🔵 By Timothy Brunner. Photo by lauragrafie.
While I was sitting in a county jail awaiting one of the various court proceedings that ultimately led to this conviction, I was called into the Chaplain’s office. This was odd. Because I was a temporary detainee there, being already incarcerated in a state prison and only being held at this jail due to its proximity to the court. There was no reason any staff in that jail should have known me other than for the purposes of the court, which Chaplain had nothing to do with.
In institutional settings such as these a Chaplain is often used in much the same way a hospital would use a Chaplain with family known to be religious. They deliver bad news. I was aware of this, but I was not exactly at my highest mental capacity at that time because of the stress involved in fighting the case that ultimately cost me my life. So, though it should not have surprised me that bad news was coming, I was absolutely blind sided.
First, I was told that my father had called the jail and had something he needed to tell me. I knew it was a mistake then, because I did not, do not, and will not deal with my father. When the Chaplain showed me the phone number, I recognized it as my aunt’s number, though, so I called it. It really was my father who answered the phone, so I was instantly put off. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, Junior, but I wanted to be the one to tell you… Your mother died last night”, he told me. Through the trauma induced apathy my case was causing me, added to the shock of this man reaching out to me, my brain could not assimilate the information. I think that’s the definition of shock. I asked, “How did she die? Was it from drinking?”
“Wait a second,” he replied. “Did I say your mom? No, I meant your sister. Your sister died last night.” Any shock I had felt was drowned I a deluge of all of my old feelings against him. I could hear a raging waterfall in my ears and I felt the heat of an eruption begin to build from the center of my chest and spread outward. As my face heated and the magma reached my brain, I exploded. “Get the fuck off the phone! Put my aunt on, now!” I told him.
This was how I found out my sister had committed suicide. During the trial that cost me my life. Fortunately for me, perhaps, was the fact that my aunt did not tell me that my case was a major motivation for my sisters’ decision. She told me of a letter my sister wrote for me but withheld it for nearly 2 years in fear of how it would affect me. I’m not looking for pity or sympathy, in my recounting of these events (though I hope for the reader’s sake some emotion is stirred). No, I am only trying to set the stage with the level of tumultuous emotions and chaotic mindset I was experiencing at that time. It was incredibly difficult to accept what I had made of my life, so most of the time I just didn’t accept it. I ignored it, refused to deal with any of it, and fell into a mindless day to day routine to distract myself from the reality of who I was, what I was.
The reality of my propensity for harm and destruction became even more difficult to accept when I did receive my sister’s final words to me. She explained how she couldn’t imagine a world where her baby brother was in prison forever. She said she didn’t hate or reject me, that she forgave and still loved me, but she couldn’t live in such a world.
This brought me face to face with all of the guilt, remorse, self-hatred, regret, denial, admission, and eventually an acceptance of all that I was. Throughout all of that a friend of mine who was also serving life was there to support me. His name was Carmen Musolino.
Carmen was in prison for over years, he was never getting out, and he had faced down many of the demons I was facing then. He knew where I was at and where that road could lead. He had attempted suicide in his past but had come to a point where he could accept who he was and live beyond the worst decisions he had ever made. I had not even been able to accept my current reality. He helped me face the demons, learn to care about others, and showed me how to move on a single step at a time. One fortunate twist to my nature that was reinforced by my upbringing was that my sense of self-preservation was too strong to ever consider suicide.
As time went on, Moose (as we affectionately called him) fell into what tends to be a older inmates’ routine: Staying in the cell, eating, and watching TV. A sedentary lifestyle in retreat from the mass overcrowding of the prison. Because of this, most of the signs of aging were taken as typical for an older inmate. Our healthcare is more of a health… I don’t care, so no attention was paid early on and no tests were performed. Before any actual diagnostic procedure was followed and he was found to have Parkinson’s disease, dementia had already begun and nerve damage had progressed. Even though they declared his case to be “Rapid onset”, we who knew him watching it progress for years. Even so, Moose hoped for it to be as rapid as possible because this was his only way out of prison. The last couple of years were hard, because Moose did not want to be placed in the prison infirmary permanently so me and another friend did what we could to take care of him. Our friend was Mooses’ cell-mate throughout the pandemic and took care of his day to day needs. I helped by taking him to his various appointments and taking him to the infirmary where they had a walk-in shower where I could wash his body.
His desire to avoid living in the infirmary was fueled by a local news report about an inmate from our prison who was a terminal cancer patient. He was sent to an outside hospital at one point and there was outrage at the evident neglect, bedsores, and filth of that man. This terrified Moose. I imagine for a moment how misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic, and racist an American prison is. It really is. It is a very delicate balance in such a place to show care and concern for another. It is taken as a weakness as much as the cliche’ says.
I didn’t even think twice about setting all of that aside to help Moose. When his disease progressed to the point he could no longer wash himself, I did it for him. That was and still remains one of the most intimate times of my life, and I am closer to homophobic than not after living in this environment for 25 years. Watching Mooses’ decline was also an intimate experience for another, not so good, reason. As I watched his struggles and his eventual death, I knew the entire time that I was witnessing my own fate as well. Perhaps not in the specificity of his medical issues, but in that I was and am fated to die in prison no matter what.
To witness him accept his circumstances with the amount of grace he did was and still is an inspiration to me. Towards the end, Moose fell and broke his hip. That led to him being confined in the infirmary. He was taken to an outside hospital for his broken hip and he signed his “Do not resuscitate: Advanced Directives” which opted for no medical intervention other than to administer pain medication. His sister and others were present with him there. While he was making those decisions with his relatives, the doctor handling his case informed him that they planned on keeping him out in the hospital to implement his orders. He was effectively going to fall into a coma and dehydrate until he died. He said no. He explained to his sister he wanted to come back to the prison to see me and his cell-mate, so he could die with his family. Even now I cannot imagine voluntarily returning to prison for any reason. More so, to die in the prison infirmary, which was one of his biggest fears. I am humbled that even someone I dearly cared about would return here just to spend a little more time with me. I wonder what that says about me. Am I even worthy to receive such love?
It doesn’t matter whether I am worthy or not because a gift freely given can never be earned, anyway. I just don’t want such a gift to go to waste. The only way I can be sure that doesn’t happen is to allow his gift, his show of unconditional love, continue on through me. After lingering on in a coma for nearly 2 weeks, Moose died on 9-24-22. I spent time at his bedside, prayed with him, prayed for him, and cried. While he layed and died in the prison infirmary that he was so desperate to avoid, but which he returned to for us, I wrapped my rosary around his atrophied hand. His sister buried that rosary with him. I love you, Moose, and I hope that I some day become worthy of the gift you have me with your life and your presence.