A Journey Through Disease to Transplant in America


Story #1

 The End

I was lying on a gurney waiting in the hallway just outside the OR, second floor, Cleveland Clinic Hospital. My very good friend, Adrienne, was still with me having just played a fight song for the elevator trip from the 10th floor down to OR and continuing with a playlist she made just for this occasion.

Here comes this tall young guy with black hair, on the skinny side, and he leans over me, but with his head sideways like mine, and introduces himself.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Hashimoto. Do you think I look old enough to be your transplant surgeon?”

“No. Sixteen isn’t old enough.”

He answered, “Well, I’m 17.”

“Then you’re in.” We both laughed and he rushed off somewhere.

That’s how I met one of the rock stars of liver transplant surgery just before we were going to spend double-digit hours together with about 14 other medical professionals while they performed magic:  They would remove my tired, very sick liver and replace it with the left lobe of a liver from an organ donor who had died many hours before. There were four surgeons, two to three anesthesiologists, scrub nurses and assistants and one perfusionist (who checked my vitals the whole time). Date:  Sunday, May 22, 2016, starting at around 10 a.m., ending 11:30 p.m.


The Beginning

This is the first in a series of articles about my 11-year journey through a liver disease all the way to transplant. There may be around 10 articles, maybe more, or fewer. Eventually, a book.

So far I haven’t found anyone else on Medium writing on the topic of organ transplant, so I thought I’d dive in. Telling the story is semi-to-lots of scary. But honestly, it doesn’t compare to facing death on a regular basis. Once I worked that out, starting this series seemed easy.

Writing this is also an attempt to reach out to others on transplant waitlists, or waiting to get on one, along with their caregivers. There are around 119,000 people in the U.S. who are waiting for a new organ to take the place of their failing one. Along with them are family members and friends – all people caught up in the anxiety, hope, hopelessness, being able to help, feeling helpless at the same time, and wondering what is happening. These stories are reaching out to all of you; my journey is your journey, too. The highest number of those waitlisted are waiting for a new kidney. You can go to UNOS.org and get more information about how they regulate everything related to transplant in this country. It’s an amazing organization, and fascinating how it coordinates all it does.


Here’s an outline to help you move through the story:

#1 – My Life Just Prior to Getting Sick

#2 – The Night I Got Big Pain

#3 – A Discovery During Gallbladder Surgery

#4 – Diagnosis: What is This Liver Disease?

#5 – The Whole Being Sick Part – many sections in #5 (the exciting parts)

Some reading tips: 

I got a brand-new life and was actually healthier post-transplant than before I got sick; a very happy ending. So you might want to think about reading this like it’s a romance novel – you know, you get a few key characters, lots of conflict and tension, and especially drama, lots of drama, very sweet parts where the characters metaphorically (in this story) kiss and make up, and then the Happily Ever After (HEA) ending. But without the sex part (you can make that up yourself). But HEA is guaranteed.


My Life Just Prior to Getting Sick

I was at a point in my life where I was high-functioning, highly motivated and inspired about every aspect of my life. I was 58 years old and had finally landed on a career goal. Yes, late bloomer, and making the most of it. Career goal: To teach writing and English literature to college students. I’d already started doing the teaching and tutoring, and totally loved it. And now I was busy earning a Master’s of Humanities so I’d be eligible for a full-time job as a professor at a community college anywhere in the country – or world. I took two graduate classes each semester, of course with a goal to make all As. Then I spent many hours teaching and prep for that along with hours in the writing center tutoring students face-to-face and online. I was focused and excelling in everything I was engaged in.

I lived in a condo (with a real-live mortgage) in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Denver – Washington Park. I walked around its nearly three-mile circumference (and beautiful gardens, lakes, trees) every single day. I would get to the campus I worked and attended classes via Denver Light Rail, and walked most days to that station a mile away. The Auraria Campus in downtown Denver is large, containing three separate schools (Community College of Denver, Metropolitan State College and University of Colorado at Denver). During the day I walked another three miles at Auraria. I had three part-time jobs to support me and my cat:  Teaching two classes per semester, tutoring in the Writing Center, and contract editing for a large corporation where I had been an employee.

For fun and more exercise, I was taking African dance classes every Saturday, and went to tango classes and attended milongas late Friday nights when I could. I was a milonguera (tango dancer), and proud of it! This was my life and I loved all of it.

