On the Move

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Hotep,

For months, I’ve been concealing the fact that my strained Achilles tendon was a misdiagnosis. The last time I spoke about my condition, I was using my city as an eponym for my corrective boot. We’ll “Philly” was not an adequate solution for a partially Achilles tendon. To say the least, it’s been a painful experience. Maybe not as painful as watching my Philadelphia Eagles this year, but my left heel is a definite benefactor of some unnecessary roughness. SMH.

Many people read this blog. I felt that it was in my best interest to hold off on the surgical particulars until after the deed was done. Some blood-thirsty detractors would claim that my surgery is a waste of hard earned tax dollars. The irony of that logic is sadly amusing: If you’re concerned about wasted tax dollars why would you support a death penalty swarmed by uncertainties? The use of faulty crime labs and the dishonesty of some politicians have been burning tax dollars long before my Achilles tendon was in need of medical assistance. Na mean?

On the morning of 12/6/2011 I was escorted to the receiving area of the prison. There was a cat in a wheelchair that resembled R&B crooner “Jon B.” He was being processed for release. He was so excited about going home that he naturally assumed I was being processed for release as well.

Jon B tried to disguise his shock with optimism when I told him I was on death row. I’m sure if he hadn’t been bound to a wheelchair he would’ve taken a couple of steps backwards. “Don’t give up man. You’ve got a lot of people fighting for you.” The departing words of a cat that may never cross my path again. As I watched “Jon B” roll out of that prison holding cell and back onto the streets, I thought out loud: “Damn. With or without feet, being on the move is ever-so-sweet.”

I was shackled in full restraints and taken to Duke-Raleigh Hospital by 3 C.O.’s. The medical staff was accommodating, making me feel comfortable and speaking to me like a person, not a prisoner. Asante, nurse Lois.

The whole process was simple: I checked in, put on a gown and went to sleep. Then I woke up with a soft cast covering my left foot. I hadn’t eaten all day. It was well after 5pm when the anesthesiologist offered me some ginger ale. Ahhhh! My favorite soft drink.

I literally rolled back into unit 3, death row housing unit in a wheelchair. Still groggy from my previous comatose state, I was quite agitated by the sergeant’s refusal of me returning to my 2^nd floor housing area. In hindsight, I can’t blame him for taking extra precautions concerning my surgical procedure. Walking up and down 3 flights of stairs wouldn’t be conducive to my condition. Na mean?

All of my personal belongings on Pod 6 were transported downstairs to Pod 4. I’m able to get around much easier, but I’ve grown accustomed to being around Bigg Dogg, Dushame and Smoke Digga. A majority of the ball players are upstairs and the college and basketball seasons are just getting underway. Feel me?

I’ve been on crutches 3 times since I’ve been in prison. Basketball has been a bittersweet experience inside this box. Although the sport has temporarily crippled me, it’s also a motivating factor in my recovery. The doctor says I should be on crutches approximately 6 weeks. Imagine that! I’m already on the move. Ya heard?

Much Love,

MannofStat

Copyright ©2012 by Leroy Elwood Mann