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#37 5-20-00 The Prison Doctor Looks Me Over
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Sat, 20 May 2000 13:38:33 EDT
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#37 May 21, 2000 THE PRISON DOCTOR CHECKS ME OVER
©copyright 2000 RK
Even though I’m really just a traveler, a visitor, so to
speak,
temporarily stranded in this fascinating outpost of the realm of
California
Prisonland, I do share many of its services with its citizens.
I eat in the same mess halls with the citizens of this
strange land. I
sleep in their buildings along with them, and, I use the same
medical
services. Therein lies a tale:
Two days ago, one afternoon. I received a small slip of
white paper with
printing on it, slipped under the door by the “hall porter”.
My friends here
tell me this is called a “ducat”.
Ducats are used by the authorities to officially request a
prisoner to do
something. (report to a specified spot at a specified time). The
reason will
not be given, but can usually be ascertained by analysis.
My ducat identified itself as a “pass” to the
“Hospital clinic”. In the
block entitled “reason” It showed the name “Greenman”
No problem for an experienced prisoner to interpret this..
Greenman is the
name of my (assigned) doctor. This is a request to meet with the
good doctor
for my yearly medical checkup.
The ducat says I am to report to the clinic tomorrow. Not
much of an
advance warning, you say? Well, as the prison sees it, I’m not
going
anywhere. No point in giving me advance warning. I’ll always
be available.
The ducat specifies 1:45 Monday. So, when Monday arrives and
its near the
time to report I walk over to the main gate of our quad, and
exit through the
revolving cage doors, showing my ID card and pass as I do so.
The entrance to
the Hospital corridor will be just a hundred feet from the gate
I’ve just
left.
I walk over to its entrance go thru another revolving cage
and find
myself in the hospital corridor. The door to the clinic is
another 100 feet
down this corridor. Alongside the hospital building on one side
of the
corridor is a long row of benches. There’s a simple shade roof
over them. The
benches are filled with men waiting for their clinic
appointments.
I love this place. Such a far cry from the calculated
cruelty back at
Salinas. (the last place I visited). No benches at all in
Salinas. No shade
at all in Salinas. In Salinas, to make the same medical visit I
would have
marched two miles with my hands handcuffed behind my back, would
have been
thrown into a holding tank, where I would have spent the day
waiting for a 15
minute chat with the doctor.
I walk up to the clinic door way and present my ID card and
ducat to a
prisoner friend who works for the clinic. He takes my ducat into
the building
and after a short wait returns. “Doctor Greenman is checking
out a long list
of guys today. Have a seat and I’ll come and get you when
she’s ready for
you.
He’s an old friend. He will look out for me. No problem. I
had expected a
long wait, so I’ve brought cross word puzzles to work on.
I’ll enjoy the
wait. It’s a beautiful day. There are friends in the waiting
line I can talk
to in the meantime.
I’m on my second “puzzle” when my friend comes to get
me. “Mrs Greenman
is free now”, he says, “Follow me”.
We walk into the Clinic lobby. Actually it’s no longer a
lobby. It’s
been turned into several wall-less offices with desks loaded
with papers,
chairs covered with books and busy people working away.
We wend our way through this obstacle course to a very small
office in
the far corner of the clinic area. It’s a general purpose type
of office,
obviously assigned out as needed on a daily basis. Today it
belongs to the
Doctor.
I walk up to the Doctors temporary office and stand at the
door. This is
a prison! The Doctor looks up, sees me, points to a seat on the
far side of
her desk and says “Have a seat”.
The doctor is a matronly looking lady somewhere in her
fifties. She could
well be a pleasant person, outside of the prison. She, however,
has a curious
way of looking at me and talking, as though there was some sort
of glass
barrier between us. And there is.
She sees a criminal in front of her. No one can like a criminal,
but she has
a job to do, and, she will do it. She has contracted to provide
certain medica
l services to this criminal, with the view that live criminals
are what the
prison gets paid to manage. (dead criminals are not profitable)
She is now leafing thru my a large file of paper in front of
her,
obviously my medical file. Also obvious is the fact that she
hasn’t looked at
it since my last visit 6 months ago.
