Not only do people with ­opioid addiction contend with long waiting lists, they’re being sent to the wrong place, says Dr. Caroline Ferris, Island Health’s regional medical director for addiction medicine.

The word “detox” has caused “endless problems” for the health authority, says Ferris. Detox — medical withdrawal management — is not a place, she says. It’s a process.

“Detoxification can occur in many, many different places, not just [ward] 5A of the Eric ­Martin Pavilion,” she says. “Even our peer referral agencies don’t understand it. The unit on 5A is mostly for people withdrawing from alcohol. It’s not the place for people withdrawing from opioids. People leave in less than a day because it’s the wrong place for them. Those referrals there have to stop.”

The waitlist for those 21 medically supervised ­withdrawal management beds is ­approximately five weeks. The beds have not been full due to a shortage of health-care workers, last-minute staff sick calls, client no-shows and early exits against medical advice.

People wanting to withdraw from opioids can get the help they need at Island Health’s Rapid Access Addiction Clinic, said Ferris.

“There’s no waitlist. People can walk in and get help for withdrawal from opioids. They do not need to go to 5A.”

But the referrals continue. After his early exit last week, Jenvey is back on the wait list.

‘Are you going to die in that waiting time?’

“It’s just frustrating, you know,” Jenvey says. “Sometimes you want help so bad and you’re told you got to wait. What are you going to do in that waiting time. Are you going to die in that waiting time? You don’t know. It’s important to get in right away.”

Jenvey has an air of vulnerability. His hands are black and weathered. He mumbles when he speaks because he has no teeth. A new full set of dentures and $4,000 hearing aids were stolen from his shopping bag, along with his identification and cellphone.

He attended Royal Oak Elementary and graduated from Claremont. His father believes Jenvey’s problems started when he was hit by a car at 18. The collision shattered his arm. A plate was put in that scarred his forearm from wrist to elbow.

“He was in so much pain for two years, he got hooked on Tylenol,” says David.

“That was the beginning.”

Jenvey never thought he’d end up on the street. Seven years ago, he had a good job working as a janitor in the radiology department at Royal Jubilee Hospital, but he began to suffer from anxiety and depression.

He kept calling in sick because of his anxiety and eventually lost his job. He couldn’t pay rent and within a month, he was on the street. “And it’s been a battle ever since.”

He sleeps at Island Health’s sobering centre on Pembroke Street. He stays away from the violence on Pandora Avenue, where people with drug addictions and mental-health problems often congregate. Instead, he can be found in the library researching the battles of the Second War and catching up on the news. He’s lonely and likes talking to people. His ­kindness is often taken as a sign of weakness, he says.

Once in a while, Jenvey does meth, but he tries to stay away from the drug because it’s bad for his paranoia. Marijuana is a daily thing, “more like a medication to me.” Five years ago, he became hooked on fentanyl. He was in a lot of pain and his buddy gave him some pills.

“Fentanyl is so dangerous, because my tolerance is so high, I’ve got to do more. So then you’re doing more and that’s when you start O.D.ing. I’ve been Narcaned, brought back to life, and the first thing I ask is ‘Where’s my pipe?’ That shows you how addicted our brains can be.”

He’s nodded off and woken up in hospital with tubes down his throat, jaw clenched open, strapped in because the medical staff don’t want him pulling his breathing tubes out.

When his best friend, Eric Buckles, died of a heroin ­overdose two years ago, Jenvey started thinking about treatment.

Clean for 265 days under supervised withdrawal

In 2021, Jenvey went through medically supervised withdrawal at Eric Martin and was accepted into New Roads Therapeutic Recovery Community, a residential treatment centre run by Our Place for men with moderate to severe substance use. The program runs from nine months up to two years. Jenvey was clean for 265 days.

“It was the best time for Joe,” says David. “He was so good, mentally and physically. He was working out and went from 130 pounds to 220. He was showing new residents around and leaving the facility to take training courses.”

Jenvey says he relapsed three days before Christmas when doctors failed to diagnose a blood clot in his leg that was causing him a lot of pain. He was grounded for a month by New Roads after he tested positive for painkillers. David had taken him shopping to buy presents for everyone for his first family Christmas in five years.

“He was so excited. Then he was suspended. The next time I went to visit, staff told me Joe had left,” David says.

Jenvey knows he has lots of support in the community. A lot of people want to see him do well. It’s just hard finding a sense of self-worth, he says.

David is puzzled that there doesn’t seem to be any rock ­bottom for his son.

“To you or me, it would be having to go to rehab or being on a ventilator. That should be rock bottom. If that’s not rock bottom, what is?” he asks.

Driving up Pandora Avenue, past the tents and the shopping carts, David knows there are hundreds of families looking for an answer to that question.