been âso overwhelmed,â Rader said, as the drug epidemic has grown so rapidly.
Another incident from last year continues to haunt Rader. After her team was called in to a gas station for a suspected overdose, they arrived to find a man passed out in the front seat of his car. He had apparently been driving when he overdosed with his three children in the back seat. His eight-year-old son had had to lean into the front to place the car into park, so that it wouldnât roll away.
As medics assisted the father, who had awoken belligerent and confused, Raderâs firefighters distracted the kids by taking them into their truck to play.
Long after, Rader couldnât stop thinking how this would affect the kids down the line.
âWhat child should have to live like that?â Rader asked. âNo kid should have to see that trauma.â
â Sarah Ruiz-Grossman
***
âYou canât go to no drug house if youâve got Meta House on your armâ
MILWAUKEE â Edna Boykins sits in a room she used to hate and unleashes her characteristic cackle, a loud series of staccato âHa ha has.â These days the 54-year-old Milwaukee native canât stop smiling, but less than a year ago the space with stained grey carpets and plastic chairs stacked in a corner would have filled her with anger.
Last November, when Boykins started coming to daily group sessions to fight her opioid addiction, she scowled at the walls decorated with the word âmindfulnessâ and a poster that says âStages of Change.â
âI was a very evil, nasty person when I came here,â she said, wearing a baggy navy blue T-shirt and draping one arm casually alongside the top of a couch. â[If a counselor] would tell me they loved me Iâd tell âem âF [you.]â I was an âF âemâ person.â
Counselors meet in this room every day with the 35 women enrolled in Meta Houseâs all-female residential drug and alcohol treatment program. The patients live in two brick houses across the street â many with their children, who also have access to services â for an average of 90 days. Meta House, which also offers outpatient treatment, is a lifeline for many in a city thatâs been so badly hit by the opioid crisis that heroin deaths have increased by 495 percent since 2005.
Boykins should have been dead by the time she enrolled in the program, she said. After having knee surgery in 2000, the nurse and mother of three became addicted to Percocet. After her month-long prescription ran out, Boykins, who had already battled alcohol addiction for just over two decades, started buying pills on the street. By 2014, she was mixing Percocet with OxyContin, methadone, clonazepam and Xanax. She would often snort 120 pills in three days.
In 2016, Boykins turned to heroin because it was âcheaper and plentiful.â âItâs everywhere, itâs in this neighborhood,â she said, pointing out the window. She shakes her right leg vigorously and tucks a hand between the thigh slits in her jeans. âI would hear my heart beat real fast like it was going to explode ... I would hit my chest like that was going to stop [it.]â
âThe sick was out of this world,â she said, resting her left hand on her head. âI would have the runs and my body would ache. Iâd be nauseated and totally depressed, begging God to kill me. I was getting thoughts of trying to sell my body, but I never did that in my life.â
Boykins felt miserable, and though she had heard bad things about Meta House â women in detox told her âtheyâll work you like a slaveâ â she liked that the program forced her to wake up at 6:30 a.m. and attend daily group meetings. Once Boykins dropped her bad attitude she began to learn coping mechanisms for her anger and addiction. âIf youâre having thoughts of using, count the little circles in the wall and it will distract you,â she said, pointing at the dotted ceiling. âThe mind is not going to hold on that long.â
She recently moved out of the Meta House residence and now lives in an apartment about a mile away, as part of organizationâs transitional living program. Before Boykinsâ commencement, she got the organizationâs logo â a heart framing the outline of a mother holding a baby â tattooed on her right forearm.
â[I told myself] If I ever thought about using again I would look at [it] and say, âHow dare you try to use with that on you? You canât do that,ââ she said, letting out a chuckle. âYou canât go to no drug house if youâve got Meta House on your arm.â
â Angelina Chapin
***
âIndividuals graduate our program, return back to their community and donât have their hierarchy of needs metâ
RIO ARRIBA, N.M. â Ambrose Baros is well acquainted with the death that courses through small-town America. In 2011, he lost his brother Bobby to a heroin overdose. Addiction was a fact of life in his community, and at the time it had already taken a heavy toll on his inner circle.
