158/98

My fiftieth birthday is in December, and as a sign of unity, Ramutu, Alexis and I requested a prostate exam. Ramutu suggested we all get checked out, so on a lazy Sunday we filled out the proper paperwork, then returned our attention to Sunday’s NFL lineup. The thought of football was more pressing than anything about my health...Then I was called to Medical.

When I sat with the doctor, a white man, married (from the gold wedding band on his left ring finger), and possibly in his mid-forties from the crow's feet peering behind his spectacles, I was at ease. We were in a small room; I sat in the back as he swirled in his swivel chair, typing on the keyboard while his monitor displayed my medical records and picture.

"You do not come to medical at all," he began. "In the three years that you’ve been here, you only had three checkups. Your back, your ankle and today. Each time you did, your blood pressure was high."

I glanced at the monitor and noticed my blood pressure:

2024: 142 over 98

2025: 150 over 98

Today: 158 over 98

Immediately, I panicked. My thoughts screamed at me: "We’re one of those guys now; the one in poor health due to the stress of mass incarceration and the crappy processed food being served daily."

As the doctor spoke, his words were that of an adult on the Charlie Brown cartoons: unrecognizable. My fears took over, bringing thoughts of all those I lost to cancer, who had strokes, whose hearts gave out. Now here I am, thinking my prostate exam would come up negative, then back to contending with life inside. The doctor noticed I tuned him out and he said calmly, "Mr. Tutankhamon, I am going to help you." Those words...they revived me.

In my 49 years of existence, I have never been unhealthy. Yes, I am a man who weighs 244 pounds, at 5 feet, 11 inches tall. Even with a body mass index revealing I must and should weigh 190 pounds, I am incarcerated; I live on the weight pile and exercise daily. These factors contribute to why I have high blood pressure—and stress.

Not even a week ago, I spoke with mental health. I've been doing more for others than myself. Self-care. The kind I've been avoiding, unknowingly. Now I am learning more about myself, and I was freaking out, still.

The doctor wanted me to get a full medical checkup: blood and urine analysis. I would also be placed on lisinopril, 5 milligrams daily, to help lower my blood pressure. He assured me this once again: "I will help you deal with this."

When I departed, I had to return to orientation to speak with the new intakes arriving in Nottoway Correctional Center...but when I entered the gymnasium, I was crying. Health. That’s what I thought about, and I witnessed many before me die in prison. My anxiety kicked in, and I just retreated to my cell, afraid.

As the days breezed by, I had my appointment with medical for a batch of tests. Blood was drawn, and urine was collected. The pills were also picked up, and as I headed back to my unit, my fellow inmates noticed my medication.

Again, life inside was about our health. These men were carrying a number of medication packs, and their insight on what I was taking astounded me. One of them began revealing the side effects: swollen lips, dizziness, nausea, and drowsiness...but all I was taking was a 5-milligram pill. They even warned me to drink plenty of water, then we went our separate ways.

Two days later, on a Saturday afternoon, I felt the effects of the pill. I sat in the dayroom as my head lulled back, repeatedly. I questioned whether it was a long work week, then I realized it was the medication. My body worked against me to get some rest. I made it to my bunk and slept 5 hours straight, midday, only to wake at evening institutional headcount.

My health has become a priority for me. I do not wish to become one of those incarcerated men who lives at a pill window. The stories of being in poor health are real, and whether incarcerated or not, health—personal health is important. Take this bit of advice: Prioritize you, always; mind, body and soul.