Christmas Blessings to You

Dateline: Wednesday, December 19, 2018

I learned a new word Monday as I lay on a gurney in the RMC prison hospital surgical unit--"preauricular," which is the area on your neck right below the ear lobe. Dr. M. Solano, an outside contract dermatologist, had identified a small lump below my right earlobe as basal cell carcinoma, and scheduled me for surgery after I finished six weeks of Efudex chemotherapy cream to combat the squamous cell carcinoma on my forearms and scalp. The Efudex treatment left incredible scabs that took weeks to heal up, which freaked out one little boy at the visiting park, who asked, "What happened to your head?"

When it all healed, though, people were amazed at the results of several layers of skin that were chemically peeled. Children, carefully apply your sunscreen every time, and avoid sunburns. It will save you years of cancer complications decades later.

Each night around ten p.m. every Florida prison conducts a "master roster count," in which the officers check off every prisoner to ensure no one is missing. Sunday night after the master roster count, the officer told me to get dressed, I had to spend the night in the infirmary. I knew what that meant. My long-awaited cancer surgery would be Monday morning, and they wanted me isolated in the infirmary overnight so I wouldn't eat or drink anything before the surgery. Fine. It was to my benefit. I wasn't going to cheat anyway, but I went along with the program.

I finally made it into the Tomoka C. I. infirmary, a glassed-in unit with six beds, which were all filled with sick old men. A very nice nurse directed me to a recliner chair that would be my bed. I didn't mind. The recliner was more comfortable than the thin mattress and narrow steel bunk I normally slept in.

I knew two of the infirmary residents. One man was enrolled in my Parole Planning Workshop. Now I knew why he'd missed the last three weeks of classes. The other man was someone I knew almost forty years ago, when I had run the GOLAB Program at Union C. I., "The Rock," at Raiford, Florida. We called him "Las Vegas Joe" LaRocca, since he'd bragged about running a carwash with showgirl workers in Vegas before he came to Florida and got life in prison. Joe was a personable and funny man whose small stature brought to mind a thoroughbred racing jockey, although he claimed to be afraid of horses.

I had previously seen Joe sitting in a wheelchair getting some sun at lunch in front of the chowhall, but I'd never been able to try talking with him, since we were forbidden to stop and talk with anyone. I'd been told that Joe suffered from senility and didn't communicate, so I was surprised when one of the infirmary patients asked him a question that he immediately answered. He sounded fine to me, so I spoke to him.

He hobbled over to my recliner, and I introduced myself, talked about our time working together in GOLAB all those years ago. I could tell he didn't remember me, but he did remember mutual friends I named, including the free man who supervised us, Rodney Hansen. Joe told me he was eighty-five years old, and didn't think he would ever get out. That shows you how screwed up are the parole commission policies that keep men like Joe in prison forever, at incredible taxpayer expense. How many thousands are in the same limbo?

Monday morning the transport officers came to chain my hands, waist and ankles securely before loading me into the prison van. I was joined by a diminutive Guatemalan brought from lockup for his trip to Lake Butler RMC. He was already thoroughly chained, and explained that he was the one who had stabbed and slashed another man's face during a melee in B Dorm the previous week. We got along fine. He had no beef with me.

The surgical unit at RMC is a well-equipped portable building that brings to mind a military MASH unit. Three very competent nurses filled out and witnessed release forms that documented my agreement that whatever happened to me was my own fault, and Dr. Solano was blameless. Fine. I'd risk it. They hooked me up to several monitors before the doctor came in, anesthetized the area, and took out his scalpel.

The surgery went quickly. Dr. Solano excised a bean-sized chunk from my preauricular region and carefully sewed me up. See you in four to six weeks for a followup. The next three hours were spent sitting on a hard bench until the Slasher's appointment was completed. Then we endured the long trek through heavy traffic back to Daytona Beach.

Back in the dorm, one prisoner said that he wouldn't let anyone cut on him, he'd rather deal with the cancer. I didn't bother explaining my position to him, that I wanted to survive this life sentence, and addressing medical issues was crucial to prison survival. I spared him my view that you can't be rational with an irrational person, else you risk being irrational as well. And it's doubtful that two irrational people can arrive at a rational conclusion.

I want to wish you a Merry Christmas. May God bless you and yours throughout the year. Thanks for your concern and support.

Charlie Norman

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

My wife Libby and I will spend our Thanksgiving in the visiting park at Tomoka Correctional Institution, Daytona Beach, Florida, miles from the "World's Most Famous Beach," (they claim) and the race track. We can walk outside and watch the sparrows eating bread, hear the "chee-chee" of Red-shouldered hawks scanning the grounds for meals, and count the shadows of the dozens of turkey vultures swirling overhead. They put a prison smack-dab in the middle of a bird sanctuary, then spent the next twenty years cutting down every tree growing inside the fences.

We can watch birds of a different kind as huge passenger jets pass low overhead coming in for landings at Daytona International Airport, and smaller, older, slower vintage airplanes crisscross the sky. I wonder if any of those people wonder about those people inside that fenced square below with the gun towers. Probably not. Life goes on.

