“I used to complain about not having any shoes until I met a man who didn’t have any feet.”
In 2011, just barely two years into my sentence, I was offered the opportunity to work in the infirmary doing hospice care. I didn’t want this job. I was scared. I didn’t think I would be able to stomach some of the things I would have to witness. I didn’t want to see a dead body if I could help it. I didn’t want to smell another man’s defecation if I could help it.
If anybody knows anything about prison, they know that “every man” on the compound would have killed to be presented with this opportunity. But it wasn’t because they wanted to help others, improve their prison record, or do something meaningful—it was because this was where all the women worked. This job gave men the opportunity to be around women all day and, as they say, “shoot their shot.” But that wasn’t my concern or my mindset. I was only 19 years old, and I didn’t fully understand prison politics. At the time, I was an assistant clerk in the chapel and what you would call a “babe in Christ.” I was focused and dedicated to my faith.
When the time came for me to step out and grow, the chaplain forced me to work in the infirmary on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—the busiest days because they were shower days. We were responsible for washing the men who couldn’t bathe themselves and assisting those who could.
“Wash another man? A naked man? With soap and water all over his body? While I hold the washcloth? In a maximum-security prison? No way, Jose!”
This was a horrible start. Why couldn’t I begin with reading and writing letters for them or preparing their meals? Nope, it was (excuse my French) “butt and balls” duty for the new guy.
As a believer, the scriptures tell me to “do everything as unto the Lord.” So, I pulled myself together and thought, How would I like to be treated if I were in their situation? I washed those men as if they were me. Some were disabled due to strokes, so I had to dress them, brush their teeth, and feed them. Others were paralyzed due to incidents in prison, and I had to clean them after they used the restroom. Many had missing limbs, and I had to be their strength in their weakest areas.
The job I had been so reluctant to take—the one I thought I wouldn’t be able to stomach—became the highlight of my days. I fell in love with these men. They were still human. They were funny and fun to be around. They were wise and loved sharing their wisdom with a young man like me. They became my family and close friends. I would spend all day with them, even on my off days. I enjoyed their company, and they enjoyed mine.
Meeting Larry
The job was far from what I had expected, and for that reason, I was glad when we received a new patient—an older white gentleman in his late fifties named Larry. Larry was the coolest. He was funny, outgoing, and generous. But Larry had brain cancer, and within weeks, it took a turn for the worse. One day, he became comatose. I didn’t understand this. He was breathing, his eyes were open, but he could only lay there, unresponsive.
This man, who had stolen everyone’s heart in just a few weeks, who had been the life of the party, was now out of commission. I didn’t like it. I couldn’t understand it. I had to get used to my friend’s new condition, so from time to time, I would go into his room, talk to him, and hope that he heard and understood me. I would hold his hand and pray for him. It was all I could do, and I didn’t like that I couldn’t change his situation or make it better for him in any way.
A few days later, I came into work and, as I had been trained, went by everyone’s room to greet them. “Good morning,” I’d say. “Let me know if you need anything.”
But when I got to Larry’s room—literally the last room—I witnessed what would be my first, but definitely not my last, experience with death in prison.
Larry had “expired.”
This wasn’t a big shock, but it was the first time I had witnessed someone dying in prison. It was sad because, in a short period, Larry had become my friend. He was being washed by a man I considered my big brother and trainer—the best hospice caregiver I had ever met. His name was Tree, and he was more like a nurse practitioner or doctor.
Tree washed Larry from head to toe, placed a brief (adult pull-up) on him, and tagged him with three labels: one for Larry’s right big toe, one for the outside zipper of the body bag, and one for his property.
I stood there, somewhat amazed at how Tree could do this tedious task without a bit of worry, fear, or discomfort. I asked him, “Does this ever bother you?”
He said, “The scary part is that it doesn’t.” Then he added, “Just wait. You’ll see.”
The devil is a liar, I thought to myself.
Tree then asked me to help place Larry in the body bag.
“You tripping!” I had never touched a dead body and had no plans of doing so!
But I had to be brave. Plus, this wasn’t just a dead body. This was my friend, the same man who had made me laugh and shared meals with me just weeks ago. So, I helped. And I took the opportunity to pray for Larry’s soul. Believe it or not, when I touched him, I prayed he would rise from the dead.
“Hey, why not? Just in case. You never know.”
But unfortunately, he did not rise.
Fortunately for my underwear, he didn’t—because I know it would have scared the mess out of me.
Finding Purpose in Pain
My experience with Larry matured me in ways I didn’t yet fully understand. Over time, another part of the job revealed itself—one that I was definitely not ready for.
One day around 11 a.m., I heard the loudspeaker: “First, second, and third response report to Darlington.”
I knew what that meant, but I didn’t realize my new position put me in a role where I would be hands-on. Seconds later, a nurse burst through the double doors.
“We need a stretcher on the East Yard!”
Tree told me to come with him. “Aw man, why me?” I thought. But despite my mental hesitation, I physically rushed to put my gloves on. We ran to the prison ER, grabbed the best stretcher, and took off.
When we got there, I saw five individuals bleeding from stab wounds. One guy, barely walking, threw himself on the stretcher. We pivoted quickly and took him to the ER while leading the others to medical, where the nurses and doctor began assessing and bandaging wounds while waiting for EMS.
I would like to say incidents like this happened every blue moon, but sadly, they were common. I became so familiar with emergencies that I started assessing and bandaging wounds myself. I even became quicker and more efficient than some security staff and nurses. Over time, I learned to control my mind in high-stress situations. I became super calm, calculated, and effective at my job.
This job became my new identity, and I loved every bit of it. Even the most violent men respected me because I had helped them or their friends in life-or-death situations. Staff began treating me like a human being again.
A New Definition of Self
Working in hospice care taught me that humanity exists even behind these walls. I am not defined by my biggest mistake as a teenager. I am defined by my love and care for other human beings.
I learned that we can pivot in life and head in the right direction.
I learned that I have the power to write my own narrative and tell my own truths.
To my dear friend George M., and to all my brothers who are sick, disabled, or struggling in prison—I love you. And to those who selflessly serve their brothers in need, you are imitators of Christ. You will be rewarded.
Your brother in the same struggle,
—Sylvester Anterrio Boone
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