“How have you been?” She asks. This question always
gives me a problem.
I’m still a Marine at heart. I would like to answer “I’m
fine, and I’ll be
here long after you’re dead” (A Marine would word that just
a bit
differently though. “I’ll piss on your grave” is the
correct Marine
response.)
But, again, this is prison. We play a different game here.
An optimistic
answer here would be a mistake. It would be instantly noted in
the file, and
would serve to close the interview. (You’re fine? That’s
fine, Goodbye. Send
the next man in!)
So, in answer to her question I say “I an still living
with all the
problems I reported last time. In several areas they are getting
worse. My
back is still a painful problem, my feet are continuing to lose
feeling.
(Peripheral Neuropathy).
The doctor looks up from her files and says “The
Neurologist reports that
there is nothing they can do for your Peripheral Neuropathy. You
can drop
that complaint. You
will have to live with it”
(Read that: We’ve decided that your Peripheral Neuropathy
is not our
fault. You did that to your self when you didn’t eat properly
years ago as a
Prisoner of War.)
“What else is wrong?” she asks.
“I’m 80” I answer. “I have 7 to 8 years left before
I cash in my chips.
To be blunt, I’m dying”. I’m not sure how you want to
write that down.
However, I do want to make it clear that for me time is running
out.”
The doctor answers “Every one dies in time. That’s not
news” (This
is my doctor talking. This will be the extent of the free
medical advice I
receive today).
I answer “You’re absolutely right. The thing is, at 80,
that time is
here. It’s now! It’s come.”
She doesn’t answer. I’ve made my point. She won't be
able to write into
my file that the inmate seemed to be in perfect health (thus
justifying the
prisons failure to spend any money on me.)
Is there anything else you want to cover? “ she asks.
“Yes, I answer. There seems to be a question as to whether
I can hear.
Although I do wear hearing aids, you will note we have been
conversing with
no difficulty in a normal tone of voice. “The problem is this,
as I
understand it”, I tell her. “There is a note in my medical
file that says I
am hearing disabled”. On several occasions that note has
caused prison staff
to try to send me to Corcoran. (a hearing disabled designated
prison.)
"I am not hearing disabled," I say. “I don't want to go to
Corcoran. I
would like this corrected.”
This is a legitimate request. The original entry in the file
was done at
Pelican Bay by non medical staff to justify a move they wanted
to make. As
all things in prison are done, it was done in the interest of
”prison
security”
The doctor responds, “We can’t change files based on
your word”. (Read
that, “you criminals are always trying to put something over
on us. We solve
this by saying “no” to all requests from “criminals”.)
How funny. The prison can do anything it wants to with its
files, “in the
interest of security”, except respond to a prisoners request.
I have a solution to this problem, but I won't offer it. The
doctor
doesn’t have that good a sense of humor. Here’s the solution
I would have
offered:
Pretend I have a family living near Corcoran. I of course
would want to
be transferred there. Now, In the interest of “Security” it
should be easy
to stop that transfer. Just remove the “hearing disabled”
reference from my
files.
Explanation: In prison if a prisoner wants something there
has to be a
reason. In prison it is taken as a “given” that the
prisoners reason will
not be “in the interest of prison security” prison security.
The prison will
automatically kill it “in the name of “Security.” (They
haven’t the time
to figure out what nefarious reason he had in mind. They just
know he’s
probably up to no good). Needless to say I do not make this
suggestion.
The doctor closes up my file. Looks up and says, “Ask the
next man to
step in”.
The yearly medical checkup has been concluded. The doctor
has earned her
pay. Nothing she said will cost the State a penny.
In all fairness I must admit this is better than the medical
treatment I got
as a Prisoner of War. I leave happy. I will survive. I am a
survivor.
Richard Keech
semper fi
Richard Keech
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