Breathe
By Guest Writer Father Matthew Johnson*
In the parish where I work, it’s not unusual for people to lie stretched out on the sidewalk, resting or sleeping. Perhaps leaning up against a wall, a storefront, or a lamp post. A newspaper or jacket tucked under the head. No one gives it a second thought. But, if someone ends up just sprawled out on the sidewalk, people here take notice. The person may have tripped and fallen, or have passed out on booze. They may be in insulin shock, or have been assaulted, or may have overdosed on dope. In other communities, neighbours may walk past a person on the ground—even when there is a need. I have seen this more than once in Vancouver. But not in the Downtown Eastside. When someone goes down in this place, it’s not long before another soul intervenes.
Chuck and I are catching up in Oppenheimer Park by the new Field House,surrounded by neighbours enjoying a dry, sunny afternoon. Chuck sits at the helm of his new ‘chariot’, a quality motor wheelchair, with lots of oomph, and sparkling blue. Chuck proudly demonstrates a hitch he’s attached to the scooter when, twenty feet away, a man collapses just outside the washroom.
As park staff step forward to assist, they’re followed by paramedics, coincidentally in the Park visiting the tents of the homeless. A medic kneels down and attempts to speak with the lifeless man. Eliciting no response, he calls for the ‘crash cart’. A yellow case is produced and opened by his partner. Its contents, colour coded, are arrayed to find things fast.
Without knowing for sure, this man’s collapse has all the marks of an opioid overdose. A terrible epidemic in our community. Kneeling at the man’s unmoving head, rubbing a knuckle on his breastbone, the medic watches for any sign of life. There is no movement. He positions a bag valve mask over the downed man’s mouth, pumping it two times. Another medic, kneeling down, has prepped a needle and jabs it into the crumpled man’s upper thigh—right through his denim trousers. Ashen faced, lying on his back, this fellow is surrounded by perhaps fifteen observers now, standing at various distances from the scene. Had the medics not been here, these citizens and city workers would be the ones skilfully rendering aid.
And now, with assistance initiated, a quiet descends as we stand there, hoping intensely, awaiting an outcome. There is, in a moment like this, a sort of emotional communion among strangers. Most of us standing there, alone with our thoughts, do not speak out loud. Yet inwardly we long for the same thing. That this man, our brother, will not die, but be brought back from the dead. Silently, I recite Trisagion, an ancient prayer.
Holy God, Holy Strong, Holy Immortal, Have mercy on us.
Antonietta and Byron, both Park Staff, look at each other without a word, as a medic initiates chest compressions. They’ve witnessed this drama, here in Oppenheimer Park, countless times. Chuck, who’s stopped talking now, lights a smoke; exhaling slowly, he gently shakes his head. Two buddies notice each other across the circle, gesturing silently through the crowd.
It’s been about a minute and no pulse. Needle #2 goes into the thigh. CPR continues and the bag mask is again squeezed twice. For me and the others, there is no escape or wandering away from this. Everyone remains. Committed now to seeing this through.
No gawking or staring here. No gratuitous interest, as there might be downtown or in another public place. For this brother is surrounded by other survivors of adversity. A sort of ‘Communion’ of other-centred concern only deepens, with each passing second. People do things to ease the tension. Shifting posture, putting bags down, lighting cigarettes, doing up jackets, sipping coffee. Newcomers approach the edge of this group, whispering queries.
A City of Vancouver worker, there for the homeless camp, watches closely holding a shovel. For a passing few seconds, he and I make eye contact, regarding each other, both of us nodding at the other, in turn. His face reveals deep concern for this unknown brother on the ground. As if he knows that he himself is in some way connected, as we all are, to this man. A constable walks past, glancing at Chuck and I. Her thin, melancholic smile conveys a shared preoccupation with the critical seconds that are now elapsing. All three of us, workers in this community, have seen this before, too many times. But life versus death is never not compelling. Like all who stand here, we cannot not be moved. Another minute passes—and still no pulse, no breathing.
Shot #3, now, as the medics continue compressions. The passing of time—as we’ve all noticed—can feel different in certain situations. And in these fleeting moments, in the presence, literally, of clinical death, it seems that time slows down as interveners and observers wonder silently: How long has it been now? Is this the shot that will do it? Is he ever coming back?
Then, something happens. Eyes open briefly, the CPR stops, and the medic coaches: “Breathe! Breathe! Give me a big breath!”
Eyelashes flit again. But there’s no other movement. Shoulders are jostled, the man’s eyes are now wide. But, critically, he’s still not breathing. The bag valve mask is replaced and squeezed. The paramedic is encouraging, but his face reveals concern. “Good. You’ve opened your eyes. But now, I need a breath—a big breath. B-r-e-a-t-h-e !”
And only now, does the man’s chest rise visibly. Oh yes, we’re all watching for it! Another breath, and there is coughing. Blessed ugly coughing.
The mask comes off, and both medics lean backward for a moment, sitting on their heels, watching their patient closely. In the next moment, as the medics help him sit up, there is applause and even shouting. Someone kneels down beside the now resurrected man, offering encouraging words. A few residents approach the paramedics, offering their thanks. I offer a quiet thanksgiving to almighty God, making the sign of the cross. Looking over at Chuck, he points upward, toward the sky, “Thank God.”
And only now does the crowd’s focus slowly draw back, from the man and medics, to what they were doing before the man dropped. Body language and facial expressions are shifting now, postures are no longer still and rigid as folks loosen up. The quiet fades away, as bystanders start talking, picking up bags, saying goodbye to others who’ve stood with them. Even strangers nod goodbye to other strangers. For, as a group, we have held an intimate awareness of the fragility of human life. In these few moments, at least, we have stood together, affirming our common humanity.
I’ve just witnessed the rising to life of a fellow mortal, after almost four minutes with no life signs. A reflection, for me, of the Resurrection in this post-Easter Season. If ‘now’ were 18 years ago—when the Street Outreach Initiative first began—the outcome would have been dramatically different. Indeed it would have been a tragedy. But this man will not be one of the four other people in BC who will die today from opioid overdose. I’ve been uplifted by the skill and dedication of those who intervened. I think of a truth: When we act, God acts. The paramedics did God’s work this time. But most of the resurrections I witness now are by non-medical hands—frontline workers, friends, neighbours, passers-by.
These past four minutes have passed as if they were hours. And I feel different somehow. As if I just woke up. For me, easing back now, into awareness of the surrounding world, I notice certain things. Green grass, car horns, colourful tents, fresh tobacco smoke, people’s voices, seagulls screeching, friends laughing, a man drinking beer from a tin. It all seems so intense and good, as against death’s cold stillness.
I gather my bag, and heave it over my shoulder, wave goodbye to Chuck, and move on from the Park by the northeast corner, deeply thankful to God for this man’s life. And for this resurrection of the dead, in this extraordinary community of challenge, suffering, and survival—this place I am so privileged to work in. And I find myself saying again, “Thanks be to God.”
* Father Matthew Johnson is Street Outreach Priest for the Anglican Diocese of New Westminster. Based at St James Anglican Church, Matthew works with street-involved adults in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, where he has served for the past nineteen years. Street Outreach Initiative offers pastoral and sacramental care, counselling, trauma education workshops, recovery support, and community engagement.