It鈥檚 a maxim drilled into us from the start of our careers: a reporter is never supposed to become the story. Stay objective.
That was my plan when W5 set out to make 48 Hours, a documentary on how Vancouver is handling its intense, deadly overdose crisis.
But when our interview subject, an injection drug user, dropped to the ground and passed out in the middle of the shoot, I couldn鈥檛 be objective. My first thought was: what can I do to save her life?
It was a jarring moment, but perhaps we shouldn鈥檛 have been so surprised. On average, five people died a day in December from drug overdoses in B.C. Many from opioid drugs cut with strong, cheap substances including fentanyl.
Death is all around. Dozens of 9-1-1 calls summon paramedics and firefighters to emergencies in Vancouver鈥檚 Downtown Eastside every day. We had just travelled with a paramedic in a specialized unit, Brian Twaites, to see that minutes after he clears one call, he鈥檚 on to another.
An overdose can kill because the drug stops someone from breathing.
鈥淔or someone who鈥檚 never seen it before it鈥檚 frightening. They are blue because they are cyanotic due to lack of oxygen. They鈥檙e not breathing,鈥� Twaites told me.
Twaites鈥檚 most powerful weapon against death is the opioid antidote drug, Narcan. That鈥檚 the trade name for Naloxone. And on almost every call we saw him or another paramedic use it at least once.
One of Vancouver鈥檚 innovations to battle the overdose epidemic is to give Narcan out to users themselves. The logic is, if a drug user passes out, but his friend has a Narcan kit, it鈥檚 better to use it fast. Then when paramedics arrive there鈥檚 a better chance the patient will survive.
Drug users call out 鈥淣arcan!鈥� when there鈥檚 a potential overdose, and those with the kits come running.
Citizens groups also have Narcan, like the Overdose Prevention Society on Hastings Street, which has a room where drug users can inject. The group teaches its volunteers how to use it.
OPS head Sarah Blyth handed me a kit to use. Unzip the small black case and you find three retractable needles and three glass vials containing the heroin antidote.
鈥淔or reversal of opioid overdose,鈥� the kit says. 鈥淚nject 1ml intramuscularly. If no improvement in 3-5 minutes, inject an additional 1ml.鈥�
Blyth trained me, just like she trains her volunteers: on a rolled-up fleece blanket with duct tape. It was my job to snap the glass vial, fill the needle, get rid of the air bubbles, and inject.
In a controlled environment, it鈥檚 not complicated. But that night, things weren鈥檛 so controlled. We had been invited to see two women on a nightly ritual, shooting drugs. They thought they were using heroin, but couldn鈥檛 know for sure.
One of them, Patricia, absorbed it well; the other, Jessica, started dancing in the alley. Then her movements became more erratic. She started flailing.
And then she was on the ground. Not moving. I couldn鈥檛 see her breathing either.
One of us got our cell phone out to call 9-1-1. Patricia didn鈥檛 have Narcan. But I still had the kit from the earlier demonstration. We鈥檇 used one glass vial and one needle but there were two left. So I dropped my plan to be the impartial observer, and started to prep the needle.
As I was doing that, Patricia ran over to see if her friend was OK. She shook her. And she woke up. She was lucky.
I didn鈥檛 have to use the needle. But it showed me something more: the panic and fear in a population of Canadians where death can strike any time.
And you can鈥檛 feel that by being objective.
