Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  Holding the razor blade between my teeth, I grabbed one of the rubber bands from the bowl and tied it around the spermatic cord, below the spermatic bundle of my right testicle. I cinched it tightly: still no pain. Maybe it was adrenalin that was keeping me from feeling anything, or maybe hype with all the thinking that this would be so painful, which was just not true. I grabbed the razor from between my teeth. Licking my lips, I could taste the blood on the razor. I placed the blade directly above the cord about one half inch from the tied rubber band. In one swift motion, I severed the testicle from my body. Then, holding it like a fisherman would a minnow, I dropped it into the toilet and flushed.

  I looked to the ceiling and for the very first real moment I felt pain.

  “Oh fuck!” I screamed.

  The pain welled up like a hot arrow stabbing my abdomen and pounding as if it were tied to a jackhammer. Coffee is no suitable painkiller. It did not work when I was passing kidney stones five years ago, which at that time was the worst pain I had ever felt. But now the pain that shot into my body was way beyond the mere pain a kidney stone could cause. And coffee was just not doing the trick. The room began to sway and my eyes were losing focus. The pain was so intense I felt that this was all I would be able to do. Of course, I was wrong.

  I set the razor blade into the soapy water bowl. Then I began to breathe. Inhaled one deep breath, exhaled, over and over until I regained my focus. I was not going to be defeated by pain. Pain was no match for my mind.

  Looking down between my legs, I said, ‘One down and one left to be cut.’

  I reached back into my scrotum and found the left testicle residing where it ought to be and brought it forward to the wound in my sack. One small problem, Mosby’s Medical Dictionary never mentioned that the testes were wrapped individually from one another and that there was a divider of thick skin separating the two with a road map of blue and red veins crossing one another throughout this section.

  There were only two options. One, let go and go through the other side. Two, cut through the middle and hope for the best. I opted for number two and, grabbing the razor, I began to chop. This skin, however, was a whole lot tougher and hurt a considerable amount more. I don’t know whether it was the cup of coffee or the superstitious feelings that were bombarding my mind at that moment. My hands began to shake violently and I had a whole lot of trouble concentrating. I put the razor blade back into the water and let go of what I was doing.

  I stared at the ceiling for a long moment. I did not want to believe the events that were accumulating. This operation was not going my way at all. Again, I began to breathe. And after a while my hands felt a little more steady.

  I reached into my scrotum and began to pull the testicle to the opening, when, to my total horror, the rubber band tied to my right spermatic cord came loose and blood sprayed from inside my scrotum all the way to the bunk, a distance of five feet. Now things went from serious to deadly. I felt for the very first time a panic. It rushed down from my head into my belly and then onward to my extremities. I violently began to shake again, and even though my mind was preoccupied I still heard the glug-glug-glug of blood in a steady flow from my body. It flowed through the wound of my scrotum and into the toilet. It sounded like water being dumped from a plastic jug into a pool of water.

  ‘Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!’ I kept saying, over and over again. I looked down between my legs and thought about just how long it might take for me to bleed out. The blood was a steady stream from my body to the inside of the toilet. I reached back and flushed. I watched the water fill the bowl and realised that the water was already so full of blood that I could not see the bottom of the bowl. I grabbed the wound in my scrotum and squeezed it shut. I was worried that I was not going to be able to complete this job. Too much bleeding; just way too much bleeding.

  I stood up and went to the door. I pulled the sheet away from the door and looked out of the window. No one was walking around, and the officer in the tower looked as if he was sleeping. I moved the sheet back and went and flushed the toilet. As I stood there and watched the bowl fill up with fresh water, I resolved in my mind that I truly needed to hurry up and cut off the other testicle. After getting it, I pulled it to the surface of the cut and held it there with my left hand. The bleeding was enormous and I began to feel faint for the first time.

