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The new office job: Coworking space’s place in Southern Colorado



In February, a study released by Gallup showed that 43 percent of workers in America are now remote, leaving behind a traditional 9-to-5 office job model. More than half of American employees are now citing flexibility as one of the key factors in taking a job, and 37 percent of those surveyed said they’d jump at the chance to work from where they wished.

It’s no question, then, that the winds of the workforce are blowing in new directions, likely driven by a number of factors: the increasingly digital age, economic issues and lifestyle aspirations for flexibility and freedom. But what happens when someone takes the leap towards working remotely or freelancing? Often, working from home or working out of a coffee shop may seem to be the only solution to the conundrum of a seemingly adrift worker with no real ties.

But there’s a third option, one that is rapidly gaining popularity and proving to have several benefits: Joining a coworking space.  

The History & Philosophy of Coworkng

So what exactly is “coworking,” and where did the concept come from? As Craig Baute—who is the founder of the Creative Density Coworking in Denver and sits on the board of Coworks, a national coworking association—explained it, a web developer in San Francisco named Brad Neuberg was working from home in 2005. His roommate would always come home telling stories about all the great discussions and interactions he’d had with people.

“Brad kind of missed that interaction,” said Baute. “And he kind of said, ‘Well, why the heck don’t I get that interaction?’ ”

Around the same time in New York City, a movement called Jelly was taking off with similar motivations. Amit Gupta and Luke Crawford, roommates who worked from home, missed community—but not the infamous office politics that abound in corporate life. So they began inviting people to work together out of their home one day a week, and more people began forming their own work groups in New York City.

Neuberg coined the term “coworking” and opened what is now deemed to be the first official coworking concept in San Francisco in 2005.

“They built a space and wrote a philosophy about it: friends coming together to work, to collaborate, to celebrate different occupations,” Baute said.

Welcome Fellow hosts events, concerts, and small business training out of their space, too. Photo by Teryn O’Brien

A new kind of work movement was born—one that many cities began buying into, including Denver.

Baute, originally from Michigan, opened the second coworking space in Denver, Creative Density, in 2011 because he knew the atmosphere in the Mile High City was prime for coworking.

Today, there are around 20 independent coworking spaces in Denver. Several are part of Denver Coworks—which Baute founded—a nonprofit organization that helps raise awareness of the concept of coworking, matches potential members with the right coworking space, and fights for the vision of coworking within an increasingly commercialized market.

“Denver is one of the most competitive spaces, certainly in the top three, for coworking in the United States…for the number of coworking available on a per capita bases,” described Baute. “So Denver is one of the significant hubs.”

Trickling down to Colorado Springs

Southern Colorado has been feeling the collective inspiration, too. The Enclave—the first coworking space to open in Colorado Springs—was born out a group of 13 individuals who began meeting together to work in coffee shops in 2010.

“We were just hanging out in the morning and working together,” said Ryan Cross. “It was huge. It had much more response than we ever thought.” In the summer of 2011, Cross made it official, purchasing their first space with eight official members for the inception of The Enclave.

Not long after, Lisa Tessarowicz and Hannah Parsons—women who both knew too many people sick of working out of coffee shops—saw a need and founded Epicentral Coworking in 2012. “It was just something we wanted to do for the community,” said Tessarowicz of their business jump into an unknown market.

Frank Frey and Kayla Battles are “Space Captains,” an actual job title at Epicentral. They are pivotal in building community, networking, and collaboration within the coworking space. One of the major appeals of coworking is that there’s an expectation for businesses and individuals across industries to connect in an intentional manner. Photo by Teryn O’Brien

It’s paid off. Epicentral is a bustling hub of excitement in downtown Colorado Springs, providing more than 130 members with unlimited access to a bright, welcoming space.

