In 2013, at the age of 26, I was arrested and detained at Maple Ridge County Jail in a northeastern state. My arrest was the result of a mistake I made—driving without a license and providing the officer with my sister’s name and date of birth in an attempt to avoid a ticket. What started as a moment of panic turned into a nightmare. I was charged with misdemeanor probation violation, stemming from the initial charge of criminal impersonation, and held in jail awaiting my court date. It was my first and only brush with the law.
Roughly four weeks into my incarceration, I began experiencing severe headaches. At first, I brushed them off, thinking they’d go away. But the pain intensified until it became unbearable. I submitted a request to visit the medical office, and after a wait, I was seen by the jail’s Physician Assistant (PA). I described the excruciating pain radiating from my nose to the top of my head. She diagnosed me with a sinus infection and prescribed antibiotics. Relieved to have a diagnosis, I took the medication as instructed, hoping for relief.
A week later, the pain hadn’t subsided—instead, it worsened. It spread to the side of my face and the back of my neck. Desperate, I returned to the medical office and pleaded to be sent to the hospital. The PA dismissed my concerns, suggesting I had an impacted tooth, and refused to send me to the hospital, stating that hospital visits were reserved for emergencies.
The following days were a blur of agony. The pain was so intense that I couldn’t eat, sleep, or move my head without feeling like it would explode. I begged correctional officers and sergeants to help me. Each plea was ignored, and I was repeatedly sent back to my cell. Then, nine days after the headaches began, my symptoms escalated. I developed double vision and, to my horror, discovered I was cross-eyed.
I called my mother in a panic, begging her to intervene on my behalf. She contacted the jail, pleading for them to take me to a hospital, but her efforts were met with reassurances that I was receiving “adequate medical care.”
By the next morning, I couldn’t walk properly. My stride had turned into small, shuffling steps, and I felt as though the world around me was spinning. Despite my obvious physical deterioration, the PA and staff continued to insist that my symptoms were the result of “taking another inmate’s medication,” an accusation I vehemently denied. My requests for hospital care were repeatedly denied, and I was left to endure the pain alone.
Eventually, my condition worsened to the point where I could no longer hold back my screams. A sergeant finally intervened, promising to take me to the hospital. Overwhelmed with relief, I thanked him repeatedly. But instead of taking me to a hospital, I was placed in a constant-watch cell typically reserved for suicidal inmates. I spent the night sobbing, vomiting, and begging for help as a guard silently watched from a desk outside my cell.
By morning, I was at my breaking point. I couldn’t walk, couldn’t see, and couldn’t comprehend why no one was helping me. I was certain I was dying. When a different sergeant finally agreed to take me to the hospital, I felt a glimmer of hope—a feeling I hadn’t experienced in days.
At the hospital, an MRI and CT scan initially showed nothing. However, a spinal tap revealed the truth: I had fungal spinal meningitis. The doctor informed me that if the jail had delayed treatment by even 12 more hours, I would have died. My spinal fluid pressure was so high that it shot out during the procedure.
After 10 spinal taps, heavy-duty antifungal medication, and weeks of recovery, I survived. My family worked with the court to secure my release so I could recover at home without being shackled to a hospital bed under guard. Although I eventually made a full physical recovery, the emotional scars remain.
The neglect I endured left me with severe claustrophobia, PTSD, and persistent nightmares. The trauma has taken a toll on my faith in humanity. Despite the blatant disregard for my health and rights, I was unable to seek justice due to a little-known statute requiring claims against the county to be filed within 90 days of the incident.
This experience left me feeling like less than human—treated as though my life was disposable simply because of a mistake I made. No one deserves to endure the torment I went through, regardless of their circumstances.
Sharing my story is painful, but I hope it serves as a reminder that prisoners are still people, and no one should be denied adequate medical care. Our humanity should not be contingent upon our legal status.
