From a Positive Prisoner
by Kevin Lisboa
Cayuga Correctional Facility, New York
How are HIV medications
given out?
Well, not on time. If you’re
on a HAART regimen [highly active anti-retroviral therapy]
and you miss two to three days, you could get resistant. You
put in for a refill and I’ve been weeks without it. It varies
from jail to jail. The jail I was in before here was a joke,
three weeks [wait] for my Videx and Viracept. See, I was on
Sustiva. They took three weeks because they order from a pharmacy
in Pennsylvania, so I grew resistant.
What’s the food like?
A joke. People (inmates)
with HIV are treated just like crap, even worse. Special diets—forget
it. You can’t get Ensure [a nutritional supplement] unless
you can show that you lost more than 10 pounds in one week.
You get no preventive medicine. Yes, you get vitamins, but
you must give blood in order to get them. Sort of like, you
give me and I give you. The blood is then sold to universities
for studies. We’re laboratory monkeys. If you get a rash or
shit like that, you don’t get any lotion. Everything has to
be pre-approved. The doctor controls everything you do, from
where you sleep to what you eat, and nine out of 10 of the
doctors are unprofessional.
Is confidentiality a
possibility?
Zero. Nada. Once you come
to jail your confidentiality is blown. They give you bags
of medication in front of everyone. They talk openly about
AIDS—your personal problems—in front of whomever. The officers
make jokes. In March when I caught shingles, the officer got
on the loudspeaker and said, “Get away from Lisboa. He’s got
the monster [AIDS].” Can I report him? Yes. Will anything
change? No. See, once you complain about this or that, they
isolate you. I’ve been in five different jails. In maximum
security, you get just a little more of what you are entitled
to. Medium security is a joke. They know you are close to
your board [being released], so they won’t give you what you
need, and if you write to Albany (central office) they lock
you up in solitary confinement. They will either find a razor
on you or write a misbehavior report for anything.
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Are support groups available?
Varies with the jail. Some
jails don’t allow more than five inmates gathering because
of gangs. So if you’re HIV don’t come to jail. It’s like being
in hell. You are humiliated constantly, laughed at. See, the
officers here are mostly uneducated and they stereotype you.
If you’re HIV they say, “He’s gay.” About four months ago,
a C.O. [correctional officer] told me, “Hey, you like ass?”
I said, “If it’s your wife’s.” Then I told him the only meat
I eat has to smell like fish and taste like chicken. He didn’t
lock me up. I never stay quiet. I do get what I’m entitled
to, even if it costs me my TV or phone or yard privileges.
What is the healthcare
situation?
Some guys get hep C.
They tell you the meds are too expensive. Why spend money
on you when AIDS is going to kill you? The state won’t pay
for hep C meds and you won’t get them while in jail. To see
an AIDS specialist they chain you and take you to another
facility where you would wait eight hours to see a TV monitor—yes,
a TV doctor. If you have an infection he can’t see it on TV.
He can’t even touch you. He’s 300 miles away. When I was on
Crixivan I used to urinate blood from time to time. No kidney
stones, just peeing blood. The nurse would ask, “Did you just
masturbate?” No skills. Shit, if you jerk often and bleed,
you must be a hell of a beater.
You don’t get to see a doctor,
only a nurse and LPN [licensed nurse practitioner], if you’re
lucky, a PA [physician’s assistant]. God forbid you put down
for sick call and you ain’t really sick—$5 and a ticket. See,
it has to be what they say. If you have an emergency and they
believe it’s not, you get a ticket and $5 [fine]. You pay
those $5 out of what your family sends you. The system is
so screwed up and no one is doing nothing. The C.O.s get away
with whatever. In ’96, before I went home, two of my friends
died in here. No family, no nothing. The times they were in
the hospital they were not attended to.
I don’t know what else to
tell you. I could tell you so much, yet not tell you nothing.
Kevin Lisboa is
a prisoner in touch with the staff of
Positively Aware. He
never complains, and he always makes us laugh. You can write
to him at Kevin Lisboa #98A5826, Cayuga Correctional Facility,
P.O. Box 1186, Moravia, New York 13118 C-1 21B.
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