  I grabbed the razor and, before cutting, I glanced at the clock. It was already 2.30 p.m. I had been doing this for 40 minutes. At least ten to fifteen minutes of heavy bleeding. No wonder I was feeling faint, with cold chills up and down and throughout my body. Shaking these thoughts out of my head, I began to cut again, except now my nerves were shot and I was afraid I was going to die.

  I did not want to die. That was not what I was trying to accomplish. All I wanted was to rid my body of that nasty hormone testosterone. All I wanted was to feel like a normal person, one step closer to being a woman. I didn’t want to feel what it was like and then die because I bled out.

  The testicle slipped from my grasp. I breathed out heavily. I was exhausted and frustrated. I was afraid that if I were not able to finish the job I would never get this chance again. I did not want to accept this scenario. So I reached into my scrotum yet again with my right hand.

  ‘Godammit! Where the fuck is it!’ I exclaimed, as I shoved three fingers as far as they would go into my scrotum. I was searching around and could not find anything which felt remotely like the left testicle, which must have swum away inside my body somewhere.

  Slipping my pinky into the wound, I shoved my hand up inside my body, searching frantically for that illusive left testicle. I could hear the news report of this inside my head: ‘This just in … She-Ra the prison giantess, while trying to feel more feminine, opted to remove her testicles using only a razor blade pulled from a disposable razor. During the attempt, and after the removal of one of the dreaded hormone makers, the other testicle decided enough was enough, packed its bags and left for a vacation somewhere inside her lower abdomen. The medical term for this phenomenon is retraction. However, it is our belief that, given the fate of its neighbour to the right, el lefty testosteroni’s true desire was to hang around for another thirty-nine-and-a-half years rather than having to swim the septic canal like its dearly departed, el righty testosteroni, is doing now.’

  I practically shoved my entire hand through the wound in my scrotum, looking for the testicle. At one point I could feel my bladder and then something large and squishy, which I believed was part of my intestines. Fed up, I stopped the search and began instead to look for the severed spermatic cord where my right testicle used to be. I searched frantically for almost a minute and then, resolved in my failure, I looked at the clock and it read 2.40.

  I removed my hand from inside my body and began to ball up toilet paper and shove it inside the wound of my scrotum. Then I patched up the cut with more toilet paper. I had to name my creation the Bloody Van Gogh Toilet Paper Stucco Nut Sack. I stood up on shaking legs and went to the door. I removed the sheet from the door, looked out the window and yelled for help.

  Here’s what happened to the rest:

  Grim – Is being held in a county jail on murder charges, facing the death penalty. Several prisoners, including Grim, gave a man unable to pay a drug debt poisoned hooch – but he didn’t die, so they injected him with a ‘hot shot’, an overdose of heroin. Again, he didn’t die, so they hanged him in his cell from the top bunk and stole his property: a TV, clothes, commissary …

  Shannon – After my release, Shannon continued to blog and expose injustice at Persevering Prison Pages. With ADOC clamping down on prison blogging, he was moved five times in a year and lost his early release. He won a lawsuit against ADOC – they had failed to treat his hepatitis C for nine years – and bought a house. An Irish reader of Jon’s Jail Journal emailed me, requesting a pen pal. I recommended Shannon. After a year of sending letters, she flew to Arizona, started visiting him in prison and they fell in love. Shannon was r
eleased earlier this year. He is now married to the Irish lady, who is pregnant with their boy.

  Jack – Was diagnosed with cancer and lost the fingers from one hand. Reading his latest letters, I feel the same kind of sadness I felt for Two Tonys:

  Hello my friend, it’s been too long since I wrote. In my defense, I’ve been fighting medical issues. I’ve been in and out of the hospital for the last two years. I became extremely sick and collapsed on the road outside of my housing unit after Medical refused to see me. I had to be flown to the hospital. It was touch and go for a few days. I was in the Intensive Care Unit for a week and then another week in recovery. I had 23 blood transfusions before I was stabilized. Turns out that I have advanced-stage cancer, small lymphocytic lymphoma, stage IVb. Basically that means I’m near the end, at least that’s what the oncologist says. I think I’ll fool him and live a while longer. I’m in a running argument with Medical about flushing my chemo port. The state paid $8,500 to have the port installed but won’t spend $20 a month to keep it working properly, not to mention the serious implications the clots could have on my health. I went five months without them flushing it and had to go to the chemo clinic and have them flush it with special chemicals that dissolve the clots. OK, I’m done whining.

