THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, February 16, 1996 TAG: 9602150180
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 13 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Cover Story
SERIES: SPECIAL REPORT: SUBSTANCE ABUSE
SOURCE: BY NANCY LEWIS, CORRESPONDENT
LENGTH: Long : 206 lines
``DO YOU WANT to stop drinking?'' asks Richard Vercruysse as he steers the van around a sharp bend in the road.
``Of course I do,'' answers Ken (not his real name) impatiently from the dark back seat. Then, angrily, ``Do you think I like this crap?''
It's 10:15. A frigid Saturday evening in January. Frost is beginning to glitter on the windshields of cars parked along the streets.
Vercruysse, better known as ``Kountry'' and, to police, ``Detox Two,'' has just picked up Ken from Virginia Beach General Hospital's emergency room. He was brought in by ambulance after passing out drunk somewhere along the Oceanfront.
Ken says he consumed too much ``cheap wine. I tried to stay warm and had one too many.''
Hospital personnel determined Ken's blood alcohol level is .312 - four times the legal limit of .08. He's on his way to the city's detoxification center to dry out.
Vercruysse becomes impatient waiting for the green arrow to flash so he can make a left into the parking lot of Open Door Chapel, a church on Virginia Beach Boulevard where the center is housed. He steps on the gas and makes a quick U-turn a few hundred yards up the street. There's no light for this left-turn lane.
Vercruysse explains that his patience sometimes wears thin waiting for a light to turn when he's taking a drunk in. ``They throw up'' sometimes, he explains.
But it does not appear that Ken is going to do any such thing. He is lucid, but sad. As Vercruysse straightens out the wheel after the turn, Ken's meek, quivering voice breaks the silence.
``I wanted to reach out to somebody, but there was no one to reach out to.''
``What about the soup kitchens?'' Vercruysse asks. ``If not for them, you wouldn't be here.''
``I'd be dead,'' Ken says after a minute of reflection. ``And you, Kountry,'' he adds, staring out the window.
Rose Dykeman is waiting with a big smile as the van brakes to a stop at the night entrance to the detox facility. She knows Ken well. He's a regular.
During the next hour, Dykeman will get Ken's vital signs, give him some juice to drink, then usher him to a bed where he can sleep it off.
Ken has been drinking for about 25 years. The longest period of time he's been ``clean'' is 60 days, he tells Vercruysse.
The 42-year-old homeless Vietnam vet sometimes takes refuge in the city's church-based winter shelter program, but this night he was just too ``cold and hungry'' and ``couldn't make it.''
No full moon spotlights the starry sky tonight, but it will turn out to be a busy night for Vercruysse just the same. When there's a full moon on Friday - ``pay day'' - Vercruysse expects the worst and most often gets it. Then, too, it's winter, the slowest season. Once summer arrives with its flock of tourists, things get unmanageable. Even now, though, the 14 beds at the facility just don't suffice.
Earlier in the evening, Vercruysse made two trips from the city shelter outreach center in the resort area to Haygood Methodist Church on the other side of town, helping transport the 50-or-so homeless people who came for help - a hot meal and a place to sleep - on this cold night. The city's bus is in for repairs, so it takes two large vans five trips to deliver them. It was because Vercruysse was so occupied that he missed his first call of the evening, a request from Second Precinct police.
Steve Rochkind, ``Detox Four,'' responded instead. The two spell each other. Rochkind covers the city's Third and Fourth precincts in Bayside and Kempsville. Vercruysse works the First and Second precincts at the Municipal Center and Oceanfront.
Rochkind is already at detox when Vercruysse stops to change to a smaller van. Vercruysse goes inside to see if there have been any calls and finds Rochkind trying to calm an agitated, obviously intoxicated man whose abdomen protrudes from his unbuttoned shirt like a watermelon. Eric (not his real name) is glad to see Vercruysse, whom he knows.
``Steve did a good thing bringing you in,'' Vercruysse says, holding the sobbing Eric's hand, steering him toward a chair. ``Nobody's going to hurt anybody.''
``I didn't mean to hurt the cops,'' Eric says through tears. He is 45, but appears at least 10 years older.
``If you'd hurt them you wouldn't be with me,'' Vercruysse says.
Police, it turns out, were called to Eric's home to disarm him after he threatened to shoot himself. Since he was non-combative, they called the treatment center. His blood-alcohol level is .317, Rose reports.
Eric's eyes dart around the room like a frightened animal. It's his first time at detox, and he doesn't know what to expect.
``What were you drinking?'' Vercruysse asks.
``Vodka,'' Eric replies, staring at the floor. He has grown suddenly sullen and quiet.
But that was earlier, and now Vercruysse is helping Ken as he stumbles through the door. Staff have called paramedics to take Eric to the hospital because it now appears that his abdomen is enlarged from an abscess, which has begun to drain through his navel. He opens his shirt to show Vercruysse a raw red area about 4 inches in diameter. It's the site of an old gunshot wound, he explains.
Blood pressure is 140 over 90, Rose reports. Eric's ankles are badly swollen, and now he says that the open wound has been draining for ``a week or two.''
``Why didn't you get it taken care of?'' Vercruysse asks.
