Letter 19.

Dear Mr. Dad,

I have felt pain, seen it and even treated it, but getting a glimpse of your pain is an experience that I still reflect on.  As you told me about the uncertainty of how long you would be incarcerated, I watched you re-live what happened.  It became obvious that being a teen dad forced you to grow up quicker than you thought possible and by the time your second was born you were intently trying to create a world for them that you did not have growing up.  With two “baby mommas” that you were no longer in a relationship with, the only way you knew how to provide was to work several jobs and hand over money to make sure your babies had food, clothes and a roof over their heads.  This also meant that you never were responsible for or learned how to care for them daily (e.g. feeding, bathing, and just generally watching over them). 

You described the day that your “baby momma” asked you to watch your infant son as if you had played it over and over again in your mind.  You got through the night with him, but for some reason he was extra fussy despite always being your happy, chubby little guy.  The next morning when his mother was supposed to pick him up, you fed him, sat him down because he did not want to be burped, and you stepped away for several minutes.  When you returned you found him blue in the face and covered in vomit.  You described feeling paralyzed by your panic and couldn’t remember how much time had passed before the paramedics arrived.  You went to the hospital in the ambulance with your son and called his mother so she could meet you there.  After several days in the pediatric intensive care unit with tubes and lines coming out of him, he was pronounced brain dead. 

The “terrible accident” was a devastating loss on so many levels.  This was your child who gave you meaning to your life, a being who you loved more than yourself and wanted to do everything possible to give him a life better than your own.  You knew that your baby boy meant the same if not more to the woman who brought him into the world.  You experienced how his passing impacted you, his mother, and every other life that he touched.  More than that, you blame yourself for the loss and the pain that you and everyone else felt.  After burying your son and starting therapy to deal with your grief, the district attorney charged you for his murder. 

You sat in front of me awaiting trial and we talked in search for the meaning of it all.  You said to me, “I would do anything to bring him back… if this is my punishment that’s ok, but it will never bring him back… I don’t know why I get to live and he doesn’t… nothing will ever get me out of the prison of guilt that I live in.”  I didn’t tell you this, but I agreed with you.  I was certain that the hopelessness of your jail cell was nothing in comparison; your new circumstances of living life as a booking number would deepen your pain and harden your heart.  It was unlikely that you would get the therapy you need until well after your conviction and sent to prison.  If you were convicted, I imagine you would not be eligible for release until you were at least middle age. If and when you were released, how would you establish a life for yourself that did not include recidivism? Would your sentence bring the closure that your baby momma needs to move on with her life? How would all of this impact your other son’s life?   While the questions of your future floated through my mind, I tried to remain focused on the meaning of the present moment and you did it better than I ever could– you described the one, most important thing that your son taught you — “to love so deeply and unconditionally”. 

I am not your lawyer, district attorney, judge or jury; frankly my job is not to pass judgment on you.  I also realize that our interaction only gives me one side of the story, but as your doctor, I am not sure whether this “justice” system is the prescription for your pain or the root cause of a potentially perpetual cycle of pain. 

Hold on to his love,

Dr. A