Tag: opioids

  • Intervention

    I did not know that the next time I held her body, it would be chips of bone and gritty ash in a small cardboard box.

    The following is an excerpt from The Heart and Other Monsters by Rose Andersen.

    I cannot remember my sister’s body. Her smell is gone to me. I do not recall the last time I touched her. I think I can almost pinpoint it: the day I asked her to leave my home after I figured out she had stopped detoxing and started shooting up again, all the while trying to sell my things to her drug dealer as I slept. When she left, she asked me for $20, and I told her that I would give it to her if she sent me a picture of a receipt to show me she spent the money on something other than drugs. “Thanks a lot,” she said, sarcastically. I hugged her, maybe. So much hinges on that maybe, the haunting maybe of our last touch.

    The last time I saw my sister was at an intervention at a shitty hotel in Small Town. Our family friend Debbie flew my stepmother and me there in her three-seater plane. The intervention was put together hastily by Sarah’s friend Noelle, who called us a few days beforehand, asking us to come. There were little resources or time to stage it properly—we couldn’t afford a trained interventionist to come. Noelle told us she was afraid Sarah was going to die. I agreed to fly with Debbie and Sharon because Small Town was far away from home and I didn’t want to drive.

    Debbie sat in the pilot’s seat, and I sat next to her. My stepmother was tucked in the third seat, directly behind us. It wasn’t until takeoff that I realized with my body what a terrible decision it was to fly. I am terrified of heights and extremely prone to motion sickness. I was not prepared for what it meant to be in a small plane.

    I could feel the outside while inside the plane. The vibration of chilly wind permeated through the tiny door and gripped my lungs, heart, head. It would have taken very little effort to open the door and fall, an endless horrifying fall to most-certain death. From the first swoop into the air, my stomach twisted into a mean, malicious fist that punched at my bowels and throat. For the next hour I sat trembling, my eyes shut tight. Through every dip, bounce, and shake, I held back bile and silently cried.

    When we landed, I lurched off the plane and threw up. I do not remember what color it was. My stepmom handed me a bottle of water and half a Xanax, and I sat, legs splayed on the runway, until I thought I could stand again.

    My sister vomited when she died. She shit. She bled. How much is required to leave our body before we are properly, truly, thoroughly dead? I dreamed one night that I sat with my sister’s dead body and tried to scoop all her bodily fluids back inside her. Everything wet was warm, but her body was ice-cold. I knew that if I could return this warmth to her, she would come back to life. My hands were dripping with her blood and excrement, and while begging her insides to return to her, I cried a great flood of mucus and tears. This I remember, while our last touch still evades me.

    My sister was late to her intervention. Many hours late. Seven of us, all women, five of us in sobriety, sat in that hot hotel room, repeatedly texting and calling Sarah’s boyfriend, Jack, to bring her to us. I realized later that he probably told her they were going to the hotel to get drugs.

    The hotel room was also where Sharon, Debbie, and I would be sleeping that night. It held two queen-size beds, our small amount of luggage, and four chairs we had discreetly borrowed from the hotel’s conference room. I sat on one of the beds, perched on the edge anxiously, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else. I didn’t know many of the other people there.

    When I told my mom about the intervention days before, I had immediately followed with “But you don’t need to come.” There were so many reasons. She has goats and donkeys, cats and dogs who needed to be taken care of. She didn’t have a vehicle that could make the drive. She could write a letter, I said, and I would give it to Sarah. The truth was, I didn’t feel like managing her now-acrimonious relationship with Sharon. I didn’t want to have to take care of my mom, on top of managing Sarah’s state of being. It occurred to me, sitting in this crowded, strange room, that I might have been wrong.

    Sitting diagonally across from me was Sarah’s close friend Noelle, who had organized everything. Sarah and Noelle had met in recovery, lived together at Ryan’s family home, and become close friends. They had remained friends even when Sarah started using again. Helen, a fair-haired middle-aged woman who was not one of the people Sarah knew from recovery but rather the mother of one of Sarah’s boyfriends, sat on the other bed. Sarah’s last sponsor, Lynn, sat near me. I had to stop myself from telling her how Sarah had used her name on her phone. Sitting in one of the chairs was the woman who was going to run the intervention. I cannot remember her name now, even though I can easily recall the sound of her loud, grating voice.

    The interventionist had worked at Shining Light Recovery, the rehab Sarah had been kicked out of about a year and a half before, and was the only person Noelle could find on short notice. She had run her fair share of interventions, she told us, but she made it clear that because she hadn’t had the time to work with us beforehand, this wouldn’t run like a proper intervention. She smelled like musty clothes and showed too many teeth when she laughed. She talked about when she used to drink, with a tone that sounded more like longing than regret. When she started to disclose private information about my sister’s time in rehab, I clenched my hands into a fist.

    “I’m the one that threw her out,” the woman said. “I mean, she’s a good kid, but once I caught her in the showers with that other girl, she had to go.” Someone else said something, but I couldn’t hear anyone else in the room. “No sexual conduct,” she continued. “The rules are there for a reason.” She chuckled and took a swig from her generic-brand cola. I felt hot and ill, my insides still a mess from the plane ride. We waited two more hours, listening to the interventionist talk, until Jack texted to say they had just pulled up.

    Intervention

    When my sister arrived, she walked into the room and announced loudly, “Oh fuck, here we go.” Then she sat, thin, resentful, and sneering, her hands stuffed into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. Oh fuck, here we go, I thought. The interventionist didn’t say much, in sharp contrast to her chattiness while we were waiting. She briefly explained the process; we would each have a chance to speak, and then Sarah could decide if she wanted to go to a detox center that night.

    We went in turns, speaking to Sarah directly or reading from a letter. Everyone had a different story, a different memory to start what they had to say, but everyone ended the same way: “Please get help. We are afraid you are going to die.” Sarah was stone-faced but crying silently. This was unusual. When Sarah cried, she was a wailer; we called it her monkey howl.

    When we were younger, we watched the movie Little Women again and again. We would often fast-forward through Beth’s death, but sometimes we would let the scene play out. We would curl up on our maroon couch and cry as Jo realized her younger sister had died. For a moment I wished for the two of us to be alone, watching Little Women for the hundredth time. I could almost feel her small head on my shoulder as she wailed, “Why did Beth have to die? It’s not fair.” She sat across the room and wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

    I addressed Sarah first with my mom’s letter. I started, “My dear little fawn, I know that things have gone wrong and that you have lost your way.” My voice cracked and I found I couldn’t continue, so I passed it to Noelle to read instead. It felt wrong to hear my mother’s words come out of Noelle’s mouth. Sarah was crying. She needs her mom, I thought frantically.

    When it came time to speak to her myself, my mind was blank. I was angry. I was angry that I had to fly in a shitty small plane and be in this shitty small room to convince my sister to care one-tenth as much about her life as we did. I was furious that she still had a smirk, even while crying, while we spoke to her. Mostly, I was angry because I knew nothing I could say could make her leave this terrible town I had driven her to years before, and come home. That somewhere in her story there was a mountain of my own mistakes that had helped lead us to this moment.

    “Sarah, I know you are angry and think that we are all here to make you feel bad. But we are here because we love you and are worried you might die. I don’t know what I would do if you died.” My sister sat quietly and listened. “I believe you can have any life you want.” I paused. “And I have to believe that I still know you enough to know that this isn’t the life you want.” The more I talked, the further away she seemed, until I trailed off and nodded to the next person to talk.

    After we had all spoken, Sarah rejected our help. She told us she had a plan to stop using on her own. “I have a guy I can buy methadone from, and I am going to do it by myself.” Methadone was used to treat opioid addicts; the drug reduced the physical effects of withdrawal, decreased cravings, and, if taken regularly, could block the effects of opioids. It can itself be addictive—it’s also an opioid. By law it can only be dispensed by an opioid treatment program, and the recommended length of treatment is a minimum of twelve months.

    “I have a guy I can buy five pills from,” Sarah insisted, as if that was comparable to a licensed methadone center, as if what she was suggesting wasn’t its own kind of dangerous.

    “But honey,” my stepmother said gently, “we are offering you help right now. You can go to a detox center tonight.”

    “Absolutely not. I am not going to go cold turkey.” Sarah was perceptibly shaking as she said this, the trauma of her past withdrawals palpable in her body. “I don’t know if I can trust you guys.”

    She gestured to my stepmom and me. “I felt really betrayed by what happened.” The heroin in her wallet, the confrontation at Sharon’s, Motel 6, breaking into her phone. “You guys don’t understand. Every other time I’ve done this, I’ve done this for you, for my family.” She sat up a little straighter. “For once in my life, it’s time for me to be selfish.”

    It was all I could do not to slap her across the face. I wanted desperately to feel my hand sting from the contact, to see her cheek bloom pink, to see if anything could hurt her. She wasn’t going to use methadone to get clean. She just wanted us to leave her alone. 

    I made an excuse about needing to buy earplugs to sleep that night and walked out. I did not hug her or look at her. I did not know I would not see her again. I did not know I would not remember our last touch. I did not know that the next time I held her body, it would be chips of bone and gritty ash in a small cardboard box.
     

    THE HEART AND OTHER MONSTERS (Bloomsbury; hardcover; 9781635575149; $24.00; 224 pages; July 7, 2020) by Rose Andersen is an intimate exploration of the opioid crisis as well as the American family, with all its flaws, affections, and challenges. Reminiscent of Alex Marzano-Lesnevich’s The Fact of a Body, Maggie Nelson’s Jane: A Murder, and Lacy M. Johnson’s The Other Side, Andersen’s debut is a potent, profoundly original journey into and out of loss. Available now.

     

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Pandemic Presents New Hurdles, and Hope, for People Struggling with Addiction

    “There’s social distancing — to a limit…I think when someone’s life is in jeopardy, they’re worth saving. You just can’t watch people die.”

    Before Philadelphia shut down to slow the spread of the coronavirus, Ed had a routine: most mornings he would head to a nearby McDonald’s to brush his teeth, wash his face and — when he had the money — buy a cup of coffee. He would bounce between homeless shelters and try to get a shower. But since businesses closed and many shelters stopped taking new admissions, Ed has been mostly shut off from that routine.

    He’s still living on the streets.

    “I’ll be honest, I don’t really sleep too much,” said Ed, who’s 51 and struggling with addiction. “Every four or five days I get a couple hours.”

    KHN agreed not to use his last name because he uses illegal drugs.

    Philadelphia has the highest overdose rate of any big city in America — in 2019, more than three people a day died of drug overdoses there, on average. Before the coronavirus began spreading across the United States, the opioid overdose epidemic was the biggest health crisis on the minds of many city officials and public health experts. The coronavirus pandemic has largely eclipsed the conversation around the opioid crisis. But the crisis still rages on despite business closures, the cancellation of in-person treatment appointments and the strain on many addiction resources in the city.

    When his usual shelter wasn’t an option anymore, Ed tried to get into residential drug treatment. He figured that would be a good way to try to get back on his feet and, if nothing else, get a few good nights of rest. But he had contracted pinkeye, a symptom thought to be associated with the virus that leads to COVID-19, so the evaluation center didn’t want to place him in an inpatient facility until he’d gotten the pinkeye checked out. But he couldn’t see a doctor because he didn’t have a phone for a telehealth appointment.

    “I got myself stuck, and I’m trying to pull everything back together before it totally blows up,” he said.

    Rosalind Pichardo wants to help people in Ed’s situation. Before the pandemic, Pichardo would hit the streets of her neighborhood, Kensington, which has the highest drug overdose rate in Philadelphia. She’d head out with a bag full of snack bars, cookies and Narcan, the opioid overdose reversal drug.

    She’d hand Narcan out to people using drugs, and people selling drugs — anyone who wanted it. Pichardo started her own organization, Operation Save Our City, which initially set out to work with survivors of gun violence in the neighborhood. When she realized that overdoses were killing people too, she began getting more involved with the harm reduction movement and started handing out Narcan through the city’s syringe exchange.

    When Pennsylvania’s stay-at-home order went into effect, Pichardo and others worried that more people might start using drugs alone, and that fewer first responders would be patrolling the streets or nearby and able to revive them if they overdosed.

    So, Pichardo and other harm reduction activists gave out even more Narcan. A representative for Prevention Point Philadelphia, the group that operates a large syringe exchange program in the city, said that during the first month of the city’s stay-at-home order, they handed out almost twice as much Narcan as usual.

    After the lockdowns and social distancing began, Pichardo worried that more people would be using drugs alone, leading to more overdoses. But Philadelphia’s fatal overdose rate during the pandemic remains about the same as it was this time last year. Pichardo said she thinks that’s evidence that flooding the streets with Narcan is working — that people are continuing to use drugs, and maybe even using more drugs, but that users are utilizing Narcan more often and administering it to one another.

    That is the hope. But Pichardo said users don’t always have a buddy to keep watch, and during the pandemic first responders have seemed much more hesitant to intervene. For example, she recently administered Narcan to three people in Kensington who overdosed near a subway station, while two police officers stood by and watched. Before the pandemic, they would often be right there with her, helping.

