Tumbling Down the Rabbit-Hole

An encounter with death that forever changed my outlook on life

When mentioning to a friend recently that I intended to share with all of you a very unique experience that I had with death, his only comment after a few moments of careful reflection was to say, "it will only make sense if they tumble down the rabbit-hole with you." Unexpectedly his words lit a fuse on a latent idea that had lingered on the periphery of my consciousness for months: that it was time to rebrand my newsletter to better reflect what it had become. And I knew exactly what the newsletter should be called, and moreover understood that my experience with death was intended to be shared with all of you from its inception. But please note that what I'm about to share is raw, unfiltered, and will likely offend some.

I firmly believe that how we look at death is indicative to how we live our lives. I didn't always believe this, because I saw death as a nuisance that takes from us without giving anything in return. Whether we're talking about loved ones, possessions, or even the experiences that make life worth living, death is around every corner and embedded in every detail as a harbinger of woe waiting to pluck someone or something from us at any given moment. My first experience with death when I was six took away my favorite person in the whole world—my abuelo. And, admittedly, my subsequent experiences didn't improve my opinion of this harbinger specter.

The year was 2010, and I was sitting in a segregation prison cell waiting to be transported to the super-max prison in Santa Fe, New Mexico. At the time I had only been incarcerated for six years, half of which had already been spent in a 23 hour lock down environment. Which is another way of saying that I was well-indoctrinated into what is known as hard time. A reality that I had embraced as an opportunity to know thyself, and know myself I did. As I sat there I suddenly realized that life had lost all its flavor and purpose, and because of which there was simply no reason to go forward. Obviously I considered my family, my mamá and abuela, who had devotedly attached themselves to my cause since day one. I considered my young daughter, too young to understand that a broken promise doesn't mean what she thinks it does. And I considered the goals and dreams that had collectively made up the aspirations that had given purpose to my life for as long as I could remember. But none of that could deter what was suddenly so blatantly obvious: the simple rationale that the best way forward was not to go forward at all, because there was no forward.

For those of you who don't know me, let it be known that I am very pedantic when it comes to executing a plan. Like I said, my decision to no longer be alive wasn't being made out of desperation, depression, a cry for help, or any of the psycho-babble that often clutters our airwaves. I had simply looked at life, my life in particular, and had logically arrived at the determination that my death was the best outcome for everyone. Again, I didn't then mean this in a self-pity sort of way, it was just a rational observation leading to an even more rational decision. Like choosing to max out my Roth IRA contribution every year before contributing to any other kind of retirement account. Or sitting in a diner and seeing the cook sneeze into his hand and continue to prepare the food, and when the waitress approaches say, "I think I'll just have a bottle of water and maybe a piece of fruit", even though I haven't eaten for ten hours and I'm starving. Like I said, it was rational.

I carefully looked at my decision from the point of view of everyone who would forseeably be impacted. Beyond the immediate family there was one friend in particular, Ray Olsen, an internist whose constant letters kept my mind sharp through the topics we debated. I also took into consideration the family of the victim for whom I was accused of killing. It might seem strange that I would take into consideration individuals who I had never met, but I guess I did so because our lives had become so irrevocably intertwined through the unfortunate death of their loved one. Even more so, since the state's prosecutorial efforts were about as effective as a blind monkey throwing its feces at a jeering zoo patron. I mean, yes, they convicted someone; unfortunately, it just wasn't the individual who had actually taken their loved one from them. But the way I looked at it, was that, if they had decided to believe that I was the one who had killed their loved one, then perhaps ignorance was bliss and them learning about my death in prison might just offer them some closure, peace, or solace—kind of like a religious balm of incense and prayer—and maybe my death would help to close a very unfortunate chapter in not just their lives, but many lives.

I even considered the supposed friend who had so adeptly managed to extricate himself from the consequences of murder at my expense. Honestly, I can't say that I've ever really been angry with him. Because at some level I always knew who he was, and despite all I knew, felt sorry for him. And if he needed to put me in prison to feel good about himself, so as not to have to live in my shadow, then let him live in the shadow of my death. Because if life had taught me anything up to that point, it was that one way or another all life debts get paid—down to the last penny.

