TO HELL AND BACK: AN ADDICT'S STORY

Drugs cut short Randy Miller's promising hockey career. Today, after years
in the gutter, life's worth living again. And he says: 'What more could I
ask for?' Al Arsenault and Toby Hinton Special to The Province A group of
seven Vancouver police officers, all of whom patrol the drug-ridden streets
of the city's downtown east side, are making a film about the horrors of
addiction.

Their harrowing documentary, due to be shown on television in the fall,
examines the lives of six addicts. One of them is Randy Miller, who was a
junior hockey star and National Hockey League prospect before drugs took
over his life.

On Sunday, Province reporter Steve Berry wrote about the officers and their
project. Today, two of the beat cops, Al Arsenault and Toby Hinton, tell
Randy Miller's story.

The dishevelled man, once a National Hockey League prospect, lay writhing on
the sidewalk like a wounded animal, his primal screams echoing down the
street as he flipped around in a dizzying display of drug-driven
contortions.

Tourists gawked in confusion and disgust -- the psychosis that was being
played out in front of them was on the far end of extreme even for
Vancouver's downtown east side.

But for us, a beat team of Vancouver policemen used to the area's
sometimes-macabre theatrics, this was just another Randy moment."

Randy Miller had a reputation as being the most incorrigible drug addict on
our beat.

We called an ambulance, knowing the paramedics could do nothing for him
other than monitor his psychosis until it safely subsided.

Randy had chosen a path of slow suicide years before. He spent his time
foraging the lanes, directing drug buyers to dealers. His coke runs would
last up to four days, a blur of wheeling and dealing and fixing, until he
collapsed from exhaustion in an alcove for a few hours of sleep.

We first encountered Randy in the skid-row area in the early '90s. Our
perception of him was that of other beat cops: He was just another drain on
society.

Yet it was not always this way for Randy.

He was born Feb. 26, 1954, to a hard-working couple in Moose Jaw, Sask. His
brother, Terry, was born five years later in New Westminster.

Randy's natural athletic talent was apparent early. He won track records
for the 75-, 100- and 220-yard dashes. He excelled in baseball, football,
soccer, lacrosse and hockey. Medals, trophies, and honours were heaped on
him.

Laurie Little, a close friend since Grade 4, would bring her friends down to
the fun skates and hockey games just to see the promising 13-year-old Randy
glide around the rink.

"He was the Randy Miller. It raised you up a level just by knowing him,"
Laurie remembers.

Randy, a lean and wiry 150- pounder, was brought up at the age of 15 from
the Bantam league of hockey, skipping the Midgets, to play with the
up-to-21-year-old junior leaguers of the New Westminster Royals.

He was a role model for his brother.

"He used to coach me in sports," said Terry. "I really looked up to him, as
did many others. He was good at all sports. No one picked on me because
Randy was a tough guy."

But after a few years Randy stopped lacing up his skates. He was hooked on
something new -- drugs. Little did he know he was skating on thin ice.

By the time he was 14 Randy was drinking alcohol and smoking the occasional
joint. On his 15th birthday -- the earliest time allowed by law -- the
principal appeared in his Grade 9 class and showed him the exit door. Randy
was thrown out for playing hooky.

He experimented with soft drugs and then progressed to harder ones such as
acid, mescaline, MDA and speed. Eventually his life-long interest in sports
waned, and he began to deal MDA and heroin.

Randy started to amass a lengthy criminal record, mostly for possession of
narcotics. Over time, his growing appetite for drugs led him to "speed
balls," a combination of heroin and cocaine -- a habit that eventually would
cost him $400 a day.

By age 26 Randy was married. But after his marriage failed and his welding
career collapsed in 1986, Randy went into a rapid decline and drifted toward
full-time life on the street.

"I had to hustle to make money for drugs by steering customers to dealers.
I'd get a flap [quarter-gram of drugs] for every five buyers I sent them,"
he recalls.

Even though Laurie had lost touch with her friend, she would occasionally
hear disturbing

stories of unbelievable drug abuse by Randy in the skids.

In 1998 she spotted her old friend on a television clip showing east-side
addicts. Laurie contacted the reporter, and, along with his brother Terry
and two friends, they eventually confronted Randy in a doorway in the skids.

Laurie remembers the night clearly.

"Seeing Randy was devastating. Even though I knew where he was, I didn't
realize how bad he looked. I sat there and cried," she said.

"I thought about the public's view. 'Oh yeah, just another skid-row junkie.'

"They couldn't know who he really was before that, underneath, what he meant
to people who still cared about him and hadn't forgotten him. He's not just
a disposable member, a faceless person in society you step over or turn your
back on."

Randy was equally moved.

"I cried when I saw them. It was the first time that I saw anyone I cared
for in 10 years. I was ashamed at what I had become," he later said.

But the reunion was not enough to stop his drug use. Several weeks later we
found ourselves, once again, dealing with a coked-out Randy Miller.

On this confrontation, the paramedics cut open his pants and examined a
year-old leg injury. The prognosis was grim: His leg may have to be
amputated. Several days later he heeded our advice and admitted himself to
hospital.

The isolation from the frenetic street scene combined with support from his
family laid the groundwork for the first positive change in Randy's life in
a decade.

It also saved his leg.

After a month hospitalized on the methadone drip, Randy checked into a
recovery house in Surrey. His regimented daily

routine is designed to address his emotional, psychological, medical and
physical needs.

With the help of a bicycle and weights donated by his father, Randy's
physical condition vastly improved. He has bulked up from 130 pounds to a
stocky 187 pounds, and he's quit smoking --a habit he'd had since he was 13.

On the weekends Randy visits friends and family, playing with their kids.
"He makes a good uncle. He gets them all fired up and then leaves," laughed
Terry.

Several months into his recovery we brought Randy a year-old clip from our
documentary

showing him on the sidewalk in a state of cocaine psychosis. He's at his
worst -- guttural yelling,

incoherent verbalizations, and spastic hand-clapping.

After he watched the tape, Randy shook his head: "Man, I thought I was
singing when I was like that."

Randy is now looking to his future with newfound optimism. Even while
immersed in the street culture, he always aspired to be a drug counsellor.
And he certainly has hard-earned insight to offer others at risk. It has
taken remarkable courage to allow himself to be filmed, through his
addiction to recovery.

"I want to keep kids off drugs and in school," he said. "It would be
worthwhile to save even one kid -- to keep him from going through what I
went through. I didn't see the skids coming."

Randy realizes there is a real possibility he could slip and end up back on
the street. The road to the skids is a lot shorter than the journey back.
But now seven months clean, Randy is no longer "simply a drain on society"
and he appears to be focused on recovery.

"I refuse to relapse. My family and friends have done so much for me. I
wouldn't hurt them and myself. Now I have family and friends with kids I
love. We care for each other. Life is worth living. What more can I ask
for?"

In mid-March the Vancouver Canucks supplied a VIP booth for Randy, his
friends and the Odd Squad.

>From a skid-row doorway to a luxury hockey suite was a quantum leap for
Randy. He quickly became fixated on the game that had been such an important
part of his young life. For the next two hours he was just another
passionate sports fan.

After a decade of no goals, it's encouraging to see Randy get off the bench,
lace up his skates, and get back in the game.

The opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not
necessarily reflect the views of the Vancouver police department.

Odd Squad Productions is a non-profit society composed of the following
police officers (in addition to the authors): Len Hollingsworth, Dave Kolb,
Walter McKay, Mark Steinkampf and Dale Weidman.

Through a Blue Lens, a National Film Board documentary directed by Veronica
Mannix, is due to be released in late fall 1999.