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Globe and Mail
37 minutes ago
- General
- Globe and Mail
The high cost of hosting wildfire evacuees
For the past six summers, High Level, Alta., a northern town of 4,000 that straddles the only road into the province from the Northwest Territories, has converted its arena into a makeshift wildfire evacuation centre. Municipal staff have been diverted from regular duties such as working at the pool or running summer programs to haul up to 350 cots, purchased by the town to accommodate evacuees, from a storage container into the arena. They have sometimes worked up to 17 hours a day to make sure everyone was fed and children were entertained. That work is not continuing this summer. In late May, as out-of-control wildfires burned in Central and Western Canada, the town issued a public notice advising it would not be hosting evacuees in its arena. Crystal McAteer, the long-time mayor of High Level, said the decision not to reopen the evacuation centre was made 'with a heavy heart,' but that the strain on the town's staff and finances had become too great. 'As the wildfires become more frequent and more severe, it's demanding more and more time of our very limited people resources,' said Ms. McAteer. She said the town has struggled in past years to recoup costs associated with hosting evacuees from higher levels of government. In 2024, High Level spent $1.4-million – the equivalent of more than 10 per cent of its budget – and is still waiting to be repaid. 'For a municipality the size of High Level, we just can't afford that,' Ms. McAteer said. As the frequency and severity of wildfires are predicted to intensify, High Level's experience highlights the challenge facing municipalities playing a vital role in Canada's response. Experts say some may not be able to shoulder the burden of hosting evacuees without more support from governments. 'I think this is a growing problem,' said Jack Rozdilsky, an associate professor of disaster and emergency management at York University who has studied support for wildfire evacuees. He said that while the front-end of evacuations – the removal of people from immediate danger – has become more streamlined, 'we still have some work to do to figure out the back-end.' The responsibility for managing wildfire evacuations rests primarily with provincial and territorial governments, which offer funding for food and accommodation. Costs for First Nations people who ordinarily live on reserve are covered by the federal government. Across the country, however, there is a patchwork of policies that dictate how municipalities are repaid. In Alberta, those that host wildfire evacuees are generally reimbursed by the community whose residents were displaced. The displaced community, in turn, applies to the province to recoup those costs, according to Arthur Green, press secretary for Alberta's Ministry of Public Safety and Emergency Services. Mr. Green did not directly address questions about High Level. Ms. McAteer said the town is awaiting reimbursement from the federal government because the communities it hosted last year included two First Nations. Jennifer Cooper, a spokeswoman for Indigenous Services Canada, said Little Red River Cree Nation and the Dene Tha' First Nation are still finalizing their claims with the government. She said the government provided emergency payments to the First Nations following the evacuation, but would not disclose the amount. Little Red River Cree Nation and the Dene Tha' First Nation did not respond to a request for comment. In Whitecourt, Alta., a town of nearly 10,000, mayor Tom Pickard said he empathizes with smaller communities such as High Level whose population may double during wildfire season. Whitecourt has hosted evacuees for the past several years, but doesn't need to run a dedicated centre because it has enough hotel capacity, he said. While it can take some time to be reimbursed for hosting-related expenses, he said it doesn't create hardship for his town. 'We maybe haven't been inundated like High Level. If we were getting 10,000 people every year into our community of 10,000, I think we would be overwhelmed if we did it too often,' Mr. Pickard said. The model in Alberta differs from some other provinces and territories. British Columbia, Saskatchewan and the Northwest Territories compensate host communities directly for expenses, spokespeople for the provincial and territorial departments said. Some eastern provinces have standing agreements with the Canadian Red Cross. Leianne Musselman, a spokesperson for the organization, said it is prepared to provide support to all communities but pre-existing agreements 'allow communities and the Red Cross to plan ahead' and have clear roles and responsibilities. The process went relatively smoothly in Happy Valley-Goose Bay, N.L., in 2024, when the town of 8,000 welcomed about 4,000 wildfire evacuees from Labrador City. Brad Butler, the town's director of protective services, said the community helped co-ordinate logistics with the Red Cross and the Salvation Army to care for and feed evacuees. The province then reimbursed the town for things such as cases of water and overtime pay for municipal staff within the calendar year, Mr. Butler said. In High Level, Ms. McAteer said the town especially felt the strain in 2023, when Canada faced the most destructive wildfires on record and many communities in the Northwest Territories, including Yellowknife, were evacuated. At times, the town ballooned by as many as 7,000 people. The mayor said she's long been advocating for a purpose-built evacuation centre. A building with centralized services could reduce the number of staff required, Ms. McAteer said, and could be used as a multiplex and for classrooms during the off-season. 'I feel that the provincial government doesn't understand how unique High Level is positioned to help everybody,' said Ms. McAteer. With increased support from the provincial and federal governments for infrastructure, staff and counsellors, an evacuation centre could run 'like clockwork,' she said. 'We have done it so often. We know how to do it.'