    To reverse the overdoses, Pichardo crouched over the people who she said had started turning blue as their oxygen levels dropped. She injected the Narcan into their noses, using a disposable plastic applicator. Normally, she would perform rescue breathing, too, but since the pandemic began she has started carrying an Ambu bag, which pumps air into a person’s lungs and avoids mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Among the three people, she said, it took six doses of Narcan to revive them. The police officers didn’t step in to help but did toss several overdose-reversal doses toward Pichardo as she worked.

    “I don’t expect ’em to give ’em rescue breaths if they don’t want to, but at least administer the lifesaving drug,” Pichardo said.

    In her work as a volunteer, she has reversed almost 400 overdoses, she estimated.

    “There’s social distancing — to a limit,” Pichardo said, “I think when someone’s life is in jeopardy, they’re worth saving. You just can’t watch people die.”

    Even before Philadelphia officially issued its stay-at-home order, city police announced they would stop making low-level arrests, including for narcotics. The idea was to reduce contact overall, help keep the jail population low and reduce the risk of the virus getting passed around inside. But Pichardo and other community activists said the decreased law enforcement emboldened drug dealers in the Kensington neighborhood, where open-air drug sales and use are common.

    “You can tell they have everything down pat, from the lookout to the corner boys to the one actually holding the product — the one holding the product’s got some good PPE gear,” said Pichardo.

    More dealers working openly on the street has led to more fights over territory, she added, which in turn has meant more violence. While overall crime in Philadelphia and other major cities has declined during the pandemic, gun violence has spiked.

    Police resumed arrests at the beginning of May.

    Now when she goes out to offer relief and hand out Narcan, Pichardo packs a few extra things in her bag of supplies: face masks, gloves and gun locks.

    “It’s like the survival kit of the ’hood,” she said.

    For those struggling with addiction who are ready to start recovery, newly relaxed federal restrictions have made it easier to get medications that curb opioid cravings and stem withdrawal. Several efforts are underway among Philadelphia-based public health groups and criminal justice advocacy organizations to give cellphones to people who are homeless or coming out of jail, so they can make a telehealth appointment and get quicker access to a prescription for those medicines.

    During the pandemic, people taking medication-assisted treatment can renew their prescription every month instead of every week, which helps decrease trips to the pharmacy. It is too soon to know if more people are taking advantage of the new rules, and accessing medication-assisted treatment via telehealth, but if that turns out to be the case, many addiction medicine specialists argue the new rules should become permanent, even after the pandemic ends.

    “If we find that these relaxed restrictions are bringing more people to the table, that presents enormous ethical questions about whether or not the DEA should reinstate these restrictive policies that they had going in the first place,” said Dr. Ben Cocchiaro, a physician who treats people with substance-use disorder.

    Cocchiaro said the whole point of addiction treatment is to facilitate help as soon as someone is ready for it. He hopes if access to recovery can be made simpler during a pandemic, it can remain that way afterward.

    This story is part of a partnership that includes WHYY, NPR and Kaiser Health News.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • They Fell In Love Helping Drug Users. But Fear Kept Him From Helping Himself.

    Beeler worried that a failed drug test — even if it was for a medication to treat his addiction (like buprenorphine) — would land him in prison.

    She was in medical school. He was just out of prison.

    Sarah Ziegenhorn and Andy Beeler’s romance grew out of a shared passion to do more about the country’s drug overdose crisis.

    Ziegenhorn moved back to her home state of Iowa when she was 26. She had been working in Washington, D.C., where she also volunteered at a needle exchange — where drug users can get clean needles. She was ambitious and driven to help those in her community who were overdosing and dying, including people she had grown up with.

    “Many people were just missing because they were dead,” said Ziegenhorn, now 31. “I couldn’t believe more wasn’t being done.”

    She started doing addiction advocacy in Iowa City while in medical school — lobbying local officials and others to support drug users with social services.

    Beeler had the same conviction, born from his personal experience.

    “He had been a drug user for about half of his life — primarily a longtime opiate user,” Ziegenhorn said.

    Beeler spent years in and out of the criminal justice system for a variety of drug-related crimes, such as burglary and possession. In early 2018, he was released from prison. He was on parole and looking for ways to help drug users in his hometown.

    He found his way to advocacy work and, through that work, found Ziegenhorn. Soon they were dating.

    “He was just this really sweet, no-nonsense person who was committed to justice and equity,” she said. “Even though he was suffering in many ways, he had a very calming presence.”

    People close to Beeler describe him as a “blue-collar guy” who liked motorcycles and home carpentry, someone who was gentle and endlessly curious. Those qualities could sometimes hide his struggle with anxiety and depression. Over the next year, Beeler’s other struggle, with opioid addiction, would flicker around the edges of their life together.

    Eventually, it killed him.

    People on parole and under supervision of the corrections system can face barriers to receiving appropriate treatment for opioid addiction. Ziegenhorn said she believes Beeler’s death is linked to the many obstacles to medical care he experienced while on parole.

    About 4.5 million people are on parole or probation in the U.S., and research shows that those under community supervision are much more likely to have a history of substance use disorder than the general population. Yet rules and practices guiding these agencies can preclude parolees and people on probation from getting evidence-based treatment for their addiction.

    A Shared Passion For Reducing Harm

    From their first meeting, Ziegenhorn said, she and Beeler were in sync, partners and passionate about their work in harm reduction — public health strategies designed to reduce risky behaviors that can hurt health.

    After she moved to Iowa, Ziegenhorn founded a small nonprofit called the Iowa Harm Reduction Coalition. The group distributes the opioid-overdose reversal drug naloxone and other free supplies to drug users, with the goal of keeping them safe from illness and overdose. The group also works to reduce the stigma that can dehumanize and isolate drug users. Beeler served as the group’s coordinator of harm reduction services.

    “In Iowa, there was a feeling that this kind of work was really radical,” Ziegenhorn said. “Andy was just so excited to find out someone was doing it.”

    Meanwhile, Ziegenhorn was busy with medical school. Beeler helped her study. She recalled how they used to take her practice tests together.

    “Andy had a really sophisticated knowledge of science and medicine,” she said. “Most of the time he’d been in prison and jails, he’d spent his time reading and learning.”

    Beeler was trying to stay away from opioids, but Ziegenhorn said he still used heroin sometimes. Twice she was there to save his life when he overdosed. During one episode, a bystander called the police, which led to his parole officer finding out.

    “That was really a period of a lot of terror for him,” Ziegenhorn said.

    Beeler was constantly afraid the next slip — another overdose or a failed drug test — would send him back to prison.

    An Injury, A Search For Relief

    A year into their relationship, a series of events suddenly brought Beeler’s history of opioid use into painful focus.

    It began with a fall on the winter ice. Beeler dislocated his shoulder — the same one he’d had surgery on as a teenager.

    “At the emergency room, they put his shoulder back into place for him,” Ziegenhorn said. “The next day it came out again.”

    She said doctors wouldn’t prescribe him prescription opioids for the pain because Beeler had a history of illegal drug use. His shoulder would dislocate often, sometimes more than once a day.

    “He was living with this daily, really severe constant pain — he started using heroin very regularly,” Ziegenhorn said.

    Beeler knew what precautions to take when using opioids: Keep naloxone on hand, test the drugs first and never use alone. Still, his use was escalating quickly.

    A Painful Dilemma 

    The couple discussed the future and their hope of having a baby together, and eventually Ziegenhorn and Beeler agreed: He had to stop using heroin.

    They thought his best chance was to start on a Food and Drug Administration-approved medication for opioid addiction, such as methadone or buprenorphine. Methadone is an opioid, and buprenorphine engages many of the same opioid receptors in the brain; both drugs can curb opioid cravings and stabilize patients. Studies show daily maintenance therapy with such treatment reduces the risks of overdose and improves health outcomes.

    But Beeler was on parole, and his parole officer drug-tested him for opioids and buprenorphine specifically. Beeler worried that if a test came back positive, the officer might see that as a signal that Beeler had been using drugs illegally.

    Ziegenhorn said Beeler felt trapped: “He could go back to prison or continue trying to obtain opioids off the street and slowly detox himself.”

    He worried that a failed drug test — even if it was for a medication to treat his addiction — would land him in prison. Beeler decided against the medication.

    A few days later, Ziegenhorn woke up early for school. Beeler had worked late and fallen asleep in the living room. Ziegenhorn gave him a kiss and headed out the door. Later that day, she texted him. No reply.

    She started to worry and asked a friend to check on him. Not long afterward, Beeler was found dead, slumped in his chair at his desk. He’d overdosed.

    “He was my partner in thought, and in life and in love,” Ziegenhorn said.

    It’s hard for her not to rewind what happened that day and wonder how it could have been different. But mostly she’s angry that he didn’t have better choices.

    “Andy died because he was too afraid to get treatment,” she said.


    Beeler was services coordinator for the Iowa Harm Reduction Coalition, a group that works to help keep drug users safe. A tribute in Iowa City after his death began, “He died of an overdose, but he’ll be remembered for helping others avoid a similar fate.” (COURTESY OF SARAH ZIEGENHORN)

    How Does Parole Handle Relapse? It Depends

    It’s not clear that Beeler would have gone back to prison for admitting he’d relapsed and was taking treatment. His parole officer did not agree to an interview.

    But Ken Kolthoff, who oversees the parole program that supervised Beeler in Iowa’s First Judicial District Department of Correctional Services, said generally he and his colleagues would not punish someone who sought out treatment because of a relapse.

    “We would see that that would be an example of somebody actually taking an active role in their treatment and getting the help they needed,” said Kolthoff.

    The department doesn’t have rules prohibiting any form of medication for opioid addiction, he said, as long as it’s prescribed by a doctor.

    “We have people relapse every single day under our supervision. And are they being sent to prison? No. Are they being sent to jail? No,” Kolthoff said.

    But Dr. Andrea Weber, an addiction psychiatrist with the University of Iowa, said Beeler’s reluctance to start treatment is not unusual.

    “I think a majority of my patients would tell me they wouldn’t necessarily trust going to their [parole officer],” said Weber, assistant director of addiction medicine at the University of Iowa’s Carver College of Medicine. “The punishment is so high. The consequences can be so great.”

    Weber finds probation and parole officers have “inconsistent” attitudes toward her patients who are on medication-assisted treatment.

    “Treatment providers, especially in our area, are still very much ingrained in an abstinence-only, 12-step mentality, which traditionally has meant no medications,” Weber said. “That perception then invades the entire system.”

    Attitudes And Policies Vary Widely

    Experts say it’s difficult to draw any comprehensive picture about the availability of medication for opioid addiction in the parole and probation system. The limited amount of research suggests that medication-assisted treatment is significantly underused.

    “It’s hard to quantify because there are such a large number of individuals under community supervision in different jurisdictions,” said Michael Gordon, a senior research scientist at the Friends Research Institute, based in Baltimore.

    A national survey published in 2013 found that about half of drug courts did not allow methadone or other evidence-based medications used to treat opioid use disorder.

    A more recent study of probation and parole agencies in Illinois reported that about a third had regulations preventing the use of medications for opioid use disorder. Researchers found the most common barrier for those on probation or parole “was lack of experience by medical personnel.”

    Faye Taxman, a criminology professor at George Mason University, said decisions about how to handle a client’s treatment often boil down to the individual officer’s judgment.

    “We have a long way to go,” she said. “Given that these agencies don’t typically have access to medical care for clients, they are often fumbling in terms of trying to think of the best policies and practices.”

    Increasingly, there is a push to make opioid addiction treatment available within prisons and jails. In 2016, the Rhode Island Department of Corrections started allowing all three FDA-approved medications for opioid addiction. That led to a dramatic decrease in fatal opioid overdoses among those who had been recently incarcerated.

    Massachusetts has taken similar steps. Such efforts have only indirectly affected parole and probation.

    “When you are incarcerated in prison or jail, the institution has a constitutional responsibility to provide medical services,” Taxman said. “In community corrections, that same standard does not exist.”

    Taxman said agencies may be reluctant to offer these medications because it’s one more thing to monitor. Those under supervision are often left to figure out on their own what’s allowed.

    “They don’t want to raise too many issues because their freedom and liberties are attached to the response,” she said.

    Richard Hahn, a researcher at New York University’s Marron Institute of Urban Management who consults on crime and drug policy, said some agencies are shifting their approach.

    “There is a lot of pressure on probation and parole agencies not to violate people just on a dirty urine or for an overdose” said Hahn, who is executive director of the institute’s Crime & Justice Program.

    The federal government’s Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration calls medication-assisted treatment the “gold standard” for treating opioid addiction when used alongside “other psychosocial support.”

    Addiction is considered a disability under the Americans with Disabilities Act, said Sally Friedman, vice president of legal advocacy for the Legal Action Center, a nonprofit law firm based in New York City.

