Doulas in Prison: Experience, Reflection, and Inspiration
As we approach the California Men’s Colony prison the size of it surprises me. A little over 5,000 men are incarcerated here—more than it’s designed capacity. The East Facility that I’m going to with Kris Kington-Barker, the Executive Director of the Hospice of San Luis Obispo County, to train some of the inmates how to do end of life doula work, is a mustard yellow and goldenrod colored complex comprising four quadrangles. One of these buildings houses a 50-bed hospital where prisoners who are dying spend their last days of life. Except that now it is shut down for the installation of a sprinkler system.
The first gatehouse that we enter sits next to one of the manned towers that overlook parts of the facility and the yards where the prisoners are able to walk at times during the day. After checking in and passing through a metal detector we enter further into the complex, at one point passing through two sets of barred doorways that briefly shut us in between them where we have to present our drivers’ licenses through a slit in the thick Lucite window of a guard station. Then we go through another couple of guard posts before finally arriving at the Protestant chapel where we will have our training session.
It takes a little time on this first of two days for all 24 of the prisoners we will work with to gather. It is cold and damp in the chapel with water leaking from the roof and along the inside of the one wall with windows. In several places buckets catch the dripping water and sodden blankets are scrunched up on the floor along the entire length of wall. The inmates push the pews aside in one area to create space for a large circle of chairs.
After all the men arrive we introduce ourselves around the circle. The great majority of the men are black or Hispanic; one appears to be Vietnamese and another has a slight Russian accent. On this first day we talk about grief. I’m immediately impressed by how open and forthright the men are. As we talk about the nature of grief it becomes clear that grief is something they live with every day and has been part of their lives from well before they were incarcerated.
Most of these men are long-term prisoners who have committed murder or been responsible for the death of someone. They acknowledge the pain and suffering they have brought into their lives, the lives of their families, and primarily, the lives of their victims’ families. And they also talk about painful early lives that set them on the path that led to the Men’s Colony. But there is no self-pity being expressed. These men accept the responsibility for what they did and think now about living their lives with each other in a way that is open and honest. They have left behind the usual prison culture of dominance versus submission, gangs, abuse, and humiliation.
They are here with us to continue learning the ways of service to other inmates, particularly those who are dying or grieving the death of people in and out of the prison. I am so impressed by how present these men are in their lives and how deeply they can share with each other. Although it seems strange to say about men who have killed other people I’m very inspired by these men who live with the pain of what they have done and want to make amends by helping their fellow prisoners. In this room, one after the other, they speak of suffering and a longing to live differently that seems entirely appropriate among the crude murals painted by inmates of Christ’s life and his painful death.
After a couple of hours of talking and sharing, I lead the men in a guided visualization. I have them see and feel a large heavy stone inside them that represents their grief. I ask them to see its texture and color and feel how heavy it is inside wherever they envision it resting. Then I ask them to imagine they can take hold of it in their hands, again feeling its weight. But, as they direct love and compassion toward the stone, toward their grief, they see the stone getting smaller. As the visualization goes on the stone gets smaller and smaller until it is reduced to dust in the palms of their hands and they can blow it away.
As I bring them out of the visualization I let them know that they can do this visualization for themselves over and over again, slowly shrinking the grief and pain they live with. As we share their experiences in the visualization, the man I think is Vietnamese tells us that during it he saw his victim lying dead in front of him. He tried to talk with his victim and wanted his victim to talk to him. But that didn’t happen. He is clearly emotional as he speaks and the man next to him briefly touches his shoulder in support.
After spending four hours with these men I go to the home of a doctor who worked at the prison until a month ago, when she retired. She had worked at the prison for only about three years. She had resisted working there, turning down a number of offers before she finally accepted. In addition to our host and Kris, two other women join us, one of whom is still a doctor at the prison. Our host talks about her experience of the prisoners and articulates a feeling I’m left with even as we eat and talk in this lovely home with the freedom we so often take for granted to live anyway we choose. She says that after only three months of working at the Men’s Colony she came to see the men as “holy,” like monks spending their time away from the rest of men in an enclosed world, living deeply inside themselves.
The next day, Kris and I go back to work with the same group of men. This time we work on the skills of active listening to prepare them for supporting the prisoners who face a terminal illness. Again I’m impressed by their openness and the compassion they express. They are eager to learn the skills of listening and we practice together using scenarios I have written to simulate real experiences of facing death in this environment. The men take this work seriously. Their grief and pain continues to come up. It is inescapable, but so is their deep longing to be of service. They will be amazing doulas even now, but especially when the hospital reopens. After another four hours the training ends for now. I tell them I will be back and we will try to keep the momentum of the program going, even though the hospital is currently closed. The doctor, who works there and had been at the dinner with Kris and I the night before, joins us for the last half hour. She says she will help the inmates maintain this fledgling program.
Outside, Kris and I talk about ways to continue supporting these very special men with ongoing visits and meetings. I plan to return at some point later in the year to do more training. I leave now carrying with me an internal vow to bring the doula work to other prisons and other men who want to serve the dying behind barred walls. I feel uplifted and inspired by how these men who live so deeply in their lives, not turning away from the incredible pain they have caused, but focused on service to others even in an environment that can crush the soul.