When he did return, he was wheelchair-ridden, disoriented and weakened by cancer. The prison’s medical director was on leave, and no one seemed to want to say where he was or when he might return. Gedney soon learned that he was an inmate. Her staff was comprised of a nurse who showed no warmth to anyone, a physician’s assistant who seemed immune to Gedney’s authority, and a competent, cooperative x-ray technician who turned out to be one of the few people willing to answer the doctor’s questions directly. The new doctor struggled to find her bearings during her first weeks and months treating prisoners. His question would turn out to be a reasonable summary of one of the main themes of Gedney’s next few years. “Why the hell don’t they tell me anything?” he muttered. Several years earlier, she’d accepted a full scholarship to med school in return for a four-year appointment in an underserved area.īut there was nothing on the gate officer’s clipboard to confirm that he should have been expecting her. She announced that she was there to start her new job as prison doctor. She summoned her courage and walked across the parking lot to the gatehouse. Karen Gedney drove up to the Northern Nevada Correctional Center, a compound of gray buildings, chain-link fences and guard towers in Carson City.
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