Yahoo
an hour ago
- Health
- Yahoo
Bankers, athletes, students are using drugs. This hotline tries to keep them safe
There's a national overdose hotline that some Canadians call before they're about to use drugs. But the people dialling in aren't who you might think. Since the National Overdose Response Service (NORS) launched nearly five years ago, it's been reaching drug users who wouldn't typically use consumption and treatment sites. Shame and stigma can force people to use drugs alone, putting them at a greater risk of dying from an overdose. "We do know that a lot of people are hidden substance users," said Monty Ghosh, an addictions physician in Alberta and a NORS researcher. "It could be that they're afraid of losing their job, they're afraid that the family might leave them, they're afraid that the children might get taken away from them." Ghosh says that's where the hotline comes in. He says many people calling in have voluntarily disclosed that they have jobs and stable housing. "We're talking [about] people who are lawyers, physicians, engineers, people who are professional athletes," he said. "A lot of them are using the service because they don't identify as the same population as who uses a physical supervised consumption site." NORS is like a buddy system — operators stay on the line as people use drugs, ready to alert emergency services if they suspect the person has overdosed. People can also text the line, if they can't or don't want to call. To see who is reaching out and how the hotline works, CBC News met up with an operator in Hamilton, Ont., and listened in on multiple calls. WATCH | NORS operator provides advice while callers take drugs: The operator, Jodi, starts any call by confirming the person's address, telling them to keep their doors unlocked and pets away. These are all precautions in case EMS has to respond. One of the calls was from a student who was about to use crack. "I heard that there was a bad batch going around in my area and I was just wondering if you knew anything about it?" the person asked Jodi. LISTEN | Caller worries about 'bad batch' of drugs in area: A quick online search for alerts about tainted substances in the caller's region turned up empty, so Jodi cautioned, "Start low, go slow." Another caller, who was smoking fentanyl, told Jodi she's trying to use less frequently. When she does, she's started testing her drugs to stay safe. "Keep doing that," Jodi told her. "Just the stuff that's going around right now, it's actually really scary." LISTEN | Caller smokes fentanyl on the line: Once people use, Jodi stays on the line with them for about 10 to 15 minutes. She makes small talk — asking what they ate for dinner and what their plans are for the evening — all the while paying attention to how they're responding. "We're not therapists, we're not counsellors, we're not social workers," Jodi told CBC News. "We're not here to dig deep [into] why they started using drugs. It's just, 'Hey, how's it going today?'" No one overdosed the night CBC was on the line with Jodi, but it has happened. Of the almost 20,000 calls NORS has received, it's responded to more than 200 overdoses. According to the organization, nobody has died while using the line. In comparison, between March 2020 and February 2025, drug consumption and treatment sites across Canada received more than three million visits. "Our mandate at NORS is to keep people alive while they're using substances," said Lisa Morris-Miller, the executive director of the hotline. Her sister, Rebecca Morris-Miller, founded the line in December 2020, with the help of her friend Kim Ritchie. The pair had complicated pasts with drug use and met during a recovery program. With a cellphone, $1,000 and some volunteers, Ritchie says they started an early version of the hotline. By the end of 2020, she says partnerships with the University of Alberta and Health Canada led to funding that launched the line across the country. NORS is the first and only national overdose response hotline in Canada. For two years, Rebecca helped grow the service and became an advocate for people who were struggling. But throughout, she continued to struggle with her own addiction to fentanyl. In October 2022, Rebecca