My Cellie Is Dying
April 22 2018
I think my cellie is dying. He lies shivering in his rack, bundled under his wool blanket, layered with thermals, sweats, and extra socks. It’s 90° out. Then his fever kicks in and he pours sweat, turning into a hot clammy mess. This has been going on for a month.
If there’s one thing you want to avoid in this life, it’s getting sick in prison. Medical won’t do a damn thing for you.
About four weeks ago my cellie started shivering and his throat hurt. He thought it might be the flu or something, so he tried to ride it out. A week or so passed and his fever wouldn’t go away. He passed out in the chow hall, but we helped him make it back to the cell. Finally he decided to go to medical to see what was wrong. He told them about his fever, his throat, and how he had passed out. The nurse gave him allergy pills and Ibuprofen. The Ibuprofen helped with the fever but he had to take a pill every hour or so to keep it from coming back. He told them this. They took his Ibuprofen from him, since he wasn’t taking it as directed, and threatened disciplinary action. That night his fever got so bad he was delirious. Since it was over 104°, they were forced to take him to Rincon Medical.
Rincon Medical is like a hospice for dying convicts. It’s not a hospital. They diagnosed my cellie with an infected abscess on his tonsil. They gave him some antibiotics, and sent him back to the yard. He improved a bit, but when the antibiotics ran out, his fever and chills returned. He put in to see medical and medical prescribed some more antibiotics. Nothing. So they gave him more antibiotics.
After about the fourth cycle of antibiotics, I told him, “I’m no doctor but I don’t think continuously pumping you full of antibiotics is a good idea because your body gets used to them or whatever.”
“What do I do?” he asked, teeth chattering.
“You need to see a real doctor and have tests run. Figure out what’s wrong with you,”
I said, keeping my distance, wondering what the symptoms for ebola were.
“How do I do that?”
“I dunno.”
He closed the face-hole of his blanket and went back to shivering, jiggling like a mass
of grey jello.
I decided that I was going to get him some help. When the nurse came around to pass
out pills, I stopped her at our cell door.
Me: Excuse me, ma’am. My cellie needs medical attention.
Her: What’s wrong with him?
Me: He’s got a fever and he won’t stop shaking.
Her: OK…
Me: This has been going on for a month. He needs to see a real doctor. You guys are pumping him full of antibiotics but it’s not working.
Her: You guys? Do I look like a guy?
Me: You guys. Your company. Corizon. Who you work for.
Her: What do you want me to do?
Me: Give him some medical attention.
Her: We’re locked down today. Why didn’t he come to sick call yesterday?
Me: I don’t know. Because he didn’t need it yesterday?
Her: Then he’s not that sick.
Me: You don’t ---- (growl). He needs a doctor.
Her: He needs to put in a HNR (Health Needs Request).
Me: He needs medical attention now. Feel his head.
(she doesn’t).
Her: I’m sorry, I can’t help you.
Me: [Expletive removed].
This type of medical is nothing new. The Arizona Department of Corrections just went through a lawsuit a couple years ago (Parsons vs. Ryan). They were sued for their lack of adequate medical care. For a couple months, guys in suits would come around and make sure medical was doing what they were supposed to. Then the tours stopped. It seems the prison has returned to their old policy: treat ‘em like inconvenient pets. “Oh, it’s sick? Hurry, put it outside before it shits on the new carpet.”
“What am I suppose to do, man?” my cellie croaks from beneath his blanket. “I think I’m dying.”
It’s a joke we’ve been saying the past few weeks, but this time there’s no humor in his voice. He hasn’t eaten in a couple of days. His head is burning up. He’s slurring his words a little bit. I wet a rag and put it on his forehead. I ask him if he wants me to make him some Ramen soup. I don’t know what else to do.
Finally, we decide to fake a heart attack. Maybe they’ll take him to the hospital. It’s 10:00 pm when they get him. After he leaves, the cell is quiet and smells like old people’s armpits. I sit down and put my head in my hands. I hope he’s in a better place.
I mean that literally, not in the spiritual/dead sense.
I hope he’s in a better place, anywhere other than here.
