Surviving a Staph Infection in Prison

Tutankhamon Waterman explains how a staph infection in prison became a life-changing experience, exposing the dangers of unsanitary tattooing and medical neglect behind bars.

In the early 2000s, I had a staph infection that changed my life forever. I was chasing tattoos like most incarcerated men do. I sat with the best tattooist in the prison and made a plan to get five of them before I returned to my kitchen duties on Friday.

I had my celly watching out for me in the day room as my tattooist snuck into my cell. This was during the summer heat, so I needed multiple fans to keep us cool. I had them, but we still sweated as he used his makeshift tattoo gun to draw art around my body.

Each day, we would get a tattoo done. I was never concerned with catching an infection, because I never knew I could.

When the Staph Infection Began

The day I had my left arm done with a wild-looking, cloaked spirit, I noticed a whitehead bump. It didn’t bother me, because the tattooist said it was just the ink pushing up under my skin. He explained that it would go away if left alone. Cool.

The next morning, I had another whitehead bump. It hurt to touch. This was a few days before heading back to work in the kitchen. So, I just sat back and didn’t think about them. When my tattooist came to my cell, he asked to look at my arm, and that’s when he freaked out. They told me I had a staph infection.

Ignoring the Warning Signs of Staph

Instead of doing the right thing and going to medical, we decided to pop the whiteheads. We cleaned them, then kept moving. Stupid, because I didn’t know what I was up against.

The next day, my arm swelled up, so much so that when I squeezed it, I left indentations from my hands. Even my leg had a giant whitehead pop up on my knee. We popped it, and that’s when I began bleeding pink and brown pus from the open wound.

Medical Neglect and a Fight for Survival

I couldn’t deal with it any longer, so I headed to medical. The on-duty nurse said he couldn’t do anything but give me aspirin. I lashed out. My leg and arm didn’t stop bleeding that disgusting pus. Even so, I was back in my cell, quarantining myself.

I washed everything I touched with cleaning chemicals so that nobody could catch what I had. I stayed away from my kitchen job. I wasn’t going to be stupid and place anybody at risk for my poor thinking.

The Wrong Medication

I was finally called to medical on Monday. Yes, the entire weekend, nobody came and placed me in quarantine or checked on me. I just bled that disgusting pus. I cried when I was alone. I swore to God that I would never get another tattoo in prison again.

The nurse told me to get the tattooist to toss his tattoo gun away and gave me a horse-sized pill to take for a week. But the pills were not for a staph infection. My entire body turned apple red.

At work, people whispered behind my back, spreading cruel rumors about my appearance. I worked quietly, alone with my thoughts.

The Wake-Up Call and Lesson Learned

When I was transferred to another prison, the doctor there asked why I was taking those pills. I told him I had a staph infection. He looked at me and said, “You’re lucky. What they gave you was wrong. If that staph infection had reached your bones, you would be dead.”

Tears filled my eyes. That day, I promised myself never to play with my health again. Now, I wash the phones I use, clean the showers before getting in, and always wash my hands when I return to my cell.

The Importance of Health and Hygiene in Prison

Prison is an enclosed environment, and with that comes all kinds of health issues. I’m glad I’m alive. I’m glad that I now know what to do for my well-being and for others. This story is true and a warning to others: take care of your health. Take care of it always.

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