âMy brotherâs passing was the real tragedy, but I had seen my friends quickly become addicted,â said Baros. âA lot of them passed away from drug overdoses, a lot of them were in and out of jail, struggled with drug use and still struggle with it today.â
Baros was raised in northern New Mexicoâs Rio Arriba County, a rugged expanse of craggy mountain peaks, sleepy towns and scenic tribal lands about the size of Connecticut, where the overdose death rate has regularly ranked among the highest in the nation.
Rio Arriba has been grappling with an opioid problem for longer than most other rural communities, beginning in the 1970s when Vietnam War veterans returned home addicted to heroin. In the 1990s, the influx of prescription opioids that ripped through the rest of the country only compounded the longstanding problem.
This devastation has created an intergenerational âripple effect,â said Barros, as children grow up in a climate where opioid addiction is rampant. There are few people in Rio Arriba today who havenât been affected by the epidemic in some way.
âDrug use was almost a norm,â said Baros. âIt really sent a message that it was accepted.â
In 2014, Baros took over at Hoy Recovery, where he now serves as executive director. The 40-acre, 48-bed residential addiction treatment facility sits at the end of a dirt road in Velarde, a rustic hamlet with a population of around 500.
Although Hoy was initially founded in the 1970s as a 12-step facility for alcoholism, it has changed with the times and now includes a comprehensive inpatient program for people suffering from a variety of substance use disorders.
Largely Hispanic and Native American communities in Rio Arriba once subsisted on agriculture, but Baros believes a systemic lack of opportunitysai has fueled a âhistorical trauma,â which has led to pervasive drug use and addiction.
The countyâs poverty rate has hovered around 25 percent for the past few years, nearly 10 percent higher than the national average. And although unemployment in the county is only slightly above the national rate, quality, high-paying jobs are few and far between.
âThereâs a family despair that comes from that environment image, where even if their loved one does get well, whereâs he gonna live? He canât afford to buy his own home,â said Baros. âWhereâs he gonna work in this town? There are no opportunities. The school system is horrific. The dropout rate is so high.â
All of this has helped create a culture of hopelessness, which makes long-term recovery incredibly difficult, Baros said.
âA lot of times individuals graduate our program, return back to their community and donât have their hierarchy of needs met. They donât have secure housing, they donât have secure employment, and then itâs a stressful environment to begin with, so they donât have the skills needed to really overcome all of that,â said Baros. âWe need to do a more sophisticated system on the outcomes, one that can rate the quality of life, not just remaining abstinent from alcohol or drugs, but what does your recovery look like?â
Baros has developed a holistic treatment program at Hoy, which incorporates a mix of mainstream medical practices, job and skills training and indigenous practices. There are familiar aspects of recovery â daily group sessions and clinical appointments with counselors or therapists. But thereâs also a sheep shearing operation and an egg farm.
Baros believes hands-on work can be therapeutic, and gives some patients a chance to claim a sense of purpose that addiction may have taken. Hoy also has a spiritual care counselor and two on-site temazcal lodges where patients can partake in traditional sweat lodge ceremonies.
While these approaches can help patients address some of the root causes of their addiction, Baros says the challenge is making it stick when Hoyâs clients return home.
To do that, he believes Rio Arriba must invest in a more robust jobs and housing infrastructure, which can give recovering addicts access to a variety of tools to help them resist triggers for drug use.
âIf we donât offer them supportive housing and employment, then that despair sets in and they donât see any other life,â said Barros. âAnd if they donât see any other life, their body canât really process that and they go to what makes them happy and comfortable, and thatâs drugs.â
â Nick Wing
***
Getting methadone âis basically another jobâ
ASHEVILLE, N.C. â At 5:30 a.m., street lights illuminate the parking lot of Western Carolina Treatment Center in the morning dark. The place is bustling and packed to capacity. But for the lack of sunlight, it would seem like the middle of the day.
Rusted out beaters pull in alongside luxury SUVs. Teenagers with ear spacers amble up the steps into the clinic alongside well-dressed women in their 60s. Everyone is quiet, everything is orderly. The methadone clinic building has a narrow waiting room and a line of windows like a bank or DMV. One by one, patients are called to a counter, where they take their medicine in front of an employee. Once a month, they are drug tested and meet with a counselor for 10 or 15 minutes. If they pass, they can continue.
