In all the years that I’ve been on death row, I’ve never had what I would call a positive experience with a prison chaplain. Like most others here, I have come to see the State employed prison chaplains as an extension of the corrupt bureaucracy itself and not as a religious representative or spiritual advisor. I have never seen a prison chaplain come to the death row wing and talk to a death-sentenced prisoner out of concern or genuine spiritual communion. That just doesn’t happen.
So, when the wing sergeant cam to my cell last Thursday (October 7) and told me that I had to go to the Chaplain’s office, I already knew it was not good news. Without exception there is only one reason a death row prisoner is brought to the chaplain’s office – somebody in the family died.
As with all other “call-outs”, before I could leave my cell, I had to first be strip-searched and then chained and shackled like Hannibal Lector in the Silence of the Lambs. Only then was I escorted off the wing and slowly shuffled down the long main hallway towards the front, where the chaplain’s office is located. Although I have been on death row now almost 27 years, I have never actually been to the prison chapel as death row prisoners are not allowed to participate in worship services. Still I know where the prison chapel is as I’ve passed it countless times, the solid steel double door always securely locked. As I approached the doors the Sgt escorting me instructed me to stop. Then we waited a moment and the chaplain came out, like the wizard of Oz revealing himself from behind the curtain, and then I was led through the doors and into the part of the prison I’ve never been allowed before.
As I was ushered into a small office the chaplain was already dialing a phone number. The chains and shackles that bound me were never removed. I was instructed to sit in a chair and a moment later I heard my older sister’s voice come over the speakerphone. I was not surprised to be told that my father (Donald Lambrix) had passed away earlier that morning.
Although we knew it was coming, it still is news that leaves you empty and unresponsive. My father’s health has been declining for years. After several heart attacks and strokes at 80 years old he has spent the past four or five years in a nursing home. Last month I was told that he had taken a turn for the worse and was placed on a breathing tube. We all knew that he wouldn’t hold out much longer.
Mentally I knew that this news would come. As soon as the Sgt came to my cell and told me I had a chaplain call-out, I knew that it would be the news of my father’s death. Yet in the moment of hearing the words actually spoken I felt the emptiness of its reality. Dad was gone and I never had the chance to say goodbye.
Like most others, through the years my contact and communication with family members slowly eroded until for all practical purposes I no longer had any meaningful communication with my family – even my own children have now grown and no longer communicate. That’s just how it is for most prisoners. Although I remain close to my mother and stepfather (who recently celebrated their own 40th anniversary), they are the exception. But through the years dad tried to write and we would talk about going fishing or maybe take in a football game. He always believed that I would walk out one day and we would catch up on the years lost. Even when my own hope wavered, his faith never failed. When I would get one of his letters, I would read and reread it often, thinking about where we might go fishing and what we’d talk about. Personally I never cared much for fishing – but he did and it wasn’t really about the fishing anyways. That was just his way of saying that he looked forward to seeing me get out and spend some time together. Going fishing was just a metaphor.
The phone call lasted only a few minutes and most of it was just words. All too often I’ve heard people talk about how families need “closure” to deal with the death of a loved one. Most often, it’s coming from politicians who define closure by expediting the execution of those condemned to death as if yet another death somehow ends all the suffering. But how do you come to terms with that “closure” when you’re not even able to say goodbye, or participate in the funeral? That’s just how we are wired – funerals, or memorial services, are not about those who passed, but are really about the necessary opportunity to deal with the reality that someone we love is now gone. It’s our way of saying goodbye, and the first step of moving on beyond that loss.
But for prisoners, we never have that opportunity. The most we can hope for is that someone will at least let us know when someone close to us has passed away. Beyond that, we can only retreat into our solitary cage and find a way to deal with the emptiness that flows. No matter how alone and isolated we might feel in this solitary existence of death row life, it becomes a heavy burden we return to our cell and sit alone thinking of the loved one that is now gone forever. Even if I walked out of here tomorrow, I would never again see my father.
In my world death is a frequent visitor. A few days before my father passed, another death row prisoner on my wing suddenly died of a heart attack. David Johnston was my age (50 years old) and had been here on “the row” almost as long as I have. His death was unexpected and sudden, but the death of one of us is all too common and accepted.
I can’t help but wonder about that paradox, I can accept the death of someone I’ve lived with in close proximity to for over a quarter of a century, and in the past year a number of close friends here have died (
Henry Garcia, Jim Chandler, Martin “Big Eddie” Grossman) and with each I never was at a loss of words to express the pain of a brother passing. Yet now I feel an unfamiliar emptiness and an inability to define that depth of loss.
Even as much as I deal with the reality of death only too often, it’s when death hits home that it’s felt most of all. Even now, a week later, I still feel an emptiness I’ve seldom felt. And I’m sure I’m not alone, as most of us here have had to make that trip to the chaplain’s office at one time or another. And each time it brings the reality of death we so often must confront to a whole different level. So, here’s to hoping that my father has now found peace and is in a better place.
Michael Lambrix #482053
Death Row Florida
