Page 5 of In Death, Love Survives
If Crawley respects anyone on his staff, thankfully, it’s Ryan. Crawley has an old-school mentality that I hate having to deal with, but Ryan easily navigates it.
Some days, I don’t know what I’d do without Ryan here. He doesn’t view the prisoners as numbers; it’s a quality I value and respect. When you work in an atmosphere like this, it’s tough to know who to trust and feel supported by.
Walking back to my office in the medical unit, I find myself stuck in this funk that I need to snap out of. Maybe I need an appointment with my own therapist to figure out what’s happening with me as of late. This isn’t the first time this week I’ve felt this way.
Getting to my office, I quickly shut the door to give myself a chance to get settled in without any distractions. I have limited time to review the files of the prisoners who need mental health services before they start arriving for evaluation. I need to be on top of it all to show them that we do care here and know what we’re doing.
The prison system has been under scrutiny lately due to the lack of in-house medical care. Often, prisoners are sent to neighboring hospitals for both mental and physical care.
Under Ryan’s direction, we’re trying to make Roper State the best that it can be. I have faith in him that we’ll get there. I have no choice but to trust that what he says he wants is the truth.
After I review the patients who need to receive care today, I’ll then move on to the other prisoners who have not requested mental health care.
In some scenarios, it’s possible that the stigma around mental health care could prevent someone from requesting these services. That’s why I like to review the past history and files of everyone new to Roper State to see if there is anything I should be aware of. I won’t force anyone to receive care, but I have connected with a few prisoners about it before.
One of the initiatives that I’ve implemented at Roper State is creating a group therapy option. No one is required toparticipate in it, and usually, the only ones who do are the people who share their medical history with me from the start.
I get started reviewing the thirteen patients I’ll be initially focusing on. Each of them has a different backstory and history that I’ll need to study in detail. These files are just the start of the reasons why they need support and why they’ve come to be here at Roper State.
It’s not my job to judge but to offer treatment plans. It’s my duty as their doctor to focus on how to help them. I am only human, so sometimes it’s more difficult to do, but I try as best as I can.
Like right now, as I stare at the file of a convicted murderer, my primary focus is on his prescriptions. The dosage seems high, and I will have to figure out why it’s higher than usual for that medication.
Moving on to the next prisoner, I scan his file to see he’s being treated for two different disorders, one being dissociative identity disorder, more commonly known outside the medical field as multiple personality disorder.
One by one, I continue to go through each of the prisoners’ files, taking notes on their records.
Some time passes, and I feel accomplished. I’m almost done.
“Dr. Fletcher,” Jessica says with a slight knock on my ajar office door.
“Yes?” I perk up from the file I’m working on.
“The new prisoners are arriving momentarily.”
“Thank you. I’ll be just a minute then.”
I bob my head up and down as I return my focus to the file. Thankfully, Jessica had printed and organized these documents into individual folders for me to use this morning. She knows I prefer it over staring at them on a computer screen.
“Do you need anything else?” she asks.
“This should be it. Thank you for getting these ready last night.” I don’t look up as I focus on finishing highlighting this one line.
“Of course.”
The clack of her heels as she leaves my office and returns to her desk gives me the distraction needed to finally stop working on the file.
I managed to get through all of them, right on time.
I gather the file folders together and quickly head out of my office, shutting the door behind me. I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to slip in and look through my paperwork.
As I adjust my charcoal-colored pencil skirt and white button-up shirt to ensure everything is in the correct place, I hear a familiar set of steps approaching.
I smile as I finish the final adjustment of my top.
“Everything okay, Dr. Fletcher?” Ryan asks. His voice is smooth and deep, like a fine whiskey settling my nerves.
Looking up, I see two deep-brown eyes focused on me with concern.
