I watched the opioid crisis from the front lines. I'm glad I'm leaving

This First Person column is written by Dan Scheuerman who worked as a firefighter in Calgary for 13 years. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

As a Calgary firefighter, I've seen the opioid epidemic escalate from a "new thing" into a full-blown national nightmare. In 2014, I transferred to one of the busier districts in the city, near Chinook Mall where overdoses soon became commonplace. 

When fentanyl abuse first started appearing on the streets and entered the news cycle, we learned how to administer Narcan, an antidote that is delivered nasally. At the time, I didn't think much of it. It was no different than learning a new technique or administrative process. We may come into contact with overdosed individuals and if we did, one shot of Narcan would break the opiate pathway in their brains and jolt their nervous system back to life.

It was like watching a resurrection. After the patient was handed off to EMS we'd return back to the firehall, waiting for a big fire or other "real firefighter" emergency where the cavalry was needed.

Instead, overdoses became an increasingly significant part of the job.

At first they occured where you might expect them: derelict corners in industrial spaces hidden from sight. But as time went on, my crews and I were responding to overdose calls anywhere and everywhere — mall washrooms, 7-Eleven, hiking paths on busy weekends.

A new shipment announced its arrival through the volume of calls near LRT stations. These stations were used by dealers to distribute drugs. As the train went up the line, so did the overdoses.

Then the drugs became more dangerous. A more potent variation, carfentanil, rose to prominence. It was 100 times more powerful. Sometimes it was mixed with meth. 

My fellow firefighters and I grew increasingly concerned about accidental exposure. There were sporadic reports of such events. In 2017, I petitioned the department for extra Narcan on fire trucks as emergency reserves for the off chance powder or a needle caught a first responder off guard. At the time, there wasn't enough information about the effects of second-hand drug exposure. Eventually, the odds of this scenario impacting a first responder were deemed low, and the Calgary Fire Department decided not to pursue this. 

As the epidemic hit its stride, my crew received a bittersweet letter of commendation from EMS for our performance responding to an overdose. A lifeless body at the bottom of a narrow public stairwell leading to an underground parkade. Surrounded by needles. Taking agonal breaths  as his unconscious body struggled to keep him from the brink. My partner and I, both over six feet, contorted ourselves around him in the claustrophobic corridor, desperately trying to avoid a needle strike as we slid our arms under his limp body to carry him up the stairs and onto a stretcher.

Once there, EMS gave him multiple shots of naloxone. He eventually came back and he was erratic and oblivious to what had just happened. I remember EMS said they'd have to monitor him because they were concerned he'd crash again in minutes from all the drugs in his system. But the sound of distant sirens made him bolt upright. 

"The cops," he stuttered as his eyes scanned the distance. We tried to reassure him it wasn't the cops and they weren't coming for him. But, unconvinced, he violently wrestled himself out of the stretcher and sprinted away. If a person refuses treatment, there's nothing we can do.

People often react to us firefighters like we're there to judge or get them in trouble. When patients aren't honest about the drugs they've taken, it makes it harder for us to help them — which is what we're there for — whether that means giving them oxygen until the medics arrive, or doing CPR so they make it to the emergency room. 

Some of the people we treated got mad at us for killing their high. That's one of the more depressing aspects — instead of being aware we just saved their life, they seemed upset they weren't high anymore.