One thing lead to another, and soon there were several other spaces beginning to pop up—including Engine Co-Working inside Catalyst Campus, a facility that mentors small businesses, entrepreneurs, and startups; The Machine Shop, which was born out of several high-quality graphic design and architectural firms banding together to create an affordable workspace; and Welcome Fellow—one of the newest kids on the block  (and youngest: the founders are in their upper 20s and early 30s) to found a coworking space in 2016 that’s cool, hip and highly geared towards cultural movers and shakers.

The Rising Appeal of Coworking

But what’s so bad about working out of a coffee shop? It’s free, right? For the independent worker, it’s not really, Cross of Enclave explained.

“You’re still paying for coffee throughout the day—unless you’re going to be That Guy,” he said. “Nobody wants that. That’s a place that sells coffee; it’s not a place that provides you a seat to work.”

But there’s always home, then.

“There’s question of: Oh, you may think you work well from home, but then do you home well from work?” said Tessarowicz of Epicentral. “You have to be thinking through those boundaries. I am a person who is very easily distracted. I’d much sooner alphabetize my bookshelf then actually get work done. So I can’t work from home.”

Renting an actual office becomes risky and unattainable for individuals or small businesses. “If you look at just the people that have startups or just freelancers, they’re definitely not about to go rent a big office,” said Adam Morley, co-founder of Welcome Fellow and founder of the retail business Café Motique. “Number one, they don’t need it. Number two, they can’t afford it.”

“We have people here who have full time jobs, but they can’t get work done at work. They’ll come here to get work done so that can change their work environment and get something done,” said Lisa Tessarowicz, co-founder of Epicentral. Coworking spaces offer a place to work without the distractions of a normal work environment. Photo by Teryn O’Brien

One selling point for coworking, then, becomes the fact that you share a workspace with minimal expense. Most coworking spaces offer monthly, weekly, or daily packages, with people using the space as little or as much as they want. Teams or individuals come and go on a whim, and they have the flexibility to do so.

But the larger and more important appeal isn’t just saving money. It’s community.

The Invaluable Community of Coworking

The philosophy behind coworking has always been about community and collaboration. The majority of coworking spaces try very hard to create a sense of both professional networking and friendship within each space. Businesses and individuals across industries who may never have met before are suddenly thrown into each other’s paths.

Frank Frey and Kayla Battles work at Epicentral as Space Captains (yes, that’s a real title), and their sole job is to help facilitate intentional community, help members feel welcome within the space, and offer technical and administrative assistance. “We provide the right kind of distraction,” Frey described, and Battles added that coworking is all about “social currency.” They are both constantly on the lookout for how to best connect members.

The results can be amazingly rewarding. At Epicentral, Springs Magazine was born out of a connection between the editor, Jeremy Jones, and the publisher, John Sawyer.

“It’s a great place to have ideas and make connections,” Jones said. “Even as editor of the Springs, it’s been a great place for us to continue to have an office, because it’s a great place to have synergy and very easily hear what other people are doing.”

Coworking spaces can also add vital value to small businesses with smaller teams or even branches of a larger corporation that want to save money and tap into local networks. Kelly Pomis, Deputy Executive Director of Teach For America, a national nonprofit that works to equalize education for all children, helped convince the large nonprofit to move their regional office to Epicentral. When their lease of a office space was up, Pomis said that they began looking for alternative options rather than renting out another huge space that wasn’t even being used effectively.

“We realized that we can save $15,000 saving space,” she said. “It just made sense….We’re a national organization that’s 25 years old. But now, more and more of our sister and brother regions are like, ‘Could this make sense?’ We do save a lot of money, and it’s invaluable for those networks. Colorado Springs has helped pave the way for a national organization to do this. Do we have to work in the isolation of our own office? Technically, no.”

The Machine Shop—a non-traditional coworking space that only rents out a few desks but offers several top-notch design studios like Co-Pilot Creative, Fixer Creative, Design Rangers, and Echo Architecture a space to share and collaborate in—has seen exponential growth in living together as design firms in one space, according to Valerie Lloyd, the co-owner and manager.