I think my cellie is dying. He lies shivering in his rack, bundled under his wool blanket, layered with thermals, sweats, and extra socks. It’s 90° out. Then his fever kicks in and he pours sweat, turning into a hot clammy mess. This has been going on for a month.
If there’s one thing you want to avoid in this life, it’s getting sick in prison. Medical won’t do a damn thing for you.
About four weeks ago my cellie started shivering and his throat hurt. He thought it might be the flu or something, so he tried to ride it out. A week or so passed and his fever wouldn’t go away. He passed out in the chow hall, but we helped him make it back to the cell. Finally he decided to go to medical to see what was wrong. He told them about his fever, his throat, and how he had passed out. The nurse gave him allergy pills and Ibuprofen. The Ibuprofen helped with the fever but he had to take a pill every hour or so to keep it from coming back. He told them this. They took his Ibuprofen from him, since he wasn’t taking it as directed, and threatened disciplinary action. That night his fever got so bad he was delirious. Since it was over 104°, they were forced to take him to Rincon Medical.
Rincon Medical is like a hospice for dying convicts. It’s not a hospital. They diagnosed my cellie with an infected abscess on his tonsil. They gave him some antibiotics, and sent him back to the yard. He improved a bit, but when the antibiotics ran out, his fever and chills returned. He put in to see medical and medical prescribed some more antibiotics. Nothing. So they gave him more antibiotics.
After about the fourth cycle of antibiotics, I told him, “I’m no doctor but I don’t think continuously pumping you full of antibiotics is a good idea because your body gets used to them or whatever.”
“What do I do?” he asked, teeth chattering.
“You need to see a real doctor and have tests run. Figure out what’s wrong with you,”
I said, keeping my distance, wondering what the symptoms for ebola were.
“How do I do that?”
“I dunno.”
He closed the face-hole of his blanket and went back to shivering, jiggling like a mass
of grey jello.
I decided that I was going to get him some help. When the nurse came around to pass
out pills, I stopped her at our cell door.
Me: Excuse me, ma’am. My cellie needs medical attention.
Her: What’s wrong with him?
Me: He’s got a fever and he won’t stop shaking.
Her: OK…
Me: This has been going on for a month. He needs to see a real doctor. You guys are pumping him full of antibiotics but it’s not working.
Her: You guys? Do I look like a guy?
Me: You guys. Your company. Corizon. Who you work for.
Her: What do you want me to do?
Me: Give him some medical attention.
Her: We’re locked down today. Why didn’t he come to sick call yesterday?
Me: I don’t know. Because he didn’t need it yesterday?
Her: Then he’s not that sick.
Me: You don’t ---- (growl). He needs a doctor.
Her: He needs to put in a HNR (Health Needs Request).
Me: He needs medical attention now. Feel his head.
(she doesn’t).
Her: I’m sorry, I can’t help you.
Me: [Expletive removed].
This type of medical is nothing new. The Arizona Department of Corrections just went through a lawsuit a couple years ago (Parsons vs. Ryan). They were sued for their lack of adequate medical care. For a couple months, guys in suits would come around and make sure medical was doing what they were supposed to. Then the tours stopped. It seems the prison has returned to their old policy: treat ‘em like inconvenient pets. “Oh, it’s sick? Hurry, put it outside before it shits on the new carpet.”
“What am I suppose to do, man?” my cellie croaks from beneath his blanket. “I think I’m dying.”
It’s a joke we’ve been saying the past few weeks, but this time there’s no humor in his voice. He hasn’t eaten in a couple of days. His head is burning up. He’s slurring his words a little bit. I wet a rag and put it on his forehead. I ask him if he wants me to make him some Ramen soup. I don’t know what else to do.
Finally, we decide to fake a heart attack. Maybe they’ll take him to the hospital. It’s 10:00 pm when they get him. After he leaves, the cell is quiet and smells like old people’s armpits. I sit down and put my head in my hands. I hope he’s in a better place.
I mean that literally, not in the spiritual/dead sense.
I hope he’s in a better place, anywhere other than here.
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