Those who pass drug tests can apply for âlevelsâ â a weekâs worth of pills to make the visit weekly rather than daily. But for those on methadone who use marijuana, for example, a daily visit is required.
An older man, who declined to stop for an interview, said there were definitely stories to tell about opioids in the region. âWhether theyâre stories youâd want to hear, I canât say.â
Sam, who asked that we withhold his last name, a 36-year-old from a small town in east Tennessee more than an hour from the clinic, has spent a year waking up at 3:30 a.m. every morning. Along with two friends, he makes the trip across state lines. Six days a week, he has picked up his dose of methadone, only to turn around and get back home by 8 a.m. and make it to work on time.
âItâs basically another job,â he said.
He knows the clinicâs hours and all of their rules. He knows how other area clinics operate â which ones staff âdick gazersâ who go into the bathroom to watch you provide a urinalysis sample, and which ones staff sympathetic people who treat him like a human being.
He knows, to a penny, how much this ride to North Carolina costs him and his friends â $20 a day for gas and tolls, six days a week, plus $91 a week each to use the clinic. Add in the four speeding tickets theyâd receive every year, and the drive started to get pricey.
âBy yourself, it would cost close to $220 to $250 a week,â he said. âBut thatâs still a lot cheaper than doing drugs.â
Heâs been following the local struggle to get a methadone clinic opened in Gray, Tennessee, not too far from his house. It looks like, despite significant controversy, that might finally happen.
âTheyâve been trying to get a clinic here for 7 to 10 years and people have picketed â even gas station attendants say âwe donât want people like that here,ââ Sam said. âNot knowing that they already have people like that and if they had a little help, it would keep them from stealing.â
âThey hear the word âmethadoneâ and just hear the âmethâ part,â he added.
Pills have been around for a decade at least, but the past two years have led to a big problem in east Tennessee, and the last six months have been particularly stark.
âHeroin is absolutely killing this area right now,â he said. âPeople who used to take pills are snorting heroin and now itâs only a matter of time before theyâre doing it intravenously.â
According to the Tennessee Department of Health, the state ranks second for opioid consumption in the country. And east Tennessee has been hardest hit of any region. Despite the need, there is a dearth of methadone clinics in the area.
It is little wonder that when HuffPost visited the Asheville clinic in late September, more than half the license plates in the parking lot were from Tennessee, even though the stateâs border is an hour away at its closest point. Sam pointed out notecards that are posted inside the waiting room, asking for rides from various towns in Tennessee in exchange for some gas money.
Sam had always been a big drinker. He started getting ulcers â the worst pain heâd ever felt in his life. One of his best friends, a buddy he grew up with, kept offering him pills, but he always said he didnât want to âbe that guyâ â a pillhead, like so many of the kids from his town. His friend offered him half a Lortab â a mixture of acetaminophen and codeine that is particularly common in the state â and Sam finally relented, he said. The high was a revelation: It not only relieved his pain, it made him feel better about life. A depression lifted.
âNot only did it make me feel better, it made me feel good,â he said. âI had a lot of energy â I was walking on clouds, euphoric.â
Next thing he knew, heâd moved up his dose and then moved on to the more powerful Oxycodone. About a year ago, Sam couldnât take it anymore and turned to methadone and itâs been pretty successful for him, he said. He just wishes he could get it closer to home.
In early October, Sam got his wish: The Overmountain Recovery Center opened, after much controversy, close to his house in Gray, Tenn. At the time, after a week in the new clinic, Sam reported that it was âa blessing.â
But in the world of drug recovery, nothing is ever simple.
After HuffPost followed with him again recently, Sam said had sworn off Overmountain. He had a falling out with a staff member, who Sam said accused him of dealing drugs because of an incident in which he shared the bathroom with another patient. Samâs work schedule â construction jobs that take him out of town â didnât work with the clinicâs counseling session requirement.
In another incident, he claimed the clinic cut his dose in half â from 150 mg to 70 mg â without any warning.