    She said disability protections extend to the millions of people on parole or probation. But people under community supervision, Friedman said, often don’t have an attorney who can use this legal argument to advocate for them when they need treatment.

    “Prohibiting people with that disability from taking medication that can keep them alive and well violates the ADA,” she said.

    This story is part of a partnership between NPR and Kaiser Health News.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Strung Out: An Interview with Erin Khar

    Strung Out: An Interview with Erin Khar

    When I was in a 12-step program, I had so much shame… Some people seemed pissed off when you relapsed. I get that it’s upsetting, but have a little compassion.

    Erin Khar is an award-winning writer known for her deeply personal essays on addiction, recovery, mental health, parenting and self-care. “Ask Erin,” her weekly Ravishly column, attracts more than 500K unique readers per month. Her work is published in SELF, Marie Claire, Redbook, and anthologies including Lilly Dancyger’s Burn It Down: Women Writing About Anger. Her first full-length memoir, Strung Out: One Last Hit and Other Lies That Nearly Killed Me (Park Row Books, February 25), will be released this month.

    Khar battled heroin for 15 years. Her intro to opioids came in pill form at age eight. It was the year her parents split up. In Strung Out she writes, “My Dad had moved out and my mother drifted from room to room in our old Spanish house with a weightlessness that I could tell threatened to take her away.”

    Khar suffered from overwhelming feelings that she didn’t understand. “A panic spread across my chest, filling my body with heat, trapping me. I ran to the bathroom and locked the door. As I reminded myself to breathe, some instinct led me to the medicine cabinet.”

    With anxiety pounding, the third grader fumbled past Band-Aids and Tylenol and found her grandmother’s bottle of Darvocet, which warned: “May Cause Drowsiness and Dizziness.” She wanted so badly to stop hurting she popped two big red pills into her mouth, then gulped from the faucet to wash them down. The burning heat of anxiety soon gave way to a “lightness of little bubbles.” Erin felt like she might float out of her body; this was the escape she’d yearned for.

    Strung Out depicts one person’s journey against the backdrop of America’s opioid crisis. The book is written in gorgeous, accessible prose. Candor and vulnerability come through in a natural, believable voice, conveying what many trauma survivors know intimately: pain, anxiety, rage, depression.

    Khar snorted heroin for the first time at age 13. At first, she’d said no to the boyfriend urging her to try it; her stolen pills felt like enough. But her guy persisted, describing it as a much better high. It was also the quickest route to forgetting. When Khar was four, a teen boy began molesting her. The abuse continued for years. Like many survivors, Khar told no one and desperately tried to block it from her mind. 

    “I needed to be somewhere else, someone else,” Khar told The Fix

    Strung Out is a page-turner that follows the progression of addiction: Narcotics seem like a magical solution until the relief morphs into a monster roaring for more. Opioids are now responsible for 47,000 deaths per year—that’s nearly two-thirds of all drug-related deaths in the U.S. 

    Reading Khar’s book felt like listening to a confidante, a kindred spirit who “got me.” We sat down in a New York City garden to talk about the hell of addiction and colossal relief of long-term recovery.

    What idea sparked this book?

    I wrote Strung Out because it was the book I wish I’d had when I was younger. I want to open up the conversation. Why do people take drugs? And why can’t they stop? The more we talk about it the more we can get rid of the stigma and shame surrounding it. Many people still don’t seem to understand addiction. I want to encourage empathy and compassion and give people hope.

    I love that your then 12-year-old son asked if you ever did drugs. Can you tell me about that?

    At first, I pretended I didn’t hear him. [Laughs] I tried not to cringe at my deflection.

    I stalled by saying, “That’s a complicated question.” I didn’t know what to say. I did use drugs. A lot of them. Heroin was on and off from 13 to 28. That’s when I got pregnant with him. But how much should I tell him? I’d smoked crack, done acid, taken Ecstasy.

    You describe childhood guilt and shame vividly. Looking back, do you think that was rage turned inward?

    Oh yeah. It definitely had to do with early trauma. All I knew then was a nagging feeling. It wasn’t until I was 19 that I came to terms with everything. Before that, I minimized what happened to me, trying to shove [memories] aside. It took a long time for me to see that my therapist was right: my anger had sublimated into guilt.

    Do you look back now and understand your feelings of shame?

    Yes. I took responsibility for things because it gave me the feeling that I was in control. Can anyone process that kind of childhood trauma all in one go? I don’t know. Maybe it takes a lifetime to process? Maybe I’m still processing it.

    Do you get triggered due to PTSD?

    Yes. Even though I’ve done a lot of work on myself, I still have hypervigilance. My body reacts strongly to some situations, like if I’m startled by something, and especially if I’m asleep.

    Can you describe things that helped? Especially for anyone who is trying but can’t stop using.

    The first thing was accepting that I wasn’t going to be fixed overnight. Then it was forgiving myself for relapsing constantly. For me, whatever I’m dealing with, if I break it down into small, digestible increments, it’s a lot easier to handle. Focusing on the big picture is not helpful. That’s why they say a day at a time.

    How did you stop relapsing?

    By being honest about relapses. When I was in a 12-step program, I had so much shame. It was detrimental to worry about being judged at meetings. [Some] people in AA seemed pissed off when you relapsed. I get that it’s upsetting but have a little fucking compassion. [So] I hid relapses, which made it a lot easier to do it again. Finally, I was honest about [chronically] relapsing and that helped me stop. You do not have to relapse. It’s not a requirement of recovery but I don’t think that we unlearn things in 30 days or 60 days or 90 days or a year. I don’t think it happens that quickly. For anyone who struggles with addiction, we want immediate relief. 

    Like pushing a button?

    Yes. I wanted to be numb. Stop thinking. In recovery, my biggest life lessons were learning to have patience, be honest, and work on accepting things I have no control over.

    Did you find things easier when you began opening up?

    First, I had to get through my fear that people were always judging me. It took work. I wouldn’t say it was easy but yes, I did get better. 

    How do you feel about your upbringing now?

    I definitely don’t blame my parents for any of the choices I made. Even the choices when I was really young. I hid the sexual abuse and my depression from them. I hid my suicidal feelings. If my parents had stayed together and everything had been perfect, I may still have hid things. It may be a function of my personality.

    Today I have a really good relationship with both of my parents and they have a really good friendship with each other. I will forever be grateful that no matter what happened, through everything I did, they never turned their backs on me. I have a very different idea about tough love than I used to. When I was first trying to get sober, the general idea of interventions and dealing with somebody who was addicted was this hard line of tough love. 

    I used to deal with people that way. But now, I really don’t think it works. That doesn’t mean that you should enable people. But, for me, I was lucky. Despite everything I had done to my parents—years of lying and stealing—our family connection remained. That door was still open when I finally asked for help.

    Erin Khar talks hope, shame, and recovery:

     

    Order Strung Out: One Last Hit and Other Lies That Nearly Killed Me

     

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Long Term Effects of Overdoses on the Brain

    Long Term Effects of Overdoses on the Brain

    Despite what we know about how overdoses can kill, there is scant literature regarding chronic health outcomes for people who have survived multiple overdoses.

    Drug overdoses are a leading cause of preventable deaths in the United States. We know the dangers of overdoses; generally, they can kill. Opioids make up a large percentage of these deaths. In 2016, opioids made up 69 percent of drug overdose deaths. For people ages 25 to 64, drug overdoses cause more deaths than car accidents. Overdoses caused by opioids can be reversed if quickly countered with naloxone, an opioid antagonist.

    In states like Massachusetts, opioid overdose deaths are on the decrease, but overdose emergency calls are on the rise. More people are surviving, but only 3 out of 10 people are receiving medical treatment for substance use disorder. What is happening to the other 70 percent of individuals?

    Non-Opioid Overdoses

    It is technically possible to overdose on nearly any recreational or medicinal drug available.

    Cocaine overdose can involve seizures, heart attacks, strokes, and/or stop a person’s breathing. Amphetamine overdose can lead to seizures, cardiac arrest, and/or a huge spike in body temperature. Psychologically, high doses of stimulants can cause severe psychosis. MDMA overdoses have some similarities to stimulant overdoses, including increased body temperature, kidney failure, and hypertension. Alcohol overdoses most often occur when a person engages in binge drinking which can lead to breathing problems and interfere with cardiac functioning. 

    The Mechanics of an Overdose

    Heart problems and oxygen deprivation are two common symptoms of an overdose that we see in many drug-related deaths. But what happens to the brain during an overdose? Are there lasting effects? Can an overdose cause permanent brain damage?

    The body is being poisoned during an overdose, and it’s usually not obvious to the person who ingested the substance. Someone who has just taken a lethal amount of opioids is unlikely to recognize what’s happening, although others may. As described by Maggie Ethridge for Vice, signs include “extreme drowsiness, cold hands, cloudy thinking, nausea and/or vomiting, and especially slowed breathing (fewer than ten breaths per minute).”

    Once ingested or injected, an opioid makes a beeline through your heart and into your lungs. While in the lungs, your blood gets a dose of oxygen and that “now opioid-rich blood is pushed out to the rest of the body, where it plugs into the system of opioid receptors all over your body.” As the opioids enter the brain, they cause the neurotransmitter dopamine (the feel-good chemical) to overflow. That’s where the feeling of euphoria comes from. After repeated use, reaching that blissful state becomes harder, requiring increasingly larger doses of the same drug.

    If you’ve overdosed, the next thing that will happen is that your brain’s basic systems that control breathing will be affected and your breathing will slow before stopping entirely. Circulatory functioning is next to be affected; your heart rate will slow as the opioid dampens neurological signaling in the brain. As your oxygen levels reduce, your heart begins having irregular rhythms and this can lead to a cardiac arrest.

    Opioids are a depressant, decreasing heart rate and breathing. Overdosing on opioids essentially causes the central nervous system to go into such a depressed state that the body forgets to breathe. Without enough oxygen (hypoxia), the brain can become severely damaged. The longer someone goes without oxygen, the worse the damage can be.

    Certain parts of the brain are more sensitive to the immediate effects of oxygen deprivation. The frontal lobe is particularly at risk of damage when experiencing anoxia (zero oxygen reaching the brain), resulting in problems with executive functioning. Executive functioning refers to a set of mental skills in the areas of working memory, inhibitory control, and cognitive flexibility. If a person experiencing an overdose has a seizure, this can cause further damage to the brain.

    Toxic Brain Injury

    Substance use disorders and brain injuries go hand in hand. An estimated 25 percent of people who enter brain injury rehabilitation have had problems with drug use and half of people entering substance use treatment have experienced a brain injury. Each of these conditions makes the other worse. 

    Toxic brain injury is a term that has been coined to encapsulate the type of injuries that occur after an opioid overdose. It is also referenced under the category of acquired brain injuries, which include instances of brain damage that occur after someone is born but are not connected to degenerative or congenital diseases. 

    The white matter of the brain can sustain damage from repeated oxygen deprivation. The consequences of toxic brain injury increase if someone experiences multiple non-fatal opioid overdoses. Despite what we know about how overdoses can kill, there is scant literature regarding chronic health outcomes for people who have survived multiple overdoses. What research does exist focuses on brain injuries due to hypoxia/anoxia.

    From what we do know, certain areas of the brain are most likely to be harmed and can “lead to the development of severe disability.” These areas affect neurological processes; short-term memory loss, disorientation, even acute amnesia have been observed. Survivors may develop physical problems such as loss of control over bodily functions, lack of coordination, nerve damage and subsequent reduction in the ability to use a certain limb or body part, or even paralysis. Less severe but still serious symptoms include slower reaction times, motor skill disturbances, memory problems, and overall “diminished physical functioning.”

    Medical Treatment

    Only 3 out of 10 people who overdose on opioids and survive seek medical treatment for addiction. For every reported overdose death, there “may be five nonfatal overdoses, many of which go unreported.”

    This isn’t to say that anyone who has ever survived an overdose has brain damage, but rather that more research and advocacy needs to focus on surviving overdoses and how to best move forward with healing and increasing rates of recovery.

    NASHIA (National Association of State Head Injury Association) recommends that substance use disorder treatment services should be available and accessible for people who have sustained a brain injury. They also recommend that medical providers regularly screen patients for a history of brain injury and to ensure that people can receive treatment for any cognitive, behavioral, and/or physical disabilities due to a brain injury.

    Reducing overdoses is a critical aspect of preventing these kinds of chronic injuries. Once a person has one overdose, they’re more likely to have another, and that likelihood increases with each overdose. When available and implemented, harm reduction principles work to reduce this likelihood and improve outcomes. There is no one-size-fits-all approach to recovery from substance use disorder that will work for everyone. Harm reduction strategies like widespread use of naloxone improve the long-term health effects of an overdose.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Addressing the Opioid Epidemic: What the Research Says

    Addressing the Opioid Epidemic: What the Research Says

    Rehab? Safe injection sites? Sue Big Pharma? Find out how each of the Democratic presidential candidates plan to address and treat opioid use disorder, and which of these approaches are supported by evidence.