No turkey, ham, stuffing or cranberry sauce for our Thanksgiving dinner. The prison canteen window has a sparse selection of sandwiches and other junk food snacks, but it's not the food, it is the fellowship.

We've endured and overcome multiple challenges this momentous year of 2018, but our love continues to be strong, and we ready ourselves for more challenges in 2019. Despite setbacks, we have much to be thankful for, and pray that you and yours have a blessed and happy Thanksgiving, enveloped in the love of family and friends.

Charlie and Libby Norman. November 2018.

MORE LONG RIDES TO THE PRISON HOSPITAL

After my first trip to Lake Butler Reception and Medical Center (RMC), in August, the oncologist, Dr. Montoya, ordered a PET scan be done in two weeks, to see whether the skin cancer had spread to any internal organs. If so, that would mean much more aggressive treatment options.

Imagine my surprise when, one week later, August 28, I was roused from a deep sleep at three a.m. by a guard telling me to get dressed, that I was going on a medical trip. I knew that had to be wrong, but in prison, when they tell you to do something, you do it, or suffer the consequences.

It was a mistake. The officer escorted me into the cancer center, a separate unit (there's a lot of cancer in prison), and the nurse said, "You're a week early."
So I sat around for hours, until those who had accompanied me had completed their various treatments.

Tuesday, September 4, 2018: I was expecting the early morning wakeup this time. More shackles, chains, and leg irons, another rough ride across rural north central Florida. The transport officer removed all the hardware encumbering me, and left me with the nurse in charge of the PET scan, a big machine similar to the CT scan I had last year.

Looking at my medical chart, the first thing Nurse Ivey said was, "Happy Birthday! " I was surprised at the nice gesture. It was my sixty-ninth birthday, and I never expected a nurse who'd never met me to do that small kindness.

I thanked her, and sat down in preparation for the radiation drug introduced through an I.V. After that, I sat in a darkened room for fifty minutes until the radiation drug had seeped throughout my body. And no, I didn't glow in the dark.

I was directed to climb into the machine. The instructions mentioned that those who suffered from claustrophobia might have difficulties inside the machine. Fortunately, after forty-plus years of surviving in small cages, I could avoid the claustrophobia. Nevertheless, the next half hour seemed like forever. I survived.

Thursday, September 20, 2018: Another hard ride in chains to RMC, this time to find out the PET scan results from Dr. Montoya. We left Tomoka C. I. early, and were on the road by seven a.m. Only one fellow prisoner accompanied me, for an appointment with the eye doctor, and if both of us finished quickly, we could be back on the road early, and not waste another day.

It's a good thing I brought a book. Dr. Montoya advised me that the PET scan was negative, the skin cancer had not spread (Thank you, Lord!), and scheduled me to see the dermatologist in three weeks, probably for laser surgery. I'd endured that laser in 2007, and though it was not pleasant, it would be better than chemotherapy and radiation, which my brother, Dan, has endured over the past year.

Once you have seen the doctor, the guards direct you to the "Patio," a holding area for sixty or more prisoners to wait until their fellow prisoners are ready to go. I read my book, until an ancient prisoner in a wheelchair approached me. We had served time together over twenty years ago, and he still recognized me. After he explained who he was, I remembered him. Both of us had changed greatly.

Then I recognized another old friend, "Tiny" Callahan, a chain gang legend I first met at Raiford, "The Rock," in 1980. "Tiny" once looked like Tarzan, a huge, heavily-muscled man, but a heart attack and triple bypass surgery had taken its toll. Father Time waits for no one. This time, Tiny was using a walker, having had hip replacement surgery. We talked until the guard came in and told everyone to quieten down.

Another man looked familiar, someone I hadn't seen in twenty-six years, but he hadn't changed that much. "Red" Williams was a famous prison legend, the first man to escape over the perimeter fence at Lake Butler, where we both found ourselves on this day. Seventy-eight years old, he still had a head of red hair, albeit with some gray. We smiled and shook hands.

In 1977, Red made his bold escape over the RMC fences, avoided getting shot, then stole a car and a pistol. Red's wife was in prison at Lowell, the women's prison in Ocala, which was adjacent to Interstate 4. At 7:30 the next morning, Red parked the stolen car on the road shoulder, climbed the fences into the women's prison, and walked into the chow all, where several hundred women ate breakfast. Red fired a shot into the ceiling to get everyone's attention, called his wife's name, and took her out of the prison.

Months later, they were arrested in Brooklyn, New York, after a robbery spree. Red said his wife was at Lowell, and he was serving his time at Union C.I. The parole commission wasn't impressed by Red's bold actions. His parole date is 2277 A.D. I don't think he'll make it.

I had plenty of time to reminisce. The other prisoner didn't get in to see the eye doctor until after 3:30 p.m. Amazingly, the doctor performed laser surgery in five or six minutes. Luckily, we exited RMC before the four p.m. count, and made it back to the prison by seven p.m., slowed down by heavy traffic.

