Chapter 4: The Fifth Nurse

A narrow corridor with three cubicles on either side makes up my work space. The area is a bit larger than Dr. Amman’s. My little office is the first on the right after the door, but big enough to allow for a modest, but aged oak desk and bookcase, both of which I put dibs on from a retiring psychologist. A bit of an ego thing for me, especially when Dr. Amman is content with sparser furnishings. But other than myself, no other staff seemed to care about wanting a nice desk, or wanted to move the furnishing from its prior home, but me.

I also have a nice ergonomic chair which came with the desk and bookcase. I settled into it and turned on my Dell computer. Despite pleas for an updated and more friendly system, the state is sold on Dell. Since I have been with the prison system I have learned two correctional computer programs, one no better than the other. My machine lit up with email alerts. Gone are the days of written memos or phone calls. Every communication now comes through the computer.

I had no less than ten mailings. The most important was a recap of my daily call outs. I schedule who I need to see and send it to Babcock. The inmate can send a request to see mental health, parole or medical with a form called, MSR, which stands for medical service request.

The written copy of callouts was the only paper lying on my desk. Mid way down the list I saw the name Franklin. I had forgotten the man was placed on my list for today’s call outs. I checked my coat pocket for Wanda’s note. That gut crawl fear came on, but quickly dissipated with a tap on the metal partition of my door jamb.

“To get you going, Peter,” Nurse Whiting said, setting a cup of coffee down on my desk, along with a cinnamon donut. I touched the extra poundage around my belt realizing this is my second pastry of the day.

She took a seat across from me in the only other chair in the cubicle. It has a green cushion seat and inmates have commented that it is comfortable. She sipped her coffee. It was still early and the morning arrival of staff wouldn’t begin for a half-an-hour. No one gets paid for showing up early, but those of us who are by nature early birds can’t help it. In some cases I believe it has endeared me to other staff who share the same circadian rhythm schedule. Some of whom are supervisors.

Nurse Whiting had gotten in the habit of giving me coffee in the morning. She is the fifth nurse to be hired in the past several years, since I have been working at the prison. The other four either were “walked out” or quit. Dispensing medication properly falls on the nurses’ shoulders, although the psychiatrist prescribes a dosage. The first nurse I worked with was walked out for fraternizing with an inmate, the other departures I wasn’t privy to. It is hard to get close to any staff, because no one knows when the strong arm of Buelly Knox will fall. No one has met Knox but when a correction officer white shirt, also known as a prison supervisor, a sergeant and higher in rank shows up at a staff’s desk, it is rarely good news.

Nurse Whiting, although relatively new at her job, has been most forthcoming with me about her personal life, raising a teenage daughter alone, likely because she sees me as her personal therapist. That is fine with me. And mostly I am a good listener.

She shook her foot and twisted at her hair which had grown longer in recent weeks. I wanted to suggest she tie it back before someone writes her up for a long hair violation. The write up, like the walk out, are paramilitary protocols laid out to keep the ship in working order. Or so the staff is told. So far I have escaped getting a write up and have an unblemished record. I attribute that mostly to keeping my head down and following the rules, and due to my trusting relationship with my boss Dr. Maria Calderon.

I waited for Nurse Whiting to start. “Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”

That's a new opening for her, usually she asks about who I have to see on a given day. I look at my ring finger. “You know, my wife never got me one. I will have to ask her about that.”

“I am sure she trusts you. Probably no need for a man like you.”

“A man like me. I will tell her that.”

“I am sure she will know what I mean.”

“So, what’s new?” I asked, quickly looking at my computer screen which showed five new messages, since I sat down. A message from Buelly Knox’s office, hopefully is just a generic memo about some new guideline or requirement.

“I didn’t know this job would be so busy,” she said. “I mean, I no sooner dispense a psych med to one inmate and I am called for an emergency over at Three House. Is that why I am the tenth nurse in ten years?”

“Well I don’t know about that,” I chuckle. “Fifth nurse. But it seems most nurses who are walked out, or who quit, have difficulty due to personal reasons, such as…”

“Oh that’s good. I won’t have any problems with that type of thing, if I get your drift. Or with Dr. Amman.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the problems come from him being a slave driver, but from some nurses not following protocols.” I said.

“So, always look over your shoulder.”

“That’s one way to see it. With your job, double check your work. And don’t let the guys cheek their meds if you can help it.” Cheeking is the inmate term for holding medication in the inside cheek cavity and not swallowing medication as required, the problem being more evident with schizophrenics who can’t stand the side effects of potent psychotropics such as Thorazine and Haldol.

Karla wanted to talk more but Babcock announced another message over the PA alerting the staff that call outs will be scheduled early today. His tone was irksome, saying all call out sessions can last no longer than 20 minutes. His message seemed pointless because most of my brethren haven’t shown yet.

Karla, sighed and got up. “Have a good morning, Mr. Cleary.” She waited at my door for a moment, then took off down the hall. My better therapy self told me I should have been more inquiring of her non verbals. But then again, probing staff about personal matters can often backfire, especially with a female. And that is not my job anyway. I brought up Buelly Knox’s new memo