Janice McClain climbed aboard the van at a stop in downtown Indianapolis and took a seat among a dozen or so other travelers on a recent September day. They were all women and were all on their way to visit children, spouses and fianc茅s in prison.
Janice has been catching a ride for more than ten years to visit 35-year-old Edward Hobson, who goes by Pearyl. Janice calls Pearyl her 鈥渒nee baby,鈥� remembering the child glued to her knee as a toddler. (Though Pearyl identifies as transgender, Janice speaks of Pearyl as her 鈥渟on鈥� and uses male pronouns.)
Sixteen years ago, Pearyl went to prison for murder. Back then, Janice struggled to stay in contact and her health suffered. 鈥淚 mean, I passed out the day of his trial,鈥� she recalled. 鈥淚 just passed out on the floor.鈥� She said she鈥檚 been sick ever since.
Cecelia Whitfield, owner of the bus, lead the women in prayer. 鈥淭he only reason I鈥檓 still here is because of prayer,鈥� she said before she began.
The women echoed her sentiment: 鈥�础尘别苍.鈥�
Since 1988, Whitfield has given thousands of families rides to prisons across Indiana through her prison ministry, called Use What You鈥檝e Got.
It鈥檚 a bus service that helps families in Indianapolis stay connected. Research shows when someone goes to prison, the health of their family members at home can suffer. But many families don鈥檛 have cars or an easy way to get to prison. Whitfield鈥檚 bus tries to fill the gap.
It all started while Whitfield was visiting her son, who was incarcerated. On those trips she met many families needing rides. Several years later, she bought a school bus on layaway and painted it purple and white. Whitfield took out a mortgage on her home, and used that to pay off the bus and get insurance. She named her prison ministry after her mother鈥檚 favorite saying: Use What You鈥檝e Got.
Now, Use What You鈥檝e Got Prison Ministry has two 15-passenger vans. They travel to 16 prisons, plus juvenile detention centers around the state.
Healing touch
In Whitfield鈥檚 26 years driving families, she鈥檚 seen how stress, depression and anxiety lead to bigger health issues. It鈥檚 what motivates her work.
Whitfield and her driver Linda talk about the importance of the touch a lot.
鈥淭he one health thing for the people in the prison is the importance of the touch and the hug,鈥� she said.
She pulled up a message Linda recently shared with her on Facebook.
鈥淩esearchers have discovered something fantastic. When a hug lasts 20 seconds, there is a therapeutic effect on the body and mind,鈥� Whitfield read. The post continued to list the benefits of hugs, 鈥渢o calm our fears and anxiety,鈥� said Whitfield.
There鈥檚 science that supports this Facebook post. show that hugging can protect people from stress-related illness. But if your loved ones are far away in prison, lack of affectionate touch can be a health hazard.
The Ella Baker Center For Human Rights, a human rights organization in Oakland, California, led a of formerly incarcerated people and family members affected by incarceration in communities across 14 states to learn about the financial and physical health effects.
鈥淥ne of the things we found was individuals reporting regular contact with their family members were less likely to report negative health outcomes associated with incarceration,鈥� said Zachary Norris, executive director of the Ella Baker Center. And those surveyed reported numerous health consequences including depression, anxiety and post traumatic stress disorder.
Norris said when families can鈥檛 stay in touch, 鈥渋t can be extremely stressful and extremely frustrating and really denies people what makes them human, which is family connection.鈥�
Other shows the health impact extends beyond families. Communities with the highest rates of incarceration also report the highest rates of anxiety and depression. This is true for people who didn鈥檛 even have a family member who was incarcerated. Simply living in a place with high rates of incarceration can affect your health.
Parting and heartbreak
Janice used to drive six hours round trip to see Pearyl at Indiana State Prison, a maximum-security prison in northern Indiana.
During her first visit, the prison turned her away. She said she cried for nearly three hours, 鈥渃rying and praying,鈥� until they let her in.
Pearyl isn鈥檛 the first child Janice lost. Her two older sons died 鈥� one got hit by a car, another was shot. So when Pearyl left, Janice鈥檚 blood pressure skyrocketed, resulting in multiple trips to the ER.
鈥淭he depression just set in, where basically I just didn鈥檛 care,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 wasn't taking my medication like I was supposed to. I wasn鈥檛 doing anything like I was supposed to.鈥�
In addition to distance, there are financial barriers to staying in touch. For instance, for a fee, Janice can send Pearyl emails and photos. But 鈥渢hose things are costly to me. Especially because I鈥檓 on a fixed income,鈥� she said.
After four years of making the grueling drive to see Pearyl, Janice鈥檚 heart broke. Literally. A major artery pumping blood from her heart ruptured. Three days later she had a stroke. She lost her ability to speak, read and write 鈥� every way of communicating with Pearyl.
鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 handle it,鈥� she said. 鈥淭he only highlight in my life of my life basically was going to see him.鈥�
While in rehab, Janice鈥檚 primary care physician wrote the prison, asking on Janice鈥檚 behalf to move Pearyl closer to home. The letter explained what she had been through with her health.
鈥淪he is medically unable to travel to visit him in her current health state,鈥� the doctor wrote. Janice鈥檚 recovery depended on seeing Pearyl. Her doctor鈥檚 words helped. The prison moved Pearyl 20 minutes away, a more manageable distance for Janice to ride. Her speech gradually returned.
from 2005 found, on average, adults are housed in prison more than 100 miles from their families. This makes it hard for families to visit loved ones, said Kim Gilhuly of the Human Impact Partners, a public health advocacy group focused on the health impacts of incarceration.
Her group has facilitated many focus groups with families of incarcerated people to discuss the health impacts of incarceration.
鈥淭here鈥檚 always conversation about how difficult it was to not be in touch with their loved one,鈥� she said.
鈥淎 sense of relief.鈥�
These days, Janice gets a ride with Whitfield鈥檚 bus service. The families who ride chip in what they can for bus maintenance. It was Pearyl who noticed the flyer on the prison bulletin board and told her about it.
Once they arrived at the prison, Janice waited in her socks, holding a styrofoam bowl full of quarters for a vending machine lunch with Pearyl.
Women ahead of her in line struggled to get through the metal detector. 鈥淚s there underwire in your bra?鈥� a guard asked. Another guard offered a staple remover to the woman setting off the metal detector. She heads to the bathroom to try and cut the metal out of her bra. Janice removed the wiring in hers at home.
Two hours later, Janice returned to the bus with a photo. Pearyl鈥檚 arms are wrapped around Janice, her beige shirt matching Pearyl鈥檚 beige uniform.
鈥淎ny anxiety I may have had yesterday or last week or whatever, all of that is just gone. You know, I feel a sense of relief,鈥� she said.
She and Pearyl talk on the phone since her speech returned, but seeing her child comforts her..
鈥淚鈥檓 just really ecstatic, you know, because I鈥檝e seen my baby,鈥� she said.
Editor鈥檚 note: Side Effects as a rule identifies people by their preferred gender pronouns. Since we weren鈥檛 able to talk to Pearyl directly to confirm a preference, we have avoided referring to Pearyl with pronouns in this story.
Correction: This story has been updated to reflect the correct spelling Pearyl's name and to note that the bus service is pay-what-you-can not free.
This story was produced by , a reporting collaborative focused on public health.
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