Inmates who die behind bars

New prison hospice program ensures that ailing prisoners will not die alone

STORY BY DANIEL BLACKBURN

Dean Finch is nearing his end.

Cirrhosis of the liver soon will kill the 56-year-old inmate at California Men’s Colony, but when he goes, he knows he will not die alone. He will be surrounded by friends. Good friends. New friends.

Finch moves around with the help of a wheelchair. He is gaunt, with sallow skin and a thin, gray mustache. His deep, dark eyes are soft and alert. He smiles wanly.

"Even if you’re going to die in prison, you can still die happy," he says in a gravelly whisper. In his weakened condition, Finch labors over his words. As he talks, another prisoner, Mark Delaplane, sits alongside, one hand on Finch’s wheelchair, the other on his thin shoulder.

"He’s our trailblazer on this new journey we all are taking," says Delaplane. "And we let him know how much we appreciate his allowing us to take this journey with him."

Delaplane admits to being a bit surprised by his new attitude.

"In prison, you look at people as objects," he says. "People don’t count. But in hospice, not only does Dean count, he’s one of the most valuable things I’ve got right now, and I didn’t even know this guy 35 days ago."

Finch knows his hours of life are limited. But his time is better now, he relates. That’s because of visits from other prisoners who, like Delaplane, comprise the vanguard of a brand-new hospice program designed to ease the passage of prisoners who otherwise would die behind bars–alone and forgotten.

Serving a life sentence for a 1987 murder, Finch has spent much of his time behind bars, starting as a ward in state juvenile facilities and then graduating to the Big House. He has been a tough guy, and he has lived in a tough environment.

"I always thought I’d be killed in prison ... in a riot, or getting shot, because that’s the way I used to live. Dying like this, though, you have time to get things together, you know? And I’m thankful for that," he says. "It’s too bad I didn’t experience this kind of emotion at the beginning [of my crime career]. I wish I had. I would have saved myself and a lot of other people a lot of misery."

Reflection is something for which Finch does have time. As the clock ticks, he looks forward to the visits of Delaplane and other prisoners who now have been trained to comfort the terminally ill at the CMC.

The 26 fledgling hospice workers–mostly lifers themselves–are part of the CMC’s initial foray into this program which its participants hope will make a real difference in the lives, and deaths, of men in the institution.

The program, initiated in October after a year of planning, was driven by Dr. Denise Taylor, CMC hospital’s staff physician, who often carried home with her the thought of lonely prisoners dying in the night without a human being nearby.

Working half-time at the facility for the past five years and treating primarily HIV-infected felons, Taylor remembers how she used to look up patients’ records while treating them.

"There were some whose pasts were quite distressing," she says. "I soon stopped doing that."

She was approached several years ago, she says, by a group of Buddhist prisoners who suggested a hospice program to aid the passages of prisoners who otherwise would spend their final hours alone.

"We decided to take a look at it," says Taylor. "This is a medical facility, so lots of patients are dying of a variety of causes. I always thought it was sad, these people dying by themselves, locked in a room, sometimes in pain, no one at their side. I would go home thinking that I’ll come back in the morning, and his bed will be made and he’ll be gone and that will be that."

After the year of meetings, conferences, and plans, prison officials, lobbied by Taylor and state social worker Sandy Shelton, approved a trial of the program.

Delaplane, who is part of the original group of prisoner hospice volunteers, is thankful for that.

"Hospital administrators went out on a limb by trusting the inmates who are involved in the program to comport themselves in an appropriate manner," he says.

Taylor says she "anticipated some problems from prison guards. But I talked to them about it, and explained some of the things they might not have considered. That softened a few attitudes, and today most are pretty supportive" of the program.

When five of the volunteers gather to discuss their efforts, none sounds like a tough guy. If one didn’t know better, these guys might seem almost soft.

Delaplane speaks first.

"I got into this program because I thought it was the right thing to do," he says. "People shouldn’t die in prison by themselves. This is like having a whole new world open up to you. It has exceeded all my expectations, and given me a pretty good understanding about different aspects of life that I had never before contemplated. This has been one of the most intellectually stimulating and challenging things I’ve ever done in prison."

Another prisoner hospice volunteer, James Kearington, says he learned to reorganize his priorities after getting into the program.

"What we value now as we become more familiar with the dying process is that these people won’t die alone, and that has changed my attitude about the importance of life," he says. "It’s not about material possessions. It’s more about a spiritual journey that I probably will be taking myself before long. I see the courage in these people and it inspires me."

William Lentz, noting that he is older than most of his fellow inmate volunteers, says he’s "been pretty sick a couple of times before, and I know what it’s like to be up there by yourself. I could be on the other end of this at any time at my age, and it’s been gratifying to be able to give of myself. I am actually honored to be one of the selected people to be involved with this program. It does good things for me."

Edward Harrell, whose Muslim name is Akbar, says one of his religion’s tenets "is to support those who are dying, and visit the sick. When word of this program got out, I knew immediately that this was the right thing for me to do. I have had a lot of friends die in prison, and I know that they died alone. "

Harrell recalls that he had three relatives who died at Jonestown, and he was on his way to try to get them away from Jim Jones’ madness when he landed in jail.

"I’ve been wrestling with the thought that if I hadn’t gotten [incarcerated] I’d have been over there. That’s been on my mind ever since."

Rory Folsom quotes from his hospice training: "You don’t know how to live until you learn how to die."

Folsom calls his hospice experience "life-changing."

