In July 2024, my daughter Daina told me she had breast cancer over a phone call. 

Not since my daughter Danielle’s death, 14 years earlier, had I received such piercing news. I had no idea how hard the C-word could crush me. 

Deflated, I had to remember to breathe and be her dad. Daina needed me, but I was miles away, behind the high walls of an Alabama prison.

One of the hardest and most overlooked parts of incarceration is how we cope from inside while our loved ones fight life-threatening health complications on the outside. Some of us don’t even learn about a loved one’s deadly diagnosis until after they’ve died. And in the instances where we are kept updated, we can feel like there’s no way to help from prison. 

That’s the kind of helplessness that Benjamin felt when his daughter Destiny was in a car crash that left her in a coma for two days.

Destiny’s mom had left a message for Benjamin at the prison, and an officer allowed him to go to the shift commander’s office, where they gave brief instructions: “Call home.”

“During the quarter of a mile walk back to the dorm, one tragic scenario after another played in my head,” Benjamin said. “Not knowing seemed almost worse than the news itself.” 

Once he called Destiny’s mom, Amanda, Benjamin learned that his daughter was in critical condition.

“I thanked God Destiny was still alive, but Amanda didn’t have the answers I needed,” he said. “While Amanda waited on doctors for updates, I then had to wait on her. Not being there tore me up inside.”

Corey Benton, a native of Ohio who’s been incarcerated for more than two decades, felt a similar pain and helplessness in 2019 when his brother was hospitalized with congestive heart failure. 

“I prayed for him to improve like I’ve never prayed before, but eventually they moved Brandon to hospice,” Benton said. “Our mom kept me updated and I did all I could to stay positive.” 

Six months after that initial hospitalization, his brother died.

“I sobbed, I got mad, I punched a door,” Benton said. “I didn’t break my hand, but it was sore. My brother dying was devastating.” 

Harold Joe, a 76-year-old native of Anninston, Alabama, has largely dealt with the opposite challenge during his 44 years of incarceration. When Harold Joe went to an Alabama county jail in the late 1970s, he noticed that he stopped receiving health updates from his family. The trend continued.

“My daddy was said to have died from an enlarged heart that nobody told me about,” Harold Joe said. “And years later, while I was at St. Clair [Correctional Facility] in 2009, my momma died from ‘sugar’ (diabetes) and soon after that, my stepdad died from cancer. I didn’t know about any of this before they passed.” 

Harold Joe said his sister Tara told him about his mother’s death three days after she was buried. He said Tara just didn’t know how to give him the bad news.

“My family just don’t tell me about their health issues,” he said. “I know they’re trying to spare me from worry.”

As it turns out, avoidance can be expected on both sides of the prison fence.

In 1997, Birmingham native Milo, 72, kept his pancreatic cancer diagnosis a secret from his wife Jetta, whom he had married about eight years earlier. 

“Jetta has a delicate medical condition,” Milo said, “and I didn’t want her to worry about me in here.” 

Over the course of the next year, Milo underwent cancer treatment and his cancer went into remission. But then around 2022, the cancer returned. Milo continued to keep his diagnosis hidden from his wife, until three years later.  

“Keeping the secret began to feel like telling a lie,” he said. “So, in 2025, I told Jetta and it scared her to death!” 

Milo said he is in Stage 3 of the disease and weighs about 109 pounds. He still wonders if he made the right call to tell his wife. Now, Milo said, Jetta hates when her phone rings.

“She’s afraid it will be a call from the prison about me,” he said.

During Daina’s battle with breast cancer, I reminded her of just how strong she is. I listened and I let her vent. I showed Daina how I refuse to allow prison to totally take her dad from her. I coped by focusing more on her than myself. 

Like many, I pray for my children, but we also pray together. Inevitably, we deal with similar circumstances. We just cope differently. Imprisonment prevents our physical presence, but not the impact of implementing practical alternatives. 

I’ve leaned on friends when my emotions get heavy. We also must give ourselves permission to cry. We can still distract our minds through creativity, exercise and books and avoid unhealthy encounters. You can reach out to the prison chaplain or request a session with a mental health counselor. 

Inside a prison or out, remaining mentally positive during difficult times is key. Although Daina has beaten breast cancer, the win came at a tremendous cost. I asked if she had any words. 

“Stay positive. Don’t make decisions out of fear,” she said. “Allow yourself time to process, and remember, some people just don’t know how to be there for others. So, grant them grace.” 

Today our relationship is stronger than ever. Looking back from this side of the battle, Daina and I deliberately take advantage of our time together, understanding that tomorrow is not guaranteed.