Deanna Irick, Overmountainâs clinical director, declined to comment on the details of Samâs account, citing patient privacy concerns. âI think thatâs a disgruntled patient that youâre dealing with,â she said.
Irick noted that Overmountainâs drug testing policies follow state requirements and pointed to the centerâs high standards as one of its strengths. âI think weâre one of the best treatment centers out there,â she said. âWeâre saving a lot of lives.â
Sam had hoped Overmountain would be a lifesaver â a nearby clinic that could help him stay in recovery â until it developed what felt like other types of hoops to jump through. Sam didnât have to face a daily two-hour commute, but monthly drug tests came with a $20 fee if you fail (heâs a regular pot smoker), strict therapy requirements were difficult, and the staff wasnât willing to work with his unique circumstances, he said.
Heâs been off of methadone for a week now, which he describes as ârough,â but so far successful. He said heâs got to have a strong mind, as he doesnât know what else heâs supposed to do.
âIâve got to work,â he said.
â Meredith Melnick
***
âIâve done this since 1975. Never seen anything like thisâ
ST. LOUIS COUNTY, Mo. â Dr. Mary E. Case is used to handling dead bodies. Just not this many.
As the chief medical examiner in St. Louis County, her office has a typical indoor refrigeration unit, where theyâve stored bodies for years. It holds 20 bodies, which used to be adequate. But the recent uptick in opioid-related deaths has forced her to look outside that icebox.
âItâs a phenomenon. Weâve always had drugs, but thereâs never been anything like what we see today,â Case said in an interview at her office this fall. âIâve done this since 1975. Never seen anything like this.â
About five years ago, St. Louis County obtained a portable refrigerated trailer. Itâs a portable morgue, intended to be used for circumstances like natural disasters.
But itâs come in very handy for the opioid crisis.
âWe have people that die in hospitals,â Case said. âWe have people that are dumped at hospitals; we have people that are found dead in parking lots; we have people that are found in restaurant restrooms and gas station restrooms; people that are found at home. Thereâs just lots of different scenarios.â
During one month earlier this year, there were just five days in which they stored fewer than 20 bodies, their typical maximum. As a result, they stored multiple bodies on the same cart, which made it much more difficult to perform autopsies.
âItâs just the numbers. We have more bodies, particularly on certain occasions, than we have room to store them in our storage facility, which is a cooler,â Case said. âSo if we have too many bodies, we put them into the trailer.â
The refrigerator, branded with the name of St. Louis County and featuring a license plate indicating its association with the health department, sits out back of the medical examinerâs office, where it takes up a couple of parking spots.
But even with the additional space offered by the trailer, more bodies are coming in and theyâre staying longer, Case said.
Sometimes the bodies arenât picked up by funeral homes, because itâs a death the family wasnât expecting.
âThey might not have any money to get a funeral home. So that body may stay here for a week, and thatâs a huge problem. The bodies come in, and they stay,â Case said.
If they stay too long, she said, thereâs a solution. âWe contract with a crematorium.â
Many of the people dying of opioid overdoses, Case said, âdonât have jobs, they donât have any insurance, and they may have families that are stressed by the problems that are created by the drug usage of that member.â
As a result of the surge in deaths and the budget issues that has caused, Case has had to think hard about the way her office spends money.
âMost medical examiner offices autopsy all these people, and they have literally decimated their budgets with that. They canât keep up,â she said. âThereâs so few forensic pathologists that itâs not like you can hire one whenever you need it â thereâs not enough to go around.â
Case made the decision to not autopsy every body that comes in, especially if itâs pretty clear how they died. She said they just canât afford it.
âWhen we have somebody in the bathroom with a needle sticking in their arm, we donât autopsy that person. Many medical examiners will. Theyâll say, âOh, they might have died of something else,ââ Case said. âThe reality is, no, they probably died of that.â
â Ryan Reilly
***
âThe best part is giving people hope when they feel like thereâs not anyâ
BIRMINGHAM, Ala. â Terri Williams-Glass offers a warm smile as she enters the common room at the University of Alabama at Birminghamâs Addiction Recovery Program. She spots Michael Grammas, a former patient of the recovery program who is now sober and working as an advocate for others living with addiction issues.
