Medical Malady

(Originally Posted on July 30, 2015) 

“…is not all the world beyond these four little walls pitiless enough, but that thou must needs enter here, — thou, O Death?”  - W.E.B. DuBois    

Some beautiful soul used a broomstick and bravery to disconnect the wires from that evil loudspeaker yesterday, and I wish him many blessings. Gave me the best night of sleep in months.

Time has been flying by and, in most prisons, that’s considered a very good thing because time is the enemy of most caged human beings. If I were given the opportunity ten years ago to fast forward ten years just to void a decade from my life, I would’ve gladly done so. And I would have been a fool. Even time spent being persecuted is precious. Life is so short, and prisoners hardly have a monopoly on suffering. Had I voided ten years, I would’ve missed meeting some amazing people and a large amount of personal growth. Regardless of how miserable my existence can sometimes be, I’m in no hurry to reach the end.

There are good moments, too: some comedy, some shared fellowship, a new Stephen King novel. Of course these small pleasures pale when compared to loving a woman, being with family or moments of peaceful privacy. But you can’t allow yourself to focus on what you’re missing instead of what is — it’s either learning to enjoy the small privileges or becoming hopelessly depressed.

The darkness defeats me at times, but that’s not important. As long as I remember to breathe, and be grateful that I’m doing so, I’ll be alright.

Reinforcing my thoughts on mortality was the tragic death of Hollywood, a man who stayed two cells over. Hollywood wasn’t the name on his birth certificate, but it fit his personality. He was no kid; yet, he was too young to die, and he probably wouldn’t have if he’d been someplace other than a Texas prison.

If there’s one place in our country you’d better not get sick or hurt, it’s in one of these filthy human warehouses.

They first diagnosed Hollywood with a pulled muscle in his leg. Even as his leg swelled to three times its normal size, they accused him of exaggerating the pain. I remember him rolling by my cage in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse bitching at him for turning her into a taxi driver. Ah, but the sweet disposition of a prison nurse…You would’ve thought he’d farted rather than hurt his leg. They gave the man hell.

Hollywood’s knee, if possible, became even more swollen and painful with each new day. But still, it was a pulled muscle. At last, our merciful penitentiary physician reluctantly sent Hollywood to a prison medical holding unit. There, the pulled muscle finally pulled loose and killed the colorful personality once known as Hollywood. It wasn’t a pulled muscle, of course; it was a blood clot.

It boils down to economics. Healthcare is expensive and convicts are cheap, there’s got to be something better to spend the money on… Like that fancy-dancy new prison down in Hickville.

The medical nightmare stories are endless among inmates and each time I hear a new one, I send a silent plea to the universe for a medicine-free life.

They hate us. The doctor, the technicians, the nurses, they loathe us inmates. They make it crystal clear anytime you visit the infirmary. I guess they started training in the medical field with aspirations to treat humans rather than animals… So, they’re maybe a little bitter about the direction their careers took.

I once injured my wrist, and the pain was so strong it kept me from sleeping. I went to the infirmary and waited almost four hours inside the cage with a bunch of other sick and injured men. They call this the cage treatment, and the medical staff uses it to discourage visits. You cannot imagine how terrible the cage treatment is until you’ve been through it. By the time I was allowed to see the nurse, my wrist was screaming in protest.

To make matters worse, my endured cage treatment went for not. The nurse refused to let me see the doctor about my wrist because, “I don’t see anything wrong with it,” she said with a sneer. They do have an old x-ray machine here, but with these wonderful nurses, who needs it?

If I ever have another injury I hope it’s bloody intestines splayed all over and obvious to an idiot. I’m terrified I’ll get kidney stones or appendicitis — those gruesomely painful injuries that are invisible and completely un-diagnosable in a prison infirmary. This is the place where a small treatable illness can become fatal, and the most acute pain may not inspire a generic Tylenol.

I believe this is a place to be careful of health and grateful for every day you’re not hurt. So, I no longer wish I could fast forward time; why be in a hurry to become a painful statistic like Hollywood?