used drugs alone and didn't call her own hotline — and ended up dying from an overdose. "My opinion … is that there is still so much stigma associated with substance use, so much that … one of the key founders of this organization wouldn't call her own line," said Lisa Morris-Miller. Most NORS callers are from Ontario, Alberta, B.C. and Saskatchewan, according to researcher Ghosh. The most recent data from the hotline shows that of more than 3,200 calls, about 50 per cent were women and 16 per cent identified as gender diverse. In interviews, Ghosh said these callers told them that they prefer the hotline because of stigma and safety. While the organization hasn't released research on this, Ghosh says about 10 per cent of their calls have asked about referrals for mental health, opioid treatments or treatment centres. Ian Tait, communications director for the Ambulance Paramedics of British Columbia CUPE 873, says he isn't surprised to hear who is using the service. "In British Columbia … we go to million-dollar mansions for, you know, issues with substance use," said Tait, who is also an advanced care paramedic supervisor. He said that most of the overdose calls they respond to are for people who are unhoused, with mental health and substance use issues. Tait cited an app called Lifeguard, which he says people in B.C. will often use. Those with the app will activate it before taking their drug of choice and they then have to deactivate it within a certain period of time. If they don't, EMS will be alerted. "In this type of crisis, we have to look at ideas that are outside of the box," he said. Faith O'Toole, a 22-year-old Ottawa resident, has been revived multiple times because of the hotline. Having used crack and fentanyl since she was a teenager, O'Toole has lost count of how often she's overdosed. Her mom, Tamara, allowed Faith to keep living at home and using drugs, but insisted she call the hotline. "Of course I don't want my child to use drugs — nobody does. But if they're going to and I can't make her stop, what can I do to help keep her as safe as possible?" said Tamara. She estimates Faith has overdosed at least three times while using NORS. "Overdosing sucks, but the hotline is really useful," said Faith. "It's convenient. I mean, if you have a phone … you can call and you're safe." But Faith no longer lives at home and says she doesn't call the hotline as often. Despite how helpful virtual resources like hotlines and apps can be in this crisis, experts say they can't replace controversial drug consumption and treatment sites. The hotline fills some gaps — like being available around the clock and allowing people to smoke their drugs (which many drug sites don't allow) — but it's not accessible to everyone. For example, some people might not have a cellphone, says Caleb Clay, administrative manager for a mobile overdose prevention site at Sunshine House in Winnipeg. "I think that physical and virtual options can work hand in hand," he said. "I don't think physical sites will ever go away." Ghosh says these sites are essential, specifically because they're often used by people who are experiencing homelessness, and can provide them with a range of support. For example, they connect people to the local mental health care system, help bandage wounds or offer drug test strips and clean needles. But drug consumption sites have historically faced a lot of backlash. Most recently in Ontario, the provincial government shut down several facilities under new legislation and said it doesn't plan on approving any more sites. Right now, NORS has 20 employees across the country and is fully funded by Health Canada until 2028. NORS operator Jodi says people who call in just want to protect themselves, without judgment. She gets it, because she was once addicted to drugs, too. "It's kind of embarrassing," one caller told Jodi the evening CBC listened in. "What's embarrassing?" Jodi asked. "You know — you don't want to tell your family, but you don't want to be alone," they said. "Well, we're always frickin' here for you," Jodi said. "Nothing to be embarrassed [about] here."
CBC
an hour ago
- Politics
- CBC
Which 'next' is Danielle Smith's Ottawa-affairs panel steering Alberta toward?