Coworking spaces become a home away from home. “But the bottom line is, you could come here for $140 a month and get the exact same cost [as going to a coffee shop] at a place where you are truly welcome to come and stay as long as you’d like,” said Ryan Cross. Photo by Teryn O’Brien

“We’re people who want to affect the city well with good design,” she said. “Design then creates a better environment that creates a competitive spirit a little bit that just raises the bar continually….[Coworking] really does allow small businesses to have a lot more than they would just doing it on their own. Stuff you couldn’t just afford.”

In the future, coworking will continue to grow, following the whims of the rapidly changing workforce.

Kayla Battles compares it to gym memberships, where people will someday ask “So where do you work from?” in a similar way that people ask “Where do you work out?” The diversity of those that find coworking beneficial range in age, industry, and profession. But they all have one theme in common: they want to find friends and connections in a collaborative environment.

A Coworking Space in Southern Colorado’s manufacturing hub?

Where could coworking pop up next?

Craig Baute from Denver sincerely hopes that it’s in Pueblo.

“Pueblo is ripe for a coworking space,” he said. “It’s not only an economic opportunity for the city, but with downtown revitalization and wanting to keep young people there, Pueblo is Ground Zero to where coworking could really change things—to keep people there, keep small businesses there, just let people know that there’s other opportunities just by exposing people to the idea of coworking.”

Batue said that he’s been trying to find partners for Pueblo, but that the challenge is always introducing the first coworking space into a new place.

While getting the word out about coworking is often the hardest challenge, according to Adam Morley from Welcome Fellow, coworking can be an amazing moment for those who learn about it.

“If you do get people in here, it can change their life, and those are the moments I live for, honestly,” he said. “When you get those people who are wandering before, but then they come in and realize, this is what I want!”

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Middle schoolers have a plan to stop rock art tagging in Western Colorado




GRAND JUNCTION, Colo. (AP) — Arron Buehler’s day in a western Colorado canyon might not have had the Hollywood panache of Ferris Bueller’s day off, but something about seeing Buehler’s name scrawled on the sandstone escarpment gave Chris Joyner pause.

Joyner, spokesman for the Grand Junction Office of the Bureau of Land Management, looked at Buehler’s name — and those of many others emblazoned on rock in a canyon south of Grand Junction — and said that, paradoxically, there might be a reason for hope.

It was just last year that Buehler posted his name, next to Elizabeth, who left her mark in 2017.

Few of the names appeared to be more than a year or two old, and, “That tells me there’s opportunity here,” Joyner said.

The more recent the markings, the more likely the vandals are to be found, and the more likely it is that other methods might discourage younger people from following Arron Buehler’s lead, Joyner said.

Joyner and BLM archaeologist Alissa Leavitt-Reynolds are working in Grand Junction to deal with vandalism on federal lands, whether it be by graffiti artists such as Charley Humpy (who helpfully added, “Remember me” next to his name and yes, the BLM is doing all it can to achieve total recall), drug users ditching evidence in the desert, mayhem by “marksmen” and plain old dumping.

As much as Arron Buehler and a multitude of companions — Brian, Charley, Dizz, Dominique, Kay, Megan, Elizabeth, Jon, Sam and Tosha all seem to be begging for court dates (and Tosha, did you know your name covered an ancient petroglyph?) — Joyner said prosecution ought not be the only response to a growing trend of vandalism and worse on western Colorado’s rocky outcrops and arid landscapes.

Citations for vandalism aren’t tracked by the Colorado U.S. Attorney’s Office, which prosecutes offenses on federal land, so no precise numbers are available.

An Army veteran, Joyner is using his post 9/11 GI Bill funds at Johns-Hopkins University to study ways to divert people from what he terms “dysfunctional visitor behavior.”

“Dysfunctional visitor behavior” has a more authoritative ring than “vandalism” and “littering” and Joyner said he hopes that a scholarly approach can help agencies fend off some of the destructive activity on federal lands before it takes place.

Some of his research suggests that “informed participation in nearby historic and cultural sites” can influence the way many residents perceive those sites, Joyner said.

