Prison Tats

When I am working full time at the hospital and not at one of our other locations, I average treating about one inmate per day. At first I used to be a little nervous about these shackled, orange jumpsuited individuals. Now, I am starting to get to know some of the guards (who usually great me with a “How’s it going, Doc?”) and overall have had good experiences with the patients. In fact, they are almost always more well behaved and less whiney than our patients from the general (free) population. I’m not sure how much of this has to do with the fact that they are always accompanied by one or more armed guards. I am starting to learn a little more about the prison system (Fort Madison is Maximum Security for the dangerous guys; the guards in black that are huge are the maximum security detail guards who come with the guys you should be nervous about; inmates with 2 guards are more dangerous than those with one) and have been meeting a lot of people with sad stories.

Many of my colleagues advise me to avoid speaking with them more than I have to to get my job done. However, I think that feels more awkward (usually) than trying to be quiet and I figure it can’t hurt to be nice (usually). But it occasionally leads itself to uncomfortable situations.

Last week, as I admired a tattoo:

Me: “Oh, who is X.Y. (initials have been changed)?” pointing to the tattoo.

Inmate: “My victim.”

Me: ……………………………………………………………………………

My brain: “AWKWARD!!!!! Um……Should I say something?”

Nurse: “Why would you put your victim’s initials on your arm?”

Inmate: “Because he was my friend.”

Nurse: “Well what happened?”

Inmate: “He’s dead now.”

Me, Nurse: ………………………………………………………………………

My brain: “When did you say you were getting out? September?”

 

This is the second time I’ve had a patient admit to murder while in my chair. Not an experience you have every day.