9:29 AM - Medical Care At It’s Finest
Category: Life

Your tax dollars pay for my food, housing, and health care here in federal prison. I’ve had three surgeries during my eleven year tenure in B.O.P., but only because I was persistent and pushed the administration into affording me the much needed medical procedures. Normally one must be bleeding profusely or literally on their death bed before being approved for an operation. The only sure way to receive medical treatment is to file a formal complaint utilizing the Bureau of Prisons’ administrative remedy procedure. It’s a shame one has to file paperwork in order to see a Cardiologist for chest pain or an Orthopedic for bone deformity, but that’s just the way it is. I know because I’ve submitted numerous grievances for both myself and others seeking medical attention, in the end finally being afforded the treatment sought after in the first place.

When an inmate gets sick in the institution, standard operating procedure is to sign up for sick call. Sick call is held on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. An inmate is not allowed to get sick on Wednesday nor on the weekends. At sick call you’re seen by a Physician’s Assistant (PA) and then referred to either another P.A. or sometimes, if you get lucky, one of the so called Medical Doctors (M.D.’s) employed at the institution. The majority of these M.D.’s are foreigners- men and women from countries like India, Mexico, or Poland. Many of these supposed medical professionals can’t be employed anywhere in the free world as they’re either extremely incompetent or vastly unqualified. And like the old saying goes, “The U.S. Government sets the standard for incompetence with the B.O.P. being the absolute epitome of government incompetence.” Many of these incompetent, uneducated, poorly trained M.D.’s have the mindset of a correctional officer having the attitude their mission in life is to punish. There again, the only way to receive timely medical treatment is by filing a written complaint.

A few years ago I frequented sick call and complained to a P.A. of chest pain. I was told it was probably just gas, prescribed some antacid tablets, and told to return to my housing unit. As the pain persisted and became more severe, I again signed up for sick call. A different P.A. listened to my heart with a stethoscope, poked around on my chest and abdomen a bit, and then told me in Swahili that he couldn’t find anything wrong and to return to my housing unit. Days and weeks passed as I continued to experience sharp, stabbing like pain in my chest. I knew something was seriously wrong despite the two P.A.’s opinions. I filed a complaint and was called to the Clinical Director’s office for an interview. The Clinical Director assured me that his staff were competent enough to diagnose and treat me for my medical condition advising me to withdraw my complaint. After several minutes I convinced the C.D. to give me an EKG. And sure enough the EKG showed abnormal and I was finally scheduled to see a Cardiologist.

Several more weeks passed and one evening I was escorted to Special Housing (SHU) for an overnight stay before being transported to St. Anthony’s Hospital in Oklahoma City. Inmates are placed in SHU prior to outside medical trips for two reasons. One, so the inmate won’t be able to contact family or friends by phone prior to transfer (The B.O.P.’s rationalization being that one might try to plan an escape) and two, if an inmate is scheduled for tests where it is required that he not eat or drink beforehand, the institution wants to make sure the inmate complies. Being places in SHU I was not issued sheets or blankets - staff’s justification being I’d only be there for one night. After an uncomfortable night in SHU I was taken to a holding cell where I was cuffed, shackled, and dressed out. Being a large individual I asked the C.O. if he’d use the plastic ties instead of the leg irons because the leg irons always cut into my ankles causing me to be in pain. The C.O. told me to let him do his job, that he’d be the one to decide if the leg irons were too tight and to shut up. On the way to the awaiting van one of the two C.O.’s told me to hurry up whereas I promptly told him to eat shit because the leg irons were too tight and his partner refused my earlier request for plastic.

On the way to the hospital the two black C.O.’s played rap music at full volume on the prison van’s shitty radio. I listened as they talked about how the rapper, R. Kelly, had just been accused of possessing child porn but certainly wasn’t guilty. They took the long way to the hospital so they could log in as much overtime as they could, bilking the government of ever single penny possible. After all, they needed to make payments on their new Lincoln Navigators with the 22″ rims. Finally arriving at the hospital I was escorted inside. Standing in front of a bank of elevators an old woman and young girl started at me as if I were a dangerous maniacal psychopath. “Ma’am I didn’t kill anyone. I’m in prison for drugs.” I said to her as I stood there chained and shackled down like a dog. “Shut up Mansell!” yell the guard. The woman smiled and the little girl waves as the frustrated ex-military now employed as correctional officer shoved me in the elevator. In the lobby area one of the C.O.’s was given admission paperwork to fill out. It took him over half an hour to write down my name, age, and social as it was obvious he couldn’t read or write. Finally I was taken to a room and prepped for surgery.

Lying on a gurney a lady RN spoke to me. “Hello. My name is Barbra and I will be assisting Dr. Suter in surgery today.” An IV was placed in my arm and a few moments later Barbara said, “I’m going to inject you with some valium. Not too much though because you’ll need to be awake so in the event something goes wrong you’ll be able to tell us. Okay Mr. Mansell?” “Yes Ma’am, I understand.” She then injected the liquid diazepam into my IV. Suddenly I could feel the warmth climbing up my arm and as soon as the valium fully entered my bloodstream I let out a sigh and went…”ah!”. Oh how good it felt to be partially sedated. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the moment. Once again Barbara returned. “Mr. Mansell, did you feel that at all?” Barely coherent and doing all I could to force myself to reasonably speak I slowly but clearly said, “No ma’am, I sure didn’t.” “Okay, I’m going to give you another one.” Once again Barbara slammed my IV with a healthy dose of liquid bliss and I felt all better … nurseys make it all better …. all better …. and I passed out.

Before I knew it the procedure was over and done with. Opening my eyes I could see Nurse Barbara across the room. Wanting another shot I tried to call her name but all that came out of my mouth was a weakly spoken, “Ba ba ba.” She must have known what I wanted because she came over to the gurney and said, “Mr. Mansell, there’s a little bit of this stuff left in the syringe. I can either squirt it in the trash can or I can put it in your IV. What would you like me to do with it?” Holding up my arm she acknowledged my response and I thought to myself…yes! My hosptial visit was turning out to be pretty fucking cool. When can we do this again? Another nurse arrived and wheeled me into the recovery room. Looking up at her I saw she was quite attractive and I noticed a tattoo on her neck. Once in recovery she lifted up one of my arms and said, “How long have you been collecting tattoos?” “Probably about 15 years” I mumbled. “Here, check this one out on my upper arm.” Pulling up my sleeve she looked at the tattoo I have of a biker with a long, extended tongue - a half naked woman sliding down the length of it. Winking at me she said, “Nice, real nice.” and smiled. At that very moment, despite being drugged, my dick got harder than Chinese arithmetic.

After recovering from the surgery, the kickass valium and the temporary woody given me by Nurse Hotty, the two overpaid rent-a-cops escorted me back to the prison van. In the parking lot stood the old woman and young girl who again waved at me as I moved toward my ride. Despite being forced to listen to Fifty Cent and Tupak Shakur all the way back to El Reno that afternoon, my ride was fairly enjoyable. The lingering effect of the valium and the memory of the F.I.N.E. nursey with the fleur-de-lis tattooed on her neck had me feeling pretty darn good. I recovered from the catherization procedure without any difficulty. The Cardiologist saw me for follow up back at the prison. To this day I’ve not had any more check pains but I sure could use a little more of that liquid valium! Thus ends another adventure in the life and times of the crazed convict, Allen “Tripper” Mansell. See you on the flip side.

                                                                  Tripper

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