NEWS

February 3, 2008
Prisoners volunteer to care for sick and dying inmates

Many people fear death, and what they may fear most is dying alone. For inmates in the Iowa State Penitentiary, there is the compounded misery of dying alone in prison.

About 25 percent of the 1,100 or so inmates housed there are serving life sentences, and most will die there, away from their families, friends and the life they knew before prison.

Looking forward to that dismal prospect inside Fort Madison's walls, their time inside stretches into years of vast loneliness. But there are fellow inmates willing to pull together to watch over each other during the last moments of life.
Basic human compassion, tucked between the silhouette of anger and despair, has transformed some of the "biggest and baddest" into meek and humble servants of their fellow men. After all, they only have each other.

From inside one of the hospice rooms at the prison, Mychael Glover of Louisville, Ky., who is serving a life sentence for first-degree murder, sat on a bed with both hands touching a quilt he will use one day.

Hospice patients receive a quilt to comfort them.

"My reality is that I'm going to die here," said Glover, a 53-year-old hospice volunteer. "I'm not going to sugarcoat it. I'm not one of the guys that run around here and think that there is a big chance, one day, I'm going to be free. You have to be realistic, and I want to be treated like I treat people."

Glover is one of the 15 hospice workers who doubles as a volunteer in helping inmates in the assisted daily living ward, located in the same wing as the two hospice rooms. Most of the hospice workers are lifers themselves.

There were no hospice patients the third week of January when the conversation with Glover took place, and with the two rooms empty, Glover spends most of his time with assisted daily living patients.

"A lot of guys haven't took care of anybody but themselves," Glover said. He said that's a common mentality behind the walls -- every man for himself.

Participation in the program takes dedication, willpower and a strong effort to resist being called "softy" by the general population, where toughness is considered currency demanding respect and fear.

"If you ask the average guy here, he's never seen a person die, and then if you ask a selected few, the only person they probably seen die was their victim," Glover said.

Three and a half years ago, when the program was just a concept, Glover was one of the first to sign up, not knowing what he would be asked to do. Through the years, he has seen changes not only in his way of thinking about what the future may hold but also in younger inmates who have since volunteered.

"I'm proud to say I've seen the young guys involved in the program right now do a complete circle," he said.

It's not just about meeting the medical needs of the patient but providing for his emotional and spiritual needs as well. That can be as simple as holding someone's hand and whispering assurances that everything is going to be all right.

"We go through the whole process, from the beginning to the end on every hospice patient. And a lot of time, I think it's a blessing," Glover said, referring to a dying man allowing volunteers into their lives.

It is sometimes hard to see someone they consider a neighbor, a friend or a confidant at their death bed.

"We had guys as young as 36 years old die of cancer," Glover said. "Eighteen months before that he was in excellent shape, lifting 400 to 500 pounds of weights. Then you watch him gradually go down from 260 pounds to 130 pounds."

And there are still some men in prison, dying men, who refuse to accept assistance and choose to die alone. Terminally ill inmates have the choice of whether to be cared for in hospice.

"Then there are some that pick you (a hospice volunteer) out of the pack to actually die in front of," he said.

As they look into a dying man's eyes, volunteers say they can see the emotions that run through anger, confusion, remorse and fear of "what's on the other side."

"Then the next stage is they start accepting it," Glover said.

Dan Hampton, 48, who is serving a life sentence for kidnapping, is a long way from Augusta, Ga., but he is making a positive mark in Iowa.

Hampton, who inmates refer to as "Hambone," said he would like for someone to help him the way he's helping people now.

Hampton said he talks to patients about anything they want. He doesn't look at them as someone who committed a crime but as a human being.

"What they're here for does not matter anymore," Hampton said. "He knows he's dying and needs a friend. I can be that friend."

As he was talking, Hampton walked around and checked on a man with dementia and another with Lou Gehrig's disease, bringing them their food and helping them turn over on their beds.

"You cannot let your emotions take over," he said, displaying a smile. "You cannot get frustrated."

Caring for dying inmates before there was an inmate-run hospice program was described as impersonal and routine. Most sick inmates went to the prison infirmary, which was not staffed by inmates. If they got "really sick" they were sent to University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics and were "essentially alone," said ISP nurse Jo Watson. Other inmates were not allowed to visit or sit with a dying friend.

"They might have been best friends and neighbors (in prison) for 20 or 30 years. Then it comes to this time in their life, and their friends were not allowed," Watson said. "It is not possible because they are sent to Iowa City."

Watson said that while meeting the medical needs of a terminally ill patient is important, a person reaching the end of his or her life needs the emotional and spiritual support from the people they leave behind.

Sadness and a sense of loss doesn't fade with the passing of time, and the inmates, even though they may be perceived by society as heartless and without conscience, feel that pain. The program also fosters a sense of camaraderie among the inmates.

"This is their family," Watson said. "And it gives access to their other extended family in the cell house to be able to visit them."

She said taking care of others is a big responsibility that takes compassion.

"They feed them, they turn them, they wipe their bottoms, they keep them clean, and they wipe their slobber off, in a very basic human level," she said.

After starting a similar program at Oakdale Medical and Classification Center, retired Iowa Department of Corrections nurse administrator Marilyn Sales thought a hospice program would better serve an institution that housed lifers, so she set her sights on the Iowa State Penitentiary in Fort Madison.

Programs at facilities in Mount Pleasant, Mitchellville and Anamosa soon followed.

Sales deliberately started the program with no assistance or funding from the state. To this day, the program has remained self-sufficient with money generated from donations from the inmates themselves, contributions from the community and from family members who had loved ones in the hospice program.

ISP Warden John Ault said the majority of the program's revenue comes from sales of sweetened water to the inmate population. The program has more than $5,000 in available funds.

Training is done through a joint effort from ISP staff and Lee County Health Department.

"This is for those inmates who are doing life, because you know if you're doing life, after some years you're in there, you develop a family," Sales said.

She said friends and families outside prison often cut off contact with incarcerated family members. But fighting for a program she knew would work for both the system and the inmates did not prepare Sales for a life-changing experience. That came just from watching the volunteers.

"There is nothing more heart rendering than to see those lifers take care of someone who's dying," Sales said. "... and be able to sit there, hold their hand, pray with them, write letters for them and talk to them."

Sales said the job does not end when an inmate dies in hospice. Volunteers make sure they send off their friend with dignity.

"They have been able to wash the body when their friend dies, comb their hair and make them presentable when they leave the institution," Sales said. After much preparation, the volunteer tending to his dead colleague sits in the room and waits for the mortician to arrive.

Glover said he is not the same man he was 20 or 30 years ago, when he thought he was invincible and would live forever.

He said he was reckless when dealing with other inmates in the general population yard. But that changed when he learned the principles of working hospice.

"You cannot be coming here taking care of people then go out there and be a fool out in the yard," he said. "You have to change your attitude and the way you approach things."

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