They move off to the side near a set of motivational wall art and exchange pleasantries about work and kids. Grammas had stopped by to say hello to the physicians and employees of the program, Williams-Glass included. After a few moments, they part ways: Grammas back to his life â one where he no longer depends on opioids to get him through each day â and Williams-Glass back to helping others who are still struggling to get to that point.
She takes a seat and stares across the oblong wooden table out toward a small group of couches located in the middle of the room. The loungers are empty now, but soon theyâll be filled with current patients as they take a break from their recovery work, which includes detoxing, group therapy sessions and outside meetings and counseling.
Tears pool in Williams-Glassâ eyes but donât leak over the brim as she thinks about the individuals sheâs currently working with and those sheâs helped in the past.
âThe best part is giving people hope when they feel like thereâs not any,â she said with a thick voice.
Williams-Glass has been with UAB for more than two decades, starting with the universityâs Treatment Alternatives for Safer Communities (TASC) force, which works through drug courts to help people living with addiction receive job counseling and other resources. She continued her work on TASC as she got her masters. Sheâs now the clinical director at UABâs Addiction Recovery Program, where she trains staff and develops programs to help those seeking treatment from the facility.
On any given day she could interact with patients as they do their recovery work or help train clinicians on best practices. She also heads up UABâs Addiction Scholars program, which trains hospital staff members on substance use disorders and how to recognize them when patients enter the emergency room.
The center, Williams-Glass says, is just one small piece of the puzzle when it comes to solving the addiction crisis in Birmingham, where more than 240 people died from overdoses in 2016. She glances back at the bedrooms located behind her, each door pulled tightly closed. There are 20 beds total that serve in-house patients. The center also assists approximately 30 people who once stayed at the facility and are now in an outpatient program.
And while those slots are a long way from eradicating the opioid epidemic, Williams-Glass says sheâs happy to do her part. Her hopes for the future include greater access to care, so more people can get the help that they need. This includes equality of care, âregardless of whether people have insurance or their financial standing,â she said.
âPeople keep dying and this crisis is only starting,â she said. âIâm just trying to save as many as I can.â
â Lindsay Holmes
***
âSometimes it feels like knives being pushed through my feet up through my hipsâ
GREAT FALLS, Mont. âTami Duncan feels like sheâs standing in a pot of boiling water.
The 51-year-old mother of two can barely get out of bed, and she knows the four-hour round trip journey from Havre to Great Falls on the stiff seats of her sonâs old pickup truck will only exacerbate her chronic back, leg and hip pain.
Hours later, Duncan slid a folder of her medical records across the table at an Applebeeâs in Great Falls. She was eager to explain one of the less talked about side effects of the crackdown on opioids: chronic pain patients like herself left stranded by doctors who refuse to prescribe large enough doses of opioids to relieve their pain.
Duncanâs son Taran, a burly 20-year-old in cowboy boots, looked on from the chair next to her.
âJust because we look normal on the outside, it doesnât match whatâs going on inside,â Duncan said. âSometimes it feels like knives being pushed through my feet up through my hips.â
For more than two decades, Duncan took opiates to treat pain from degenerative back, leg and hip injuries first brought on by a car accident. After undergoing back surgery in 1997 and dozens of epidural shots in the years since then, the pain not only continued but worsened.
Until 2007, Duncan had a full-time job delivering mail, but the physical work became too painful to continue. These days, sheâs limited to logging a few hours each week as a lunchroom cashier at the local high school.
âThereâs a lot of things I donât do anymore,â said Duncan, wincing as she readjusts in her chair. âTaran cooks, cleans, does laundry, drives me.â Her eyes well up. âHe takes really good care of his mom.â
Taran takes a more matter-of-fact approach to caring for his ailing mother.
âIf what the doctors are saying is true, sheâs going to be in a wheelchair in a couple years,â he said. âI ainât the type of kid thatâs going to put her in a rest home or anything.â
While Duncan would prefer to be off medications altogether, opiates offered her rare, much-needed relief, even if that respite only lasted for a few hours each day.