    Candidates favoring increased funding for and access to treatment

    Michael Bennet, Joe Biden, Cory Booker*, Pete Buttigieg, John Delaney, Amy Klobuchar, Bernie Sanders, Tom Steyer, Elizabeth Warren, Marianne Williamson*, Andrew Yang

    Candidates favoring harm reduction interventions

    Michael Bennet, Cory Booker, Pete Buttigieg, Amy Klobuchar, Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren

    Candidates favoring action against pharmaceutical companies

    Michael Bennet, Cory Booker, Pete Buttigieg, John Delaney, Tulsi Gabbard,  Amy Klobuchar, Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, Andrew Yang

    Candidates favoring interventions that target physician prescribing behavior

    John Delaney, Amy Klobuchar, Andrew Yang

    Candidates favoring decriminalization of possession of opioids

    Pete Buttigieg, Andrew Yang

    What the research says

    Access to treatment: Medication-assisted treatment is an evidence-based treatment for opioid use disorder; it has been shown to reduce the risk of overdose death for people who use opioids. Methadone, buprenorphine and naltrexone are types of medication-assisted therapy for opioid use disorder. These medications reduce symptoms of craving and withdrawal. A systematic review and meta-analysis of medication-assisted treatment find that people receiving such treatment were less likely to die of an overdose or other causes than their peers with opioid use disorder who did not receive medication-assisted treatment.

    Harm reduction: Harm reduction initiatives attempt to reduce the risks associated with using drugs. Such initiatives include needle exchange programs, widespread distribution of the opioid overdose antidote naloxone and supervised injection facilities. Supervised injection facilities, also known as safe injection sites or supervised consumption facilities, are not legal in the U.S. They exist legally in other countries, such as Canada and Australia, however.

    Several studies have demonstrated a positive link between safe injection site use and entry into treatment. Safe injection sites also provide benefits to people who use drugs in the form of sterilized equipment and supervision to mitigate the dangers of overdose.

    Over a dozen studies have linked needle exchanges with lower rates of hepatitis C and HIV infection among people who inject drugs.

    A systematic review of research on take-home naloxone programs, which provide people at risk of opioid overdose with kits including the antidote, concludes that “there is overwhelming support of take-home naloxone programs being effective in preventing fatal opioid overdoses.”

    The pharmaceutical industry: Big Pharma’s role in marketing opioids spurred physicians to prescribe more opioids, research shows. This, in turn, fueled the opioid epidemic the country faces today. Policies targeted toward Big Pharma include proposals to hold industry players liable for their role in the opioid epidemic with criminal penalties and fines.

    Decriminalization: The rationale behind decriminalization of the personal use of narcotics is that criminal penalties essentially criminalize substance use disorder. Proponents of decriminalization argue that such drug use should, instead, be met with evidence-based treatment. There is not much research on the effects of decriminalization because it’s rare. However, in 2001, Portugal decriminalized personal acquisition, possession and use of illicit drugs. Research indicates that drug-related deaths have fallen since the southwestern European country decriminalized illicit drugs.

    Physician-level interventions: These interventions target prescriber behavior. Examples include physician education programs, guidelines or restrictions on the quantity of opioids physicians can prescribe, and prescription monitoring programs that allow physicians to view patients’ prescription history to avoid overprescribing or illegitimate prescribing. While education and prescribing policies have curtailed prescribing habits, prescription monitoring programs have been less successful, studies indicate.

    Key context

    In late 2017, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services declared the nation’s opioid crisis a “public health emergency.” The problem has been building for over a decade, spurred by sharp increases in prescriptions for opioids, commonly used to treat both short-term and chronic pain.

    About 233.7 million opioid prescriptions were filled each year, on average, from 2006 to 2017, according to a March 2019 study in JAMA Network Open that looks at opioid prescriptions filled in retail pharmacies across the U.S.

    Prescription painkillers have a high risk of abuse — across the academic literature, rates of misuse among patients taking opioids for chronic non-cancer pain average between 21% and 29%. Research indicates that as of 2013, more than 2 million people in the U.S. had prescription opioid-related opioid use disorder.

    Prescription opioids can also pave the way for illegal drugs like heroinEighty percent of people who have used heroin have previously misused prescription opioids, according to an August 2013 analysis of national survey data collected from 2002 to 2011.

    As opioid use and misuse has increased, deaths linked to the drugs have increased. In 2017, opioids were involved in 47,600 drug overdose deaths, accounting for nearly 70% of all overdose deaths nationwide that year.

    Recent research

    Access to treatment:

    A review of randomized controlled trials comparing medication-assisted treatment of opioid use disorder to placebo or no medication finds that medication-assisted treatment “at least doubles rates of opioid-abstinence outcomes.”

    A study of 151,983 adults in England treated for opioid dependence between 2005 and 2009 finds that the risk of fatal drug overdose more than doubled for individuals who received only psychotherapy compared with those who received medication-assisted treatment.

    Harm Reduction:

    Two reviews — one published in Drug and Alcohol Dependence in 2014, and one published in Current HIV/AIDS Reports in 2017 indicate that supervised consumption facilities promote help people access treatment. The more recent review looks at 47 studies published between 2003 and 2017 on supervised drug consumption facilities. The authors find a handful of studies that demonstrate a positive link between safe injection site use and starting treatment.

    One of these studies compared enrollment in detoxification programs among those who used Vancouver’s supervised injection facility the year before and after it opened in 2003. Researchers find the facility’s opening was linked to a 30% increase in detox program use, which, in turn, was linked to pursuing long-term treatment and injecting at the facility less often. A later study of the injection facility focused on use of detox services located at the facility. It finds that 11.2% (147 people) used these services at least once over the two years studied. The authors conclude that supervised injection facilities might serve as a “point of access to detoxification services.”

    A 2006 study of 871 people who injected drugs finds no substantial increase in rates of relapse among former users before and after the Vancouver site opened. However, the researchers also find no substantial decrease in the rate of stopping drug use among current users before and after the site opened. Another study of 1,065 people at this facility published in 2007 finds that only one individual performed his or her first injection at the site.

    Though supervised injection sites are illegal in the U.S., one opened underground in 2014. Researchers interviewed those who used the underground site during its first two years of operation and their findings were published in 2017 in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine. The site’s users were asked the same set of questions about their use patterns every time they injected drugs at the site. The authors conclude that the site offered several benefits, including safe disposal of equipment, unrushed injections and immediate medical response to overdoses. The authors add that if the site were sanctioned, it might be able to offer additional benefits, including health care and other services.

    Big Pharma:

    Research suggests that physicians targeted with marketing from pharmaceutical companies prescribe opioids at higher rates than doctors not exposed to their marketing.

    Several studies use data from the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services’ Open Payments database, which tracks payments made by drug and medical device companies to physicians. That information is used to analyze how relationships between physicians and drug companies are linked to prescriptions written.

    These studies define opioid-related payments as cash payments — for example, speaking fees associated with promoting a drug — and payments-in-kind — free meals pharmaceutical representatives provide to doctors’ offices, for instance. These studies find that physicians who receive opioid-related payments tend to prescribe more opioids.

    A study in PLoS One from December 2018 looks at physicians who received opioid-related payments, some in 2014 and some in 2015, compared with doctors who never received such payments. The authors find that physicians who received opioid-related payments had a larger increase in the number of daily doses of opioids dispensed, as well as in total opioid expenditures, prescribing pricier opioids per dose.

    Another study looking at the same data offers further detail. The study, published in Addiction in June 2019, focuses on 865,347 physicians across the country who filled prescriptions for Medicare patients from 2014 to 2016. “Prescribers who received opioid-specific payments prescribed 8,784 opioid daily doses per year more than their peers who did not receive any such payments,” the authors write.

    Other research geographically links opioid marketing and opioid-related overdose mortality. The paper, published in JAMA Network Open in January 2019, analyzes county-level prescription opioid overdose deaths and county-level opioid marketing payments.

    The authors find that deaths from prescription opioid overdoses increased with each standard deviation increase in opioid marketing as measured by dollars spent per capita, number of payments to physicians per capita and number of physicians receiving payments per capita. Standard deviation indicates the variation of a given value from the average. “Opioid prescribing rates also increased with marketing,” the authors write. They note that the higher prescription rate might be why overdose deaths increased.

    Physician-level interventions:

    An August 2018 study published in Science highlights the role physician education might play in addressing the nation’s opioid crisis. The intervention was simple: When a patient died of an opioid overdose, the county medical examiner sent the prescribing physicians a letter notifying them. The authors conducted a randomized trial of 861 physicians whose patients overdosed. The intervention group received the letter, which included a safe prescribing warning consisting of these recommendations:

    • Avoid co-prescribing an opioid and a benzodiazepine.
    • Minimize opioid prescribing for acute pain.
    • Taper long-term users off opioids.
    • Avoid prescriptions lasting for three consecutive months or longer and prescribe naloxone, an opioid overdose antidote.

    The control group received no communication.

    Physicians in the intervention group cut their opioid prescribing by 9.7% — as measured by milligram morphine equivalents in prescriptions filled — in the three months after the letter was sent. These physicians also started fewer patients on opioids and wrote fewer high-dose prescriptions than the control group.

    Prescribing policies and guidelines also have successfully curbed physicians’ distribution of opioids.

    In October 2017, the Michigan Opioid Prescribing Engagement Network released opioid prescribing guidelines for nine surgical procedures to clinicians participating in the Michigan Surgical Quality Collaborative, a statewide initiative to improve surgical care.

    Researchers compared opioid prescribing before and after these guidelines were released, analyzing data from 11,716 patients across 43 hospitals collected from February 2017 to May 2018. They find that prescriptions declined, on average, from 26 pills to 18 pills per month after the guidelines were released.

    Patients also took fewer of the pills they were prescribed. As measured by patient-reported survey data, opioid consumption following surgery dropped from 12 pills to nine, “possibly as a result of patients anchoring and adjusting their expectations for opioid use to smaller prescriptions,” explain the authors of the August 2019 New England Journal of Medicine study. Although patients received smaller prescriptions and used fewer pills after the guidelines were published, there were no substantial changes in the patients’ satisfaction and pain scores.

    Similar to the study of Michigan’s opioid prescribing guidelines is a February 2018 study in the American Journal of Emergency Medicine that tracks the effects of an emergency department opioid prescribing policy. The policy resulted in declines in opioid prescriptions. Compared with the control emergency department, the two intervention hospitals had a more pronounced decline in opioid prescribing. The authors conclude that emergency department-based policies might help reduce opioid prescribing.

    Prescription drug monitoring programs, which allow physicians to view patients’ prescription history to avoid overprescribing or prescribing opioids to people who don’t actually need them, have been shown to be less effective. A January 2018 study of national data published in Addictive Behaviors finds that there were not statistically significant differences in the likelihood that physicians would prescribe opioids for chronic pain when comparing states with prescription drug monitoring programs with those without.

    Further reading

    General overview

    Modeling Health Benefits and Harms of Public Policy Responses to the US Opioid Epidemic

    Allison L. Pitt, Keith Humphreys and Margaret L. Brandeau. American Journal of Public Health, October 2019.

    The gist: “Policies focused on services for addicted people improve population health without harming any groups. Policies that reduce the prescription opioid supply may increase heroin use and reduce quality of life in the short term, but in the long term could generate positive health benefits. A portfolio of interventions will be needed for eventual mitigation.”

    Safe injection sites

    Attendance at Supervised Injecting Facilities and Use of Detoxification Services

    Evan Wood, Mark W. Tyndall, Ruth Zhang, Jo-Anne Stoltz, Calvin Lai, Julio S.G. Montaner and Thomas Kerr. New England Journal of Medicine, June 2006.

    The gist: A study of Vancouver’s supervised injection facility finds “an average of at least weekly use of the supervised injecting facility and any contact with the facility’s addictions counselor were both independently associated with more rapid entry into a detoxification program.”

    Injection Drug Use Cessation and Use of North America’s First Medically Supervised Safer Injecting Facility

    Kora DeBeck, Thomas Kerr, Lorna Bird, Ruth Zhang, David Marsh, Mark Tyndall, Julio Montaner and Evan Wood. Drug and Alcohol Dependence, January 2011.

    The gist: “These data indicate a potential role of SIF [supervised injecting facilities] in promoting increased uptake of addiction treatment and subsequent injection cessation.”

    “A Little Heaven in Hell”: The Role of a Supervised Injection Facility in Transforming Place

    Ehsan Jozaghi. Urban Geography, May 2013.

    The gist: “Participants’ narratives indicate that attending InSite [Vancouver’s supervised injection facility] has had numerous positive effects in their lives, including changes in sharing behavior, improving health, establishing social support and saving their lives.”

    Process and Predictors of Drug Treatment Referral and Referral Uptake at the Sydney Medically Supervised Injecting Centre

    Jo Kimber, Richard P. Mattick, John Kaldor, Ingrid Van Beek, Stuart Gilmour and Jake A. Rance. Drug and Alcohol Review, May 2009.