I even went so far in my deliberations as to consider the tax payer. I may not be known as the most empathetic of individuals, but when I step into empathy I really step in. And, after all, why should the tax payer have to pay for my existence at a rate of $46,000 per year for 55 years?

As you read this you might be thinking, well, what about the slivers of hope from your appeals? Or the possibility that an innocence organization or law firm might somehow take your case pro bono, perform the kind of investigation into your defense that was never before performed, and voilà you're free?

So allow me to clarify: my decision wasn't based on the task before me being too difficult, it was about being cognizant of the corruption that infiltrates government at every level; knowing that it would take decades; knowing the amount of pain and suffering my incarceration would inflict on those who loved me; knowing that the window of opportunity on everything that mattered would soon be closed; and knowing that the act of hope seemed somewhat futile given the fact that even if I were to win in the courtroom, I would still have lost in life.

Like I said, based on my rational deliberations death was the only rational decision. At least, right up until the moment when something very irrational and seemingly impossible happened.

I have already mentioned how pedantic I can be with details. If you've ever seen the movie, A Man Called Otto, it involves a detail-oriented man played by Tom Hanks who diligently prepared for his own suicide. Well, that's where I was. I had written and addressed all my letters to those individuals who were important, I had acquired a large plastic bag to contain the blood, had fortuitously acquired the device with which to perform the deed, and had even studied the best time of day when guards were less likely to respond in any meaningful way.

The segregation cells at that time had steel, curved hooks fastened to the walls for hanging clothes or towels. Shortly upon entering the cell I noticed that one of the hooks could be detached from the wall. It measured about four inches in length, was solid steel, and was shaped like a tiger fang without the pointed tip. My plan was to utilize the cement floor to make a sharp enough edge to successfully be able to slice through the femoral artery on the inside of my leg. Then, if my leg was wrapped in plastic and I was in my bunk beneath a blanket the passing officer performing his rounds would be none the wiser until it was far too late.

It took several days to give the hook its blade and I was obviously concerned that they might try to transport me before the date with death could be brought to a head. Or, that they would find the hook, as I had no choice everyday but to place it back on the wall and hang my towel over it. The officers would regularly search our rooms, but I was gambling on the fact that they wouldn't check to see if a fastened clothing hook was really fastened—and, I was right.

It wasn't long before the day of my death had finally arrived. As usual they called recreation early in the morning. I went and was placed in the outdoor cage where all that could be seen was the sky by looking straight up. The cage itself was twenty feet by thirty feet with concrete walls about forty feet high. The corner of the cage had a drain and there was trash and dirt strewn about.

I proceeded to remove my yellow uniform shirt, spread it out on the ground and laid down so that I could better see the blue sky above. It was reminiscent for me of the blue sea, the place where I had always believed that my days would find their respective end. And even though I could only see the blue sky through a rusted metal grate, let me say that it was as beautiful to me as the reds and pinks of cherry blossoms in full bloom.

I laid there on that trash strewn cement and took deep, slow breaths. I wanted to taste the air and savor the moments. I didn't generally want to be sad, but I also couldn't help from being nostalgic from all the memories that raced through my mind like ants racing from their hole in search of sustenance to forage. I had come to the end on my own terms, and despite all of the hardship and the pain I still had no regrets. Which wasn't to say that I hadn't stepped in holes and made mistakes, because I most certainly had done all of that and more. But even though the trips and falls were painful, it was overcoming that made the triumphs of success—however short lived—worth living, if only to see them through.

I returned to my cell after recreation and thought, well, everything is in order and now it's just a question of waiting for the appointed time. I had determined that the best time of day was a Friday afternoon because all the administrative staff left early for weekends and the guards generally took their departure as an opportunity to not perform their rounds or duties.

The segregation tier was designed to only have two points of access. A chain-link fence with an electric access gate at the front and an emergency entrance at the rear. Both created an absurd amount of noise, which meant that they could never sneak up on someone in a cell. Because to gain access to the tier meant passing through one of those entrances, and unless you were dead to the world or hearing impaired there was no way to not know that an officer or someone else was on approach.

