Installment 2
Chapters 4 - 6

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. 

Chapter 5: Sissy Say Closet Needs Cleaning

A two-paragraph communique from Buelly’s office was directed to mental health and medical staff only. It was written by his press spokesperson. Odd.

It read:

At no time will mental health and correctional medical staff engage in sessions and/or contact with an inmate or inmates which could be construed as developing a personal relationship. 

I cringed a bit about the timeliness of the memo. 

I slipped Wanda’s note under my desk calendar, stood up and draped my sport coat over my chair and stretched. 

“A Shamu stretch?” Mr. Downey called out from the narrow corridor which separates our cubicles. He usually arrives after I do. Shamu is Mr. Downey's nickname for me due to what he says is my propensity to tell a whale of stories, which usually only gets a slight chuckle from my small staff.  

Mr. Downey slipped into my office, sipping on a cup of coffee. “Ready for another day, Shamu?” He took a seat still warm from Nurse Whiting.

“Ready, as I can be.” I read Buelly’s memo to him. 

“Gestapo,” he said. Mr. Downey has a tilt toward conspiracy theories and believes big brother is watching. “They have something on someone and are throwing out a warning or are trying to snare someone… You bring donuts today?”

“I did. Nurse Karla has them.” Babcock came back on the PA, with an admonishing tone telling the staff to get him calls outs. 

Mr. Downey throws his styrofoam coffee cup in my trash can. “Donuts, then,” he said.  

I stared at my call out list and Mr. Franklin’s name. I pulled out the note from Wanda, rereading it. 

Coco, Sissy say closet needs cleaning, neighborhood getting loud, auntie wants to move.

I slipped the note back under my calendar. 

Laurie, the staff secretary whisked by, lightly tapping on my window with a hello heading toward her desk on the other side of my cubicle. She has been a life force for me with computer troubleshooting, not so much because I don’t understand the new programming but because I am just lazy and resistant to the learning process. 

Ms. C, our nose-to-the-grindstone counselor follows Laurie and shouts out,”Get to work Mr.Cleary.”  

Immediately there was the sound of dozens of footsteps and chairs being shuffled about in Babcock’s area. The morning begins. 

My phone rang,“Cleary.”

“Your first one is here,” Babcock said, abruptly hanging up. 

My call out list showed the name of Mr. Jedidiah Heathcoat, followed by his DOC number. A hillbilly name. Many men are from the Ozarks. I checked the Medical Service Request (MSR) that goes with Mr. Heathcoat’s name.  It is one page with categories showing his housing unit, and reasons for wanting to see mental health. In the category called reason for request, Mr. Heathcoat has written in bold printing, I need sleep meds. I cross checked his name with men on my caseload. 

His name is not one of some 80 men on my caseload, which tells me he is not taking any psychotropic medications. Most of the men we have on our rosters are heavily medicated on some drug to help with their mental disorder, depression and anxiety being the two most common maladies. 

I took some deep breaths and tried not to think about the long day ahead, which will be bumper-to-bumper interviews with forlorn men, which I have come to believe are not evil or bad, but just beaten down by life. Few have learned to regulate their emotions.

I step into the hallway with wall-to-wall bodies, some 30 plus, sitting in plastic chairs. Most stared at the floor, a few shook their feet nervously. All were dressed in their prison blues, loose fitting pants secured by a drawstring, cheap sneakers, and a short sleeve smock-like top. 

The Fall was on us and some were wearing the standard winter hip-length beige work jacket. Picture ID badges were clipped to their clothes. The age range is 18 to 40. Most looked unscrubbed. Some had distinctive tattoos running up their arms; a few had some insignia on their necks and foreheads. 

Officer Babcock watched the crowd, elevated behind a long dais-like counter, his radio volume had been dialed up some to a mixed tune station. He runs a tight ship and sternly enforces a no talking policy. 

There was a smell of sour dankness. Bathing is required but many men don’t take the opportunity to stand under an often cold shower in their community housing unit. 

Rough prison time is having a cellie who stinks, doesn’t shower, or flush the cell toilet and has a different sleep routine.

Of the thirty or so men, two are black. Because this prison is located smack-dab in the middle of the state, most men come from rural areas where few blacks live. The two other receiving prisons are located in the state’s urban areas and the racial mix there is different.

I surveyed the row of men lined up and down the walls for Mr. Franklin. I saw him near Babcock. He shook his foot. I called out, “Mr. Heathcoat.”  Franklin raised his head seeing me. 

I quickly nodded. Babcock studied my move, looking at Franklin then me. Curious. Mr. Heathcoat slowly pulled himself up from his chair and swaggered toward me. “Mr. Heathcoat,” I said. No smile. It’s early. 

“First cubicle on the right, sir,” I said, pointing him toward the mental health hall. 

I followed him, several steps behind. Rule one: Inmate is always to be in front of the staff they are seeing. Rule two, at least in mental health circles, address the inmate using mister or sir, no hand shaking. Rule three: keep your cool. 

Chapter 6: So wWhat About Sleep Meds

Mr. Heathcoat takes a seat in the client chair with its green, cushioned seat. I close the door which is a 50 percent plexiglass, fifty percent plywood and  squeeze in behind him taking my seat at my desk. Mr. Downey, across the aisle, follows his first customer into his cubicle, who has a deep, raspy voice and is already chuckling about something with him. 