    The gist: Researchers conducted 1.5-year study at a supervised injection site in Sydney. They find that 16% of clients at the site referred to treatment by health and social welfare professionals went on to receive it, leading the authors to conclude that the center “engaged injecting drug users successfully in drug treatment referral and this was associated with presentation for drug treatment assessment and other health and psychosocial services.”

    Inability to Access Addiction Treatment and Risk of HIV Infection Among Injection Drug Users Recruited from a Supervised Injection Facility

    M.-J.S. Milloy, Thomas Kerr, Ruth Zhang, Mark Tyndall, Julio Montaner and Evan Wood. Journal of Public Health, September 2012.

    The gist: Many who use supervised injection facilities have the desire to access treatment. This study surveyed 889 people who were randomly selected to be surveyed at Vancouver’s supervised injection facility. “At each interview, ∼20 percent of respondents reported trying but being unable to access any type of drug or alcohol treatment in the previous 6 months,” the authors write. The main barrier to access, respondents said, was waiting lists for treatment.

    Big Pharma

    The Promotion and Marketing of OxyContin: Commercial Triumph, Public Health Tragedy

    Art Van Zee. American Journal of Public Health, February 2009.

    The gist: In the first six years it was on the market, Purdue Pharma spent about six to 12 times more to promote OxyContin than it had to promote another long-lasting opioid. The paper describes various marketing strategies including promotional giveaways and Pharma-funded medical education programs.

    Industry Payments to Physicians for Opioid Products, 2013-2015

    Scott E. Hadland, Maxwell S. Krieger and Brandon D. L. Marshall. American Journal of Public Health, September 2017.

    The gist: This study examines payments pharmaceutical companies make to physicians to market opioid products. The authors find that 375,266 opioid-related payments that weren’t related to research work were made to 68,177 physicians over the study period. The authors estimate that about 1 in 12 physicians in the U.S. received a payment from a pharmaceutical company to promote their opioid medications during the 29-month study period. The bulk of the money went toward speaking fees or honoraria, but the most common expense was food and beverages – 352,298 payments totaling $7,872,581.

    Association of Pharmaceutical Industry Marketing of Opioid Products to Physicians with Subsequent Opioid Prescribing

    Scott E. Hadland, Magdalena Cerdá, Yu Li, Maxwell S. Krieger and Brandon D. L. Marshall. JAMA Internal Medicine, June 2018.

    The gist: “Whereas physicians receiving no opioid-related payments had fewer opioid claims in 2015 than in 2014, physicians receiving such payments had more opioid claims,” the authors write.

    Physician-level interventions

    Differences in Opioid Prescribing Practices among Plastic Surgery Trainees in the United States and Canada

    David W. Grant, Hollie A. Power, Linh N. Vuong, Colin W. McInnes, Katherine B. Santosa, Jennifer F. Waljee and Susan E. Mackinnon. Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, July 2019.

    The gist: Plastic surgery trainees were asked about their opioid prescribing education, factors contributing to their prescribing practices and what they would prescribe for eight different procedures. The authors find that, of the 162 respondents, 25% of U.S. plastic surgery trainees received opioid-prescriber education, compared with 53% of Canadian trainees. For all but one of the eight procedures, U.S. physicians prescribed significantly more morphine milligram equivalents than their Canadian counterparts.

    Source list

    Caleb Alexander, professor and co-director of the Center for Drug Safety and Effectiveness. Johns Hopkins University.

    Michael L. Barnett, assistant professor. Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health.

    Chinazo Cunningham, professor. Albert Einstein College of Medicine.

    Scott Hadland, assistant professor. Boston University School of Medicine.

    David N. Juurlink, scientist. Sunnybrook Research Institute.

    Thomas Kerr, associate professor. The University of British Columbia.

     

    For more, check out JR’s long read on the opioid prescribing problem, our summary of research on where opioids are prescribed the most and our tip sheet for reporting on fentanyl and synthetic opioids.

    This piece adheres to suggestions offered by the National Institute on Drug Abuse’s media guide, which recommends language that avoids the potentially stigmatizing term “addict” in the context of substance use. It states: “In the past, people who used drugs were called ‘addicts.’ Current appropriate terms are people who use drugs and drug users.”

    *Dropped out of race since publication date.

    This article first appeared on Journalist’s Resource on December 9, 2019 and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

  • Opioid Crisis in U.S. Military Driven by Combat Exposure in the War on Terror, Research Finds

    Traumatic events that military personnel experience, even among those who don’t serve directly on the front lines, can increase opioid misuse, according to the paper.

    United States military service members who experience combat are more likely to misuse prescription painkillers than those who don’t engage in combat, according to a new working paper from the National Bureau of Economic Research.

    Prescription painkiller misuse is 7 percentage points higher among service members whose units were deployed to combat zones and engaged with enemy fighters, compared with those deployed to combat zones whose units didn’t engage the enemy, the authors find.

    “This study is the first to estimate the causal impact of combat deployments in the Global War on Terrorism on opioid abuse,” the authors write.

    They also find that younger, enlisted personnel are at greater risk for misusing prescription painkillers after combat exposure. Service members in the authors’ sample come from similar socioeconomic backgrounds. This suggests the association is driven by what happens on the battlefield, not other factors like race, ethnicity and income levels that have been broadly linked to opioid misuse.

    “Among military populations, combat is a very major reason for the opioid epidemic,” says Resul Cesur, an associate professor of healthcare economics at the University of Connecticut and one of the paper’s authors. “It’s not because of who these people are. It’s because of what they are being exposed to.”

    The authors conservatively estimate that government health care costs top $1 billion per year to treat active-duty service members and veterans who misuse prescription painkillers.

    While not all prescription painkillers are opioids, oxycodone, hydrocodone and other opioids are among those prescription painkillers generally most likely to be misused — compared with painkillers like nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, which typically aren’t thought to be addictive.

    “For this reason, I think these [prescription painkiller data] are very good proxies for what we want to capture,” Cesur says.

    Combat exposure is also associated with higher rates of heroin use, according to this paper. Looking at a different dataset, the authors find deployed service members who saw combat used heroin at a 1.4 percentage point higher rate than deployed service members who didn’t engage with enemy fighters. The authors identified the largest effects among service members in the Army, Marines and Navy, relative to service members in the Air Force. The government cost of treating active-duty service members and veterans who misuse heroin is nearly $500 million per year, the authors conservatively estimate.

    Enlisted Personnel Bear the Brunt

    The U.S. military has two distinct career tracks: enlisted personnel and commissioned officers. One of those tracks bears the brunt of the opioid crisis in the military, this research finds.

    Enlisted personnel perform tasks. They usually receive specialized training, and their specialties can vary widely. Enlisted personnel may scout a battlefield, or service biomedical equipment, or care for government-owned animals or perform any number of other specialties. A four-year degree is not required to enlist.

    Commissioned officers serve primarily as management. They handle operations and strategy and give orders to lower-ranked officers and enlisted personnel. Each branch of the military has slightly different paths toward becoming an officer, but most include having or obtaining a four-year college degree.

    In addition to having more formal education, officers also typically earn more money than enlisted personnel.

    Enlisted personnel account for nearly all of the association between combat exposure and painkiller misuse, the authors find. Of the nearly 2.8 million service members who have served overseas since 9/11, 86% were enlisted, according to a 2018 analysis by the RAND Corporation.

    “We find the effects among officers are almost zero,” Cesur says. Younger enlisted service members, age 18 to 24, who saw combat are also more likely to have misused painkillers, the authors find.

    Data Sources

    The authors draw their findings from two surveys of military service members.

    The first is the National Longitudinal Study of Adolescent and Adult Health, also called Add Health. This nationally representative survey originally interviewed about 20,000 adolescents in grades 7-12 during the 1994-1995 school year. Researchers asked about kids’ social and economic backgrounds, their performance in school and their psychological and physical well-being. They followed up with the original respondents during 2007-2008.

    From Add Health, the authors analyzed a sample of 482 men aged 28 to 34 who reported actively serving in the military during the Iraq and Afghanistan wars in the early- and mid-2000s. Detailed socioeconomic information allowed the authors to study respondents who had similar upbringings. This sample led to the finding that prescription painkiller misuse was 7 percentage points higher among service members whose units were deployed to combat zones and engaged with enemy fighters.

    The other, much larger sample was the 2008 Department of Defense Health and Related Behaviors Survey. This survey included nearly 30,000 active-duty service members aged 18 to 50. The authors’ sample included responses from 11,542 soldiers deployed overseas who provided information on recent prescription painkiller misuse. Respondents were also asked about other illicit drug use.

    This sample led to the finding that heroin use is higher among service members who experience combat, and to the broader finding that enlisted personnel account for almost all of the link between combat exposure and painkiller misuse.

    Men made up more than three-fourths of enlisted personnel who saw combat and responded to the DOD survey. Before 2013, women were not allowed to take up many frontline positions.

    Injury, Easy Supply and Peers

    The authors reason that soldiers might start using opioids for their original medical purpose: when warzone service members are injured, opioids can help manage their pain.

    Post-traumatic stress disorder also explains a big chunk of the relationship between combat exposure and painkiller abuse, Resul says. Traumatic events that military personnel experience, even among those who don’t serve directly on the front lines, can increase opioid misuse, according to the paper. In the authors’ DOD survey sample, 10% of active-duty deployed service members had PTSD.

    Another reason for opioid misuse among military personnel who saw combat could be that cheap, high-quality opioids were available in the very places service members were deployed in the 2000s. Opium poppy cultivation in Afghanistan grew steadily in the years after 9/11, according to data from the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime.

    “Opium production in Iraq was much rarer than in Afghanistan, but production in Iraq began to grow in the aftermath of Operation Iraqi Freedom,” the authors write. “Production appears to have accelerated during the period just before and during the so-called ‘surge’ of U.S. Armed Forces to Iraq in 2007-2008.”

    There may also be peer effects at play.

    “People go to combat zones and then see their colleague is using opioids because he is stressed,” Cesur says. “So that may be another pattern. Humans are social creatures and we copy from each other.”

    Veterans at Risk

    Programs aimed at reducing painkiller prescriptions to soldiers and veterans appear, so far, to be working.

    Opioid prescriptions from Department of Veterans Affairs doctors fell more than 40% from 2012 to 2017, according to the authors. This coincides with the VA’s Opioid Safety Initiative, which began in 2013 and aims to educate healthcare providers on the benefits and risks of prescribing opioids.

    The authors note that, “the reduction in opioid prescriptions to curb abuse may have the unintended consequence of reduced pain abatement for opioid users who do not suffer from addiction,” and that “sudden negative shocks to prescription painkillers could induce veterans to more dangerous, and perhaps deadly, forms of opioid use such as heroin or fentanyl if these drugs are substitutes.”

    Despite fewer painkiller prescriptions, the opioid overdose death epidemic among veterans is still very real — and appears to be getting worse. After troop surges in Afghanistan and Iraq in the late 2000s, opioid use disorders among veterans rose 55%, according to data the authors cite from the VA.

    Veterans broadly are twice as likely to die from accidental drug overdoses, according to one widelyandrecently cited study analyzing data from 2005 and published in 2011 in the journal Medical Care.

    More recent research in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine bolsters the premise that veterans remain particularly vulnerable to addiction. The rate of opioid overdose deaths among veterans in 2016 increased 65% from 2010, according to that paper — even as the percentage of veterans who received prescriptions for opioids in the three months before their deaths fell from 54% in 2010 to 26% in 2016.

    The authors of the new NBER paper cite evidence suggesting that medical marijuana could be an effective substitute for opioids in treating chronic pain. Medical marijuana may not play a straightforward role in easing the broader opioid epidemic, however. Research in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences from just a few months ago found — contrary to prior research — that opioid overdose death rates increased by nearly a quarter in states with legal medical marijuana.

    Can medical marijuana really play a role in easing the nation’s opioid epidemic? Here’s what the most recent research saysPlus, see the parts of the country where opioids are prescribed the most. And, America’s other drug epidemic. Last but not least, don’t miss these 10 rules for reporting on war trauma survivors, created in collaboration with our friends at The War Horse.

    This article first appeared on Journalist’s Resource and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

  • How I Stayed Sober Through College

    How I Stayed Sober Through College

    It took intense emotional, psychological, and physical energy to mourn my lifelong relationship with drugs and alcohol and process the trauma I had spent my life suppressing.

    I was lucky to get accepted into one of the top colleges in the U.S., but I brought with me a serious drug habit and alcoholism. In my first semester, I would down 3 ½ – 4 ½ bottles of cheap red wine in a night, paired with a combination of cocaine, angel dust, weed, and benzodiazepines. Most nights, I passed out by 8 pm and my friends slipped out to clubs without me. Two months into college, I started collecting write-ups for violating the school’s drug and alcohol policies, which snowballed until I hit my bottom. 

