ADDICTION SUPPORT STRETCHED TO THE LIMIT

Andy's hands tremble slightly as he rolls another cigarette. As soon as
it's lit, he's up and pacing and talking. His voice is dry and trembling.
He repeats himself a lot.

"I'm totally ashamed of the way I've let myself get. I'm overwhelmed and
confused, I've gone too far," he said.

He looks over his house despairingly. Every inch of the kitchen counters
and kitchen table is littered with ashtrays, pizza boxes, dirty dishes and
greasy glasses, tobacco crumbs, utensils with food fused on them. It's all
draped over with a gauze of dust. Another room is littered with toys and
garbage bags and boxes.

Andy (not his real name) has been a junkie since 1997, after his wife
stabbed him. He had just returned from a Maple Ridge rehab centre to get
clear of alcohol and pot. He was doing well, but his wife continued to
smoke pot. Soon he was back into the old habits, and they fought
continuously. Then she stabbed in the chest. She left for Ontario, taking
the kids.

Devastated and depressed by the way his life was going, he reached for the
ultimate painkiller - heroin.

"I did it all right away, and I woke up on a stretcher. My heart stopped
three times. But the heroin numbed all my pain, I had no pain, I was free.
So I started using it, just now and then, and now it's a full-blown
addiction." He's overdosed a couple of times, once at home, once at a
fast-food place. As he paces, he drops his ashes into his cupped hand. He
can't seem to find an ashtray. He's pale and agitated.

With a tidy beard and trimmed hair, he doesn't look bad. He's not skinny,
like some junkies. There are no visible track marks on his arms, but his
hands have funny scratches, and he wears a thin black elastic around his
left wrist. His cap is down low over his eyes, which are red-rimmed and
don't hold a gaze for long. His lips are dry, and his teeth have a dull
brown cast.

An old dog snores in the corner of the livingroom. With its old comfortable
furniture and cosy lighting, it hints at respectable middle-class.

His mother, a cheery 76-year-old in a fuchsia sweater, is there. She often
visits, driving him to the doctor or other appointments.

With his mum present, Andy's reluctant to reveal how he gets money for
dope. He borrows from his mother. He's "stolen some things, sold some
things," maybe sold some dope himself.

"He normally likes to have a nice house. He had a good upbringing," she
said, watching him pace and smoke.

"He had trouble in school, and in Grade 8 he couldn't cope and couldn't
take notes fast enough. But you know, he's really a very bright man," she
said, adding that he writes and is an avid artist.

Instead of settling in a good job like his older siblings, Andy sold pot.
Her son keeps pacing, then disappears for a while.

She does what she can to help, even though her two other children say Andy
is using her. After a scene last Christmas, they won't talk to their
brother anymore.

Andy returns calmer. He sits in an easy chair and starts nodding, his eyes
almost closing. He shot up in the next room.

After three years on welfare and dope, Andy fought back and got himself on
methadone for a year. He had a job this summer, but after that dried up he
was too ashamed to reapply for welfare. When he didn't pay for his
methadone, he was dropped from the program. Without the methadone, he
itched again for the heroin, for a release from the trials of life.

"A lot of drug addicts are running away from life. Heroin makes everything
rosy. It makes you think everything is ok, you don't think about your
problems," he said.

But then the junkie comes down, and rapidly the body demands more to reach
bliss. Andy began with a $10 flap, and is now up to $200 a day. Any time of
day or night, he'd buy his dope in downtown Abbotsford, or call his dealer,
who'd make the delivery to Andy's house. Without it, he'd soon be in
convulsions, retching and soiling himself.

"You get violently sick, you vomit, your head spins, you have diarrhea.
It's like the worst flu you've ever had, it feels like you're dying," he
said. People do anything to make that stop.

Andy is ready to get clean again. Addicts who want to get off heroin can
try calling Maple Cottage in New Westminster each day, to see if a bed is
available. The waiting list there is so long they are not writing down
names anymore.

Kinghaven Treatment Centre in Abbotsford cannot take clients on methadone,
although Maple Ridge Treatment Centre.

Abbotsford Community Services and Fraser House in Mission offer counselling
for addicts, although it could be months before they can get individual
attention.

But Andy can't seem to stop the mad cycle of agony and ecstasy long enough
to get the ball rolling, and it's making him suicidal.

"Right now, when I'm ready to do it, I can't seem to find the person to
hold my hand. There should be more detox centres for people like me."

Looking at her son, his mother manages a shaky smile. "I'd be so happy if
there was some place I could just take him."

Two weeks later Andy calls. His voice is clear, unhesitant. He's made the
first step out of the dope stupor. He's found a doctor in Surrey who'll
treat him and his mother drives him every day to the pharmacy for his
methadone. The 60 millilitres of methadone at least gives him a reprieve
from the stomach-turning, bone-bending physical need he has for heroin. He
feels better physically, but is still depressed. He talks to a Salvation
Army counsellor while he waits to get into a drug treatment program.

He knows his road to recovery is full of landmines and traps and
uncertainty. But it's the only alternative to the road he's on, and the
future there is certain.