Life changed for Duncan in 2016, when the CDC revised its opioid prescribing guidelines in response to a nationwide spike in drug overdoses. Suddenly, Duncanâs opioid prescription was slashed dramatically, she said.
Duncan â terrified by the pain she knew would return with less medication â pleaded with her doctor to return her to her normal opioid dose. Her doctor refused. In response to Duncanâs repeated requests for a higher dosage, she said staff at her doctorâs office accused her of lying about her pain to get more drugs.
Following the CDCâs new guidelines, which recommend prescribing the lowest dose of opioids for the shortest timespan, many doctors began weaning their patients off opioids in favor of non-drug treatments such as intensive physical therapy. But Duncan said alternative treatments didnât work for her. Sheâs still prescribed her old medication, but at a much lower dose.
âIt was awful,â Duncan said about withdrawing from opiates. âI was vomiting. I had diarrhea. At night, I would be ringing wet with sweat. I had fever, chills. I didnât think it was ever going to stop.â
In central Montana alone, there are dozens of chronic pain patients struggling to live their lives without opioids. Duncan is grateful to have her husband, children and friends for support, but not everyone is so lucky. For those without support, isolation, coupled with the stigma patients face for relying on opiates, is almost worse than the pain itself.
âA lot of people think weâre just using them to get high,â Duncan said, adding that several of her friends and fellow chronic pain patients have died by suicide in the last few years. âWeâre not. We use them to try to have a semblance of a life.â
âYou have to get pissed off at your pain,â she added. âEither youâre going to win and take your life back, or youâre going to let your pain win and youâre going to die. Iâve got a 23-year-old daughter whoâs getting married in August. By God, Iâm going to be there.â
When lunch is finished, Duncan and Taran get ready to head back north. As Taran helped her into his truck, Duncan took a deep breath and prepared for the long journey ahead.
â Hayley Miller
***
âWhen someone knows who they are, itâs hard to addict them to somethingâ
NEW ORLEANS, La. â Around New Orleans, where she was born and raised, Jamilah Muhammed is known as âMama.â
âHey, Mama Jamilah,â a five-year-old girl said as she walked past Muhammed, 68, on a park bench on a cool Sunday evening in October in the cityâs historic Congo Square.
The girl was heading toward a drum circle a few yards away â a centuries-old weekly tradition that includes both music and a market, honors African music and dance, and helps build ties that still matter in a city Muhammed calls âvery clannish.â
Muhammed believes that sense of belonging is what more people around her need in the face of a national public health crisis about addiction.
Last year, there were more deaths from accidental drug overdoses than from murders for the first time in New Orleans history, Orleans Parish coroner Jeffrey Rouse told The New Orleans Advocate in March. He said the uptick includes a striking increase in drug-related deaths among black New Orleanians.
âI work to maintain the culture of my community because when someone knows who they are, itâs hard to addict them to something,â Muhammed said.
Sheâs familiar with how people get caught up in the opioid crisis.
âIâve had physicians offer me opioids for chronic conditions,â she said. âIâm a dancer! My joints hurt! Thatâs part of being a dancer. When youâve been dancing for 40 years, stuff hurts! Giving me Vicodin is not going to solve my problem. But I had to know that.â
Addiction in her communities first began to worry her in the 1980s as crack cocaine use surged. Fifteen years ago was the first time she saw prescription painkillers cause comparable devastation to a fellow New Orleanian. âI personally saw how it robbed him of his life, how it robbed him of his livelihood, how it robbed him of his ability to be socially interactive, to make rational decisions, to care for himself, to care for his family,â Muhammed said.
He quit on his own. But she believes thatâs rare and wants more people to receive support to avoid addiction and potentially death.
âPeople are medicating themselves because theyâre sad. Theyâre not bad, theyâre sad. Things have happened to them. Theyâre hurt,â Muhammed said softly. She noted a particular source of trauma in New Orleans: the governmentâs botched response to Hurricane Katrina. âWe have a whole generation of children that went through a horrific period in their lives when we talk about the federal flood of 2005, and people as they went to other places said to them, âGet over it, youâre alive.ââ
Sheâs heard âJust Say Noâ for too long, she said, and watched doctors â âthe real pushersâ â avoid any blame. Sheâs tired, too, of public interest in addiction growing only as the crisis claims more white victims.