I dread the inhumanity of these medical trips, but I've vowed to survive this life sentence, and pursuing medical help as best I can is a major factor. At least now I can call my 89-year old mother and tell her the good news. Too bad the prognoses for so many other prisoners are not so positive.

Charlie

                                                             Libby and Charlie, Sept. 2018

Another Long Road Trip to the Prison Hospital

Dateline: Thursday, August 16, 2018

4:27 a.m. I am awakened by a guard standing over my bunk in the dark.

"Norman, get dressed."

For a moment I am confused. Oh, no, I think, I'm getting transferred again. Thursday is transfer day

"Where am I going?"

"I don't know," the young guard said. "You're going on a road trip."

Oh, okay, I think, Lake Butler, the main hospital for a couple dozen prisons in the North Florida region.

I've been dealing with skin cancer for over twelve years, and underwent laser treatments several years ago. I haven't had any follow-up treatments or medical care for this issue for ten years, under the previous healthcare providers, despite my repeated requests. A few weeks ago I insisted that the local doctor take biopsies and send them to the lab, since it was obvious that the skin cancers on my scalp and forearms had returned. The transport officer told me that my appointment was with the oncologist. That made sense. The biopsies must have been positive.

I rode in a van with two other prisoners going for checkups and treatments at the Lake Butler Reception and Medical Center hospital. Private practice doctors contract with the health care service to come in a couple times a week to consult with hundreds of sick prisoners from dozens of prisons. One prisoner claimed he'd had colon cancer surgery, which had spread to his liver. The other was being treated for leukemia. Other men I met in the hospital had lung cancer and other terminal illnesses. My skin cancer didn't seem so threatening after hearing their stories, although thousands die of it every year. 

 
Two courteous transport officers loaded us down with manacles, leg shackles, and chains, helped us struggle to our seats in the transport van. The trip to the prison hospital took over two hours, and I spent the entire time trying to see "civilization" through the tiny squares of the steel grills that encased the rear seats of the van. All those people racing to work on the interstate, exiting and lining up at fast food drive-thru's, getting on school buses, commuters with no ideas of the human cargo in the unmarked van stopped beside them at the red light.

Something that struck me while rubbernecking at the passing scenery was the dichotomy of wealth and poverty juxtaposed in both urban and rural landscapes. Falling down houses with junk cars and rusting appliances in overgrown front yards intermingled next door to expensive-looking homes spread out on large tracts of landscaped grounds. Most of the cars surrounding us appeared new.

It was a different story upon arrival at the prison hospital. Inside, hallways were crowded with very sick prisoners sitting on benches on one side, and lined up in dozens of wheelchairs along the wall, making it difficult to navigate the narrow path. I sat on a wooden bench across from the office of Dr. Montoya, the oncologist, with several dozen other men waiting to see him. Other dozens waited to be called by the cardiologist and the eye doctor.

A heavily-guarded prisoner wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and chains shuffled down the hallway, escorted by several large guards, entering Dr. Montoya's office ahead of everyone else. The orange jumpsuit signified a Death Row prisoner, who gets the same medical treatment as everyone else. The authorities don't want condemned men to get sick and die before their executions. He didn't look any different from the rest of us, except for the distinctive clothing.

After the guards took the Death Row prisoner away, other guards escorted seven bedraggled women prisoners ahead of us to see the doctor. Gazing at the sick men surrounding me, I thought the male prisoners looked bad, but the appearances of the female prisoners from Lowell, near Ocala, shocked me.

Years ago, Florida women prisoners received better treatment than did male prisoners, tenuously explained by the fact that the women at Lowell were more organized, filed mass complaints and federal lawsuits over their treatment, and wouldn't take the abuses that male prisoners seemed to passively accept and tolerate. While the men wore blue uniforms--shirts and pants, the women were issued dresses, and could order jeans and white blouses from home. No more. Now the women are issued the same shapeless baggy pull-up blue pants and buttonless blue pullover shirts. Their ill-fitting uniforms were incredibly wrinkled the unhemmed pants legs dragged the ground, and they wore thin flip-flops or generic Crocs on their feet. Greasy, stringy hair indicated they had no access to shampoo, or funds, since hygiene items were sold in the prison canteen, not provided by the prison. Obviously, women prisoners no longer receive special treatment.

I felt terribly sorry for those women, who looked like addled homeless alcoholics and addicts rousted from an abandoned building. They appeared stripped of their self-esteem, a very bad sign in prison.

Hours dragged by. Finally the nurse called "Norman." I went in to meet Dr. Montoya, who was very polite and courteous. The biopsies were positive. The skin cancers had returned. The doctor laid out my treatment options, first with a PET scan in two weeks, to determine whether the cancers had spread to any organs. Two weeks later, I would return for a consultation concerning results.

We finally left the prison hospital at two p.m., and got back inside Tomoka C. I. after five. I returned to my dorm, where seventy men waited to rush to the chow hall for meat loaf and mashed potatoes.

No one missed me. They didn't even know I had been gone. I took my seat in the day room and watched the local news, robberies, carjackings, and murders. Another day in prison.

Charles Patrick Norman