Havens Help Us

Early on a brutally cold January morning, snow squalls whipping her long brown hair, a thin young woman knocks on the door of the West Annapolis Fire Station on Jennifer Road. Two uniformed firefighters open it 

and welcome her inside. They can guess why she’s here. They seat her in a comfortable chair by the door. She stammers, “I need help.” While one offers her something warm to drink, the other dials the crisis hotline. 

Two weeks earlier, 21-year-old Jennifer T. felt “dead inside. I was so miserable that I flirted with the feeling of death. I was scared of not using, and I was scared of using. I know it kills you.” 

Thanks to a program started one year ago, Jennifer and hundreds of people suffering from drug addiction are now finding the help they need. In April 2017, Anne Arundel County Executive Steve Schuh, flanked by police and fire chiefs, the county health officer, county state’s attorney and head of the Crisis Response System, held a press conference in Glen Burnie announcing “Safe Stations.” The program designates every fire house and police station in Anne Arundel County and the City of Annapolis as a walk-in haven for anyone seeking help for substance abuse.

The press conference barely ended before a young woman turned up at the Brooklyn Park station seeking help. Officials expected to serve a few people per week. One year later, more than 550 people have knocked on fire house doors. 

Despite its name, Safe Stations are not just “places.” Behind the new signage on the county’s 42 fire and five police stations is a comprehensive, highly coordinated network of services that are saving lives. While it includes alcohol and other drugs, the program grew from the county’s desperate attempt to stem fatalities from heroin and other opioids.

Four years ago, County Executive Steve Schuh saw the number of heroin overdoses rising sharply. “No one was talking about it then,” he says. “Fatalities were taking off.” He also noticed a major difference. “The problem was no longer confined to gritty, urban areas,” he adds. It was breaking into the wider community. This was very different than past heroin crises.”

In January 2015, just one month into his term, Schuh announced a public health emergency related to heroin and made it a top priority. What was making this epidemic “scary,” as he describes it, was the influx of synthetics and highly toxic substances. Recently, lethal drugs like fentanyl and carfentanil have entered the market. Plentiful and easy to transport, these new substances sometimes catch users unaware, or worse, drive them to seek a more powerful high.

“Ironically, when there’s an overdose from a batch of drugs you’d think people would run from it, but they run toward it,” Allan Graves, Anne Arundel County Fire Chief says. “That explains why you might see multiple deaths within days in the same geography.”

Like other county department heads, Graves took up Schuh’s challenge to address the epidemic as part of a newly-formed Heroin Action Task Force—some 35 recommendations emerged. The resulting plan promoted a three-pronged approach: prevention, treatment, and enforcement. It included everything from increased availability and use of Naloxone—the opioid-reversing drug—to the “Not My Child” panels for educating parents, teachers, students, and organizations countywide. The county launched lawsuits against “pill mills and pill doctors.” Wes Adams, the county state’s attorney, stepped up with increased narcotics prosecutions. County Police Chief Timothy Altomare welcomed other departments into the drug fight, until then feeling very “alone” in the battle against addiction.

A subtle, significant shift in how government officials regarded people with substance abuse issues was taking hold. No longer was this just a criminal issue. It was now a health issue, and a serious one. Recently former county health officer Fran Phillips compares the opioid crisis to the HIV public health emergency of the ’80s, but “it goes far beyond. It’s a perfect storm, stigmatizing and with so many barriers.”

Despite the county’s best efforts, the crisis worsened. Deaths mounted. Police data recorded 344 overdoses, 91 fatal, in 2015 and 815 overdoses, 119 fatal, in 2016.

Frustration over so many deaths and an awareness of best practices elsewhere prompted a new idea. At its core was a relatively lesser-known agency called the Crisis Response Team.  Spearheaded by Jennifer Corbin, the agency is a non-profit, quasi-governmental agency aligned with the county mental health agency that strives to respond to the public’s changing needs. 

Corbin and Chief Altomare had grown increasingly disheartened at seeing so many people die. Both knew of a program in Gloucester, Massachusetts, called PAARI, “Police-Assisted Addiction Recovery Initiative.” They wondered if PAARI might work here and agreed, “We don’t have a choice.”