Mr Heathcoat is solemn. I know what he wants according to the MSR he sent in.“How’s it going this morning?”

“It fuckin ain’t… Sorry. No cussin,” he says. “I can’t sleep in this place. Not been like this before, last time down.”

Mr. Heathcoat is one of the inmates who doesn’t favor the shower privilege, which I suspect relates to washing his clothes in either his cell sink, or as some inmates do, in their toilet. And then letting his prison issues dry while he wears them, thus the sour dank smell.

I wait a few moments to check if he will elaborate. He moves his eyes from me, to the MSR, to the floor. 

“So you've been here before?”

“This is my third bit.”  

“I see.”

“I need sleep meds, Doc.”

I nodded, cordially. Even though there is a push to limit the number of men who are prescribed psychotropic medication, I asked him if he has ever taken any anxiety medication.

“I ain’t fuckin taken no crazy pills,” he shot back. “Sorry for cussin.” 

I don’t quake at his use of profanity. “I understand.” The short answer to his request will be that the rules prohibit prescribing sleep meds. “So, this is your third time down?”

He nodded. “Ol lady done left me. This time for good.” Hopeless chuckle.  “Took off with another dude who just got out of the joint. Tells me she can’t live with me going back in every couple of years. And she fuckin takes off with a dude who just got out of the joint.” 

“Sorry. That’s tough.” 

He tells me his ol lady, typical prison jargon for anything from a legal wife, to a live-in girlfriend, is the mother of his baby boy. 

“He just turned four. Some other fuck going to raise him.”  

I have heard the same story before. The woman, often the mother of at least one of their children, finds another man similar to the man who fathered her child or children and takes up with him when man A goes to prison. Sometimes they know each other, always they share characteristics, the main one being, history of antisocial behavior to a greater or lesser degree.  

I leaned back in my chair, took off my reading glasses, a new addition, and said, “I was talking to a man in Four House the other day who said.”  I pause and ask, “You know what he said?”

Mr. Heathcoat, half paying attention, shook his head, “No idea, Doc.”

“He said once he concluded that he would likely not sleep much in this place, he began sleeping.” 

Heathcoat frowned, as if he was trying to comprehend my message, then said, “Makes no sense.” 

“Well, it’s hard to get a hold of it but I believe he meant, accept this place. And realize until you get to your next camp, you won’t get much shut eye.” 

“So, what about some sleep meds?” 

From the paper tray on the small table behind me, I pulled out information about sleeping in prison. ”Done got that already Doc. My cellie has one.” 

I nodded. “Want another?” 

“No. Them just words.” 

We sat in silence for some moments listening to the noise of the pipes squeaking in the building and the chatter through the cubicle walls. Sometimes silence settles the nerves. He is on a mission to get sleep meds. Finally, I asked him about his child and family and where his home is. And for some minutes he talked, and I listened, until I imparted some prison wisdom.  

“Well, Mr. Heathcoat, let me just say, that one thing that might be happening to you, sleep wise, is that you have finally told yourself that you are tired of coming back to this place. And, recognizing despite your wife’s behavior, that there has to be another way.” He listened for my punch line. 

My phone jingled. I know it is Babcock calling telling me my time is almost up with Mr. Heathcoat. Babcock is pushing his minute requirement. “Yes,” I said into the receiver.

“Your next one is waiting, Cleary.” 

“Thanks.” 

I asked Mr. Heathcoat how much time he is doing.

“I am down on a PV. Have to 12/12. So two years tops.” PV, is the abbreviation for parole violation, which consists of some 17 regulations a recently released inmate must comply with until his sentence is completed. A man can be easily returned if he doesn’t abide by the regulations.  

I got deep, realizing in my short minutes with him my message wouldn’t likely sink in. “So as to sleep, keep your eyes open as long as you can. Understand that whether you realize it or not, your higher self is telling you that you need to restructure your life, that is what is keeping you up.” 

Mr. Heathcoat stood, knowing Babcock’s call meant time was up with me. He took the sleep sheet. 

I followed, opened the door motioning him to the outside hallway.  “And you might think about what kind of woman you want, too. Someone worthy of you.” 

He headed down the narrow cubicle, turned back at the green metal door to our area, propped open with a rubber door stopper and nodded, “Thanks Doc.”  

“Keep me posted.”

Before I stepped back into the hallway to call out my next man, I ran through my conversation quickly with Mr. Heathcoat, knowing I will have to write a note about it. My mentor in the counseling business is a wise old psychologist in private practice, Sebastian Curtis Sinclair. On Saturdays, I sometimes opt to take his overflow clients at his office.  “Always give the patient something as they leave. Something to think about,” he said.

With Mr. Heathcoat, I’d pulled out from my memory the AA, higher power reference, knowing it is very popular in prison and something men had heard before. My continual cautionary note to myself is always be mindful not to go too deep with the men. Most inmates are concrete thinkers and any depth psychology can lose them quickly. I often go there though.

I did my 20 minutes with my next two men, both of whom are just check-ins about the effect their medications are having. Both seemed good and I did my affect assessment about their likelihood of self harm, which seemed nil. Midmorning, after a cup of coffee, I called Mr. Franklin.