``Scared,'' Eric replies, circling and supporting his distended gut with his hands. He is wincing now from the pain.
When paramedics arrive, Eric has changed his mind and refuses to go with them. It takes 15 minutes of gentle, but firm, persuasion on Vercruysse's part to get him on the gurney.
Sally (not her real name) watches from a doorway. She's known the man for years.
``He's got a heart a mile wide,'' she says.
The 34-year-old woman has been at detox longer than the five-day limit, but plans to leave Monday. It's her third time in the facility.
``I was hopeless, depressed,'' she says, tears welling in her eyes. ``The next step would have been suicide.''
When Sally leaves the facility, she plans to go into a 28-day residential rehabilitation program in another city. Many who get counseling at the detox center go into Virginia Beach's day treatment substance-abuse program. The majority of those seeking help through the center are alcoholics, but cocaine addiction also is frequently seen, Vercruysse says.
Last year, more than 2,600 people entered the detoxification center, while police arrested more than 4,000 for public intoxication.
It's 10:50 now, and Vercruysse says it's time to cruise the strip. He steers the van between some buildings and is on the Boardwalk. Three people are walking on the beach, but the Boardwalk is deserted. Static from Vercruysse's police radio interrupts the silence.
``Citizen request for pick up at . . . ,'' says the crackly voice.
Vercruysse acknowledges, meanwhile steering the van between a flagpole and a concrete abutment. He circles the block twice but can't find the address. On the second pass, a man is standing in front of a motel room waving his arms. As the van slows, he goes back inside to get his things.
The man has a hard time keeping his balance as he gathers up articles of clothing. Another man arrives, embraces the first, then admonishes him loudly to go with Vercruysse, who by now is waiting inside the open door.
Jack (not his real name) is 30 years old. He'd gone on a ``three-day bender'' after he and his wife split up. He called police and asked for a ride to detox after he began thinking about suicide. He'd had a .44-caliber Magnum ready on the table when he realized he needed to get help fast.
``I wish someone would give me the answer,'' Jack says, sobbing. ``I want help. Nobody will help me.''
``We're going to help you,'' Vercruysse says softly, driving slowly now.
At detox, Jack drops his armload of clothes on the floor as counselor Susan Curtis-Husk begins updating his file. He's been in detox once before. Jack also has brought along a framed picture of his wife and two kids and his marriage certificate, which he puts carefully atop the pile of clothes.
Vercruysse takes a coffee break while checking on Ken, who's asleep. Eric has been admitted to the hospital, he learns.
Vercruysse is ready to get back on the road, for soon the Oceanfront bars will be closing and police may need his help.
On the way, he stops at a laundromat to find out whether either of the two men stretched out on chairs and a table need a ride to the shelter. One stirs from his sleep to decline, but the other man is sound asleep.
Vercruysse spots someone he knows in front of Farm Fresh and makes a quick turn into the parking lot.
Sam (not his real name) is 52 and has been homeless in 15 states for 20 years. He likes it that way. His long gray beard is braided into one strand, and he is warmly dressed.
``I figure as long as I'm homeless I might as well see the world,'' says Sam, who is articulate and obviously intelligent. ``The Lord says `Be of good cheer.' '' All you've got to do is stay clean, sleep and eat. I don't owe anybody anything, but then nobody owes me anything either.''
``He's an alcoholic, but he doesn't like detox or the shelters,'' Vercruysse says, pulling onto Laskin Road. ``He sleeps in the woods.''
It's 1:10 a.m., and Vercruysse takes up a position on Atlantic Avenue as people begin leaving the bars. He'll be on duty until 4 a.m., ready to help those who find themselves temporarily unable to cope. He'll try to get them to continue counseling once they leave detox, but if they don't, their paths will probably cross his again, soon. MEMO: [For a related story, see page 12 of The Beacon for this date.]
SPECIAL REPORT: SUNDAY: MENTAL ILLNESS, WEDNESDAY: MENTAL RETARDATION,
TODAY: SUBSTANCE ABUSE.
ILLUSTRATION: [Cover, Color photo]
A COMMUNITY SAFETY NET FOR THOSE WHO ABUSE ALCOHOL & DRUGS
ON THE COVER
Jack (not his real name) unloads his problems on detox center
counselor Susan Curtis-Husk in a photograph by L. TODD SPENCER.
Among Jack's belongings were a framed picture of his family and his
marriage certificate. The names in this story were changed and the
photographs were limited to protect the identity of the
substance-abuse clients.
Photos by L. TODD SPENCER
As paramedics from Volunteer Rescue Squad 5 take his vital signs,
Eric (not his real name) is counseled by Richard Vercruysse. Eric
has a blood-alcohol level of .317 and an infected injury that
requires hospital attention.
Photo by L. TODD SPENCER
Richard Reed, left, who runs a support group at the detoxification
center, discusses procedures with Richard ``Kountry'' Vercruysse.
Last year, more than 2,600 people entered the center.
Outside the night entrance to the Virginia Beach detox center,
substance-abuse worker Richard ``Kountry'' Vercruysse explains that
the combination of a full moon and pay day make for a busy night. He
expects the worst and most often gets it. Then, too, it's winter,
the slowest season.
KEYWORDS: SUBSTANE ABUSE by CNB