January, 2023, proved to be an eventful month in prison. I told you about my progress report January 9th, where I found I had accumulated 10,424 days of gain-time. They award gain-time toward the middle of the month, for the previous month, and on January 16th I received 20 more days for December, 2022. 10,444 days.
I mentioned MLK's birthday holiday provided us with a three-day visiting weekend, which Libby and I took full advantage of. At every prison there are always families of ''regulars,'' usually local people who visit their loved ones most weekends, and that remains true here at Lake C. I. Over time relationships develop among the visitors. We make the rounds of the visiting park, greeting our friends, smiling, laughing, complaining, on our way to the canteen line.
Each prison is known and rated by the efficiency and quality
of the visiting experience. Lake is known as a fairly laid-back facility,
despite the turmoil of construction, as the north end of the compound is
demolished for a building project. That contrasts greatly with the last prison
we patronized, where many visitors, including small children and elderly, were
subjected to two-hour waits in the weather before being allowed in the gate for
''processing.'' After being admitted to the visiting park, they had to deal
with surly guards who stared uncomfortably at the visitors.
On Wednesday, January 18th, UCF Professor Heather Vazquez treated our Caribbean
Literature class with a guest speaker, author Dr. Anna Levi from Trinidad, a
skilled and highly qualified professor. She quickly involved the class in a
writing exercise that revealed several already good writers in the group. Dr.
Levi has a book coming out this summer, ''The Nowherians,'' which the students
agreed they all wanted to read.
On Friday, January 20th, we had a special treat at the Toastmasters Gavel Club
meeting in the recently-converted old chow hall/chapel. This camp has shrunken
by at least half in population in the past two years, as the north end housing
units closed down, and that has affected attendance at this voluntary program.
Every few months the Gavel Club sponsors an ''open house,'' where each member
invites a guest.
The outside sponsor brought in approved coffee, doughnuts, and
cupcakes for a nine o'clock breakfast session that provided a rare opportunity
for the attendees. Ten members were called on to make impromptu short talks on
topics chosen by a moderator. The group then voted on the best speech.
Hopefully, some of the guests will decide to join the Gavel Club.
Saturday and Sunday Libby and I visited once again.
Monday evening, January 23rd, a guard told me I had to go to the
infirmary for the night. I knew what that meant. I had an outside medical test
scheduled for the next day, and I was required to fast the night before.
The night medical staff, consisting of a nurse and inmate orderly, knew me well
and were very polite and attentive. Seven sick inmates of varying medical
conditions were housed in the nine-bed infirmary. I knew one, an old friend who
was awaiting surgery to repair a bad hernia operation from years before.
The treat of overnighting in the infirmary is sleeping on a thick, soft
hospital bed. It seemed like only minutes of restful sleep had elapsed before I
was awakened at four a.m. to get ready for my medical trip.
I knew something was different when the transport van turned south on Hwy 27
rather than north toward Lake Butler — RMC. In minutes we were headed east on
Interstate 4 toward Orlando. 5:45 a.m., traffic both ways on I-4 was
bumper-to-bumper. Soon we were passing through downtown Orlando with tall
hotels sprouted like mushrooms on either side of the highway, sights I had
never seen during my lengthy imprisonment. Does Hilton own Orlando? Or just
most of the hotels?
We were lucky to get through traffic-clogged and over-developed Orlando when we
did. For the next two days after my return the local TV news station gleefully
reported ad nauseum the tragic fatal crashes and hours-long traffic backups on
the same road we had uneventfully traversed Tuesday.
Soon I-4 turned into Interstate 95 North at Daytona Beach, where I had spent
many forgettable years at Tomoka C. I. When we passed the big sign for Ormond
Beach I thought of my dear first cousin, Betty, retired, scant miles away.
The road signs whipped by in blurs. St. Augustine. Flagler. St. Johns.
Jacksonville — 27 miles. How many times had Libby driven this same path home
from visiting me? The last time I'd been to Jacksonville had been several years
before when I went on a medical trip from Columbia C. I. to Jacksonville
Memorial Hospital to have ultrasound treatments for kidney stones. The driver
exited I-95 near University Boulevard. Soon we were parked at Jacksonville
Cardiac Center, Dr, Waddah Salman.
Tuesday must be prison day at the Jacksonville Cardiac Center. Still burdened
with chains, we wended our way past several guards clogging a narrow hallway to
a small waiting room. Four other chained-up men waited their turns, men from
Sumter, Taylor, Union and FSP. One elderly, wasted, toothless old man in a
wheelchair informed us that he had recently had a stroke, and tended to talk
too much and repeat himself. We should just tell him to shut up if he did that.
Then he told us again. And again.
"Shut up," the man from FSP said.
"Okay."
Nuclear technician, Ms. Libia, came in and explained the procedures for the
upcoming stress test we were about to take. They don't use the old-fashioned
treadmill anymore. Instead they insert an IV containing liquid radiation into
your arm to illuminate your veins and heart, then inject another chemical that
causes your heart to race as though you were running on a treadmill. A large
machine then takes photos of your heart.
My fellow prisoners must have been junkies in their previous lives in freedom.
The technician had a hard time finding veins that weren't collapsed. Mine was
easy. My prominent veins had never been tampered with by illicit drugs.
The procedure went well, Ms. Libia said.
Monday, February 6th, the guards woke me up early for another medical trip, this time to RMC for the echocardiogram. The hospital was packed with sick prisoners from at least a dozen prisons. Fortunately for me, few were there for echocardiograms. All went well, the nurse said, six minutes, a sonogram of my beating heart.
Next step, Dr. Salman will evaluate the results, provide a diagnosis, and outline a course of treatment, as necessary. That will be another RMC trip, most likely.
We got out of Lake Butler by 10:0 a.m., and returned to Lake by one p.m.
On the way back, I enjoyed reading all the billboards — LIVE BABY ALLIGATORS!
Charlie Norman
January, 2023