The students in Ginger DeCavitch’s social studies classes at Mount Garfield Middle School experienced “informed participation” last summer.

DeCavitch took her students into Bangs Canyon to see the mica mine and found the defaced escarpment “as we were stepping over broken beer bottles and charcoal” from fires.

Vandals had used charcoal to scratch names and slogans on the rock, DeCavitch said.

“They call it tagging” and few participants see any issue with defacing the rock, taking selfies and posting them on social media, DeCavitch said.

She contacted the BLM soon afterward to see if her class could help clean up the mess they found.

“They all wanted to go back,” enough that some students hauled 40-pound containers of water down an occasionally difficult trail to help clean the site, DeCavitch said.

Her middle school students sat silent as members of the Southern Ute tribe described how they perceived the canyon and the ancient markings, many of which had been defaced, DeCavitch said.

Far from being discouraged, her students were enthused about tackling the enormity of the defacement, DeCavitch said.

“We have a plan that we’ll be back,” she said.

Introducing young people properly to wild lands is one way to discourage future vandals and dysfunctional visitors.

It’s one “foot-in-the-door” tactic that Joyner hopes land managers take up.

Visitors also can be endowed with a sense of ownership by agreeing with a simple proposition — the idea that one ought not litter on public lands, for instance — and then be brought along to agree with how to visit them appropriately, Joyner said.

It’s part of a human tendency to want to be consistent, he said. People who agree not to litter tend to want to build on that as opposed to act in contradictory fashion, he said.

Even providing a small gift or trinket can engender a sense of responsibility among potential vandals, Joyner said.

Other techniques include the “broken-window” approach — the idea that replacing broken glass as soon as it’s found and thus denying miscreants their moment of victory — isn’t as easy as it might be in other environments, Joyner said.

DeCavitch’s class, for instance, learned that while cleaning up a mess might eliminate an eyesore, it also could erase history.

Her eager middle-schoolers couldn’t go forward with the cleanup until members of the Southern Ute Tribe, headquartered in Duchesne, Utah, approved the plan, DeCavitch said.

While Joyner’s studies have suggested that males 16 to 25 who live within 60 miles of Grand Junction are the likely offenders, one look at the escarpment suggests that young women are more active participants than crime statistics might suggest, Joyner said.

One study suggests that younger people prefer non-coercive approaches, but Joyner said that doesn’t mean the BLM is losing interest in prosecuting vandals and others.

Far from it.

BLM officials routinely contact school officials and consult high school yearbooks to match the names they come across with people who could be prosecuted.

Some miscreants make it easier, posting selfies of themselves with their works. Some even lower the level of difficulty by including hashtags.

The criminal exposure can reach felony levels because of the difficulty and expense of dealing with cleaning up or restoring the markings that date back hundreds of years.

If the malefactors are found, Joyner said, “We don’t write warning tickets.”


Information from: The Daily Sentinel,

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The #WhatNow of #MeToo for the #COLeg



AP Photo/David Zalubowski

When several lawmakers, lobbyists and staff at the state Legislature came forward this fall to allege they were victims of sexual harassment by lawmakers, two big questions followed: how often does this happen? What can be done to prevent more cases?

Reporters have asked state officials the first question repeatedly, returning to readers with little response from the state. The latter prompted a conversation from leadership, but as for what’s next—how the allegations, formal complaints, and legislature’s response—will impact politics under the gold dome and whether women will feel any safer is to be determined.

So far, top state lawmakers have decided to hire a human resources officer—who would be independent from the legislature—to be a contact person when incidents involving sexual harassment are brought forward. Now, leadership is tasked with handling and investigating such claims.

The group also decided to hire an independent consultant to review the legislature’s sexual harassment policy, and lawmakers, staff, and aides will undergo another round of sexual harassment training this year. Typically, those working at the Legislature are only required to go through training every two years.

Those changes are a good start, said Erin Hottenstein, executive director of Colorado 50/50, an organization that aims to get more women in public office. But the legislature stopped short of changing any current policies. And Colorado 50/50 called for an entire overhaul.

