AT The end

Frequently, when we take our show on the road, so to speak, by traveling to various institutions to hold workshops, we meet someone David did some time with. When you spend more than 23 years in 8 different prisons, you're bound to meet, and in some cases, remember many people. So it isn't unusual for someone to approach David after a workshop and a mini reunion of sorts ensues. It's always a little bitter sweet, because David has now been home more than 10 years, yet there are several of his old friends still inside.

And so it was a couple of years ago at CTF in Soledad, when one of his first cellies from the old days came to a workshop. He and "Lenny" had been cellies in Old Folsom, back in the day when it was a Level IV and carried a pretty hardcore reputation. We visited CTF 4 times over a couple of months, and "Lenny" was at each workshop, and I have to say, I always thought he looked at David a bit wistfully. They shared E number status, so by this time "Lenny" had been down a good 30+ years. We kept in touch with "Lenny" and got to know his sister, "Susan," who lived in the mid-west, as well.

Within the last year or so we began to hear from "Susan" that "Lenny" was quite ill, a chronic and debilitating illness in some ways attached to his former lifestyle. She called for advice as she wasn't able to get any information about "Lenny's" condition, treatment--all those things family members want and are entitled to know. And yes, she was on his 7345 form. We were often able to help, finding someone who would provide her with an update on her brother, and just be human and responsive. It's amazing how medical personnel in CDCR can be at both ends of the spectrum--some really caring and humane, others dismissive and unconcerned. "Susan" is a determined person and was always great about following suggestions on who and how to contact, as it had to be her asking the questions, because we at LSA had 'no standing,' regarding "Lenny's" medical information. Anyone who's had an ill and imprisoned loved one knows that angst and helpless feeling.

Within the last few months "Lenny's" condition deteriorated and he was put on a dizzying round of various hospitals, care units and the like, until "Susan" and "Lenny" made the difficult decision to move into palliative care and stop fighting an exhausting and ultimately loosing battle. The quality of life at some point becomes more important than the amount of time left in that life. Early last week he was moved to the Hospice Unit at CMF in Vacaville. Yes, CMF has a hospice facility, staffed mostly by prisoners, many of them LWOP, who have a firmly held motto and creed that no man will die alone.

Late last week "Susan" called to let David and I know that "Lenny" had passed away. But it wasn't his passing that stuck with me so much as the praise she had for the hospice facility and the workers there. She had been able to see and speak with him via a video call, the hospice doctor had kept her updated in a kind and helpful manner, the chaplain had been supportive as well.

But the men working in hospice had gone the extra mile for "Lenny," as they do for everyone. They got to know him, stayed with him, on one of the nicer days moved his hospital bed outside to a patio so he could enjoy the fresh, free air and sunshine, covered his blankets with sage and rosemary for the soothing and fragrant aroma in his last hours. Mostly, they were just there for him, with him--men who knew and understood an "old G" who was no longer a "G" but a frail human, seeking peace. As someday we will all be.

Susan was appreciative and moved by their care, relieved and thankful her brother had not been alone when he passed. I told her our RISE class at CMF has a good number of LWOP hospice workers in the group, many are peer facilitators. And I told her I would pass her appreciation along to them at the group. The hospice workers in the RISE class received her thanks with humility and grace--all of them knew "Lenny," many of them had been of service to him during his short stay in the unit. One of the men, who was one of those with "Lenny" in his last moments asked me to let "Susan" know that his passing had been gentle and peaceful, and that he had been treated with dignity and respect. I would expect nothing less from these men.

And so at the end, "Lenny" had been surrounded, if not by biological family, then by a family of peers who cared about him, were there to be with him, assure him he was valued and ease his exit from the tribulations of life in an incarceral setting. While my heart hurts for "Lenny" and "Susan" I am so impressed with the hospice workers, with their care, their empathy, humanity and just sheer kindness. And I am so proud to call many of them my friends.