Dear Donna Gross:
Though I don't know you, and now will be denied that pleasure, I thank you for the heartfelt interaction you had with my brother, Gary, during the times your work schedule intersected with his present stay at the Napa Valley State Hospital.
You've been a constant on my mind and in my heart since Gary told me the news of your rape and death on the 23rd of this month. While I was preparing gifts and ice cream cake for the 21st birthday of my eldest child, you were engaged in a losing battle for survival. A schizophrenic patient with a violent history, including sexual assault and attempted murder of a woman, robbed you of chewing gum and $2 before also robbing you of your life by strangulation. There are other facts too sordid to immortalize here.
I've often been accused of exercising too much empathy and thinking too deeply into situations. But in your case, my empathy knows no bounds and my thoughts on your final moments lead only to terrible sorrow . . . and there is not a one who would accuse me of going too deep or feeling too much. From what I know of you through Gary, however, my lasting impressions regarding one Donna Gross will not be those of a discarded body thrown behind a hedgerow outside one of the many buildings on the enclosed forensic unit of a psychiatric facility.
I remember whole conversations about you, a woman I never met, with my brother. In his long career as a ward of the state of California in the capacity of prisoner, a social exile and outcast, he has long known only suspicion, mistrust, disregard, and judgement. For obvious reasons, personal revelations between him and anyone outside of his family circle or brotherhood behind bars was simply not going to happen. Not possible. For a variety of reasons which are sensible enough. But this specific isolation from social peers created a wedge between him and everyday citizens. Especially those with any kind of authority over him. Kind words delivered with any amount of true civility or concern were rare, and thus easy to recall with clarity. Especially if they were meted out by one of the fairer sex, as their presence is transient and limited in a prison setting.
The entire string of events leading up to his eventual release from prison, his short stint of freedom, the tragic episode leading to his return to jail, and the drawn out but incredible process by which he was declared a patient of the state as opposed to a convict, created further confusion and loneliness within my brother. He found himself a client at your place of employment for the past 14 years. And among the many employees with whom he made contact, there was you.
Gary says you were the kind of person who could find good in anyone. He said just the other day that you would have most likely had something positive to say about the man who killed you. There was pride and appreciation in his voice as he spoke. You earned his respect, his caring, and his grief.
What you did for him in those open talks in the halls of the hospital ward was to plant a seed which said, "A perfect stranger who knows my past and my present, where I come from, what I've done, is willing to treat me as a fellow human being. Maybe there IS hope for me. Maybe change IS on the horizon." You stood before him as a flesh and blood person. Making eye contact. Smiling. You shared your very personal story with him. The death of your son. The drug addictions which robbed you of meaningful relationships with two daughters. The grandchild you were raising. The fulfillment you genuinely felt in the daily enacting of your job there at the hospital with its varied residents. You opened up about your spiritual grounding in Christ. Speaking to your faith. Bearing witness to its power by your very life and presence. And you encouraged him to continue on his life's journey, all the while allowing him to express his doubts where his own faith was concerned, never once exerting pressure or lapsing into judgement.
Today, a memorial service was scheduled at the hospital for patients to attend. I do so hope it happened. I know that your tragic death has created a tense atmosphere in a place where tension and stress were the recipe of the day for both staff and residents. The community and the state are watching, alert, crying out for action and change. As in life, your passing will have an impact. Gary and I often wondered how this staff, with its high concentration of women, and often petite women at that, wandered the grounds alone without escort or buddy. By definition, a large portion of patients in a forensic ward will be there due to violence related to their illness. And not all patients are seeking to improve through medication and therapy; and a few patients are most likely unable to heal despite all measures to the contrary. It is beyond unfortunate that a financially burdened state's cutbacks resulted in a hiring freeze which directly affected the ratio of staff-to-client at the Napa facility. Obviously, the need to have this addressed is urgent.
What I hope, Donna, is that the reasons you expressed for working there are not lost in the melee of angry and scared voices. You knew the risks of your employment. Yet you took them each day. You witnessed the progression and eventual successful release of many patients there. You took the time to know the reality of rehabilitation and treatment. The men and women in your charge were not viewed as loss causes and societal write-offs by you. You were there, in the trenches, earning a paycheck and administering hope. The two can cohabit. You proved it.
I'm praying for the end result here. I pray you have found peace in a place those of us here can only contemplate either in faith or disbelief. My deepest condolences go out to your family. To that precious grandchild whose heritage through you is rich and real. Even through tragedy there can be beauty and growth. Of this I bear witness.
I'm so sorry for your loss. You were worthy beyond the price of rubies.
Godspeed,
Gary's grateful Sister G.
Learn More About Who Donna Was
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