“I’m very pleased that there was a recognition that the policy needs to be improved,” Hottenstein said.

But there weren’t any specific recommendations regarding transparency, which Hottenstein said is significant in looking at what happens next.

Lawmakers and staff said they couldn’t disclose how many sexual harassment claims that leadership in each chamber have received because they were personnel issues.

“I think there’s a way to be transparent and safe,” Hottenstein said. “There should be a high- level summary document that shows on a certain date a sexual harassment complaint was made and who it was against and a date of a deposition and what the result was.”

Hottenstein said transparency becomes crucial in these cases because it leads to accountability and the public’s right to know what actions the people elected to office are taking.

In October, Pueblo Rep. Daneya Esgar broke her silence posting on Facebook that she was no stranger to sexual harassment and experienced it just a week earlier with a colleague she works with regularly as a lawmaker. The post was part of the #MeToo movement after a New York Times expose highlighted the stories of several women who said they’d been sexually harassed or assaulted by Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein.

Then, a flood of other allegations were brought to the surface in Colorado politics. Rep. Faith Winter said fellow House member Steve Lebsock had harassed her at a legislative party in 2016. Winter and a lobbyist say they filed formal complaints against Lebsock.

An intern said Sen. Randy Baumgardner harassed her with sexually suggestive comments. The same went for Sen. Jack Tate of Centennial, who was accused of telling an intern that if she wanted to get ahead in her career, he could help.

Rep. Paul Rosenthal, who is openly gay, allegedly groped a man and used his seat to try and get a date with another.

But the case between Lebsock and Winter gained the most attention, even prompting Lebsock to take a polygraph test, which the administrator says he passed, to prove his innocence. Lebsock has hinted that the entire incident may be a case of dirty politics, alleging that Winter is the one lying.

When several lawmakers were asked if the case would mean a splintered Democratic party in the House, they were unsure, but optimistic about the session.

Still, there haven’t been any resignations over the allegations, though several, including leadership and editorial boards from across the state, said these legislators should step down from their seat. Some even called for House Speaker Crisanta Duran to step down from her position because she promoted Lebsock to a chairmanship despite knowing there was an incident between him and Winter.

The transparency piece has yet to be addressed by state lawmakers, and it’s unclear whether any policy or legislative changes will address that in the coming months. But for what it’s worth, the women who have broken their silence about sexual harassment in the Legislature are supportive of the changes leadership has discussed.

“I’m encouraged to see the direction leadership is taking when it comes to developing new and independent methods of dealing with complaints of sexual harassment at the Capitol,” said Esgar, who still hasn’t named the colleague she said grabbed her thigh at a legislative event earlier this year. “I’m hopeful that new ideas are still being formulated and considered, when it comes to ways to change the culture itself.”

The lawmaker added that a new session will certainly mean new ideas will come to light, “it’s our responsibility to lead the state in changing cultures to help make work environments safe and productive for all employees on every level.”

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Overdose overload: Addicts in distress put the strain on first responders



The opioid and heroin epidemic has created a growing number of drug overdoses, which are taking their toll on first responders in southern Colorado’s urban and rural areas – first responders who are charged with administering initial treatment at the scene and transporting distressed addicts to hospitals.

Brandon Costerison, who is a spokesman for the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse and based out of the St. Louis area, says there are two trends coming out of the opioid and heroin epidemic. The first is positive: Hospitals, once overdosed addicts are brought to their facilities for initial treatment, have been more and more able to put those addicts into long-term treatment programs with the help of community support. Costerison likens overdoses to heart attacks in that essential follow-up treatments concentrating on “high blood pressure and all the other things that caused the heart attack” are needed for preventing heart failures in the future. He adds that not all communities, particularly those in rural areas, can offer follow-up treatments for addicts who overdosed and who often leave the hospitals and/or incarceration without getting the treatment they need to get off drugs and prevent future overdoses.

