"I live in what is known as a wet cell. Those of us in the honor unit have the privilege (along with those in segregation and the women in the structured living unit) of living in a room with a combined toilet and sink in our cell.

General population cells do not have such facilities and the women there must use community bathrooms comprised of private stalls. The good news for us is we only share our facilities with our roommate and during lockdown we don’t have to deal with the fear and frustration of being let out to use the bathroom. The bad news is that our facilities are public–in full view of anyone walking by our cells–and it isn’t always so convenient to have a toilet 6 feet from your bed.

Nonetheless I have discovered some useful purposes for the commode so that it has become a valued multipurpose piece of furniture. For example, after recreation the other day when I had walked too far too fast in too much heart and my feet were blazing, burning, throbbing stumps on the ends of my legs, the obvious place to cool them off was in the chill waters of the toilet.

I persuaded my ever-patient roommate to press the flush button repeatedly while I soaked one foot at a time in the churning waters, those ice cold eddies on my sizzling feet could not be topped by the most exquisite spa.

The toilet also makes a good chair. My roommate and I use it to play cards or board games more comfortably; the winner of the hand gets to sit on the throne.

Of course there is also a downside. Not so long ago, early in the morning, I stumbled, my hand snatching at air, I fell elbow deep into those freezing waters. More than once, we’ve had to fish objects out that accidentally fell in for 3 points. (On no account can any object larger than a peanut be flushed because of security traps in the plumbing. I have witnessed the floods, overflows, and backwashes that have occurred in other rooms where people more adventurous than I have experimented with flushing paper towels). Every time we flush we hover over the bowl peering into it anxiously, “please go down and stay down.”

I realize too that you are imaging a porcelain home model. Our throne is an industrial stainless steel model that roars like a jet engine. The sound of the flush is so large and overwhelming my roommate and I give each other warning. The people next door always flush at the denouement of any movie or TV show we are watching. Thus we miss whole chunks of the news and mystery to Niagara Falls surges.

The roar of water has become integral to my life. I have had intense dreams of sculptural waterworks where the viewer could interact with the set made of glass tubes and shiny steel knobs: Pull a lever here, twizzle a faucet there and experience the ebb and flow of plumbing. In my dreams this artful plumbing gurgles and burbles restfully rather than drowning out the thoughts in my head. My neighbor’s flush awakens me and blots out all imaginings.

Today the throne is in my way. While working on a jigsaw puzzle, I cracked my head on it. Not that I am complaining, mind you. I can remember having to use a milk carton in the holding cells in London. And some English prisons still use chamber pots, so I do appreciate the privilege of in-house plumbing knowing that plumbing at all is a beautiful thing.

There is however a difference between having a bathroom in your house and living in your bathroom. I guess you could quip that my life is getting closer and closer to being flushed down the drain!" (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, August 17, 2006).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is one of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'