Before taking their latest chance to weigh in on the wisdom of exiting the Canada Pension Plan, Albertans must first watch a five-minute video, most of which tries to persuade them how great an idea it is. The promise of lower premiums and higher benefits hasn't sold well in the past. We recently learned that only 10 per cent of respondents favoured the idea in the 2023 round of government consultations on an Alberta pension plan. But with her Alberta Next feedback project, Premier Danielle Smith is treating this as a new day, full of fresh possibilities to alter the province's place within Canada on finances, constitutional powers, immigration and more. This video pitch on pensions endeavours to sell the public with suggestions of a "big upfront payout," better paycheques, and a provincially led investment strategy that "steered clear of ideological decision-making." The voiceover narrator notes some potential downsides. Among them: "The CPP exit rules aren't clear in the federal legislation and Ottawa is notoriously anti-Alberta with its decisions, so the size of the lump sum Alberta is offered could be lower than it should be." (Italics mine; federal officials might dispute that matter-of-fact assertion.) After that video, respondents get asked three multiple-choice questions, none of which let Albertans say whether they actually like the provincial pension idea. Perhaps they can chime in with that answer at one of the in-person town halls that begin in mid-July. The premier launched this review into the future of federalism in front of a recreated vintage oil well at Heritage Park in Calgary. Alberta Next is, in a way, a recreation of the Fair Deal Panel that Smith's predecessor Jason Kenney launched, two Liberal federal election victories ago in 2019. As separatist sentiments intensified, the then-premier had tasked his panel to study the viability of an Alberta-only pension and police force, an overhaul of federal transfers and more. That's just what Smith has done, though with some pivotal distinctions. Kenney tasked long-retired former politician Preston Manning to lead his panel. Smith assigned herself as chair. While this stands to boost the interest in upcoming town halls, some of the Alberta Next event attendees might want to bend the premier's ear on other matters, as this month's fiery meeting on coal mining may have foretold. The current premier is also specifically soliciting referendum questions to put on a ballot next year. Those would interact in unknown ways with a citizen-initiated plebiscite on separation, one which proposes a vastly more dramatic shakeup in Alberta-Canada relations. Kenney's panel took a slower march to referendums, ultimately recommending that the federal pension and police withdrawals merely be studied. The loaded language of the videos and surveys also takes Smith's initiative to a different level, says Jared Wesley, a University of Alberta political scientist. He's uniquely positioned to assess what Smith is doing: in his current role, he routinely conducts public opinion research. Before academia, he worked in the Alberta government's intergovernmental affairs division under both Tory and NDP premiers. The government is clearly not attempting to genuinely collect public opinion here, Wesley said in an interview. "What they're trying to do is to direct public opinion." He sees too many lofty assessments and a "half-hearted" presentation of the downsides of Alberta Next's proposals. The fact the federal government is Liberal (rather than Conservative) gets repeatedly mentioned in these factual background briefings. The section on fiscal transfers, for example, suggests that the imbalance between the federal taxes Albertans pay and the service grants to the province be solved by getting Ottawa to drastically cut its tax rates and have the provinces raise money on their own. "That sounds great on the surface for Alberta, but this idea has been floating around for many years, and the challenge is that a lot of other provinces end up far worse off by having those tax point transfers," Wesley said. On immigration reform, Smith's panel survey suggests that Alberta refuse to fund public services for certain classes of immigrants the provincial government doesn't wish to accept. Without specifying what type of services would be withheld, and to which immigrants, it could serve to harm newcomers in Alberta and inflame sentiments around them while blaming them for housing affordability and unemployment woes, said immigration lawyer Maureen Silcoff. "What we don't want is for governments to be putting forward rhetoric that further creates divisions in society," said Silcoff, a law professor at Toronto Metropolitan University. Alberta Next's video on immigration points out that denying public services to immigrants could land the province in court. What it doesn't mention is that twice before courts have told governments they cannot deny those services — in 2014 when the federal government cut a refugee health program, and last year when Quebec denied child-care subsidies to asylum seekers. The scale of all the changes Smith's surveys propose is seemingly massive. Creating a new police force, pension fund or tax-collecting body are pricey endeavours — after up to $1.5 billion in startup costs, an Alberta Revenue Agency would cost up to $750 million more per year and require as many as 5,000 new provincial workers, the video on taxation states. Other proposals, like constitutional reforms or transfer overhauls, would demand buy-in from not only Ottawa but also other provinces, without any clear trade-offs or upsides for them, Wesley said. "If the premier holds a series of referendums that end up saying Albertans want this and she's not able to deliver it, it only emboldens her political opponents on both sides — the federalists and the separatists," he said. Smith has pitched the project as a way to help reduce separatist sentiment, but might pushing these issues and accomplishing nothing make it even worse? In 2021, Kenney triggered a provincewide referendum proposing that the equalization program be removed from Canada's Constitution. Albertans endorsed the idea, but Ottawa did nothing with the outcome, and the equalization formula has not been altered since. Wesley's Common Ground opinion project surveyed Albertans and found a minority of them actually understood what the province was asking them on that equalization vote. "A lot of people thought that a yes there meant that Alberta would withdraw from equalization, which is just not possible," he said. If the province is serious about asking Albertans what they should do next or demand next, Wesley added, it should be grounded in a reality about what they can or could reasonably expect. The discussion materials the government provided to Albertans may not accomplish that. So how realistic will the conclusions Albertans inject back into this project be?