The second trend, though, is most disparaging: the high number of overdosing addicts has put a strain on first responders to get overdose patients through emergency room doors. Costerison says that emergency medical technicians have about two to three hours to get opioid addicts who overdose to the hospital. He adds that he has relatives in the Pueblo area and wonders about the toll put on EMTs in southeast Colorado’s rural areas, where the nearest medical facility could be as far as 45 miles away or even greater.

Third strike, and done?

As for the toll overdoses take on a community in terms of dollars and cents, Costerison refers to a June 28th story appearing on the USA Today website about an Ohio town that has suffered such financial losses from repeat opioid overdose calls that its city council morbidly discussed a three-strikes rule. Middletown, Ohio, which has less than half the population of Pueblo, actually ruminated over leaving a distressed opioid addict for dead if that person was treated and taken to the hospital by the city’s EMTs for an overdose two times prior.

The city council cited, among other things, the high cost of Narcan, the drug used to counter the effects of an opioid overdose. “That somebody’s life is only worth a few bucks is really disconcerting,” Costerison says.

A call last month to Middletown city media representative Shelby Quinlivan humanely revealed that the three-strikes discussion “went nowhere” and the councilman who brought up the idea did not get re-elected and will leave his post this month.

Thankfully, a discussion like the one had by the Middleton City Council would be highly improbable in Pueblo.

Pueblo Fire Chief Shawn Shelton explains that, although his firefighters are also trained as EMTs, they don’t take anyone to the hospital and in at least some cases don’t administer Narcan. He says the City of Pueblo contracts with a Greenwood Village-based national company called American Medical Response or AMR for those services. (AMR has a similar contract with Canon City.)

In AMR’s hands

In regards to opioid and heroin overdoses, Pueblo firefighters and police officers usually arrive at the scene first, then call AMR, which sends EMTs and an ambulance. The AMR EMTs in many cases administer the Narcan and then transport the overdose patient to the hospital. AMR then bills the patient or the patient’s insurance provider for the Narcan and services rendered. The only expense for the city is for the firefighters to call and observe the AMR EMTs, and those firefighters would be on duty anyway.

Also Shelton’s firefighters have observed that, like in Middletown, there have been a number of addicts in Pueblo who repeatedly overdose, but figures on just how many were not readily available.

As an aside, the fire chief says Narcan, which is also known by the generic name naloxone, is only a temporary fix that lasts a relatively short time before the negative symptoms of the overdose – vomiting, dizziness, seizures, etc. – return. Shelton says addicts often get angry after the Narcan is administered (to help save their lives) because it interrupts or ruins the heroin high for which they paid a lot of money to buy on the street.

Mike Lening is operations manager for AMR’s South Region, which serves Pueblo, most of Pueblo County (except for Rye and Beulah), and Fremont County. He says an increase in opioid overdoses across his region “makes it tougher” on his company’s resources (EMTs and equipment). As for the cost of treating overdosing addicts, who most often cannot pay for AMR’s services, Lening says his EMTs do not curtail their services based on someone’s perceived inability to pay for them. He adds that sometimes in rural areas his EMTs have to transport patients to hospitals that are “up to 45 minutes to an hour away.”

As for the urban area, Lening says AMR has seen “a little bit of a spike” in opioid overdose calls in the city of Pueblo recently.

By the numbers

Although Lening says he cannot come up with the total number overdoses his EMTs treat during any given time frame, the Pueblo Fire Department was able to come up with statistics relating to the number of times Narcan has been administered in the presence the city’s firefighters during their calls. Pueblo Fire Inspector Erik Duran, who is also the fire department’s information officer, provided a chart that shows in 2014 either firefighters, AMR EMTs or Pueblo police officers administered Narcan during calls labeled as drug overdoses and alcohol and other poisonings 69 times. Duran explains that roughly 95 percent of those calls are in fact overdoses. That number increases dramatically in 2015 to 92 calls, then goes down to 73 calls in 2016, and back up again to 84 calls from January 1st to mid-December of last year. Other calls during which Narcan was administered, which might have been overdoses, are those in which the victim was unconscious or near unconscious at the scene and there was no telltale paraphernalia when first responders arrived, so the victim’s medical condition could not be immediately ascertained. In those calls, AMR EMTs took over treatment. Those numbers are 32 such calls in 2014, also 32 in 2015, 48 in 2016 and 37 during most of last year. And yet during other city fire department calls, which again might have been overdoses, the victim received Narcan during treatment and died at the scene. The numbers for those calls are two in 2014, one in 2015, six in 2016 and five for most of 2017.