    The first sign that my style of “partying” was out of control was that three groups of friends each suddenly severed ties with me. I still don’t know what happened, but I can imagine, based on scenes I’ve snapped into from blackouts—my boyfriend trying to scream sense into me after I punched him in the face at a concert, rolling naked on the kitchen floor in a pile of broken glass while crying, friends dumping me on the doorsteps of psych wards. That’s how I partied.

    I somehow managed to squeak out mostly A’s in my first semester, but I struggled to show up. I was constantly handing in assignments late, rescheduling exams, and conjuring doctors’ notes to excuse excessive absences. I was oversleeping for classes and therapy appointments in the late afternoon. At the end of my first semester, my school forcibly relocated me to a new dormitory for erratic behavior and chronic drug use. 

    Friendless on campus, I turned to the local homeless population. That’s when I found heroin. It didn’t take long for consequences to reach a tipping point. Halfway through my second semester, I was arrested on two felonies and two misdemeanors after waking up next to my best friend’s lifeless body (she overdosed but was revived and survived). My school suspended me for a year, pending expulsion if I didn’t get sober. My probation officer pushed me into rehab and warned that if I left, he would send me to jail.

    I fought getting sober that entire year. But at the eleventh hour, something clicked and I suddenly wanted recovery. I abruptly left the dilapidated drug den I was living in and ran to AA meetings. I only had 30 days when a school psychiatrist evaluated if I could be readmitted. I think they saw that despite the little time I had, I was serious about sobriety. I was; I’m still sober 11 years later. And I only got through those first years of sobriety while in college because of the life I built and resolutely maintained.

    Solutions for Sobriety

    Getting suspended from student housing for two years was a blessing in disguise. I instead commuted from my family’s home an hour from school, which made it easier to build a new life free of drugs and alcohol and kept me far from the parties that were definitely happening back in the dorms. I made friends with everyone in my local AA groups; fortunately, there was a community of sober young people in my area. Those friendships showed me that I could have more fun sober than I could while using, and I was never pressured or tempted to relapse. Between classes, I went to local meetings and established a second support system at school.

    The first two and a half years of sobriety were my most challenging. I struggled with cravings every day, so I kept recovery literature with me at all times. In the streets of New York City on any given night, I was confronted with scenes of the cunning fantasy of social drinking, passing by clusters of casual drinkers jovially sharing laughs over sparkling cocktails at posh outdoor lounges. I often walked past clouds of weed smoke and stepped over empty dime bags. Like so many of us reintegrating back into society in early sobriety, temptation was everywhere, despite my careful avoidance of people and places that I associated with using. But I always had silent support from a Grapevine or copy of Living Sober conveniently stashed among my schoolbooks for when I couldn’t call someone. 

    I also developed the self-respect to walk away from situations when I was uncomfortable, like changing seats on the train when passengers were sipping liquor concealed in brown paper bags, or switching tables at a restaurant because nearby diners were drinking. For the first year, I took detours around the blocks where my homeless friends sat so I wouldn’t risk running into them. These extra buffers and barriers made it easier for me to keep my sobriety amidst incessant cravings.

    I shamelessly shared that I was sober with professors and classmates, so that when I had the opportunity to study abroad in Istanbul at two years sober, my professor helped make sure I got to and from AA meetings and fellowship in a city where I didn’t speak the language and didn’t have a cell phone. My study abroad classmates frequented clubs after class and drank during meals, so every effort helped since I had only e-mail contact with my sponsor and network. 

    I would have similar conversations with classmates when we planned group work outside of class. They always agreed to meet during the day at school lounges, libraries, or cafés when I asked. Strategies that kept alcohol out of sight proved to be the safest for me in early sobriety. During my last semester, I got to help form a recovery group for students at my school. These organizations are common on campuses now, and some schools even offer sober housing. 

    It took intense emotional, psychological, and physical energy to mourn my lifelong relationship with drugs and alcohol and process the trauma I had spent my life suppressing. After I got sober, I re-enrolled part-time in college and completed my bachelor’s degree over six years. My diligence paid off: I graduated Magna Cum Laude and immediately began a full-time position in my chosen field.

    Graduate School

    Five years after receiving my bachelor’s, I realized my career didn’t match what I finally discovered was my purpose and calling in life. After six months of meditating, therapy, and weighing feedback from my sober network, I left my steady career job and started graduate school. Unexpectedly, my new school hosted a heavier drinking culture than my undergraduate campus. The omnipresent partying frequently left me in uncomfortable situations with my recovery feeling tenuous. Everything involved alcohol, including lab assignments and fieldwork excursions. The school even hosted weekly drinking socials, with most students slurring and stumbling by 8pm. When my cohort got together several times a week, the event always included hard drinking. 

    I realized on the first night of orientation that I would need to double down on recovery again. Even though I entered graduate school with nine years of sobriety, I treated myself with the same care and caution as I did in undergrad as a newcomer. During graduate school, I felt I had no business in a place where the main activity focused on alcohol. When I’m tense or upset, the glamor of psychological escape can suddenly seem desirable. As an alcoholic, I know I have no defense against that first drink if my spiritual condition is anything less than fit that day. 

    Adding to the constant stress of endless coursework, my career change challenged my self-esteem, confidence, and self-worth. I rarely felt grounded. As a result, I only saw my cohort outside of class when I felt absolutely secure in my sobriety. I didn’t form as close of bonds with them as they did with each other, but I made a concerted effort to be fully present when we were in class or working in our offices. Though I wish I could have gotten closer to them, I don’t regret honoring the boundaries I had set to care for my recovery.

    I didn’t have to entirely avoid being around drinking; I just had to distinguish the acceptable conditions. If an event would be beneficial to my studies or career, I only went at the beginning when attendees were adequately sober and constructive conversations were possible. Cocktail receptions and academic conferences felt safe because professional networking was the main purpose, and the pressure to perform distracted me from the drinking. I found comfort in idly sipping on water throughout the night as others do with their wine or cocktails. And as attendees became tipsy, I remained articulate, poised, and professional, and carried impressively intellectual conversations in the eyes of the inebriated. If the night turned into a party, my cue to leave was when people started talking loudly and laughing infectiously at nothing intelligible. At that point, I couldn’t connect with anyone and there was little left for me to do there. If the drinkers stayed only mildly tipsy, I ended up enjoying getting to know them because they were relaxed enough to reciprocate the deeper conversations I’m accustomed to in recovery.

    I was lucky that my school already had a strong student recovery group that held meetings several times a week and frequent sober outings. They became my friends because I didn’t mesh with the local 12-step meetings. At this point in my recovery, AA had sadly become monotonous for me, but I was still committed to sobriety. I wanted to dive deeper into healing the trauma, childhood wounds, and character defects that continued to hamper effective relationships with myself and those around me. Over the years, I found guidance and wisdom in self-help books, A Course in Miracles, Refuge Recovery, Kundalini yoga, Western astrology, and Buddhist meditation. So in graduate school, I crafted a program of self-reflection and accountability around these practices, which doubled as solutions for stress management. 

    I also stayed close to my networks where I got sober. Those women remain my dearest friends and strongest support. I worked closely with spiritual advisors until I found a local sponsor. Strengthening my program was critical because graduate school was emotionally demanding. It required at least twice the amount of work as my undergrad classes; it wasn’t even possible to complete all the assignments each week. The psychological strain combined with a busy schedule left little time for much else. I quickly recognized the need for self-care and balanced it with the coursework I would be graded on. I went to my favorite exercise classes at least twice a week, also setting aside time to rest and prioritizing a full night’s sleep. 

    At the end of the day, all the effort paid off. I recently received my Master’s degree at 11 years sober and it is one of my most proud accomplishments. I graduated with a higher quality of life, stronger sense of self, and more solid sobriety than I imagined were possible, thanks to the unique challenges I had to face in the process of obtaining each degree.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • The Pharmacy, the Pills and the Crisis

    The Pharmacy, the Pills and the Crisis

    Walgreens acted as its own distributor and, according to a lawsuit, failed to report suspicious orders of pain pills and prevent diversion to the black market.

    By Jenn Abelson, Aaron Williams, Andrew Ba Tran, Meryl Kornfield, Investigative Reporting Workshop

    At the height of the opioid epidemic, Walgreens handled nearly one out of every five oxycodone and hydrocodone pills shipped to pharmacies across America.

    Walgreens dominated the nation’s retail opioid market from 2006 through 2012, buying about 13 billion pills — 3 billion more than CVS, its closest competitor, according to a Drug Enforcement Administration database of opioid shipments. Over those years, Walgreens more than doubled its purchases of oxycodone.

    The company had “runaway growth” of oxycodone sales because it continued to send pills to stores “without limit or review,” Edward Bratton, Walgreens manager of pharmaceutical integrity, wrote to another employee in 2013. The email is among thousands of documents recently disclosed in a federal lawsuit that seeks to hold Walgreens and other businesses responsible for the nation’s opioid crisis.

    While most chain and independent pharmacies relied heavily on wholesalers to supply their prescription opioids, Walgreens obtained 97 percent of its pain pills directly from drug manufacturers, a Washington Post analysis of the data shows. This arrangement allowed Walgreens to have more control over how many pain pills it sent to its stores.

    By acting as its own distributor, Walgreens took on the responsibility of alerting the DEA to suspicious orders by its own pharmacies and stopping those shipments. Instead, about 2,400 cities and counties nationwide allege that Walgreens failed to report signs of diversion and incentivized pharmacists with bonuses to fill more prescriptions of highly addictive opioids.

    From 2006 through 2012, Walgreens ordered 31 percent more oxycodone and hydrocodone pills per store on average than CVS pharmacies, and 73 percent more than other pharmacies nationwide, according to The Post’s analysis of the DEA database, known as the Automation of Reports and Consolidated Orders System (ARCOS).

    When Walgreens considered surveying its pharmacies in Florida in 2011 to identify questionable pain pill customers, a company attorney advised caution: “If these are legitimate indicators of inappropriate prescriptions perhaps we should consider not documenting our own potential noncompliance,” according to an email disclosed in the case.

    In 2012, a drug distributor produced a report for Walgreens that flagged nearly half of the chain’s roughly 8,000 stores for dispensing high numbers of controlled substances, including oxycodone, court records show.

    After warnings from the DEA, Walgreens agreed in 2013 to pay $80 million — a record settlement for the agency at the time — to resolve allegations that the company failed to sufficiently report suspicious orders and negligently allowed controlled substances, such as oxycodone and other prescription pain medications, to be diverted for abuse and illegal black market sales.

    The large volume of pills flowing into Walgreens pharmacies made some stores targets for crime, including armed robberies and employee theft, according to police officials, board of pharmacy records and other published reports. In 2014, a pharmacy technician who stole about 25,000 pain pills from a Walgreens in Missouri told state investigators that another employee gave him instructions on how to pilfer the pills and sell them during breaks in the store bathroom and pharmacy parking lot.

    Now, Walgreens is one of the holdouts in the federal suit playing out in Cleveland after other major distributors and drug manufacturers reached a settlement with two Ohio counties on Oct. 21. The trial for Walgreens was postponed until next year. CVS and other major pharmacy chains are also defendants.

    “Because Walgreens had full visibility into all dispensing related information necessary to reveal red flags and criteria of suspicion, Walgreens might even be viewed as more culpable due to the wealth [of] data at its complete disposal,” the plaintiffs allege.

    “Walgreens might even be viewed as more culpable due to the wealth [of] data at its complete disposal.”

    The company denied that it incentivized pharmacists to inappropriately fill prescriptions and defended its practices in statements.

    “Walgreens is completely unlike the wholesalers involved in the national opioid litigation. We never sold opioid medications to pain clinics, internet pharmacies or the ‘pill mills’ that fueled the national opioid crisis,” the company said. “We never marketed or promoted opioid medications.”

    Walgreens also said the pain pill data is “misleading” because the records are seven years old and the chain stopped the internal distribution of controlled substances to its pharmacies in 2014.

    Employees were “incredibly diligent and careful” to ensure that pharmacies were not involved in diversion, the company said. “We proudly stand by our pharmacy professionals and their record of professional judgment and patient care.”

    A Directed Effort’ To Increase Sales

    Walgreens traces its roots to 1901, when Charles Walgreen Sr. pulled together enough money for a down payment on the pharmacy where he worked on Chicago’s South Side. He shook up the business by adding more merchandise and making some of the drugs himself to keep prices low.

    His model was successful, and over the next two decades he opened about 20 stores. Today, the company operates 9,277 pharmacies in all 50 states and the District of Columbia.

    As the demand for opioids increased in the early 2000s, Walgreens expanded its internal distribution network. The company added two facilities in Ohio and Florida that had special security to handle controlled substances, including oxycodone. It was an advantage over CVS, which relied entirely on outside suppliers for the medication.

    In 2006, though, regulators found problems with Walgreens’s distribution network. In May of that year, the DEA sent the company a letter detailing record-keeping and security deficiencies that the agency discovered during an investigation at the Walgreens facility in Perrysburg, Ohio, according to documents filed in the Cleveland court case.

