Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Toxic Predatory Masculinity,

You know how in the movies, the hardened criminal always says, “Don’t trust anyone in here” while simultaneously handing the other inmate a shank? Well, apparently, that advice isn’t just for the inmates. One of the first nuggets of wisdom I received after starting my travel nursing gig in corrections was, “Don’t trust the correctional officers.” You can imagine how comforting that was—right up there with “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit” before a tattoo artist moves on to your elbow. Yet, here I am, trying to navigate this wild world where it seems like everyone has their own agenda, and I’m just here trying to keep my head above water—and my license intact.

Let’s rewind a bit. So, it’s my first night shift, and the travel nurse training me is giving me the lowdown on the place. Right away, it’s clear that building trust and rapport with both the correctional officers and the inmates is the key to surviving here. It’s like trying to walk a tightrope between two opposing forces—you need to befriend both sides without coming off as fake. The correctional officers? Their trust is non-negotiable. If they’ve got your back, your life here will be infinitely more enjoyable—and, let’s be honest, a lot safer. But the inmates? Well, let’s just say they can smell insincerity from a mile away. So, I’m learning the delicate art of earning respect from both camps, all while trying to stay true to myself. It’s a balancing act, and one wrong step could send everything crashing down.

But anyways, there I was on my first shift chatting it up with the COs (correctional officers), making my introverted self put on my smalltalk hat. It was going well.. I even made one of them chuckle. And just when I think I’m getting the hang of it, one of the COs—who looks like he hasn’t experienced joy in at least a decade—turns to me and says, “You work for us.”

Excuse me? I’m sorry, did I misread the sign on the door? I thought I was here to patch up the occasional wound, not to become an honorary prison guard. But nope, apparently, my job includes making sure I don’t create extra work for these guys. “If you don’t rat them out and don’t make things harder, they’ll like you,” my fellow nurse tells me. She might as well have added, “And if you don’t, well… good luck surviving the next few weeks.”

So, how exactly do I avoid making things harder? Turns out it’s all about not falling for the inmates’ tricks. Working in the “time out” zone of the prison—a place so bleak it makes solitary confinement look like a spa day—is no walk in the park. These maximum-security guys are desperate for any excuse to stretch their legs outside that cement box they call their “house.” And that’s where the games begin.

One of the most popular inmate tactics? Faking medical emergencies. The nurse I’m replacing proudly boasted she only let out one inmate during her entire 13-week contract, despite the nightly “medical emergencies” that would make any ER nurse’s hair stand on end. She had a finely tuned BS detector, a skill I’m rapidly trying to develop myself. I mean, just because you say you have chest pain doesn’t mean you get an EKG and a full workup. Especially not when you’re yelling profanities at me while supposedly being short of breath with a 10/10 chest pain. Yeah, buddy, nice try, but I’m not buying it.

Now, back to the COs and their “Don’t make more work for us” mantra. Here’s how it plays out: if I, the naive nurse, decide to do an EKG on this faked chest pain, I’ve just signed up for a mountain of paperwork and required the assistance of at least three officers to escort the inmate to my so-called “clinic.” (Seriously, calling it a clinic is generous—it’s more like a janitor’s closet with an exam chair and some band-aids.) The paperwork alone is enough to make me question my life choices. We have to justify every single decision to pull an inmate out because, in this “time out” zone, letting them stretch their legs isn’t just discouraged—it’s practically forbidden. If I let them out on a false pretense, it’s like opening Pandora’s box; they’ll hit that emergency button every time they want a break from their “house.”

So yeah, it’s pretty much “us versus them” here. The veteran travel nurse made it clear that I’ll see plenty of questionable things go down, but if I rat out the COs, I might as well start packing my bags now. That being said, I haven’t seen anything done that’s reportable. The COs work within the system, following the rules to a T, but they’ve also found ways to enforce punishments that the inmates actually care about. I mean, let’s be real—a written infraction on their record doesn’t exactly keep these guys up at night.

Case in point: I’m doing a wellness check, minding my own business, and I walk by an inmate’s “house.” He’s masturbating and looking at me like he’s auditioning for the lead role in Creepy McCreepface: The Movie. My reaction? Let’s just say I defended myself verbally, and yes, some colorful language was involved. A CO hears me, comes over, and bangs on the cell door, marking him as a rapist. Turns out, he is one—a child rapist, to be exact, which is pretty much the worst thing you can be in prison. The CO’s mark on him makes him a target, but they don’t lie about those things. They’re just not shy about making sure everyone knows.

Here’s the thing: the prison’s so-called systems of punishment don’t mean a thing to these guys. They don’t correct behavior; they just shuffle it around. And while I’m no CO, I don’t want their job or even pretend to understand the dark web of power dynamics they deal with. I just want to do my job—keeping these inmates alive and well while somehow protecting my license.

Speaking of which, let’s talk about that. My job here is all about deciphering the truth from the lies. And trust me, they all lie. If you think your average patient embellishes their symptoms, just wait until you’re dealing with these guys. So how do I protect my license when 99% of what they say is BS? Fellow nurses, how much do you trust your assessment skills? Because here, you can’t rely on vitals, stethoscopes, or pupil checks. You have to read between the lines of their stories and decide—based on nothing more than your gut and years of experience—whether to pull them out of their “house” or send them to the hospital.

It’s a tough gig, no doubt about it. You want to trust them, you want to look out for them, but you’re stuck in this gray space where there are no clear protocols. There’s no “If X happens, then Y must follow.” It’s all subjective, and it’s all on you.

As much as this job is easy in a ridiculous kind of way—how hard is it to not get played by an inmate, right?—I don’t think I’ll extend my contract. Balancing the tightrope between keeping the COs happy and safeguarding my license isn’t exactly what I signed up for. Sure, the COs have my back now, but one wrong move, one misstep in this moral minefield, and it could all come crashing down.

So, diary, there it is. I’m living in a world where trust is a four-letter word, and every day is a game of truth or dare—except the truth is usually a lie, and the dare is just surviving another shift. It’s been real, but I’m ready to go back to something a little less… let’s say, predatory.

Until tomorrow,
Your favorite nomadic, prison travel nurse. 🥰