Incarcerated by Cancer

By Shawn Harris
From PHN Issue 53, Summer 2023

“There is a list of 132 inmates diagnosed with cancer,” announced the psychologist assigned to my block. She was sitting in front of her computer as the Psychology Department head and I discussed the commencement of the first-ever Cancer Support Group at my prison. I had for the past year been stressing the importance of having a cancer support group at my facility. We were having a meeting to finalize the date and time when the group would start. We weren’t certain if there were even enough inmates diagnosed in the prison to warrant a support group. In fact, the Psychology Department head specifically asked me how many inmates I knew were currently battling the illness. He even struggled to recall one or two he remembered working with in recent days. So, when the psychologist said the number, we were all stunned.

“So, what’s the age range?” he asked. “All ages,” was the response. “And what are the types of cancer?” he asked. “All types,” was the response.

A cold and sobering reality came over the room. Those present didn’t verbally announce it, but I could see it in their faces that they were as in shock as I was. I figured there were maybe 10 inmates in this prison suffering from cancer. But I vastly underestimated just how aggressive this illness was, and how places like these are incubators for disease and sickness of both the mind and body.

The revelation only strengthened the weight of my claim that incarcerated people silently suffer in an apathetic vacuum. I think of the old adage, “If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one there to see it…?”

I once witnessed a man slowly die of cancer. He could no longer control his bowels and had to wear diapers. The diapers did little to prevent his sheets and blanket from becoming soiled. So every morning the block workers had to retrieve his linen, wash them, and return them to him by day’s end. At least thrice a week, his prison browns had to be washed. And nearly every other week, he needed a fresh pair of underwear. He would walk out of his cell, sit by himself at the table, and offer a smile or two if someone looked his way. And he never once expressed sorrow—or any emotion, for that matter. Just a courteous smile or two. And just like that, one day he was gone. No one talked about him except to say, “You know, the guy in 23 cell died.” That was it. A tree fell in the forest and no one noticed it.

I often wondered after that day, was his stoic demeanor due to the strength of his resolve? Was he so content with what fate had dealt him that tears served him no benefit? Was he divinely inspired and saved from the torment of his sickness? Those are all good and noble ideas about a man standing tall and strong against hardship and turmoil. One of those heroic stories you read about, somewhere in some book. But I fear the truth is much darker and tragic.

Some men feel that their incarceration, their guilt, precludes them from the niceties of empathy. They feel that they are condemned and do not deserve human things like sympathy and emotional support. I know this because I hear them say it. I know this because I have felt it myself at times. One of the running themes about incarceration is that inmates do not deserve… (fill in the blank). And it does not happen right away, but after a while, you start to buy into the theme.

So when an inmate is stricken with an illness whose very nature is to rob you of your life force and independence, he retreats into himself because that’s what he “deserves.” That’s “what he gets!”

He does not look for comfort and support because no one ever told him that he could. And he does not reach out for hands and hugs because no one ever told him that he could. All that he’s ever been told is that he does not deserve…

Another sad reality of being incarcerated by cancer is that prison is perceived as a place of predators and prey. Whether actual or not, inmates are indoctrinated with this idea before they even commit a crime, and so it goes; you cannot show weakness in prison!

So when an inmate is stricken with an illness whose very nature is to inflict immense pain upon its host, he hides his shameful tears, his fragile wince, and his terrified scowl. He has to show strength 24/7 and not shed so much as a single tear in public because if he does shed a tear, it would be taken as a sign of weakness. No, it is not reality, but it is his truth.

So he pretends to be the strong man who can bear it all alone, but inside he is crumbling. Inside he is uncertain, terrified, and confused. Inside he is screaming HELP! But no one hears him. All that they see is a courteous smile or two when they look in his direction.

I wanted to start this cancer support group so that these men would come to know that they deserve to be supported so that they could have a place to go where they could feel every emotion and express every bit of anger, fear, and hope, without judgment. And hopefully, as a result, live longer and not have to suffer alone.