Today we're in deep fog which is not good on a prison camp. We can only move if escorted. Security, ya know. But the fog is pretty to me. And I smell spring in the air.
My robin is back. He perches on the one puny over-peed-on little oak tree in the dog pen and sings to me when I walk to breakfast at 5:30. He just showed up a week or so ago and sings to me all spring and into the summer until it gets too hot. He's proud of his red breast and puffs it out as he turns his beak up to the sky and belts out my favorite spring song. Between verses, he cocks his head over to see if I'm watching. I always smile at my Rockin Robin and call, "I see you!" Spectators think I'm nuts, until I advise them that God sent him to remind us that everything is going to be OK. Can't argue with that.
My stupid little cellmate who chatters all the time and is giving up her 8th baby for adoption is moving out of our room this morning. YEAH! She's OK, just a pest. Constantly asking how to spell the simplest words, writing sex to male inmates, and ignoring her children because she's a brainless drug addict child herself. We are happy that we will now be able to think and study in the room!
So now we have four of us in the room. Stacy, (39) half Mexican, half middle-eastern, is at my feet. Amy, (43) a nice white Catholic embezzler from the bootheel, is across from me. Sara, (36) black gal with an assault and a 3rd grade mentality who calls me mom is catty-corner. I should tell you about Stacy. That's a story.
Stacy's serving 30 years with an 85% mandatory minimum for first degree assault. She, a successful hairdresser and graphic artist, and her handsome husband were excitedly expecting their first child. They had a name picked out, the nursery in their gorgeous country home decorated, and Christmas gifts for the baby under the tree. Everything was joyously going as scheduled until the delivery. The baby was stillborn. Their precious daughter never drew a breath.
It's not uncommon for new mothers to have post-partum depression and Stacy had battled depression all her adult life anyway, but the devastating loss of this child, whom she had nurtured for nine months, already loved, and ached to have and to hold kicked her over the emotional edge.
Stacy remembers none of what occurred next, but I've heard that she walked out of the hospital in her gown, ended up at a house which advertized their new baby with balloons on the porch and a big sign, "Welcome Home Our Baby Girl!" When the mother of the house opened the door to the knock, Stacy burst in, somehow cut the mother's throat superficially with a knife from the mom's home, and stole the tiny infant. I can only imagine the terror of that event for that young mother.
I think that Stacy's sister called the police when she realized that this was not Stacy's baby. The story got big news coverage in St. Louis. "Crazed Mexican breaks into private home, cuts throat of new mother and steals newborn baby." Of course the prosecutor wangled to make sure they didn't get a female judge, she was portrayed as a tormenting monster, and Stacy was handed the maximum sentence for assault. She's required to serve 25.5 years on this 30 year sentence, and I understand that punishment is necessary—but is there no compassion for this form of mental illness? We have dozens of women in here for murder who are serving half that time.
Her husband cut all ties to her because he couldn't handle the emotional strain of visiting her in prison and not knowing how long she would be here. She's not in any contact with him, although she still loves him and showed me photos of them cuddling during happy times. She and her sister were pregnant at the same time, so when I saw her 6 year old nephew recently in the visiting room, I thought of Stacy's baby. I'm sure Stacy does.
Like I mentioned, Martha is busy gathering the paperwork to give her eighth child away to adoptive parents. Only 26 she has already lost the other seven to the state because of her irresponsible druggie lifestyle. This baby is the first one she wasn't "using" while pregnant—only because she was locked up for most of the pregnancy. Stacy rarely discusses anyone's business, but the casual way that Martha is handing over her beautiful blonde baby girl has caused Stacy to share a bit of how much she misses her own daughter and how her life would be different if her baby had survived.
Stacy has lived in my room since December of 08, nearly 15 months, but not until recently has she opened up. I was fearful that her depression had swallowed her whole. In the past few months, she started exercising with me faithfully every day and is not only losing weight, she is energized. She's chatting about her life and the reason she's here. She's laughing and joking and sleeping much less. Recently she let the cosmo students cut her extremely long thick black stringy hair into a stylish shoulder-length swing, and I can't tell you how thrilled I am that this pretty young woman is coming to life.
Everyone in here is a broken sparrow, some more injured than others. My hope for us all is that we can all regain our strength and fly. Stacy is on her way and will soar again. I see it coming.
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