With the exception of my hurting knee, yesterday would have been a good day...
It changed for me, however, when I was standing on the chow line at five o'clock to get my supper. The man behind me tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I had heard the news about my friend, Walter. I told him, "No." So, he quickly said, "Dave, Walter died this afternoon. They found his body in his cell."
For a few seconds, I didn't believe him. Walter? Dead? He was only forty-two years old. And when I pressed him for more information, he was only able to tell me that, shortly after yesterday's lunch meal, which was around 12 noon, Walter returned to his cell to take a nap. At approximately 1:30, however, a civilian employee attempted to wake him up. Walter, I learned, was found lying across his bunk, unresponsive. So, a "Code Blue" was sounded, but the prison's medical staff was not able to revive him through cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). Apparently, he died in his sleep.
Then, today, I was able to get more details so as to put all the pieces together. Walter, I'm certain, smoked himself to death. He actually smoked his way to the morgue.
My friend, Walter, lived at the prison's Intermediate Care Program (E-North). This is where I work on weekday afternoons and where I could spend time with him. He was doing a sentence of 25-years to life for a senseless and unspeakable crime. But I believe he was mentally ill when it happened. What transpired more than fifteen years ago occurred because Walter was emotionally unbalanced; he was delusional, too.
Walter's life was off its course. In prison, he lived under a load of loneliness. He was, as far as I knew, estranged from his family. He was a forgotten man. Maybe it was because of his crime, or perhaps he never had much of a family to begin with?
And I don't think I've ever met very many men who smoked more than Walter. Whenever I stopped by his cell to talk or check up on him, I'd oftentimes see Walter sitting quietly on his bunk surrounded by plumes of gray tobacco smoke. The noxious fumes would cause me to step back from the front of his cell as far as I could, which was only a distance of a few feet because of the tier's iron railing. And sometimes the secondhand smoke would be so irritating that I'd have to excuse myself by telling Walter that I would come back and talk to him later.
Because Walter rolled his own filterless cigarettes and puffed on each one to its very end, over time the tips of his fingers became a hideous charcoal black. His burned fingertips were made even more visible because the rest of his skin was pale white. Likewise, his teeth were a stained mix of yellow and brown, while his clothes always retained a strong smoke stench that never went away, not even after they came out of the wash.
Walter, it seemed to me, had given up on life. He never exercised. He'd quit every educational or vocational program the facility's counselors or the mental health staff tried to get him involved in. So rather than seeking to make any improvements in his life, I believe he instead acquiesced to his inner pain and despair by passively lying on his bunk as often as he could, while trying to hide himself behind a self-created cloud of smoke. He would also drink cup after cup of strong black coffee.
And earlier today, a neighbor of Walter's told me that there were many nights when he'd hear him coughing a lot, and sometimes throwing up, too. I know Walter was being treated for high blood pressure. He was a sickly man.
But Walter was also very polite and soft-spoken. He was a gentleman. Yet I recall the times when his illness set in, and he would become verbally agitated. He'd talk to himself out loud, sometimes well into the night, disturbing the other men. On these occasions, Walter would be sent to the Observation Unit for a few days, and until he calmed down. Otherwise, he was mostly quiet and pensive, usually keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.
Walter and I did talk a lot about God, however. He liked this, and he had his opinions. He could read and write well. Maybe he even had a high school diploma? I don't know. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway because Walter was doing a life sentence. In addition, with his history of mental illness and his lack of family ties, Walter was facing a lifetime of institutionalization. He had nothing going for him. He had no future.
Concerning Walter, I am not kidding when I stated that he smoked himself to death. I'm not a doctor, of course, but with all the poison that must have been in his system from inhaling the fumes from thousands upon thousands of hand rolled cigarettes, I believe that his skinny body could not keep cleansing itself. His lungs, liver and heart could only take so much.
Therefore, sometime during the early afternoon of Monday, November 13, 2006, Walter's weak heart stopped working. His soul sailed away. Walter's prison sentence was cut short, as was his life.
D.B.
For a few seconds, I didn't believe him. Walter? Dead? He was only forty-two years old. And when I pressed him for more information, he was only able to tell me that, shortly after yesterday's lunch meal, which was around 12 noon, Walter returned to his cell to take a nap. At approximately 1:30, however, a civilian employee attempted to wake him up. Walter, I learned, was found lying across his bunk, unresponsive. So, a "Code Blue" was sounded, but the prison's medical staff was not able to revive him through cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). Apparently, he died in his sleep.
Then, today, I was able to get more details so as to put all the pieces together. Walter, I'm certain, smoked himself to death. He actually smoked his way to the morgue.
My friend, Walter, lived at the prison's Intermediate Care Program (E-North). This is where I work on weekday afternoons and where I could spend time with him. He was doing a sentence of 25-years to life for a senseless and unspeakable crime. But I believe he was mentally ill when it happened. What transpired more than fifteen years ago occurred because Walter was emotionally unbalanced; he was delusional, too.
Walter's life was off its course. In prison, he lived under a load of loneliness. He was, as far as I knew, estranged from his family. He was a forgotten man. Maybe it was because of his crime, or perhaps he never had much of a family to begin with?
And I don't think I've ever met very many men who smoked more than Walter. Whenever I stopped by his cell to talk or check up on him, I'd oftentimes see Walter sitting quietly on his bunk surrounded by plumes of gray tobacco smoke. The noxious fumes would cause me to step back from the front of his cell as far as I could, which was only a distance of a few feet because of the tier's iron railing. And sometimes the secondhand smoke would be so irritating that I'd have to excuse myself by telling Walter that I would come back and talk to him later.
Because Walter rolled his own filterless cigarettes and puffed on each one to its very end, over time the tips of his fingers became a hideous charcoal black. His burned fingertips were made even more visible because the rest of his skin was pale white. Likewise, his teeth were a stained mix of yellow and brown, while his clothes always retained a strong smoke stench that never went away, not even after they came out of the wash.
Walter, it seemed to me, had given up on life. He never exercised. He'd quit every educational or vocational program the facility's counselors or the mental health staff tried to get him involved in. So rather than seeking to make any improvements in his life, I believe he instead acquiesced to his inner pain and despair by passively lying on his bunk as often as he could, while trying to hide himself behind a self-created cloud of smoke. He would also drink cup after cup of strong black coffee.
And earlier today, a neighbor of Walter's told me that there were many nights when he'd hear him coughing a lot, and sometimes throwing up, too. I know Walter was being treated for high blood pressure. He was a sickly man.
But Walter was also very polite and soft-spoken. He was a gentleman. Yet I recall the times when his illness set in, and he would become verbally agitated. He'd talk to himself out loud, sometimes well into the night, disturbing the other men. On these occasions, Walter would be sent to the Observation Unit for a few days, and until he calmed down. Otherwise, he was mostly quiet and pensive, usually keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.
Walter and I did talk a lot about God, however. He liked this, and he had his opinions. He could read and write well. Maybe he even had a high school diploma? I don't know. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway because Walter was doing a life sentence. In addition, with his history of mental illness and his lack of family ties, Walter was facing a lifetime of institutionalization. He had nothing going for him. He had no future.
Concerning Walter, I am not kidding when I stated that he smoked himself to death. I'm not a doctor, of course, but with all the poison that must have been in his system from inhaling the fumes from thousands upon thousands of hand rolled cigarettes, I believe that his skinny body could not keep cleansing itself. His lungs, liver and heart could only take so much.
Therefore, sometime during the early afternoon of Monday, November 13, 2006, Walter's weak heart stopped working. His soul sailed away. Walter's prison sentence was cut short, as was his life.
D.B.
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