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February 20, 2002 RE: Lack of Medical Care at WERDCC Michelle "Mickie" Perry #081804 Dear Representative Charles Quincy Troupe: A few minutes after 11 p.m. on Saturday, February 16, 2002, 2 woke up with one of my cellies shaking my shoulder and whispering, "Patty, wake up. I'm bleeding bad and need to go to medical." I leapt out of bed in a hurry. In all the years I've known Michelle Perry, she has never woke me up in the night for any reason. A little more than two weeks ago, on January 31, she underwent major surgery--a hysterectomy and appendectomy. She should not be bleeding. Mickie explained in a shaky whisper that she was experiencing great pain and when she went to the bathroom, a gush of bright red blood and huge clots filled the toilet. She put on three sanitary napkins and tried to get back to the room, but she soaked the three pads immediately. Feeling sick and weak and faint, she changed pads again and carefully wrapped them before disposal since she is infected with Hepatitis C. Then she made her way to the officers in the rotunda and explained to them what was occurring, and although the 11:15 count had not commenced, she was instructed that she must wait for count to be taken and cleared before she could go to medical for any help. My friend sat on her bunk all bent over and requested of me, "Ask, the officer if I have to change to greys." Petrified I rushed out to the hall where an officer was counting. When I asked Mickie's question, he answered, "Of course." I mumbled, "Guess the uniform is more important than someone's life." I still remember when a friend died in her bunk at Renz while we were trying to pull her state grey uniform on her. "Can't go out anywhere without the greys no matter what" was their mindset then, too. (That is unless an inmate is taken to the hole--segregation. In that event she is taken out wearing whatever she has on. So if you're in trouble, you can come as you are, but if ill, you must change your clothes to the grey uniform.) After I helped Mickie get dressed properly, I rushed up to the rotunda to get the rickety housing unit wheelchair for transportation. Why I rushed, I have no idea, because once we were in the rotunda ready to leave for medical, the female officer stated, "No one is going anywhere until count clears." So I stood helplessly behind the wheelchair and watched Mickie doubled over in pain while she bled. I stood there over 45 minutes--sick at heart and praying. The phone rang. It was a nurse asking for the bloody sanitaries. Evidently she thought we had just decided to create some drama in the middle of the night. No matter that neither one of us had ever done anything like this before in all our years in prison. No matter that the officers could see how badly Mickie looked or that one of the officers had actually seen the toilet full of blood. I stomped off to the communal bathroom and rummaged through the trash. The male officer showed up behind me with a trash bag. Turning to him I stated in frustration, "There are over 50 pads in this trash, and I don't have the slightest idea which ones are Mickie's." With that I scrubbed my hands at the sink and marched past him back to the rotunda. Furious is a place I rarely go, but I was there. Somehow it was finally deemed acceptable for us to wheel to medical, but when we arrived there were more glances of contempt and derision aimed at us instead of the assistance for which I had prayed. A nurse took Mickie's blood pressure sitting, standing, and lying. She phoned the pediatrician on call, and we were sent back to the dorm. The diagnosis seemed to be that this was perfectly normal. Mickie was given a pill for pain, only after she asked plaintively, and was told to come back in the early morning to leave a blood sample. Which we did. Not one of the medical personnel actually examined Mickie. I won't even go into the excruciating experience involved with extracting her blood sample Sunday morning. I'll simply mention that even the officer on duty had to turn his head as the nurse dug around in Mickie's arm searching for a vein. Yesterday my fiance called Central Office and spoke with Zone Director Bryan Goeke about Mickie. Gary didn't know what else to do. So yesterday morning FUM Angie Pearl called Mickie back to her office to tell her that Superintendent Cornell had investigated Mickie's health issue and was satisfied that she was receiving proper care. Pearl told Mickie that she was being "monitored" and that excessive bleeding and pain was perfectly normal a couple of weeks after major surgery. Mickie observed that unless there's a camera above her bunk, no one was monitoring the situation. Pearl's contention was unshaken by that fact. This morning before I left for work, the officer ordered Mickie out of bed, along with a herd of other hapless ladies, for a routine random urine drop. As Mickie pulled on her shoes to go to the dayroom to sit and wait to be stripped and searched and the sample collected, I stated, "This must be what they mean by 'monitored'." She smiled weakly. Is there some way Michelle Perry can be seen by a doctor? I would be thrilled if the surgeon from Audrain Medical Center could examine Mickie, but at this point a veterinarian would be an improvement. I've had that very surgery and known many women who have, too. Not one of us bled profusely and suffered sharp excruciating pain a few weeks after the operation unless there was a problem. How do we get any help? The nurse informed Mickie that she could not be seen by a doctor until her six-week check up. If I sound frustrated and frightened, it's only because I am. I understand that our medical contractor is only in it for the money. That's perfectly obvious. But no one should be mistreated. No one. Please look into this issue. Thank you for all your help. God bless you and your staff. Sincerely, Patricia Prewitt
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