"Going up and seeing these individuals that are on their last journey of life before they cross over ... to be there totally for them, just listening to their conversations, laughing with them, supporting whatever they have to say. It doesn’t matter what their belief systems are. To see it in their eyes, and to hear it the next time you come up, it’s life-changing."

What is life-changing to these once-hardened criminals is the swell of their own emotions–feelings like love, affection, friendship, empathy–the kinds of things violent men do not often experience.

Delaplane calls it "raising the bar."

"Prison administrators need to raise the bar, get the [prisoners] to meet that standard, and you’ll have a better product going back out there into society," he says.

Social worker Shelton lauds Hospice of San Luis Obispo County for making the program work.

"It’s a supportive care program. The Hospice did the training of these guys, and this helps show that prison hospice does work."

The new CMC program started with 140 applicants.

"They were told that any missed meetings, tardiness, lack of preparation, or any misconduct would cost them a place on the final team," says Shelton. "Eventually, we pared down to the 26 who now comprise the group. They are a really special group of guys."

Because of increased prison populations and a reluctance on the part of state officials to release felons who have murdered, a lot of older prisoners are destined to die behind bars.

Says Shelton of the prisoner hospice workers: "This will be their story. Some believe this all applies to them, too–that it’s what is in store for them."

Day-to-day operation of the program is the responsibility of Shelton and Hospice of SLO County’s Steve Willey. He’s been an outside volunteer since 1996, and he says he marvels at the changes in human nature he witnesses on a regular basis.

"These guys are getting involved with people who are becoming new brothers, beyond best friends," Willey says.

Delaplane says he and Finch talk about a variety of things when they are together. Finch is entitled to nine 45-minute visits weekly from his hospice buddies.

"We spend a lot of time talking about the Bible, people’s priorities, how our value systems change, how Dean’s values have changed, what we think more about now: spirituality," says Delaplane. "And the Raiders. Dean’s not so happy because his team hasn’t been winning."

Finch bows his head, chuckles, and shakes his head, the picture of a man fresh out of patience.

"This is new for me, too," Delaplane continues. "This has taken me on a different path than I would be on, if I didn’t know Dean. He’s allowing us to catch a glimpse of something that we don’t see unless we are getting close to dying."

Conversations of the dying have no time for the superficial.

"We talk about how easy it is to get distracted by the shiny objects in life," says Delaplane. "But what’s really important is the interconnecting. The love and friendship I feel for Dean is incredible, and it happened so quickly because we both let down our guards. In prison there is a tendency to stay closed up. Here we don’t have time for that, so we get very real, very quickly."

Dr. Taylor points out that "some people think these men deserve this. I have often encountered that attitude. But their punishment is being in prison, not receiving inadequate medical care. And it doesn’t mean they should die a lonely death. I also think about their families on the outside. It’s of tremendous comfort to be able to say to people, your loved one did not die in pain and he did not die alone. Whether we on the outside value that is irrelevant."

Folsom, who observes that he’s been in prisons all over the state, enjoys his hospice work for reasons that he describes as "a little selfish."

"To be there for somebody else, and to leave yourself completely out of the equation, is the best experience I’ve ever had in my life," he says. "The training that Hospice of San Luis Obispo gave us was so involved ... you don’t experience that in prison. To be able to share that with another human being is very special."

Delaplane says he is "filled with joy myself when I see the joy Dean feels when we go up to visit him. When I leave, I feel guilty because I think I’m getting more out of it than Dean. It’s such a cool

thing, words cannot explain how much this means to me ... and to Dean."

Lorie Adoff, the program’s volunteer spiritual adviser, is training the hospice group to conduct memorial services.

"This requires the coordination of lots of trainers from the community," she says. "Memorial services will help those who are left behind in their bereavement, those who were not able to be with their friend when he died ... cellmates, guys they ate meals with, whatever. To gather and remember."

The new hospice workers say they can see the changes in Finch since they started visiting with him.

"He’s not fearful anymore," says Lentz. "He has found peace within himself, and that feeds me. The man has such dignity–it’s almost breathtaking. It’s difficult to put into words. If I can provide him with comfort, it is my greatest wish."

Delaplane admits to feeling uncomfortable at the start of the program.

"I thought, he’s dying, he knows he’s dying, and I know he’s dying. I’m only here because he’s dying, so how do we get the ball rolling? How do you make that connection?"

But Finch has been "such a classy character. He’s the one who volunteered that he was dying, that he didn’t know how much longer he had to live," says Delaplane. "It’s a shame that everybody in prison doesn’t have the opportunity to participate in a hospice program, because if they did, I dare say you’d have such a significant reduction in crime it would startle people."

Delaplane pauses, and looks at his friend.

"If a guy does get the opportunity to do this," says Delaplane, "it can’t be stressed enough. To people out there on the streets, and to people in prison, you need to get involved with this, because we’ll be looking at one another significantly differently than we do right now. And once you develop that connection with one another, then how can you harm one another? If someone becomes that special ... how can you hurt one another? It’s such an amazing thing that has been happening. I’ll tell you, it blows my mind."

As for Finch, he is philosophical about his end, something helped along by his hospice friends.

"Since hospice started, I’ve really become attached to the guys who come up," he says with a smile. "It’s a pretty great thing. You have to come to grips with what is happening to you, because you can only push it back so long. Then it’s going to reach up and bite you. I look at death a lot differently now. Somebody asked me if I was afraid to go to sleep at night. But now, I sleep like a baby." Æ

News editor Daniel Blackburn can be reached at [email protected].