CBC
an hour ago
- Health
- CBC
What charging for COVID-19 vaccines means for Albertans going forward
When the province announced that most Albertans will have to pay for COVID-19 vaccines themselves going forward, the phones at Mohamed Elfishawi's two Edmonton pharmacies started ringing. "People are scared," Elfishawi said during an interview at his south Edmonton location, describing the calls he's had from clients – especially seniors. Earlier this month, the province announced it would only cover vaccines for particular high-risk groups: people living in care homes and group settings, those receiving home care, people on social programs such as AISH, and immunocompromised individuals. Everyone else will have to pay an estimated $110 if they want the vaccine. Accessing the shot will also be more limited: in the near future, pharmacists like Elfishawi will no longer be allowed to administer them, they will only be available at health clinics. Alberta's new path makes it an outlier in Canada, prompting questions about why the province has diverged from national recommendations on vaccines, what the timeline is for rolling out the new distribution system and whether or not the vaccine can be added to group health benefit plans. Will group benefits offer coverage? The United Nurses of Alberta (UNA) is already in talks with employers, seeking to get COVID immunization coverage added to group health benefits. "But even if they do, what that means is that it will fall onto the insurance companies, which will mean increased premiums both for employees and employers," said Heather Smith, UNA's president. UNA is also looking into benefits covering the cost for its staff. If it can't get sorted out in time for the fall rollout of vaccines, Smith said they plan to offer reimbursement for employees who pay to get immunized. Jason Schilling, president of the Alberta Teachers' Association, said they are exploring options through insurance, but he has also written to ministers asking them to reverse the decision. "We have policy around this that teachers should get vaccinations provided to them because they're working in congregated settings with students," Schilling said. "We know we have overcrowded classrooms." Alberta Union of Public Employees vice-president Bonnie Gostola calls the plan to charge for the shots a "slap in the face" to members working in roles like hospital porters, housekeeping, and other service roles. "Workers that barely make above minimum wage — $110 is one day pay for those members – it's excessive, especially when they are also responsible for looking after other people," she said. Gostola said AUPE has been telling workers this is an occupational health and safety issue, and that it believes the employer needs to take on the responsibility of covering the cost of vaccines. Some employers are suggesting other avenues for staff. The Canadian Air Transport Security Authority said in a statement that its workers will be able to use their employee health care spending account to pay for the shot. A complex change For people who do have health benefits, getting COVID vaccines added to group benefit coverage won't be simple. Alberta Blue Cross – a non-profit insurance provider that runs government coverage programs as well as private plans – has been getting inquiries from both employers and plan members about covering the vaccines. "We are waiting for more information on the COVID vaccines — including the cost and specific details on the way Albertans will access and be charged for the COVID vaccine — before we can make a decision regarding private plan coverage," said Blue Cross spokesperson Sharmin Nault Hislop in a statement. "The change is complex and there are a lot of factors at play." Hislop explained that it's not a simple internal decision as private plans have many different designs, some including vaccine coverage and some that don't. The organization also has an internal drug review process that needs to be done to determine if and how it can add COVID-19 vaccines to its roster of covered medications. U.S. comparison There is variability in the types of health care and medications publicly covered province-to-province. For example, shingles vaccines are free for older adults in some jurisdictions but not others. But changing access to COVID-19 shots, which were freely available across the country for so long, creates a compelling case study, said Jamie Daw, an assistant professor at Columbia University's Mailman School of Public Health. "I think it's not something that anyone expected access would be taken away," Daw said. "I think that's sort of part of this broader conversation about sort of privatization in the Canadian health-care system more generally, and how we should grapple with it and what policies and regulations might be needed in cases like this." Daw said that in the United States, about 90 per cent of Americans can still get COVID vaccines for free — covered by private insurance, and Medicare and Medicaid programs. Unlike Canada where following the isn't required, the U.S. has federal regulations requiring that certain vaccines be fully covered by public and private