  Shaun, thank you for everything you have done for me and those of us who are still incarcerated. You have gone above and beyond to bring a ray of hope and normalcy to our lives. Take care of yourself and continued success in whatever you undertake.

  I’m doing relatively OK. I have the usual aches and pains, but nothing too extreme. The COIII [counsellor] for my building called me into his office last week and gave me paperwork for a living will and a durable healthcare power of attorney. He said that he wanted to make sure that my wishes for my healthcare were documented and not left up to some DOC bureaucrat. The living will is pretty much your standard boiler plate. I have a hard time believing that the state would keep a prisoner alive on a machine for an indefinite period of time. The cost would be astronomical – and the taxpayers would lose their collective minds to be footing that bill. My real concern is where my remains end up. I know it’s silly, but I don’t want to end up buried in a DOC graveyard with my DOC number as my grave marker. It’s like the state wins in the end, and I’m stuck for an extended time, even after death, as a prisoner in the state of Arizona. What I want is to be cremated and to have my ashes dumped in the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately, the state won’t do cremations if the prisoner’s body isn’t claimed. I’m trying to convince several of my family members that this is what I want, but so far I’m not getting much cooperation of any kind. Right now my concern is that they will leave me for the state to dispose of. But since I’m not dying tomorrow, I’ve got a little more time to work on them.

  Bud – During 2012, Bud was working as a building porter for 25 cents an hour. His disciplinary tickets included tattooing, testing positive for drugs, possession of drugs and tampering with security. He was released on 5 November 2012.

  Ken – Earned more disciplinary tickets than Bud. On his 2009 release date, he was transported to Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Tower’s jail and to LA County jail. He served a short sentence in California. His Facebook page shows him riding a motorbike and engaged to a lap dancer.

  Magpie – Released before me, Magpie never got in touch about visiting England.

  Frankie – For heroin possession, Frankie’s sentence was extended by five years. He wrote that after his release in 2013 he was going to get a passport in Mexico so he could visit my ‘hairy ass’ to show that ‘Frankie ain’t no joke’ and to ‘try out English booty or pussy’, as he’s ‘just got to have it’. Since his release early in 2013, I’ve managed to track him down and chat on the phone. Some of our conversations are on the YouTube channel Shaun Attwood. With no job and a criminal record, he’s struggling to make ends meet. He said every time he walks past a bank, he’s tempted to rob it, but he doesn’t want to go back to prison. In church, a pastor walked all of the way to the back of the congregation and asked Frankie what his story was. Frankie replied, ‘I’ve just served 29 years in prison and it wasn’t nice.’

  George – Has 32 years left to serve. He is a recreation clerk, earning 40 cents an hour. He occasionally writes to see how the governor is doing.

  Weird Al – Is gravely ill in a nursing home due to advanced hepatitis C contracted during a blood transfusion. I asked him to impart his most important life lesson. His response: ‘Take the bad with the good.’ When he first told me that he might die, I replied that I loved him and broke down crying on the phone. Since I told him that the prison had stopped the pain medication issued to Jack for his cancer, rendering Jack in so much agony that he told me he wants to die, Weird Al has started a campaign to help Jack.

  Iron Man – Released in 2010. Iron Man sent this message on Facebook:

  Sorry, Brother, for not getting back to you sooner, working my ass off. Yes, I am the top sales tech in the city of Flagstaff. Things are going great, on my way to sign the lease on one of my rental properties. The amazing books I memorized in prison are paying off in spades as I make the most of every moment … and Live Life in Every Breath …

  L&R Always

  Iron Man

  PS. Remember that 40-minute run we did in the 110-degree heat?

