Oxnard—Here I sit, hoping to get down to LA, so I can get my pre-transplant workup done and hopefully, God willing, get off that machine.
MEANWHILE, the multi-billion-dollar kidney industry is doing everything it can to keep me on the machine for the rest of my life.
I had my second official transplant social worker to go along with a recent psychiatrist evaluation, which I did not take well. Like usual, I asked the transplant coordinator lots of questions, and I received no straight answers. I’m sure I was deemed hostile; they evaluate continually, and I was passed along a couple of times, until they found a social worker willing to speak with me.
That’s not a problem, and I prepared multiple jokes for the day. They were over an hour late getting online with me, but I greeted the woman with a multitude of jokes to open the session using Daisy, waiting for ice cream, and Buddy’s newly found need to rumble with Daisy, and I used my best wrestling announcer voice, which made her laugh.
In other words, I am not a hostile person, unless somebody is trying to control my life and keep me chained to…