coverage. Diverging from NACI's recommendations The province said in the 2023-2024 respiratory virus season, 135 million worth of doses went to waste. For the upcoming season, Alberta has ordered 500,000 doses – some of which will be given for free to the identified high-risk groups, and the rest available for purchase to help Alberta recoup the coast. Most Albertans will soon pay about $110 for a COVID shot 1 day ago Duration 2:43 With Alberta soon to end free COVID-19 vaccines for most residents, there's growing concern about cost, coverage and access — especially for vulnerable seniors. When provincial funding ends, most Albertans will have to pay an estimated $110 per dose. A statement from Minister of Primary and Preventive Health Services Adriana LaGrange's office this week said the decision still offers protection to vulnerable Albertans, and takes low uptake of the vaccine by the general population into account. And while Lagrange's office said the province was informed by NACI's recommendations on vaccines, it decided not to offer free vaccines to a number of high risk, priority groups that NACI identifies because of "Alberta's specific needs," such as uptake trends. Those high-risk groups not being offered free vaccines include all people over 65, pregnant people, Indigenous people, members of racialized and other equity-denied communities, and health-care workers and other care providers in community settings. The exclusion of people over 65 is particularly concerning to Dr. Lynora Saxinger, an infectious diseases specialist at the University of Alberta. She said it's a major deviation from NACI's recommendations, which do take cost to provinces into consideration. "It doesn't really endorse using the vaccine very strongly from a public health perspective if they're not covering it," Saxinger said.
CBC
an hour ago
- Health
- CBC
Bankers, athletes, students are using drugs. This hotline tries to keep them safe
There's a national overdose hotline that some Canadians call before they're about to use drugs. But the people dialling in aren't who you might think. Since the National Overdose Response Service (NORS) launched nearly five years ago, it's been reaching drug users who wouldn't typically use consumption and treatment sites. "We do know that a lot of people are hidden substance users," said Monty Ghosh, an addictions physician in Alberta and a NORS researcher. "It could be that they're afraid of losing their job, they're afraid that the family might leave them, they're afraid that the children might get taken away from them." Ghosh says that's where the hotline comes in. He says many people calling in have voluntarily disclosed that they have jobs and stable housing. "We're talking [about] people who are lawyers, physicians, engineers, people who are professional athletes," he said. "A lot of them are using the service because they don't identify as the same population as who uses a physical supervised consumption site." How does NORS work? NORS is like a buddy system — operators stay on the line as people use drugs, ready to alert emergency services if they suspect the person has overdosed. People can also text the line, if they can't or don't want to call. To see who is reaching out and how the hotline works, CBC News met up with an operator in Hamilton, Ont., and listened in on multiple calls. WATCH | NORS operator provides advice while callers take drugs: Canada has a hotline for people who hide their drug use 20 days ago Duration 9:17 An anonymous hotline has fielded over 20,000 calls from people across Canada who want support when using drugs alone, and as CBC's Jennifer La Grassa uncovers, the callers who rely on the National Overdose Response Service (NORS) are not who you might think they are. The operator, Jodi, starts any call by confirming the person's address, telling them to keep their doors unlocked and pets away. These are all precautions in case EMS has to respond. One of the calls was from a student who was about to use crack. "I heard that there was a bad batch going around in my area and I was just wondering if you knew anything about it?" the person asked Jodi. A quick online search for alerts about tainted substances in the caller's region turned up empty, so Jodi cautioned, "Start low, go slow." Another caller, who was smoking fentanyl, told Jodi she's trying to use less frequently. When she does, she's started testing her drugs to stay safe. "Keep doing that," Jodi told her. "Just the stuff that's going around right now, it's actually really scary." Once people use, Jodi stays on the line with them for about 10 to 15 minutes. She makes small talk — asking what they ate for dinner and what their plans are for the evening — all the while paying attention to how they're responding. "We're not therapists, we're not counsellors, we're not social workers," Jodi told CBC News. "We're not here to dig deep [into] why they started using drugs. It's just, 'Hey, how's it going today?'" No one overdosed the night CBC was on the line with Jodi, but it has happened. Of the almost 20,000 calls NORS has received, it's responded to more than 200 overdoses. According to the organization, nobody has