I waited until the officers had performed their supposed wellness checks and left the tier before deciding to put the final touches on the blade. I wanted to make sure that it would cut through the muscle of my inner thigh and effectively decimate my femoral artery. But before I could start I needed to be sure that there was no lingering officer on the tier. So I laid face down on the floor and maneuvered my fingers with my plastic mirror beneath the door so that I could see both directions down the tier. The coast was clear.

Almost the entirety of my cement floor was smooth and polished, which made using it as a sharpening stone less than ideal. The only exception was a small patch of cement that had been added to the room as patchwork at some later point of construction or repair. Which meant sitting in the middle of the floor in plain sight of the door and window in order to sharpen my tool.

Within twenty minutes I felt like the blade was right where it needed to be and decided to use my hand to test it, and sure enough it cut into my flesh—not as easy as I would have liked, but easy enough to know that with enough force I could decimate my femoral artery. I was ready. I would wait for the guards' next wellness round to conclude and that would afford me an entire hour to do the deed and successfully bleed out into a trash bag beneath my blanket. Au revoir!

But before any of that could happen, the unexpected happened. There I was sitting in the center of my floor, tool in hand, gently putting the final touches on the blade and suddenly, standing before my door, was the very thing that couldn't have been there: the brass. A man of indeterminate age and race was standing before my door, looking right at me and what I was doing. He wore a white dress shirt like all the brass at that particular facility, and he smiled. Not in a condescending or jeering way, but as if to say: I understand.

Obviously, my mind went through a quick repertoire of panic responses followed by the apparent retinue of questions. Why would the brass be making rounds so late? Even more importantly, how did he make it onto the tier without making the necessary noise through one of the aforementioned entrances? Then there was the fact that I had never seen him before, so, who was he? And, why wasn't he following the protocol of getting on his radio and calling a code three (an emergency response that would have a menagerie of officers there in a matter of moments)?

But, suddenly, none of those questions were relevant. Because after standing there with a smile for an indeterminate amount of time, he then spoke, but not in the way that I would speak to you, or you, me. I mean to say that I could hear his voice without sound, and understand his meaning without language. I realize, even now, that none of this probably makes sense, and the only term that comes to mind that might communicate what I'm trying to say is, telepathy.

He said (without saying), "I understand where you're at, but this isn't where it ends for you. And this isn't your purpose."

"What purpose?" I responded without even knowing how I was doing it.

"You're approaching it, but you're not there yet. But only because you choose not to see it."

"What is it?"

"You already know what it is, but you've been—"

"Too afraid," we both said as one.

Suddenly my vision was blurred by my own tears as I absorbed the truth of what was more felt than said. I don't think I had ever really allowed myself to weep so uncontrollably since my abuelo was taken from me. The sobs emanated through and from me like I had never experienced before, as the truth sat there on the stool beside me and permitted me the dignity and time to finish. I was waiting to hear the buzzing gate or door as the man exited from the tier, but there was nothing to be heard. I immediately dropped to the floor and maneuvered my mirror, but there was nobody to be seen. But I wasn't convinced so I called out to someone or anyone down the tier, and several voices responded.

"Did you see where that officer went?" I asked anyone who was listening.

I could hear them maneuvering their own mirrors beneath their doors, but all responses came back the same: "I don't see anyone."

Which means, what? Did I imagine it? Or did Death pay me a visit so as to stay my determined hand? I tend to think, well, actually, I don't tend to question the veracity of what I think happened, at all; at least, not any more. By now I've seen the decades pass me by as I knew they would. Death has diligently taken family and friends, as I knew he would. And Death has certainly stood and watched one judicial defeat after another without a word being said—again, as I thought he might.

But I no longer think of taking my own life, even knowing that Death will likely take from me every last person who I have ever cared about, without fail. Because somehow I feel that my purpose is closer than I realize, and if hell is what I have to traverse to get there then that's where I'm headed because purpose is what I am. I began by saying, that how we look at death is indicative to how we live our lives. And to this I will add, Death is a dear friend who affords us the dignity and time to discover our ways—and, ultimately, our purpose—through life, so let us be diligent; and, forward does exist, it's just not directional.