The men carrying furniture into Jimmy Howland’s new apartment treated him like a celebrity. They had seen Howland, 55, speeding his wheelchair down a hill in central Vancouver several times. These rides became one of Howland’s favorite pastimes after he became homeless and lost his leg in 2020. Howland, whom The Columbian has interviewed several times over the past few years, said one of Vancouver’s 20-unit Safe Stay shelter communities not only helped him get an apartment but filled him with self-confidence and joy. “I didn’t know I was going to be here. I didn’t know I’d be rockin’ it down that hill,” he said. “I was unstoppable.”

A time of loss Howland started using drugs at a young age, becoming addicted to meth at 17. Although he worked for years as a locksmith — a family trade he loved — he started using drugs more heavily in 2013 when his father died, he said. “I was not afraid of this world because he was in it,” Howland said. “I went to drugs, and I never worked. I just was broken, addicted.” He was living in Portland with his ex-fiancée, Gina Muehe, and their children at the time. (Although he and Muehe never married, they remained friends and roommates.) In February 2020, one month before the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, the family was evicted. One of their children was old enough to live on her own and take care of her younger sister, Howland said. But Howland and Muehe became homeless.

For a time, they lived on the streets of Vancouver in homeless camps. The pandemic threw a wrench into any hope he had of moving up, Howland said. Then, he encountered an even bigger setback. In June 2020, Howland woke up with terrible pain in his leg — a blood clot, doctors told him. At first, the doctors thought they’d only have to remove a few toes. But the initial procedure revealed there was no hope for saving his leg. “And boom — instant bawling. I’ve never instantly bawled,” Howland recalled. “There goes my dancing, there goes my running, there goes my sports.” While recovering from amputation, he lived with a family member in Portland. But it didn’t work out. He ended up homeless again.

Mind vs. matter When Howland returned to the streets, someone offered him small pills called “blues” and told him to burn and smoke them. He had never felt anything like fentanyl — the deadliest drug on Clark County streets. One day, he tried powdered fentanyl, which is often more potent than the pills. His next memory is of a young man shaking him. He had delivered Howland an overdose reversal medication called Narcan three times. Howland refers to it as the time he died. “I said, ‘What happened?’ He said, ‘You just killed yourself, Jimmy,’” Howland recalled. Eventually, Muehe found an apartment. And after over a year of homelessness and six months of fentanyl addiction, outreach workers found Howland a spot in Hope Village. It’s one of the city of Vancouver’s four Safe Stay shelters, which each have 20 small units for people experiencing homelessness. That’s where Howland met Brian Norris, executive director of Live, Love, Outreach, which operates Hope Village.

“(Howland) definitely had a great spirit about him, but you could also tell he was struggling, too,” Norris said. Norris said Howland refused to be anything but strong. After two months in the Safe Stay shelter, Howland quit fentanyl, a feat that comes with almost unbearable flu-like symptoms. Research suggests that only 7 percent of fentanyl users can withdraw from the drug successfully without medication-assisted treatment. But Howland did it, without counseling, too. Howland remembers writhing in agony in his small bed, beset by vivid dreams and hallucinations. In one instance, his body double stood across from him, Howland said, screaming at him to find a hit.

“It split me. I was enraged with myself. My body was enraged with my mind,” Howland said. “I just kept telling myself, ‘We’re going to get to the other side.’” Village handyman Once free of addiction, Howland became known as Hope Village’s rather exuberant handyman. Hope Village helped him build up his toolbox, and in exchange, Howland helped fix things. In his free time, he worked on wood projects, including bird houses and coat racks. Norris said it made him happy to watch Howland tinker and build. “It’s really cool seeing people find where their joy lies,” Norris said. For years, Howland watched as people in Hope Village came and went, congratulating each of them as they moved into housing. He didn’t understand why it was taking so long for his own celebration.

Norris said Howland scored low on vulnerability indexes used to prioritize housing for those who need it most. Howland said he didn’t see himself as vulnerable. But after three years, a studio apartment in Vancouver Housing Authority’s Meriwether Place (subsidized permanent supportive housing) opened up. Finally, he could move forward. As Howland admired his new wood furniture as it was loaded into his own space, he whooped several times with excitement and kicking back in his wheelchair. (He tried to help unload the furniture himself, but the movers refused in unison.) After everything was in its right place, Howland sat with Muehe, who came to visit, on Howland’s new couch under a picture of a lion.

“I’m really proud of you,” Muehe said as she turned to Howland. “We started this journey together.” Howland hopes to become a locksmith again and have his children visit soon. “I did not know what I was so freaking capable of. I didn’t know I was Superman — and that’s what Hope Village got through to me,” Howland said. “Holy crap, if I knew then what I know now I’d be like, ‘Take that leg. I gotta go!’”

This story was made possible by Community Funded Journalism, a project from The Columbian and the Local Media Foundation. Top donors include the Ed and Dollie Lynch Fund, Patricia, David and Jacob Nierenberg, Connie and Lee Kearney, Steve and Jan Oliva, The Cowlitz Tribal Foundation and the Mason E. Nolan Charitable Fund. The Columbian controls all content. For more information, visit columbian.com/cfj.