died while using the line. In comparison, between March 2020 and February 2025, drug consumption and treatment sites across Canada received more than three million visits. Goal is to 'keep people alive' "Our mandate at NORS is to keep people alive while they're using substances," said Lisa Morris-Miller, the executive director of the hotline. Her sister, Rebecca Morris-Miller, founded the line in December 2020, with the help of her friend Kim Ritchie. The pair had complicated pasts with drug use and met during a recovery program. With a cellphone, $1,000 and some volunteers, Ritchie says they started an early version of the hotline. By the end of 2020, she says partnerships with the University of Alberta and Health Canada led to funding that launched the line across the country. NORS is the first and only national overdose response hotline in Canada. For two years, Rebecca helped grow the service and became an advocate for people who were struggling. But throughout, she continued to struggle with her own addiction to fentanyl. In October 2022, Rebecca used drugs alone and didn't call her own hotline — and ended up dying from an overdose. "My opinion … is that there is still so much stigma associated with substance use, so much that … one of the key founders of this organization wouldn't call her own line," said Lisa Morris-Miller. Lawyers, bankers, athletes calling in Most NORS callers are from Ontario, Alberta, B.C. and Saskatchewan, according to researcher Ghosh. The most recent data from the hotline shows that of more than 3,200 calls, about 50 per cent were women and 16 per cent identified as gender diverse. In interviews, Ghosh said these callers told them that they prefer the hotline because of stigma and safety. While the organization hasn't released research on this, Ghosh says about 10 per cent of their calls have asked about referrals for mental health, opioid treatments or treatment centres. Ian Tait, communications director for the Ambulance Paramedics of British Columbia CUPE 873, says he isn't surprised to hear who is using the service. "In British Columbia … we go to million-dollar mansions for, you know, issues with substance use," said Tait, who is also an advanced care paramedic supervisor. He said that most of the overdose calls they respond to are for people who are unhoused, with mental health and substance use issues. Tait cited an app called Lifeguard, which he says people in B.C. will often use. Those with the app will activate it before taking their drug of choice and they then have to deactivate it within a certain period of time. If they don't, EMS will be alerted. "In this type of crisis, we have to look at ideas that are outside of the box," he said. Faith O'Toole, a 22-year-old Ottawa resident, has been revived multiple times because of the hotline. Having used crack and fentanyl since she was a teenager, O'Toole has lost count of how often she's overdosed. Her mom, Tamara, allowed Faith to keep living at home and using drugs, but insisted she call the hotline. "Of course I don't want my child to use drugs — nobody does. But if they're going to and I can't make her stop, what can I do to help keep her as safe as possible?" said Tamara. She estimates Faith has overdosed at least three times while using NORS. "Overdosing sucks, but the hotline is really useful," said Faith. "It's convenient. I mean, if you have a phone … you can call and you're safe." But Faith no longer lives at home and says she doesn't call the hotline as often. Hotline can't replace drug consumption sites: experts Despite how helpful virtual resources like hotlines and apps can be in this crisis, experts say they can't replace controversial drug consumption and treatment sites. The hotline fills some gaps — like being available around the clock and allowing people to smoke their drugs (which many drug sites don't allow) — but it's not accessible to everyone. For example, some people might not have a cellphone, says Caleb Clay, administrative manager for a mobile overdose prevention site at Sunshine House in Winnipeg. "I think that physical and virtual options can work hand in hand," he said. "I don't think physical sites will ever go away." Ghosh says these sites are essential, specifically because they're often used by people who are experiencing homelessness, and can provide them with a range of support. For example, they connect people to the local mental health care system, help bandage wounds or offer drug test strips and clean needles. But drug consumption sites have historically faced a lot of backlash. Most recently in Ontario, the provincial government shut down several facilities under new legislation and said it doesn't plan on approving any more sites. Right now, NORS has 20 employees across the country and is fully funded by Health Canada until 2028. NORS operator Jodi says people who call in just want to protect themselves, without judgment. She gets it, because she was once addicted to drugs, too. "It's kind of embarrassing," one caller told Jodi the evening CBC listened in. "What's embarrassing?" Jodi asked. "You know — you don't want to tell your family, but you don't want to be alone," they said.
