I warn my youngest son that his brother has lost quite a bit of weight (at last weigh in, over 40 lbs) and is skin and bones. Still he is shocked when he sees his brother for the first time in 18 months and asks me, "Is that him?!"
"Yes, yes it is", I reply. More below the orange shackles.
I try to visit my son at least every 3-4 months. It's difficult, not to mention expensive, since he's serving his time in a prison 8 hours away from home. My traveling companion on this trip is my youngest son. We spend the drive down talking about his new job, his recent break up with his girlfriend (not his choice) and other topics that come up out of the blue. I rarely get to enjoy one on one time with him and am relishing the moment. At the same time I'm a bundle of nerves, as I always am making this trip. I never truly relax until I'm in that visiting room and see my son.
As with any trip, the planning for this takes a few weeks, time to juggle schedules, making hotel reservations and even deciding what clothes to pack. In this case, no white or brown clothes, no hoodies, no double shirts, no tank tops, nothing too revealing, no hats. I remind my son to pack jeans, a polo, and sneakers, thinking that would be the least offensive to the guards. Yep, just like any trip.
We arrive at the hotel Friday night and unpack for the next morning's visit. My son realizes he forgot to pack his sneakers. The only footwear he has is a pair of Army boots. I debate about running out and buying him a cheap pair. I am in absolute fear of him being turned away by the guards for not having the 'correct' footwear. My son does not understand my concern. All I can think of is that drive, that long 8 hour drive and then being dependent on someone else's good mood as to whether we get to visit our loved one. He talks me down and we settle in for the night. 6:15 AM comes awfully early.
In the morning we pack everything up, eat breakfast and head to the prison, 30 minutes from the hotel. Registration for visitation begins at 7:45 and lasts until 8:45. We arrive at 8:20, plenty of time to go through the process which begins like this: we remove all jewelry, empty pockets, remove jackets even though it's 46 out this morning. We carry in only our approved ID and one set of car keys, everything else is locked in the car.
We wait in the vestibule until one of the two guards at the front reception desk calls us forward. We hand him our IDs and car key. He asks who we are visiting and I tell him the name. So far, so good. He hands us some paperwork, stamps our hands (just like Disney!) and off we go to the metal detector and pat down area. Yes, pat down area. This is where I'm concerned my son's boots may be a problem. I go first, knowing the drill. After the detector I stand with my arms and legs spread, it's something I'll never get used to. My son is waiting for his turn at the detector and he goes through without a hitch. And much to my relief, he is allowed in with his boots. A weight is lifted from my shoulders. We enter the first 'room' and wait for the sliding locked door to be closed behind us. We are facing another sliding locked door which opens when the first one is securely closed. We enter the actual visiting room and hand the guard at the desk the paperwork given to us out front. He then has us show our stamp under the black light. This procedure changes every time I visit. Last visit in July (my mom was with me then), we showed the stamp on our way out. I thought it was a precaution of an inmate leaving, if you don't have a stamp, you don't leave. This visit blew my theory out of the water.
We find a place to sit, visitors face one way, prisoners sit opposite, no deviation allowed. I feel myself finally relaxing. The room is half filled with family and friends waiting and talking quietly. I recognize several people from my previous visits, a mom and her now toddler daughter and a young woman visiting her young man. One distinguished elderly man is missing today, I wonder what has happened and hope for the best, that his loved one has been released.
The room is painted brightly with cartoon characters and Disney images but in contrast signs are posted stating "Inmates are not allowed to handle money", "Inmates are not allowed to use the vending machine", "Inmates must remain behind the red line", "Please teach your children that JAIL is a four letter word". Ah, a crazy world. There is a table with childrens' books, about 9 of them, but in very poor condition with rips and pages missing. I vow to donate books for the visitation room for the wee ones that visit their dads.
We wait for our loved ones to enter, 10 minutes, 15 and finally about 20 minutes later the security door to the left opens and the room erupts. Enter the men, all shapes, sizes, nationalities but all with smiles on their faces. The noise level is so high that my hearing aides automatically shut down. I had told my youngest son that the noise is almost unbearable and it makes for extreme difficulty holding a conversation. I see my son enter with a large envelope in his hands. While he is walking to the front desk to drop off the package is when my youngest son is shocked at his appearance. I can't wait to give him a hug, it's been too long.
We exchange hugs and the brothers start talking above the noise. I just look at my son, he seems more gaunt. I know he's been battling depression and can't eat on many days. He has new glasses which fit him better than the old pair. His pants hang on him and the long sleeves on his shirt only enhance his lack of weight. This prison does have a real barbershop though so his hair is cut and his beard neatly trimmed. He looks ok. At times it seems the minutes drag by, and other times it's warp speed ahead. His days hardly vary so conversation on his part is stilted, not much news to share. We fill him in on favorite sport teams, family updates, local news. Ninety minutes later the guards call for the inmates to get their ID and stand against the back wall. The visitors are instructed to move to the front of the room. Last hugs and kisses are shared. I whisper in my son's ear to have a good Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas. I will not see him again until after the New Year. As they stand in line waiting for the secure door to be opened, greetings and waves are exchanged across the room. Last minute "I love you"s can be heard. This is the hardest part for me. My son is toward the back of the line and as it moves forward to the door, I sit and wonder how this is happening. He gives one last wave as he disappears into the secure room.
After the inmates are gone most of the visitors are quiet. The change in the atmosphere is palpable. I am called up front to sign for the envelope my son dropped off. Only later, in the car, am I able to view the drawings he's made for Christmas presents. I am amazed once again at his talent. We wait another hour until we are allowed to leave. Head counts and searches take a lot of time. The process is reversed on our way out, two sliding security doors to pass through but no detector, no pat down. At the final door, the guard says, "Have a good day! Come back soon!" which makes me giggle.
Previous diaries on my son's incarceration and its effect on my family:
Diary 1
Diary 2