Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Graham Crackers with Peanut Butter,

Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve gotten a degree in psychology or maybe even law instead of nursing. It’s like every day at work, I’m not just a nurse—I’m a detective, a mediator, and occasionally, a referee in a full-blown circus.

The thing about working in a correctional facility is that there’s always someone trying to play the system. They’ll tell one nurse one thing, then turn around and spin a completely different story to another. It’s like they’re testing the waters, seeing what they can get away with. And of course, when things don’t go their way, what do they do? They file a formal written complaint.

Now, here’s the kicker: even when the complaint is based on something they themselves did—like, say, lying about a medical condition or exaggerating symptoms to get special treatment—it’s still taken seriously. So seriously, in fact, that it lands the nurses in hot water with the providers. I get it, we have to protect their rights and all, but the irony of getting in trouble for someone else’s game-playing is not lost on me.

And when they’re caught in their bullshit? Well, let’s just say they don’t take it well. Next thing you know, the correctional officers are getting involved, and what was a minor issue escalates into a full-blown situation. The COs are frustrated, the inmate is pissed off, and guess who gets the blame? Yep, the nurse who didn’t “handle the situation properly.”

It’s a vicious cycle. One minute I’m trying to provide care, and the next I’m stuck in the middle of some power struggle that makes you question why you ever got into this line of work.

Take last night, for example. We had this problem inmate, the Picasso of bodily fluids, who had mastered the fine art of the ketchup packet semen explosion technique. Yes, you heard that right. This guy would mix his shit, semen, and piss into some unholy concoction, transfer it to the used ketchup packets from his lunch tray, and then wait. Wait for the perfect moment as I walked by his door to squeeze that mess through the doorframe, which is supposed to prevent exactly this kind of nonsense. Spoiler: it doesn’t. Every. Fucking. Time. I’d end up with that vile mess splattered on my arm and chest, just seething inside, trying not to lose my cool. The cherry on top? He even sharpened his fingernails into little daggers, ready to gouge out our eyes at his earliest convenience.

But guess what? We finally traded his sorry ass for ten other inmates. Yup, one lunatic for ten relatively sane men. That’s how much of a walking disaster this guy was.

Anyway, last night, I got to meet our ten new guests. Most of them—9 out of 10—were actually decent human beings. Kind, respectful, the kind of guys who say “thank you” when you hand them a form. But then there was Number 10. He strutted in with that Aryan Brotherhood, racist white supremacist swagger, and when I tried to ask him basic intake questions about his health history, the attitude began.

This guy had the audacity to puff his chest out at me like some kind of chimpanzee trying to impress a mate. I almost laughed.

Dude, spoiler alert: You look stupid. Sit your ass down.

Then he got all pissy, puffing his chest out even more, pacing and glaring like he was in some kind of low-budget prison drama. I just stared at him and said again, “Sit down.” Without skipping a beat, I moved on to the next intake question. He told me he gets two extra snacks a day, so I asked, “For what? Diabetes?” And he barked back, “That’s none of your business.”

I couldn’t help but look up from my clipboard and say, “What do you mean it’s none of my business? I’m your nurse!” That’s when the other new inmates started cracking up, and you could see it just eating him alive. He didn’t like it, not one bit. But I wasn’t done. I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m not giving you extra blue snacks. There’s nothing on your file which says you’re diabetic. So unless you provide me with a logical reason why a doctor would approve additional snacks for you, I’m gonna eat the blue snack in front of you the next time you ask me for one.” (Blue snacks by the way are what we call diabetic snacks. They’re typically graham crackers with peanut buttter and they get them twice a day.)

That’s when the other guys completely lost it. And here’s the best part—most of them were black, and they knew exactly what kind of person this guy was. Watching him squirm as they roasted him was pure, unfiltered joy.

I finally made it through the intake form and thanked him for his time. As I walked away, the chirping from the other inmates kept going, their laughs echoing down the hall. The best part? I didn’t even have to look back. I knew I’d done my job. And damn, it felt good.

But here’s the reality: there’s no sense of helping anyone here; I don’t get that satisfaction. Instead, most days, I feel like a secretary, just following orders. The inmates’ behavior never changes—I’m just there to reinforce what someone else wants, an enforcer of the provider’s will and the COs’ directives.

So, here’s to surviving another day in the trenches, doing a job that’s more about enforcing than nursing.

Until next time,
Your Blue Snack Thief Nurse