Rural areas not immune

EMT resources in rural areas are being stretched, to say the least. Alamosa Police Department Capt. Samuel Maestas says that the cost of opioid overdose calls for his city had been steadily on the rise until they “flat-lined” recently when the city took advantage of a state grant giving rural areas the funds to purchase Narcan. The move also allows Alamosa police officers, who are usually the first to arrive at the scene of an overdose, to administer the drug before EMTs from San Luis Valley Health arrive to transport addicts to the hospital thereby taking fire department personnel out of the picture in most instances. San Luis Valley Health provides emergency medical response, through its Alamosa Ambulance Service, for the city of Alamosa and all of Alamosa County.

Ted Andersen is the director of the Alamosa Ambulance Service and he estimates that his company’s emergency call volumes for overdoses have increased by roughly 24 percent from the start of 2015 to the beginning of last month. Andersen says, “We almost don’t have enough ambulances to handle all the overdose calls,” adding that the cost of keeping those ambulances stocked with Narcan is astronomical. Also, Andersen says he needs more EMTs because of the heroin and opioid crisis, and EMTs are in short supply mainly because they require four years of training – much like registered nurses do.

Andersen explains that most of the distressed addicts his EMTs encounter are transients (homeless and from out of state). He adds that many of them are repeat, to coin a phrase, overdosers, who­ – once they are hospitalized – refuse the long-term treatment that would get them off heroin and opioids for good.

Andersen theorizes that addicts come to Colorado without jobs because they know marijuana is legal here and surmise local officials are lenient when it comes to other drugs. He says he has heard that Pueblo, Colorado Springs, and even Denver are dealing with the same issue.

At the scene of the overdose, the EMTs usually encounter an addict who is either not breathing or having seizures. Andersen says EMTs are putting their lives at risk because, once the Narcan is administered, the addict becomes hostile. “It’s like they’re saying, ‘Hey, man, you just ruined my $200 high. Thank you very much!’” he says. Then the punching and kicking begins.

Andersen says his EMTs now wear protective vests to counter these violent reactions. To avoid conflict at the scene in the first place, the EMTs, if possible, try to clear the patient’s airway and get him or her stabilized without using Narcan. Andersen says they save the Narcan treatment for the emergency room, where the environment is more controlled.

What to do?

Southeast Colorado’s first responders are seeing their resources being stretched to the limit when it comes to handling overdose patients – many of whom are repeatedly coming into contact with EMTs because they refuse long-term treatment. The National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse’s Costerison says in St. Louis the opposite is true. They have overdose patients who want treatment and can’t get it largely because Missouri, unlike Colorado, has not expanded its Medicaid program making long-term treatment unaffordable to most addicts. Yet Costerison says St. Louis has instituted a peer program whereby addicts, once they are done with initial overdose treatments and are in recovery, receive bedside counseling from former addicts who also have been through overdoses. Costerison says the peer program has been more effective at urging distressed addicts into long-term treatment than suggestions that they should get help by medical professionals who have not been through the addicts’ ordeals.

However, St. Louis has a population of almost three times that of Pueblo, so it might be difficult for Pueblo and particularly the smaller communities in southeast Colorado to find enough recovered addicts to be on call whenever an overdose occurs. So a solution to the problem of overdosing addicts may remain elusive for some time. Meanwhile, first responders are risking life and limb and taxing their resources to save opioid addicts from themselves.

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