“Sure,” Altomare says. “People have to be accountable for their actions. and we have to put the bad guys behind bars, but I knew we couldn’t handcuff our way out of this crisis.” 

At the same time, Fire Chief Graves was doing his research. “I saw an article in a fire journal from Manchester, New Hampshire,” he says. “A treatment center next door to a fire station teamed up to encourage people to come in.”  He asked Corbin “What are the obstacles of getting people into treatment?”

Rapidly, bright minds came together. It would take mobile crisis response, police, fire, and the courts to make it happen. Corbin, Altomare, Groves and Adams, all were willing to give “Safe Stations” a try. But every project needs a leader, and as her colleagues all agreed, Corbin was the linchpin in making this one work.

The crisis team arrives. Just the brightness of the two women gives Jennifer hope. “I was feeling so helpless, desperate. Physically, I felt sick, like the flu but 30 times worse. I had told my boyfriend I needed to go to a fire house.” The team determines what Jennifer needs. After a few calls, they find a waiting bed at an inpatient treatment center in Baltimore. Jennifer is grateful. “If you call someplace yourself, you might have to wait two weeks to get in. It’s so good there is something like this.” 

 

When Safe Stations began, Corbin expected to see five people per week. In the first month, she and her team were nearly overwhelmed.

No one anticipated the “explosion” that happened right after Schuh’s April announcement last year, nor could anyone anticipate how the recovery community itself would spread the word that fire stations were “safe” places for help. People started showing up later at night right after AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meetings. As Graves says, it was a natural fit. “We’re non-threatening. People always have turned to firefighters for help. And we’re in every community.” Annapolis City Fire Chief David Stokes agrees. “People naturally trust us. We’re non-judgmental. 

They know we’re here to help people.” 

Likely that’s one reason why few have shown up at police stations. Both county and city police affirm their aim is to help these individuals, not charge them with a crime. If they show up with narcotics on them, the police respond to collect the drugs which are then destroyed.

One of the biggest impediments to the program was not the police, but the court system. A warrant or impending court date might prevent someone from seeking treatment. Corbin estimates that at least 10 percent of individuals have some legal issue. Adams stepped in and offered to delay the court appearance to allow that person to receive treatment. “From the very beginning I was a loud voice in making this work. The ‘bottom’ only lasts for a finite period. If I don’t take advantage of that finite time, I lose them until the next bottom, or they could die.”

While everyone involved acknowledges this is a team effort, they also agree that there’s one person who makes the program work and has from the outset—Jen Corbin.

After 22 days at the rehab center, Jennifer moves to a recovery house near Annapolis, arranged through Crisis. Nine other women, ages 21–40s, share the home and support one another. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt so at home. The women here are so strong. They’re guiding me through early recovery. I’m more willing than ever before and I want to find a way to give back. I am so grateful for Crisis.”

Corbin deflects attention. Preferring a low profile, wearing the crisis team’s heavy cotton, dark navy blue uniform—shirt, pants, and jacket—she oversees a modest but highly-skilled group of professionals trained in social work and mental health. With no addiction in her background, it’s difficult to understand 

her passion for her work. Available 24/7, Corbin inspires everyone around her 

with the fight to save a life.

“All I want to do is help people. If we can reduce the number of families that we have to tell your child is dead…, “her voice trails off. Then she adds: “We all play a role. It’s very cool to watch us all work together.”

The team springs into action when a fire station calls. At least two staffers respond and get to the station, typically, within 20 minutes. If it’s longer, the firefighters—who first check the individual medically—do everything they can to hold the person and build rapport. Usually people show up with only the clothes they are wearing. A meal from a nearby McDonalds is often just what’s needed until the crisis team arrives.

Once there, Crisis assesses the person’s needs and determines the next level of treatment. As Corbin says, there is no “cookie-cutter” assessment. “We start where the individual is. Why today? Why now? What’s your goal? Really, we just talk to the person. All the formal assessment can come later.”  