    The DEA said Walgreens had an “insufficient” system for reporting suspicious orders of controlled substances. At the time, Walgreens identified questionable orders by analyzing the average daily prescriptions filled by stores in groups of 25, an internal memo shows. The DEA told the company that the size, pattern and frequency of orders should instead be used to flag suspicious ones.

    Two years later, Walgreens conducted an internal audit of its Perrysburg facility and discovered officials there had not properly overhauled the suspicious-order system to comply with the DEA. The audit, filed in court, noted this was an issue at all company distribution centers and “should be addressed to avoid potential DEA sanctions.”

    In 2009, Walgreens began testing a new method at several stores that identified suspicious orders based on order size and frequency. But an internal company document filed in court stated that Walgreens was “capturing data but not cutting orders.”

    As the opioid crisis deepened, the DEA stepped up enforcement against drug manufacturers, distributors and pharmacies. The agency again turned its attention to Walgreens and threatened in a 2009 letter to revoke the registration of a store in San Diego.

    A DEA investigation found that the San Diego store on Midway Drive had filled prescriptions issued by doctors who weren’t licensed in California. It also had dispensed prescriptions to people the pharmacy “knew or should have known were diverting the controlled substances,” agency enforcement records show. One customer over seven months obtained prescriptions for hydrocodone issued by four Florida physicians — an indication that she was “doctor-shopping” to procure pain pills, the DEA record shows.

    In April 2011, Walgreens entered into an agreement with the DEA to settle the case. The company promised to maintain a program to detect and prevent diversion of controlled substances from its stores across the country.

    The DEA would later discover that Walgreens had been engaged in “a directed effort to increase oxycodone sales,” agency records show. In a July 29, 2010, email, Walgreens sent out a spreadsheet to managers ranking all Florida pharmacies on their oxycodone dispensing with the instruction to “look at the stores on the bottom end . . . We need to make sure we aren’t turning legitimate scripts away.”

    Meanwhile, changes in the state’s laws over the years had shifted sales of prescription opioids from pain clinics to pharmacies. Soon the chain was grappling with a surge of pain pill customers in Florida.

    Kristine Atwell, who managed distribution of controlled substances at Walgreens’s Jupiter facility, had emailed corporate headquarters urging that stores justify their large volumes, including one pharmacy that ordered 3,271 bottles of oxycodone in a 40-day period.

    “I don’t know how they can even house this many bottle(s) to be honest,” Atwell wrote in early 2011 in an email previously reported on in The Post.

    A few months later, Walgreens decided to review the “significant increase” in controlled substance prescriptions in Florida, according to company emails filed in court.

    As part of its broader business initiative called “Florida Focus on Profit,” Walgreens officials discussed surveying some of its pharmacies. The proposed questions included, “Do pain management clinic patients come all at once or in a steady stream?” and “Do you see an increase in pain management prescriptions on the day the warehouse order is received?”

    But Dwayne Pinon, a Walgreens attorney, warned against “documenting our own potential noncompliance” and the questions were dropped from the survey, court records show. Pinon, through a company spokesman, declined to comment.

    Walgreens eventually renamed the survey effort “Focus on Compliance” after an employee in an email questioned the “Focus on Profit” title.

    For the first half of 2011, Walgreens accounted for 100 of the top 300 pharmacies in oxycodone purchases in Florida, and some of these company stores bought more than double the average amount of the opioid obtained by other pharmacies in the state, according to DEA enforcement records.

    For the first half of 2011, Walgreens accounted for 100 of the top 300 pharmacies in oxycodone purchases in Florida.

    Agency investigators met with Walgreens officials that August to express concerns about the high volume of pills. In advance of the meeting, Walgreens sent a disc to the DEA with a file labeled “suspicious drug” orders.

    “This gobbledygook is impossible to read and I stopped printing it when it reached 2” [inches] thick,” a DEA investigator wrote in an email to her colleagues after the meeting. “Obviously this is unacceptable.”

    Days after the DEA meeting, Walgreens devised a plan to restrict a store in Hudson, Fla., to a monthly 100 bottles of 30-milligram oxycodone, one of the most coveted pain pills on the black market because of its potency, according to DEA enforcement records. But the pharmacy routinely exceeded the limit, procuring 331 bottles in September 2011, 371 bottles in October, 200 bottles in November and 263 bottles in December, DEA enforcement records show.

    Some Walgreens stores attracted so many pain pill customers that the pharmacies had to hire security or call the police.

    In Oviedo, Fla., large crowds began waiting for the Walgreens on Lockwood Boulevard to open. Between August 2010 and November 2011, Oviedo police responded to 17 incidents at that location, arresting 35 people for charges related to controlled substances.

    Oviedo Police Chief Jeffrey Chudnow wrote dozens of letters and contacted Walgreens’s chairman and chief executive in March 2011 to plead for help and let them know the pharmacy parking lots at two company stores in the city had “become a bastion of illegal drug sales and drug use.”

    Chudnow, who has since retired, told The Post that he never received a response.

    The Lockwood Boulevard store doubled the number of 30-milligram oxycodone pills it ordered from 73,300 in March 2011 to 145,400 pills in July 2011, according to the DEA data. The Post and HD Media, which publishes the Charleston Gazette-Mail in West Virginia, fought a year-long legal battle for access to the DEA database.

    Nationwide, the explosion in pain pills helped fuel crime. Armed robberies spiked at independent and chain pharmacies. Some stores were repeatedly targeted.

    In Michigan, a Walgreens pharmacist purchased a gun to protect himself after the company refused to improve security following a 2007 robbery, the pharmacist alleged in a lawsuit. In 2011, the pharmacist shot at two masked gunmen during a robbery attempt on an overnight shift. No one was harmed, but the pharmacist was fired and sued Walgreens.

    Later that year, an armed gunman who fled after demanding painkillers at a Walgreens in Tennessee prompted a lockdown at nearby schools, according to police. In Colorado Springs, robbers hit multiple Walgreens pharmacies 14 times in 2011 and seven times in February 2012.

    Gaps in the System

    As pharmacy robberies made headlines, the DEA escalated its investigation of Walgreens. The agency served warrants on six stores scattered across Florida and the Jupiter distribution center in spring 2012.

    Walgreens responded by slashing shipments of opioids to the six stores. In the event of the DEA shutting down the Jupiter location, the chain planned to shift distribution to outside suppliers and its Perrysburg, Ohio, facility, the same one the DEA had cited in 2006, according to company emails filed in the court case.

    During a meeting with the DEA, Walgreens told the agency it wanted to “cooperate and avoid litigation,” as stated in an internal company presentation from July 2012.

    Walgreens officials detailed steps the chain was taking to address the DEA’s concerns, including updated training for pharmacists to identify suspicious prescriptions. The company said while its suspicious-order monitoring program “did not automatically halt suspicious orders upon identifying them, it did systematically decrease [controlled substance] order quantities if the quantity ordered exceeded certain thresholds.”

    Later that summer, DEA investigators interviewed pharmacists at Walgreens stores in Fort Pierce, Fla.

    The DEA found that one of the pharmacists had filled at least seven oxycodone prescriptions issued by a Miami gynecologist, ignoring warnings other employees had left about the doctor in pharmacy records, including: “FAKE CII DO NOT FILL ANY CII CANDY DR.”

    The note referred to doctors who appeared to be writing bogus prescriptions for substances listed on Schedule II of the Controlled Substances Act.

    Questioned by the DEA about the prescriptions, the pharmacist said, “We should not have filled them,” according to agency enforcement records.

    In September 2012, the DEA employed its most severe enforcement action: Agents padlocked a vault containing oxycodone and other controlled substances at the Walgreens distribution center in Jupiter and later threatened to revoke the registrations of the six pharmacies.

    Walgreens responded by launching a task force and discussing ways to tighten up oversight of opioids distributed to its stores.

    When pharmacies hit limits imposed by Walgreens, they could still transfer pills from other stores or order from outside suppliers, court records show. Pharmacies could also find workarounds by placing special PDQ orders, meaning “pretty darn quick,” from Walgreens internal network.

    The company proposed eliminating PDQ orders for oxycodone, but Kermit Crawford, then a top executive at Walgreens who oversaw the pharmacy business, objected to the change.

    “I was not under the impression this was a done deal. Concerned we are ‘all or none,’ ” Crawford wrote in an Oct. 1, 2012, email disclosed in the case. “We have to do what’s right for patients also.”

    Crawford, who later became president and chief operating officer of the Rite Aid chain, declined to comment.

    At the same time, Walgreens wrestled with other gaps in the system.

    In October 2012, a Walgreens pharmacy in Modesto, Calif., came under scrutiny because it was purchasing about 17,500 pills containing hydrocodone per week, putting the drugstore “over the corporate limit” of the number of pills it was permitted to order, according to a company email cited in court records.

    To obtain more hydrocodone, the Modesto pharmacy, on McHenry Avenue, ordered pills from the distributor Cardinal Health, the document noted. When that set off red flags at Cardinal Health, the store transferred opioids from nearby Walgreens pharmacies, procuring so many pills that it led to shortages at the other stores.

    Walgreens conducted an investigation and discovered “employee pilferage” and fired an employee, company emails filed in court show. The Modesto pharmacy also stopped filling prescriptions from two local doctors.

    Cardinal Health, which had paid a $34 million fine in 2008 to settle allegations that it failed to report suspicious orders, declined to answer questions about the Modesto orders and said, “We are proud of our rigorous analytics system, including conservative, customer-specific thresholds, that we use to spot, stop, and report to our regulators any opioid order that is suspicious.”

    The McHenry Avenue Walgreens was the single largest purchaser of pain pills in the entire Walgreens chain from 2006 through 2012, and one out of every five oxycodone pills ordered was a 30-milligram tablet, The Post’s analysis found. Robbers targeted the store five times for prescription opioids from 2016 through 2018, police said.

    Walgreens said demand for opioids at the pharmacy was driven by hospitals, surgery centers and other pain treatment facilities in the area.

    “Walgreens thoroughly investigated concerns regarding this Modesto pharmacy after Cardinal raised them,” Walgreens said in its statement. “We found that the pharmacy was fully complying with all applicable internal policies and procedures for filling prescriptions for controlled substances.”

    A Dramatic Step

    In November 2012, drug distributor Anda analyzed nearly 1.3 billion pills, including oxycodone, handled by Walgreens. The review “flagged” 3,768 of the chain’s pharmacies for dispensing high numbers of controlled substances in all 50 states, as well as Puerto Rico and Washington, D.C., court records show. The report, filed with redactions, identified 226 of 253 stores in Arizona, 64 of 69 pharmacies in Oregon and all 14 stores in Maine.

    Drug manufacturer Teva Pharmaceutical, which owns Anda, declined to comment.

    Soon after, Walgreens launched a new division called pharmacy integrity. Tasha Polster, who had served on the company’s task force, was tapped to lead that effort. (Polster is not related to Judge Dan Aaron Polster, who is presiding over the federal lawsuit).

    In December 2012, Polster emailed Dan Doyle, a Walgreens finance executive, and said without elaborating that the DEA was alleging the company’s suspicious-order monitoring program was “inadequate.” The DEA, she wrote in the email recently disclosed in court, was “demanding civil penalties, potentially totaling hundreds of millions of dollars.”

    Polster requested a team of a dozen people to review controlled substance orders before Walgreens shipped the drugs to its pharmacies.

    “The Company has enhanced its suspicious order monitoring program for controlled substances in an effort to convince DEA that the proposed penalty is excessive and that our new processes will ensure that similar incidents do not recur,” Polster wrote.

    A Walgreens spokesman said Polster and Doyle, who still work for the company, declined to comment.

    By the end of 2012, Walgreens’s orders of pain pills containing oxycodone and hydrocodone dipped to 2.2 billion from its peak of 2.4 billion the previous year, ARCOS data shows.

    But the DEA continued to investigate. In February 2013, the agency served a warrant and inspected the Perrysburg distribution center.

    In response, Walgreens halted shipments of controlled substances from Perrysburg. It was a dramatic move that Walgreens hoped would “eliminate any immediate need for further DEA administrative action,” three lawyers representing Walgreens wrote in a Feb. 20, 2013, letter to DEA officials that was filed in the court case.

    At first, Walgreens turned to Cardinal Health to distribute controlled substances to its pharmacies. But Cardinal Health had “red flagged” 367 Walgreens stores and would not ship to them because “they are considered suspicious,” according to internal emails between Walgreens employees.

    Cardinal Health, one of the defendants that recently reached a settlement in the national opioid litigation, did not respond to questions about its refusal to send pills to these Walgreens pharmacies.

    Walgreens soon found another distribution partner, AmerisourceBergen. In March 2013, Walgreens announced a deal that gave it an ownership stake in AmerisourceBergen in exchange for a distribution agreement.

    As the DEA investigations pressed on, Walgreens stopped filling pharmacy orders for opioids that exceeded certain limits, according to company documents filed in court.

    This prompted pill shortages and irate customers who complained to a corporate hotline.

