Michigan program helps addicts find treatment — but struggles to find ‘angel’ volunteers

It was her oldest son’s heroin use that led Lisa Boska to become an angel, one in a network of volunteers for Hope Not Handcuffs that helps people get into addiction treatment. She sits with them while they wait for a car to shuttle them to rehab, offering water and maybe a snack and, always, a shoulder on which to lean.

“I try to be a little mom to everybody,” she said

Boska, who is 59 and lives in the northern Macomb County community of Richmond, has been at it since 2017, the year she walked in on her son who was nearly dead from an overdose. He got sober. And she decided if there was anything she could do to do help others living in addiction, she would.

How many people has Boska helped get into treatment? She isn't sure. Maybe 500? There's a young woman who went to rehab multiple times before finding sobriety. There's a young man she chased down the street after he decided to forgo rehab at the last minute; he ended up going the following day. There are just so many.

There is also someone she hasn't been able to help: her middle son. He has been struggling with addiction to methamphetamine and alcohol. He has been in and out of treatment probably 30 times over the last two years, Boska said. And maybe that's part of the reason she's an angel, too. Seeing others get sober gives her hope that maybe, someday, her middle son will do the same; before Thanksgiving, he had almost 30 days clean.

There aren't enough people like Boska, people willing to do what she does. Hope Not Handcuffs is in the midst of a recruiting drive. It is in dire need of angels. "We're starting over at zero," Boska said.

Pandemic changed everything

Hope Not Handcuffs is a program run by Families Against Narcotics, a community group, with chapters throughout the state, that seeks to help and support the loved ones of people living in addiction as well as the addicts themselves.

When Hope Not Handcuffs began in 2017, it worked like this: People could show up at a participating police department — there are about 125 of them — that agreed not to arrest them on drug or paraphernalia charges and ask officers to call Hope Not Handcuffs on their behalf. An angel would meet them and stay with them until they got into treatment — or at least stay in touch with them if they there were no openings for treatment that day.

All that changed during the pandemic. Police agencies closed their lobbies. People in need of help began calling Hope Not Handcuffs themselves. And now that's how most people connect — with no in-person meeting with an angel, no police department visit.

Now that pandemic rules have relaxed, Kim Baffo, who is the program manager for Hope Not Handcuffs, wants to get back to angels meeting people at police departments. "Our program was designed being a face-to-face support," she said. “We know that human to human compassion, connection instill more hope to the individuals."

Adds Boska: "Sometimes, we're the only warm hand people have felt in a long time."

But the number of volunteer angels has fallen off, going from about 300 statewide pre-pandemic to about 100 now and even then, only about 30 of those angels travel for face-to-face meetings. The staff shortages that plague businesses also impact the volunteer ranks.

Angel training takes about 90 minutes and includes instruction on rehabilitation terminology, tips on providing hope to the person seeking help — be a good listener, don't be judgmental — and the ins and outs of the Hope Not Handcuffs program. Angels also need to pass a background check.

"We couldn't hire enough people to do the work of an angel," said Baffo. “Our angels are the root of all of our programs."

'Save one life a day'

Within a year of becoming a volunteer angel, Boska had a full-time job at Hope Not Handcuffs. She still goes out on angel runs. She also supervises Hope Not Handcuffs' new call center in Clinton Township, which has a staff of five and receives about 800 calls a month, compared with about 600 before the pandemic.

She works with 28-year-old Anthony Elia, of Warren, who committed his life to helping others with addiction after he kicked his own addiction to methamphetamine and heroin. He started as an angel.

And she works with Emily Taube, who is 23, lives in New Baltimore, and went through Hope Not Handcuffs several times before finally getting sober from heroin two years ago. “When I went through Hope Not Handcuffs, immediately I was treated with such patience, such kindness. .... I remember tearing up."

Among the angels who helped her: Boska.

"I love what I do. I absolutely love what I do,'' Boska said. "I keep my phone on all night, all day because if someone I know and ... they're reaching out for help, we're going to work on it right now. And I do. ... I'll probably be doing this until the day I'm dying.

"My motto is save one life a day."

And there's something else: Boska wants to erase: the stigma associated with addiction. She wants parents to know they aren't responsible for the actions of their children. "We automatically try to fix them. We blame ourselves. That's how it was with me, at least." But "it's nobody's fault. ... You shouldn't be ashamed of it. It's nothing we did. It's hard. Some days, it really takes a toll on me emotionally.

"Hopefully, one day, all this will end."

For everyone, including her son.

He called Boska on Dec. 1 and said he was staying in a shelter — he's not allowed at her house until he has had six months clean.

He also told her he was using again.

To contact Hope Not Handcuffs or for more information: 833-202-4673 or hnh@familiesagainstnarcotics.org or familiesagainstnarcotics.org

This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Hope Not Handcuffs program helps addicts — but volunteers are needed