  Long Island – Doubled his money in gold futures but reverted to crime. He made headline news for hitting an officer with a car. Released on 22 April 2012, he remains free and is finishing a Bachelor’s degree in information technology. He turned 38 this year and is grateful for every day he spends free – even if the financial empire he planned never happens.

  Midnight – Was released to a halfway house in Tucson. He died from cancer.

  Slingblade – Unable to sort out a release address, Slingblade is still inside almost a decade after he was eligible to be freed on parole. Senator John McCain – who purports to help Vietnam veterans but is a recipient of massive political contributions from private prisons – didn’t respond to my request to investigate Slingblade’s situation. I’m hoping this book will raise his profile sufficiently for some organisation to come forward to help him.

  Junior Bull – Has settled down into legitimate business interests as a chef at Café North in Scottsdale. With his sister Karen a star of the reality TV show Mob Wives and Gerard making cameo appearances, interest in the Gravano family is at an all-time high. His father, ‘Sammy the Bull’ Gravano, is eligible for release in 2019 from a super-maximum-security prison in Florence, Colorado, which has the highest level of security in the US federal penitentiary system.

  Claudia – On 31 July 2012, Claudia announced her engagement on Facebook. In 2013, she got married and is now pregnant. Forever in her debt, I wish her all the happiness she deserves.

  Jade – In 2008, Jade flew to England. In London, she led me on a pub crawl. We drank endless pints of cider and walked for miles, with her raining mockery down on me for being unable to match her alcohol intake and striding stamina. The passion that had simmered over the years erupted and we ended up in bed. Luckily, my fear of sexual incapacity wasn’t realised. I tried to put on the performance of a lifetime – to really impress on her the advantages of dick-lifts – so imagine how I felt the next day when she woke up and declared she’d been so drunk she couldn’t remember a thing.

  We got along great, but sadly back in Tucson Jade fell seriously ill with a form of ulcerative colitis that wouldn’t respond to treatment, rendering her unable to do much, including come to the UK. After everything she did for me, I desperately wanted to see her, but logistics conspired against us. Banned from America, I couldn’t move there either. We kept in touch by phone, but months passed and rolled into years, with her wiped out physically and mentally and under the threat of having part of her colon surgically removed. Eventually, our romance petered out. Fortunately, she felt well enough in the past year to return to work. I still feel close to her when we speak on the phone and we’ll always be part of each othe
r’s lives.

  Me – So much has happened since my release, I don’t know where to start. My first year out, I was institutionalised. My mum said I was like a puppy dog following her around the house, awaiting orders. I applied for psychotherapy in my hometown but was told there was a two-year waiting list. The psychiatrist prescribed me medication for the seriously mentally ill and threatened to double my dosage when I protested. The side effects ranged from clouding my mind so that I was unable to think clearly enough to write to my erections not fully forming – counteracting what I strove to achieve with dick-lifts! I flushed the pills down the toilet. I applied to do a creative writing Master’s degree at the University of Liverpool but was rejected for having no college-level English qualifications.

  After a year of living with my parents, I moved near to London, hoping to start work and to give the mental-health team the slip, as they were insisting on home visits and threatening to imprison me in a mental hospital for refusing to take my medication. I started doing talks in schools for Tony McLellan, who had heard a BBC Radio 4 interview I had done with Eddie Mair the day after I was released. The first talk was to Year 11 at Bishop’s Stortford College. I was so nervous, I couldn’t eat my breakfast. At the front of the hall, I paced like a prisoner in a cell for an hour, unable to look at the audience – more afraid of the students than the gangsters and murderers I’d been living with – raw nervous energy crackling off me, sweat leaching through my black shirt, my thoughts and pulse on overdrive, my mind overwhelmed by a rush not dissimilar to what I felt when I first tried crystal meth. Afterwards, I called my mum: ‘I’m not cut out for public speaking. They must have thought I was a lunatic.’ With limited job prospects due to my criminal record, I became depressed. A few months after the talk, the school emailed: