I had planned to write a whole journal entry about my fitness routine—my goals, progress, and how I was starting to feel stronger every day. I had it outlined in my head: I’d just finished yoga class on Monday, followed by a tough ab workout and then a light 4-mile run. I was feeling good—until I wasn’t.
Right after the run, I felt a little tickle in my throat. Uh-oh. I rushed back to the dorm and popped every vitamin I could get my hands on. But it was too late. By Tuesday morning, I woke up with a sore throat, and by that night, the chills had kicked in.
So began my crash course in prison camp healthcare.
There’s a medical building here on the compound, but it’s mostly closed—except during a small window each day when they distribute meds inmates aren’t allowed to keep (read: anything they think we might try to sell). Most medical issues are handled digitally. We have to send a message—called a “Cop Out”—through the prison’s computer system to the correct department.
So that’s what I did Tuesday: I sent a Cop Out to Health Services listing my symptoms and asking—okay, pleading—for antibiotics since I’m prone to sinus infections. The next morning, I made a beeline to the computer lab as soon as it opened at 6 a.m. I hadn’t slept much anyway, thanks to the pounding in my head, sore throat, ear pain, and nonstop chills.
They responded, at least. The message was anonymous, of course, and informed me that I could either:
- Wait up to a month for a scheduled doctor’s appointment, or
- Show up during the “urgent sick call” window (with a $2 copay)… which runs from 6:30 a.m. to 6:45 a.m.
Yes, you read that right. Fifteen minutes. A day.
It was about 6:05 a.m. when I read that message. The chow hall, conveniently located next door, was supposed to be serving breakfast, so I figured I’d eat while I waited for the med center to open. But they were behind schedule too. I stood outside in the freezing cold until they finally opened the doors at 6:35. I inhaled my pancakes (silver lining: pancakes), then hustled to the med building just in time.
They were running late, of course, so I waited outside even longer. When the doors opened, I let them know I was there for sick call and sat down in the waiting room. Like anyone waiting, I started reading the signs on the wall. One caught my attention: “The scale is for medical staff only—no personal weigh-ins.” So much for getting an accurate weigh-in after all that fitness work.
Then I saw the next sign. And the next. And the next.
“YOU MUST HAVE YOUR ID TO RECEIVE ANY MEDICAL SERVICES.”
My ID? Oh… that would be safely stored away in my locker, back at the dorm.
I jumped up and power-walked (as best I could with a sinus infection) back across the compound to grab it. Fortunately, I made it back with time to spare.
Once I finally saw the nurse practitioner and explained everything, she sympathized—told me she gets sinus issues too and that mine were probably caused by the weather. But no Z-Pak. No antibiotics. Why? Because I didn’t have a fever. Instead, she gave me a note that would allow me to buy over-the-counter meds from commissary.
Why the note? Because unless it’s your unit’s designated shopping day, and you’ve pre-ordered your items a week in advance, you can’t buy anything—unless it’s medically necessary. Luckily, it was my commissary day.
So instead of crashing in bed, I waited (again) outside the commissary, which opened two hours late. When I finally reached the window, I told the woman working there, “Give me two of everything on this list.” I was especially excited about the cough drops and syrup.
Back in the “before times,” when I got sick, my wife would lovingly quarantine me to the “sick room”—the best guest room in our house. Soft mattress. Cozy blankets. Fan for airflow. Big screen TV to distract me. Attached bathroom. Basically, a fortress of comfort. I’d binge-watch garbage TV and sleep off the illness with the help of NyQuil.
Prison? Not so much.
Here, my bed is a rock-hard top bunk with one blanket. There’s no NyQuil—only non-drowsy meds for obvious reasons. And while I can rent TV episodes for $1 each, I can only download one at a time on my tablet. So every time I wanted to watch the next episode of Arrow (one of the four available shows), I had to get fully dressed in my greens, walk 150 yards to the computer lab, and download the next one. Binge-watching? Not really a thing here.
Even with the meds and a little sleep, I only got worse. By Wednesday night, desperate to feel even a little better, I tried taking a hot shower to clear my sinuses. The water was scalding—normally a good thing in a cold place like this—but I was shivering under it. Only the part of me directly under the stream felt warm (read: burning), while the rest of me felt like I was standing in a freezer. I definitely had a fever then. Too bad it wasn’t during the 15-minute sick call window.
That night was rough. I wore every piece of clothing I own and still shivered under my blanket. I couldn’t sleep, and to make matters worse, I had to blow my nose every few minutes. Since I’m on the top bunk, that meant climbing down each time and walking to the TV room down the hall to use tissues without waking the 32 other people in my wing.
I know this sounds like a lot of complaining—and maybe it is. But my goal here isn’t to whine. I’m just trying to give you, the reader, an honest look at what it’s like to get sick in a prison camp. It’s not fun. It’s not comfortable. It’s just part of the reality.
It’s now Friday night. My fever and chills are gone, so I’m definitely getting better. Still a bit winded walking up stairs, and my throat’s not quite there yet. I’m out of cough drops, and commissary won’t open again for another week.
Wish me luck—and stay healthy out there.
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