That’s when the “magic” begins. Says Altomare, “Jen and her people are absolute magicians at keeping the individual moving.”

Depending on what the person needs, the next step is a hospital, inpatient treatment center, halfway house, recovery house or outpatient program. If an appropriate bed is not available, Corbin calls upon selected providers in the county for “Resolution Service”—a bed for one or two nights, or even a few hours, in a trusted, safe house until Crisis Response can get the individual where they ultimately need to go. Funding typically comes from Medicaid or other grants through the health department. 

Ultimately, it’s Corbin’s ability to reach out to a provider network she has helped to develop that makes Safe Stations work. One of her frequent calls is to Angel Traynor, a well-known leader in the recovery field. Traynor runs five recovery houses under the name “Serenity Sistas.” She admits that the willingness of the county state’s attorney to defer court dates has had a huge impact on sobriety for many individuals. But she underscores that Corbin is the mastermind: “Jen Corbin is one of few people in the industry I will answer the phone for on a Sunday.”

After four weeks at the halfway house, Jennifer is working two part-time jobs. She attends AA meetings and has a sponsor. Her brown eyes are clear and bright. She speaks of her new life almost with reverence. “Before, I couldn’t do anything without being high. Now I know there is something bigger than myself.” She repeats how grateful she is for “Crisis” and for Angel, who oversees her house.

Crisis response to a Safe Station call is just the beginning. Corbin’s involvement with the individual continues long after the initial assessment and first placement. At any given time, she is following at least 70 people. 

“We check in with them until they don’t need us, and then we slowly back out of the picture,” Corbin says. “She knows it takes time for the individual to find peers, a job, someone who cares about them. I’m trying to change how we think about recovery.”

Recognizing that recovery is a long-term process, and achievable only when the individual is ready, Safe Station leaders accept there will be setbacks. Of the 550 plus Safe Station participants this past year, about 400 are from Anne Arundel County. At least 40 were repeat visitors. According to Corbin, 10 percent relapse. More than half succeed, defined as completing treatment or remaining in a recovery program for more than 60 days.

As Adams notes, “Every process has a hub. Jen is unbelievably committed to helping others. She sees every piece of it and is so passionate in making it work.”

After six years on the run, and a half-dozen inpatient stays, Jennifer doesn’t look too far ahead. At the time of this writing, she planned to live at the recovery house for at least one year; she knows it’s one day at a time. She 

also knows, for the first time, that “with Crisis you’ll never be alone. There is hope; there is help. You just gotta give yourself a chance.”

Are Safe Stations making a difference in Anne Arundel County’s fight to reduce opioid fatalities? So far, Brooklyn Park and Annapolis’ Forest Drive stations are the two busiest, reflecting the county’s drug hot spots. Individuals showing up are mostly county residents, but the program’s growing reputation in the recovery community also is drawing people from outside the area. Most are dropped off by a parent, friend, or relative. Almost no one arrives alone.

Says Corbin, “I want people to know help is available. One death is too many. We need a 24-hour way to handle this and an emergency room isn’t the answer. It has to be treatment on demand. The only reason this won’t work is if the person is not ready. The family wants it, but the person may not be ready.” 

While fatalities continue to rise, officials are just starting to see a bright spot. Data show a flattening in the number of overdoses. Annapolis City Police Chief Scott Baker says, “The first time someone walked into a fire station, it’s working.” As County Police Chief Altomare notes, “Small victories are victories because we don’t get big ones.”

The county is hoping its Safe Stations program will be a model for other jurisdictions, both within Maryland and beyond. While it is only one part of the Anne Arundel’s overall plan, for people like Jennifer, it’s everything. As she says in her daily prayer, “God thank you for waking me up. Give me the strength to stay clean today.”

Lisa Hillman has been a development professional for more than thirty-five years. She is the former president of Anne Arundel Medical Center Foundation, a former broadcast journalist, and author of Secret No More. She serves as a board member of Pathways and Samaritan House, both programs that serve addicts. Lisa lives in Annapolis, Maryland, with her husband and greyhound, and is the proud mother of two children, Heidi and Jacob.