    In June 2013, a pharmacy manager in Greenville, N.C., emailed the pharmacy integrity division that she had run out of oxycodone a week earlier and told customers the drugs would arrive that day. When the pills didn’t show up, she wrote that “luckily” she found bottles at another local Walgreens, court records show.

    “I placed a PDQ order for oxycodone . . . (one bottle will NOT be sufficient) – please send us this order ASAP! We are losing business over this!”

    The next day, Steven Mills, with the pharmacy integrity division, responded that PDQs should be used only in “an emergency situation.”

    “You have to realize the reason why we have issues with the DEA today, is due the high amounts of Oxycodone distributions over the past 3 years,” Mills wrote back in an email. “We had to create limits to all stores which protects the integrity of the Pharmacist, DEA license, and the Walgreen Company as a whole.”

    Half of the pain pills ordered by the Greenville store were oxycodone — nearly twice the average of all other pharmacies across the country, according to The Post’s analysis of DEA data from 2006 through 2012. Police said robbers targeted the store earlier this year and stole prescription pills, including opioids.

    The company said the Greenville pharmacy’s orders “were a legitimate reflection of the demands caused by its particular location and market, and Walgreens is unaware of any diversion of prescription pain medication at that pharmacy.” Mills, who still works at Walgreens, declined to comment through a company spokesman.

    On June 11, 2013, the DEA announced Walgreens had agreed to pay an $80 million civil penalty to resolve federal allegations that the pharmacy chain failed to sufficiently report suspicious orders and that the failure was a “systematic practice that resulted in at least tens of thousands of violations,” records show.

    In a statement at the time of the settlement, Crawford, of Walgreens’s pharmacy division, said, “As the largest pharmacy chain in the U.S., we are fully committed to doing our part to prevent prescription drug abuse.”

    Under the agreement, Walgreens admitted that it failed to uphold its obligations under the law and agreed to surrender its DEA registration for the Jupiter distribution center and six stores in Florida until 2014. The settlement addressed the claims in Florida and resolved open civil investigations into Walgreens by U.S. attorneys in Colorado, Michigan and New York, as well as other DEA field offices nationwide.

    In Colorado, federal investigators had identified over 1,600 violations of the Controlled Substances Act at Walgreens stores, including fraudulent prescriptions and the dispensing of controlled substances to customers without a prescription, according to the U.S. attorney’s office in Colorado.

    Employee Theft

    Walgreens eventually stopped the internal distribution of oxycodone and hydrocodone, although the company continued to purchase controlled substances from outside suppliers. The chain also removed sales of opioids from its bonus calculations for pharmacists, according to court records.

    The company declined to explain the change, but said dispensing volume was “one of many factors” used to determine bonuses. “The nominal compensation factor in question in no way incentivized pharmacists to inappropriately fill prescriptions for any medication,” Walgreens said.

    Although Walgreens had imposed limits on the number of opioid pills pharmacies could order, stores could submit override requests if they needed more.

    During 2014 and 2015, the company approved more than 95 percent of these override requests from stores for controlled substances — totaling thousands of orders — and boosted its overall sales of oxycodone, according to an internal presentation filed in court.

    As the pain pills kept flowing, so did problems with diversion. In 2015, Walgreens reported to the DEA that nearly 2 million doses of controlled substances were stolen or lost — a 16 percent increase from the previous year, documents filed in court show.

    Employee theft accounted for the largest share of missing pills, nearly one-third, followed by armed robberies and “unexplained loss,” the documents say. Pills containing oxycodone and hydrocodone topped the list.

    Walgreens’s business practices have drawn scrutiny from state regulators, as well. The boards that license the individual stores and pharmacists have documented problems at company stores such as inadequate security, delays in reporting thefts, inaccurate audits of controlled substances and insufficient vetting of employees.

    In Missouri, Walgreens employees allegedly have pilfered at least 138,000 pills containing hydrocodone and oxycodone from 19 stores since 2005, according to state board records. One of these cases involved a pharmacy technician at Walgreens who stole about 7,500 pain pills in summer 2016 and told investigators that she knew “how easy it would be” to take handfuls of pills and evade security cameras.

    The Post examined 67 investigations in 12 states in which pharmacy boards censured Walgreens or placed pharmacies on probation for violating state regulations, including inadequate security and theft of drugs. In some instances, the company had to pay fines.

    In July, Walgreens agreed to pay a $335,000 fine after the California State Board of Pharmacy discovered that the company had allowed a woman without a pharmacy degree or license to dispense prescriptions for over a decade.

    The employee, Kim Thien Le, had worked at Walgreens since 1999, rising from pharmacy cashier to pharmacy manager in 2016. She used the license numbers of other pharmacists to dispense 745,355 prescriptions at 395 pharmacies, including some remotely. In all, Le filled more than 100,000 prescriptions for controlled substances, such as oxycodone, hydrocodone and fentanyl, according to state records.

    Le, who was charged this summer with three felonies alleging she falsely impersonated licensed pharmacists, has a court date in January. An attorney representing Le declined to comment.

    The fine paid by Walgreens is one of the largest in the board’s history.

    Walgreens declined to answer questions about Le and other enforcement actions.

    “We take great pride in the judgment and patient care of our 28,000 pharmacists,” the company said. “In the event of a rare and isolated instance when we learn of an employee acting improperly, we act swiftly to address the matter and cooperate fully with law enforcement.”

    This story was originally published by the Investigative Reporting Workshop, a nonprofit,  nonpartisan newsroom at the American University School of Communication.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • When Disaster Strikes: Opioid Use Spikes in the Wake of Hurricanes and Fires

    When Disaster Strikes: Opioid Use Spikes in the Wake of Hurricanes and Fires

    For some people already struggling with opioid addiction, a natural disaster may cause a relapse – even an overdose.

    Before the Camp Fire, Steve Caput saw about one overdose per week. Usually opioids, sometimes meth.

    Then, in November of 2018, the Camp Fire ripped through the Northern California towns of Paradise and Magalia, killing 85 people – many of them older and disabled – and burning nearly 19,000 structures.

    Beginning in December or January, the former Butte County paramedic started seeing “an absolute uptick in just constant opioid overdose.”

    In January, more than a dozen people at a house in Chico were involved in a mass overdose. While several people were treated with naloxone – an opioid-reversing drug – one died, and the incident shook Butte County.

    Caput was on the scene – “it was just absolute chaos,” he said – and, during his last week working in Butte County, he saw three overdoses in three days.

    “People, they don’t care anymore, they’ve just given up,” he said.

    Eventually, Caput left to work as a paramedic in South Lake Tahoe, tired of what he described as a drastic increase in calls of all kinds.

    “You just get burned out,” he said.

    Latonya Narcisse, a licensed chemical dependency counselor at Gulf Coast Health Center in Port Arthur, has been working with opioid-addicted patients for ten years.

    After Hurricane Harvey in 2017 and the 2019 flooding caused by Hurricane Imelda, she observed a significant increase in opioid abuse.

    People who’d been sober for over a year relapsed from disaster-related stress. Recreational users spiraled into addiction. Patients in treatment for opioid addiction, unable to make it to the clinic, turned to heroin. “The drug becomes your coping mechanism,” she said.

    And in Caguas, Puerto Rico, a psychologist treating opioid addiction, noticed a similar uptick. Hurricane Maria had hit Puerto Rico as a Category 4 storm in 2017, creating an estimated $90 billion in damage and causing the deaths of about 3,000 people.

    “After the hurricane, we didn’t have electricity, we didn’t have water, we didn’t have food. People lost their homes,” said Dr. Luis Roman, director of mental health services at Corporacion SANOS, a health center that offers medication-assisted treatment for patients addicted to opioids.

    “In people who [had previously] used drugs, that increased the relapse in their use of opioids, and other drugs, too.”

    James Moore, an emergency room doctor at Enloe Medical Center in Chico, hesitated to draw hard conclusions about what he’s seen since the Camp Fire, but he did offer a similar speculation: “I don’t know if a tragedy would necessarily get people started on opioids,” he said. “My guess is that patients with previous experience on them are now becoming more abusive of those medications.”

    THE CONSEQUENCES OF DISASTER

    In other words: For some people already struggling with opioid addiction, a natural disaster may cause a relapse – even an overdose.

    Evidence already suggests that substance abuse increases in the wake of a catastrophe, natural or otherwise.

    According to Imelda Moise, a health geographer at the University of Miami, people who experience natural disasters are more likely to develop mental health issues, including depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Substance use disorder rates, in turn, are higher among people experiencing mental health issues.

    “People are traumatized; they are seeking different ways to cope,” Moise said.

    Moise found that hospitalizations for substance use in the New Orleans area increased 30% from 2004 to 2008. New Orleans was devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

    It makes sense that opioid abuse – which has come roaring into public awareness over the past several years – would also be affected by natural disasters. But the relationship between the two isn’t well understood yet, in part because it’s barely been studied.

    At least one pair of scholars is working to fill the gap. Meri Davlasheridze of Texas A&M University at Galveston and Stephan Goetz of Penn State have been studying the prevalence of opioid-related deaths in communities affected by natural disasters, such as floods and tornadoes.

    They’ve found that communities that experience a natural disaster are likely to see an increase in opioid deaths, beginning about two years after the incident and lingering even nine years in some cases.

    Communities that experience higher numbers of natural disasters will see a correlating rise in opioid deaths, said Davlasheridze, a professor of marine sciences who studies the socioeconomic impacts of catastrophes.

    “Looking at this problem more comprehensively over the long term is very important” for both disaster planning and opioid crisis management, Davlasheridze said.

    CONFOUNDING VARIABLES

    It’s worth noting that not everyone sees the connection. Mark Walker, a Butte County paramedic supervisor, has noticed a definite jump in emergency calls, but only a small increase in overdoses, which he attributes to a redistribution of the county’s population after the Camp Fire.

    And when opioid use or overdose levels change in a community, it’s hard to know why. There are a lot of confounding variables – essentially, factors that make it hard to attribute changes in opioid use to any one source – said Dr. Andy Miller, Butte County’s health officer.

    To give just one example, Miller explained that Butte County has been working to reduce its number of opioid prescriptions.

    The county has also been making naloxone more widely available, which means that friends, loved ones, or passersby can reverse an opioid overdose on the spot – an overdose that’s then less likely to be reported.

    Perhaps because there are so many confounding variables, even people who notice an uptick are hesitant to attribute it to a natural disaster.

    For example, Chris Rosa, deputy administrator of Ventura County’s Emergency Medical Services, noticed an increase in opioid overdoses in 2018, the year following the 280,000-acre Thomas Fire.

    “The concentrations always seem to hover right around the cities of Oxnard and Ventura. And in particular, the [concentrated] areas around Ventura are right around areas directly affected by the Thomas Fire,” he said.

    However, “it’s a little hard to determine whether it’s impacts from the fire or just normal concentration.”

    THE PATHS TO OPIOID ABUSE

    How might natural disasters cause an uptick in opioid overdoses? There’s likely no single, clear-cut path.

    “It is generally true that you will see a higher prevalence of psychiatric disorders, especially depression, anxiety, and PTSD among opioid patients and patients in opioid treatment,” said Andrew Rosenblum, executive director at the National Development and Research Institutes.

    But disasters bring other complications, including disrupting access to medication-assisted treatment and increasing the risk that a person will try a new, unknown, and potentially more dangerous form of a familiar drug, Rosenblum explained.

    “If their usual supply of opioids is disrupted…they may not know what they’re getting or the dose of what they’re getting, or they may use it in ways that are more harmful,” he said.

    Disasters may affect people more indirectly as well, Davlasheridze suggested. Some people may experience a fairly straightforward trauma, such as losing a loved one, that prompts a turn to opioids.

    But as a disaster works its devastating effects on a local economy or destroys a community’s employment, financial trouble may lead to the same result.

    The idea that a job lost might contribute to opioid abuse fits well with Narcisse’s experiences working with patients after Harvey and Imelda. She saw patients who lost their insurance when their job disappeared, and who then couldn’t afford to continue with a legitimate pain prescription or with medication-assisted treatment.

    “With a loss of job, basically, the person doesn’t have the money to continue the prescription, and the next best thing is to go back to old ways,” she explained.

    And Caput has heard similar stories on the way to the emergency room.

    “I always ask people [about the overdose], because I’m always curious,” Caput said. “I’m with them in the back of the ambulance by myself very often, so I get time to talk to them.”

    A familiar narrative kept emerging in the wake of the Camp Fire. A patient would have had a regular life and job before getting injured – often at work – and receiving an opiate prescription to manage the pain.

    Then something would interfere: The person would lose a healthcare provider, neglect to refill a prescription, or lose their job and insurance. “And basically, without wanting to, they go cold turkey, stop, and what happens is they turn to street drugs.”


    This article originally appeared in DirectRelief.

    Direct Relief has provided both material and systemic support to communities recovering from the Camp Fire, Hurricane Maria and Hurricane Harvey, which includes provisions of naloxone and funding to help combat the opioid epidemic.

    View the original article at thefix.com