Recently, something scary happened to me. Still not totally sure what—blood pressure, inner-ear thing, or maybe it's just that my extended warranty finally expired. Whatever it was, it hit me hard and fast. One moment I’m on my way down from my upper tier to the dayroom, and the next I was gripping the railing, dizzy, certain I was about to take a headfirst dive down the stairs to the concrete below.
I managed to stumble over to the officer's station, legs feeling like they were borrowed from someone who’d spent too much time at the bar. By then, nausea was kicking in hard. I dropped my head on the counter, squeezed my eyes shut, and quietly told them something was very wrong, that I needed to go to medical.
I specifically asked them not to make a huge fuss—I didn't want my bad day ruining everyone else's afternoon. Thankfully, they skipped the emergency theatrics, got me into a wheelchair, and my buddy rolled me over to medical. When we finally got there, someone immediately handed me a bucket, and the second I opened my eyes, I started throwing up. Lovely.
I want to talk about what was happening outside these walls—or, rather, what wasn't happening.
By policy, when someone inside experiences a medical emergency, administrators are supposed to notify emergency contacts promptly, depending on the severity. In my case, they were actively discussing whether or not to send me to the emergency room—which, by their own rules, should have triggered contact with my family. Sounds great in theory, right? In practice, it’s a fairytale.
The only reason anyone on the outside knew something had happened was because a buddy of mine just happened to be at medical for his own appointment and managed to get word out to Dwayne. That’s it. No official calls, no notifications—nothing. I wonder, f I'd been having the heart attack they were testing me for, or keeled over instead of “just” emptying my stomach into a bucket—would anyone have even known? Or would the only sign of my passing be the missed calls?
Once Dwayne found out, he immediately started reaching out to my friends and family. Meanwhile, they were doing their best to get more information by calling the facility—according to policy, loved ones can call for medical updates. Sounds nice on paper, but no one answered the phone. It was an endless loop of voicemail messages saying, “We’ll call you back as soon as we’re able.” It’s been several days, and no one has called anyone.
The reality of prison healthcare is layers of bureaucracy stacked on burnout and understaffing. Sure, there are medical providers who genuinely care, but they’re drowning under ridiculous caseloads, management that leads from behind a desk miles away, and nurses who keep insisting it’s just a ‘stomach bug’ while repeatedly asking you, privately, if you’re on any drugs – how many ways are there to say no? We also have some medical staff that are clock-watchers just there to collect a paycheck, while the rest try desperately to plug the holes in a sinking ship. Add patients who aren't always great at clearly communicating their needs (or exercising patience), and you've got the perfect recipe for a complete disaster.
I got lucky this time—I had someone inside who sent word to my loved ones. But what about the next person? The one who doesn't have a friend in medical, who doesn't have a buddy willing or able to reach out?
The system is broken. It looks decent on paper, but the reality is frustrating, inefficient, and dangerously dysfunctional.
Something needs to change.