âUntil the addiction of black mothersâ sons is as important as the addiction of white mothersâ sons we will not cure this,â Muhammed said. âSo Iâm asking everyone to realize this is not a black-white issue ... All the mothers have to come together. âCause all of our children are important. All of our communities are important to us. I love my children. All of âem. And I know that other mothers love theirs. Weâve gotta come together.â
â Akbar Ahmed
***
âI donât even understand it myself, let alone trying to explain to a child why mommy diedâ
CONNELLSVILLE, Pa. â Mary Sampeyâs older sister, Angela Phillips, was her best friend. They shared a bed growing up, supported each other during childbirth and raised their children in the same country town where they spent their childhoods.
One night, just a few months before Phillips died, she confided in her younger sister. Decades earlier, Phillips became pregnant after being raped and had an abortion. Until that moment, the pain and guilt she felt as a deeply Catholic woman weighed on her in secret.
âShe thought, âIâm going to shut down and get married and have kids and my life will be better,ââ Sampey said.
She thinks that trauma left Phillips vulnerable to the disease that killed her â the same addiction epidemic thatâs wiping out an entire generation in Connellsville, a sleepy former coal town about an hour southeast of Pittsburgh.
In the early 20th century, Connellsvilleâs roaring coke and coal plants sent a steady stream of products to Pittsburgh by rail and barge, and money flowed right back. But Connellsville was hit hard when the regionâs steel industry collapsed in the 1970s. Now, median household income sits below $29,000 per year, and nearly 23 percent of the town is below the poverty level.
And like in so many parts of the country, opioid addiction has taken root. In a town of fewer than 7,500 residents, opioid overdoses kill at a rate of one to five people per month, according to the local emergency medical service. And those deaths are just a small fraction of the five to six people who call an ambulance for an overdose every day.
In the midst of this ongoing tragedy, Sampey, 31, has found a higher calling. For nearly four years, sheâs worked for Father Bob Lubic, a local priest and chaplain. A little over a year ago, she became the mastermind behind his campaign to combat addiction and the stigma it carries among the faithful, some of whom view the chronic disease as a moral failure.
For Sampey, this mission is personal.
Shortly after she began working for Father Bob, as folks in Connellsville affectionately call him, Sampeyâs sister Phillips was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Doctors removed the tumorous gland, but the surgery left Phillips in chronic pain. She started taking painkillers. Pretty soon, she was hooked. Sampey noticed the change as her sister, once a reliable homemaker and mother of two, became less dependable. She isolated herself and wouldnât answer calls. Sampey began to see her sister less often, and when she did, Phillipsâ would go from a perky, peppy version of herself to dozing off.
âHer eyes would roll back in her head, sheâd be very tired, then sheâd be up again,â Sampey recalled. âIt became very clear she was addicted to these prescription pain pills.â
Phillipsâ husband had a drinking problem, which didnât help. After later separating from him, she went to rehab. Itâs there that she met the man who would introduce her to heroin. From there began a cycle of relapse and rehab. Leaving her young daughters with her parents, Phillips attempted to get clean by living with her brother in Pittsburgh, distracting herself by working in his florist shop.
She relapsed there for a final time.
Sampey was at home making pepperoni rolls for her church youth group when her stepfather arrived at her door. He was âwhite as a ghostâ when he told her they needed to talk.
âImmediately I knew what he was going to tell me,â Sampey said. âIt was a very out of body experience. I was eerily calm. I was not emotional. It was kind of like, this is it.â
Sampeyâs numbness broke the next day when she had to sit Phillipsâ young daughters down to tell them their mother was dead.
Over the past year, Sampey has described the details of her sisterâs addiction to packed pews and classrooms full of high school students. On an afternoon in October, she did the same for HuffPost with a matter-of-fact calmness. But when she remembered that moment she sat her 5- and 7-year-old nieces down, her voice became raspy.
âI donât even understand it myself, let alone trying to explain to a child why mommy died,â she said.
âWe told them mommy took too many pills and didnât wake up, and she didnât mean to,â she added, sniffling and gingerly wiping away a tear. âMommy couldnât help it. Mommy took too much medicine and didnât wake up.â
Itâs that sort of empathy she now helps Lubic preach.
