In June 2024, I was placed in the Carole Young Medical Facility southeast of Houston to recover from knee replacement surgery. Though I wasn’t in hospice care, I lived in West Pod for two months because I needed around-the-clock care from medical staff.
I was only a few days out of surgery when a person in a wheelchair appeared outside my room.
“Hey, McCall,” she slurred out the side of her mouth. I had no clue who she was, but I returned her greeting.
Noticing the look on my face, she said, “It’s me. Frances. From Braille.”
I didn’t know what to say — I couldn’t believe it was her.
The last time I saw Frances, we were co-workers in the Braille transcription program. She had thick brown hair that reached her tailbone. Her skin was smooth and tan, and she was always smiling. Now, her skin was as gray as her hair. She had a knot on the side of her neck the size of a softball. She could barely speak.
“What are you doing?” I asked Frances. It was all I could say.
“I’m dying, McCall,” she said. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“That’s not funny, Frances.”
She proceeded to update me on her life, her cancer diagnosis, her time in the hospice pod.
After that first interaction, I tried to avoid Frances. I wasn’t sure how to be a friend to someone who could die at any moment. I wanted to contribute to a peaceful ending for her, but I had no idea where to begin. It was hard for me to see her there. In the past, we laughed and had fun together; now I felt she was being cheated out of her life.
Seeing compassion at work
Avoiding her didn’t really work out. My bed was situated by the door of my room — so unless my door was closed, I was the first person Frances saw when she rolled herself out of her room. One quick look to the right and there I was.
Outside of our rooms was the TV area, and I sometimes watched how Frances interacted with the care workers from my bed. These were women working with No One Dies Alone, a peer support initiative that trains and supports incarcerated individuals as companions for other incarcerated people at the end of their lives.
Within West Pod, there are three specially trained NODA care workers. These women work on shifts to assure the people in hospice care receive their daily dose of comfort. The compassion they exhibited was amazing. Watching them interact with patients brought to mind a mother and infant: the gentle talks, feeding, wiping mouths, combing hair. They chopped food in small pieces to prevent choking and helped patients dress and undress.
I was awestruck by how unambiguously the care workers loved Frances. I felt like an outsider looking through a telescope at another planet.
A visit from a warden
Frances looked into my room every day until finally she asked, “Are you coming out?”
From that day on, we spent dayroom time together. Frances often complained about being cold. As a result, the care workers spoke with the warden and he came to visit Frances.
“Can a lady die in peace?” Frances said to the warden. “My bed is directly under the vent. I’m stiff and freezing and I’m not dead yet.”
The warden did not respond right away. After a few moments, he said, “I’ll get you a heater” — and he did.
Her food was slightly different from mine and sometimes we would switch trays. I love fried fish, chicken and raisins. Frances liked chicken strips, peaches and pears. She hated the veggies, so she would always give them to me. When I had nothing else to swap, I would give her a bag of plain potato chips. Her mouth was sensitive so she had to eat a lot of soft foods like mashed potatoes, but we both loved chips.
Frances’ hands weren’t steady. She would often drop things and become upset with herself. But Tina, a care worker, always seemed to notice, and had the right words to make it better.
Hanging out
Once I started walking without my crutches, I was able to push Frances in the wheelchair. We never went far, but I helped her get around quicker. I was never one to watch TV, but with Frances, I became a couch potato. We watched “Law & Order,” “Chicago P.D.,” and “Chicago Fire.” Every now and then good movies would come on. Frances had a TV guide, but we pretty much watched the same old stuff. I’m just glad she didn’t watch soap operas.
Some days we would chop it up about how things were back when we were co-workers. If she laughed too hard, she would start to choke a little.
When I stepped up, NODA workers were still there keeping an eye on her from afar. Some days Frances would have intense pain in her legs and Tina would prop them up for comfort. It was something small, but it made all the difference in the world.
One day Frances returned from a family visit so upset, she yelled out: “I wish I would hurry up and die — my kids just don’t listen!” I wouldn’t dare to comment on such an angry remark, but Tina came over, giving me a look that signaled she needed alone time with Frances. When I returned later, Frances was back to normal.
Passing away in a prison hospice
Eventually I was moved out of the hospice pod to a regular dorm. Before I left, I visited Frances’ room to say goodbye. I hugged her for what I knew would be the last time — she had grown much weaker.
“Take care, McCall,” she said. Within two weeks, Tina came to tell me Frances had died in her sleep.
Before my time observing NODA care workers with Frances, I had never considered anyone dying alone.
In prison, with the type of people who surround me, I would rather live my life alone. But I never want to die alone. The end of Frances’ life taught me that.
