By Jesse Crosson
I was in prison when my father died. In fact, I was in “the hole”—also known as segregation— when he died.
I came to prison days after my eighteenth birthday. Two years later, dad decided to fulfill his dream of expatriating and bought a small house in Costa Rica. He put up cabanas that he could rent to tourists. He fished in the tidal river and set up a communal farm to help create sustainable agriculture. My stepmother would work two weeks in the U.S. and then head back down to paradise. That, along with my father’s retirement, allowed them to live well.
The counselor came to the door of my isolation cell to tell me something was wrong with my father, that he had passed out at the farm in Sierpe and was flown to a hospital in the capital city of San José. A blood clot had been released into his bloodstream and caused a stroke. He was recovering by the time I found out, but the doctors had determined he needed a new heart valve, or a blood clot would eventually kill him.
Policy allowed only two monthly phone calls during night shift in the hole. I was fortunate that officers and staff sympathized and allowed me to call my mother to find out more. I learned that they scheduled his surgery. A kind prison administrator, whom I’ll never forget, allowed me an international phone call. I was scared, convinced something would go wrong. I expected my father to reassure me. Instead, I heard him more afraid and scattered than ever before. I went back to my cell almost numb. I got straight in bed and stayed there until the next morning, though I’m not sure I slept at all.
I had no one to turn to, no one to talk to. I was young, serving a long sentence and in the hole for agreeing to carry a bag of syrup back from the chow hall. I had been stupid in so many ways. Feelings of powerlessness and failure crawled through me. I knew there was nothing I could do about my father’s surgery, but I hated that I hadn’t said something comforting or wise in those last few moments we spoke. I had botched what I believed to be my last conversation with my father.
The following morning one of the prison psych assistants stopped by the cell to tell me everything had gone well with the surgery and for me not to worry. I felt relieved but also confused. I had been so sure something would go wrong that I couldn’t quite adjust to the idea that nothing had.
Life in the hole is boring. There was nothing to do for the rest of the day except read the one novel I had already read twice. I still was not sure whether to be relieved or to stay in my fear where expecting the worst meant at least the rug couldn’t be swept out from under me.
I don’t remember how I passed the day, but I do remember them coming in the afternoon to tell me I had visitors. My first thought was to wonder how my father had gotten here to see me so fast. My second was to wonder how he had gotten approval for a visit while I was in the hole—normally visits are prohibited or only allowed to be non-contact on certain days.
They kept me in my orange jumpsuit and snapped on leg shackles and handcuffs. I did the prisoner shuffle out of the hole and up the boulevard. The main boulevard is locked down and all movement ceased while a segregation prisoner is going from one place to another. The psych assistant popped her head out into our path and told the guards to bring me to see her when my visit was over.
Rather than steering me to the visiting room, they took me to front entry, to the one place prisoners are never allowed. When the giant metal door clanked open, I saw my mother and stepfather sitting on a small brown bench. My mother was crying.
I shuffled in and she put her arms around me. I asked, “My dad?” She nodded and I knew he was dead. He had gone to sleep after the surgery and never woke up.
After our short visit, the guards took me back to see the psych assistant. She asked if I wanted to stay in the hole or come back out into population. I asked to please come back out. She started the process, and I went back to my cell to wait.
Pictures are one of the few things allowed in segregation, so I pulled out pictures of my dad. I felt like I should cry but nothing came. I sat on the floor with scattered pictures and felt nothing.
Within an hour they moved me out of my single-man segregation cell and into population where I would share a cell. I felt a little more distracted having someone there and going through all the introductions and formalities of a new roommate.
My stepmother and I had a falling out during my teenage years, but we had reconnected during my incarceration. My father’s death crushed her. I have gotten two letters from her in the past thirteen-plus years. One described how she still couldn’t get out of bed sometimes and listened to John Mayer’s “Dreaming With A Broken Heart” over and over.
When I transferred prisons, the new property department took all the pictures of my father with his shirt off. I’m not sure he ever wore a shirt after moving to Costa Rica, so it felt like they were taking the last piece of him that I had. I was angry and finally realized just how powerless I was. That was when I understood he was really and truly gone. That was when I finally cried.
Grief runs a course toward healing, though, if we let it. Losing my father made me realize I would eventually lose everyone in my life. I decided to heal and cherish the relationships I still had. Eventually, I talked through the history and rifts with my mother to get to a better place than I could have imagined. My grandfather and I became incredibly close. I came to value family and friends in a new way.
I also used my father’s example. A man who had done great harm, he found redemption and purpose in service toward others. With mom’s support, I finished my bachelor’s degree with a focus in psychology. Over the subsequent years, I began practicing daily meditation, sought treatment, joined a twelve-step program, and began volunteering as a mentor for other prisoners—facilitating programs and working one-on-one.
In losing my freedom and losing my father, I began the journey of finding myself. Rather than feeling discouraged by death, I was inspired to do more today because tomorrow is not a guarantee.