In his sermons, Lubic urges his fellow Catholics to love people with addiction, whom he says feel undeserving of Godâs love. Itâs a strategy Sampey wishes sheâd used with Phillips. She recalled her sister once saying she feared God had abandoned her because of her abortion and opioid addiction.
In both sermons and public assemblies, Lubic encourages those listening to talk about their fears and personal struggles instead of turning to drugs and alcohol for comfort. He and Sampey organize Nar-Anon group sessions and host other support groups in partnership with a local addiction specialist center. Lubicâs appearance helps soothe those wary of a clergymanâs conservative judgment. He sports a mohawk, earrings and a styled beard, and calls himself a âpunk rock priest.â
Sampeyâs official title is director of evangelization, but she calls herself a community activist, and her goal is to help people and their families with addiction. If people they help decide to become Catholic, theyâre welcome to seek spiritual guidance, but thatâs not the mission.
âI donât get all Jesus-y with them,â Sampey said. âAnything that I do is not a cover for conversion. Iâm not there trying to make them Catholic. As people who are Christians, our job is to love other people.â
In Lubic, she seems to have found more than a boss and religious teacher, but a colleague who understands and is committed to alleviating social and individual anguish.
âThereâs a sense of acceptance and belonging that you get with Father that you donât typically have,â Sampey said. âYou know from the get-go that this person isnât going to judge you.â
A year after losing her best friend and sister, thereâs something sacred in that alone.
â Alexander C. Kaufman
***
âEven small towns have to be vigilantâ
WARNER ROBINS, Ga. â The first pills were yellow oblong tablets.
They were sold on the street as Percocet in June, but they were not Percocet. Instead, they were a mix of two deadly synthetic opioids, U-47700 and cyclopropyl fentanyl, making their first appearance in Georgia. They left a swath of users throughout the middle of the state struggling to survive, hospitalized and breathing through ventilators. Five died.
In late August, the pills were now round and white â and still contained cyclopropyl fentanyl. The second wave of overdoses that month left seven people aged 25 to 60 hospitalized. They were found all over Warner Robins, a city of more than 70,000 that boasts an Air Force base. One case was found in nearby Centerville.
The symptoms â troubled breathing and need of a ventilator â were similar to the first round. The new pills, however, were much more sophisticated.
âNot to give kudos to whoever is making this, but these are a lot better,â Jennifer Parson, Press Information Officer for the Warner Robins Police Department, said in late August. This batch of white, round pills âlooks very real,â the only differentiation being theyâre slightly thicker and glossier on the top than actual Percocet, she said.
Parson called the overdoses a top priority for the department, saying it was an issue the force was committed to solving. The danger of unregulated opioid pills like these lies in their unknown dosage. People have no idea how much theyâre taking, and whether that could lead to a ventilator â or death.
âWe know addiction is an issue and a problem, but this is dangerous and you donât need to take the risk. Youâre taking your life into your own hands.â
According to Parson, the big concern in town used to just be heroin.
The Warner Robins police department started seeing an influx in the drugâs use about two years ago. But these bad pills are something new.
Parson, who used to be a reporter, spoke of the fear in the department over the unstable nature of these pills and the threat of other opioids for the greater community. She also described the risk the police were taking when dealing with the influx in overdose calls.
News reports about officers in other parts of the country overdosing from mere skin contact with an opioid substance is something thatâs often on the minds of Warner Robins police officers when they go out, she said.
Officers in Warner Robins donât currently carry Narcan (Narloxone), the prescription medicine that reverses an overdose. However, Parson said agencies in northern Georgia, which have seen a higher influx of cases, are considering doing so.
While Parson said the opioid problem has typically been considered a northern Georgia problem surrounding the Atlanta area, this latest round of overdoses demonstrated how itâs creeping into the rest of the state.
âItâs a problem across the country,â Parson said. âIt just goes to show even small towns have to be vigilant.â
â Lauren Weber
Need help with substance abuse or mental health issues? In the U.S., call 800-662-HELP (4357) for the SAMHSA National Helpline.