“There is a list here of 132 inmates diagnosed with cancer,” the psychologist assigned to my block announced. She was sitting in front of her computer as the Psychology Department Head and I discussed the commencement of the first ever Cancer Support Group in my prison.
I had been, for the past year, stressing the importance of having a Cancer Support Group for the men at my facility. We were having a meeting to finalize the date and time when the group would start. We weren’t certain if there were even enough inmates diagnosed in the prison to warrant a support group. In fact the psychology department head specifically asked me how many did I know who were currently battling the illness. He even struggled to recall one or two he remembered working with in recent days.
So when the psychologist said the number we were all stunned. “So what’s the age range?” he asked.
“All ages.”
“And what are the types of cancer?”
“All types.”
A cold and sobering reality came over the room. Those present didn’t verbally announce it, but I could see it in their faces. They were as in shock as I was. I figured there were maybe 10 inmates in this prison suffering from cancer, but I vastly underestimated just how aggressive this illness was and how places like these were (and continue to be) incubators for disease and sickness of both mind and body.
The revelation only strengthened the weight of my claim that incarcerated people silently suffer in an apathetic vacuum. I think about the old adage: “If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one there to see it . . .”
I witnessed a man slowly die of cancer. He could no longer control his bowels and had to wear diapers. The diapers did little to prevent his sheets and blankets from becoming soiled. So every morning the block workers had to retrieve his soiled linen, wash them and return them to him by day’s end.
At least thrice a week his browns had to be washed. And nearly every other week he needed a fresh pair of underwear. He would walk out of his cell, sit by himself at the table and offer a smile or two if someone looked his way. And he never once expressed sorrow, or any emotion for that matter. Just a courteous smile or two. And just like that, one day, he was gone. No one talked about him, except to say “You know, the guy in 23 cell died.” That was it. A tree fell in the forest and no one noticed it.
I often wondered after that day – was his stoic demeanor due to the strength of his resolve? Was he so content with what fate had dealt him that tears served him no benefit? Was he divinely inspired and saved from the torment of his sickness? Those are all good and noble ideas about a man standing tall and strong against hardship and turmoil. One of those heroic stories you read about, somewhere in some book. But I fear that the truth is much darker and tragic.
Some men feel that their incarceration, their guilt, precludes them from the niceties of empathy. They feel they are condemned and do not deserve those human things like sympathy and emotional support. I know this because I hear them say it. I know this because I have felt it myself at times. One of the running themes of incarceration is that inmates do not deserve… (fill in the blank). And it doesn’t happen right away, but after a while, you slowly buy into the theme. So when an inmate is stricken with an illness whose very nature is to rob you of your life force and independence, he retreats into himself because that is what he deserves. That’s what he gets!
He does not look for comfort and support, because no one ever told him that he could. And he does not reach out for hands and hugs, because no one ever told him that he could. Rather, he suffers in silence, because that is what he deserves.
Another sad reality, regarding the incarceration of cancer, is that prison is perceived as a place of Predators and Prey. Whether actual or not, inmates are indoctrinated with this idea way before they even commit a crime. And so it goes: you can not show weakness in prison!
So when an inmate is stricken with an illness – whose very nature is to inflict immense pain upon its host – he hides his shameful tears, his fragile wince, and his terrified scowl. He has to show strength 24/7 and not shed so much as a single tear in public. If he does shed a tear, it would be taken as a sign of his weakness. So he pretends to be that strong man who can bear it all alone, but inside he is crumbling. Inside he is uncertain, terrified, and confused. Inside he is screaming HELP! But no one hears him. All that they see is a courteous smile or two when they look in his direction.
I wanted to start this cancer support group so that these men would come to know that they deserve to be supported. So that they could have a place to go, where they could feel every emotion and express every bit of anger, fear, and hope, without judgment. And hopefully, as a result, live longer, fight harder and not have to suffer alone.
