Prisons
They are hard places in which to find a survival niche. There is not a lot of generosity, compassion or empathy in this caged world.
A 40-year incarceration scarred me, just as it does most every person compressed into the prison world. The experience creates its own peculiar PTSD. It takes years, sometimes, to cleanse its wounds from the soul.
I actually thought I had put prison behind me, buried in the recesses of past experience. The nightmares that once invaded my sleep in those first years of life in the free world faded away.. Apprehension, uncertainty, and suspicion became part of a lost memory. A new life, with its many horizons, subdued the nightmares as I became a “normal” person again.
Then the coronavirus pandemic struck.
My life, along with that of my wife, suddenly changed as have the lives of most every other person facing this pandemic. Fear of the spreading disease, thoughts about future survival, and the pain social distancing created a new life style—in much the same way as prison once had.
The ugly specter of death now grips the soul of the nation. Nightly newscast keep us abreast of the number of people who have succumbed to the disease, too many of whom died alone as fear squeezed the life out of their hearts. Thousands of the dead will be buried unclaimed, unknown in mass graves–their final dwelling place a cheap pine box that the forces of nature will quickly consume.
I knew early on the pandemic would be worse in prison. My wife and I posted a piece weeks ago on Facebook, long before the media recognized the story, about what lay ahead for those 2.3 million people locked away in the nation’s prison and jail systems.
The prison horror we spoke about has arrived – thousands of prisoners have been infected, and they in turn will infect tens of thousands more. The elderly and the immune compromised will be the first to succumb. There will be no ventilators or compassionate care medicine to either save or make their deaths easier. The prison medical staff cannot deal with routine bouts of food poisoning, much less a full blown pandemic that inflicts a horrific death on those it infects.
States have been forced to release thousands of inmates, proof positive that there are hundreds of thousands of non-dangerous prisoners who should not even be in prisons or jails. These sensible release decisions, although rooted in the self-interests of the states, will reduce the nation’s staggering prison population. The deaths of thousands more among the ranks of the sick and elderly will add significant reductions to the nation’s prison population.
The only upside to the Covid pandemic is that it may shut down the brutal, inhumane “private prison” industry. It will no longer have an excess of prisoners to exploit.
But that does not change what is happening in the nation’s prison system at the moment. Fear permeates every cellblock and dormitory. The meanest, the most incorrigible in the cellblocks have been reduced to ordinary beings struggling to survive. Covid does not give an ounce of concern about their dangerousness.
Prisons will see a strange transformation in many respects.
The “strongest” in the group will be reduced to the weakest while the “weakest” in the group will rise to be the strongest. The weakest will demonstrate to the voiceless group the courage needed to face death and accept its finality without crying out, without begging for mercy. They will show others how to die under the worst of circumstances.
There are no heroes to save the imprisoned. They are alone with each other. Family visitation has been cut off. Contact with love ones has been reduced to a minimum. The prospect of dying is now their only companion.
Prison nightmares have once again invaded my sleep.
I understand what is going on in the caged world. It is like the terror of the lost souls in that world has scaled the fences to once again ensnare my sleep with its ugly grip.
A few weeks ago I had the luxury of laying my head on my pillow and letting sleep take me peacefully to some distant place where there is no fear, dread, or terror to face.
Now, as I lay my head on my pillow, I must hope the prison nightmares will not again visit my sleep. As a matter of personal solace and with the hope of warding off the night demons, I must say a silent pray for those locked away, those facing the worst possible fears about dying terrible deaths, alone and with little, if any, compassion to comfort them in the final moments.
That is part of my “new normal.”