I had a lot of good friends and nice acquaintances that came from school and the Writing Center where I tutored writing, from African dance class and a handful from tango (though I liked the dancing much better in Buenos Aires).

I cooked most of my meals, but also ate a lot of takeout Chinese, pizza in the neighborhood and sometimes cooked for friends. I journaled every single morning, without fail, and started that in January 1992. I dreamed of being a writer but was too scared to take the full-on dive. But I had chosen my graduate degree because it allowed a Creative Project in place of a thesis, and mine was going to be my memoir. That’s where I was headed:  Teaching, tutoring and writing. With some trips to Argentina sandwiched in there.


The Night I Got Big Pain

Symptoms began one night during the last week of the second semester of grad school. I was busy preparing my final papers for two classes I was taking, and grading my students’ papers in two classes I was teaching. Then one night I had Big Pain all night long. All night pacing back and forth in my apartment, in the most pain I’d ever experienced. Did I call a friend or an ambulance? Oh no, in denial. And beyond that, I really didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t bend over to look in my files to look up my insurance rules, so I just recalled my card saying University of Colorado and decided that hospital would be good to go to.

By 6 a.m. I called a neighbor who worked at the same hospital I was planning to go to, asked her to drop me off at the ER. She did – literally drop me off. I walked in alone. It was slow there, I told the triage nurse when she asked that my pain level was 10, and she took me right to a cubicle. And the most uncomfortable bed in the world. I got checked over by doctors, residents (teaching hospital), cared for by nurses.

But everyone who checked me over forgot I came in with level 10 pain. I reminded a nurse and got my very first ever shot of morphine. I’d like to say it knocked me right out, but honestly it barely touched the pain.

The pain? It was in the right side of my upper abdomen, where the liver and gallbladder sit. They poked and prodded, sent me to ultrasound (where the doctor was finally called in and pronounced the liver was enlarged).

This is a side story but interesting and eerie. The ultrasound room was in the creepy basement of the old hospital. It was like sliding down into a horror movie. There were closed doors on either side of a long, long, dirty, once white, falling apart hallway. One door was marked “Liver Transplant Research.” I read that and clearly thought this: “I hope I don’t have to have a liver transplant.” Where did that come from? Well, scared already and doped out on morphine? But it rang a little bit true for me.

I was finally admitted after two full days (not the nights, though) in the ER, when I finally spiked a high fever. I stayed in the hospital four nights in the same pain I came in with. Lots of testing but no diagnosis, just questions. I was referred to a surgeon to possibly remove my gallbladder.




Theory of a Fake Election and Collusion


I wrote this the other night after I got tired hearing the Rob Porter story, going round and round about the details we all know by heart now. This is what I thought:

Why doesn’t Mueller indict someone and get this stuff over with. I have a growing theory, though, about the whole Russian collusion/collision, whatever it was.

To add to this theory, helping to firm it up, today, Feb. 16, 13 Russians have now been indicted for “interference in 2016 elections.” Yet their activities extend back to 2014.

Here’s my theory – Putin really wants to wreck our government, from the inside out. That’s his big goal. He doesn’t give damn about Trump. But here comes Hillary Clinton, a formidable opponent that he clearly knows will go head to head with him and won’t take whatever he dishes out – which is a lot of harm to this country and our democracy. As Obama was willing to do, and did. But Trump is completely politically clueless in anyone’s country, so he’s Putin’s best bet to win the presidency, and get out his wrecking ball.

Putin is now laughing his ass off because he has us all running in circles with Trump running things and making this huge mess over here. So his intention in messing with our election, and they did mightily, was to make sure HILLARY did NOT get elected. He doesn’t care a whit about Trump except to know he can manipulate him from here to Timbuktu and back.

And Trump may never have intended – note, intended – to make any deals with Putin other than business stuff to make his own self richer than maybe even Putin. Maybe there never was intentional collusion with the Russians at all.

Trump is a bumbling, dealing, greedy, misogynistic fool, who is not even close to being a billionaire. And he never wanted to be president. He just wanted a new network…you know, like his buddy Roger Ailes had, like Rupert Murdoch has, like Oprah has. But in the end, Trump and his cronies did collude with the Russians. They saw a good thing and wanted to benefit from it. Their day is coming, too.

Trump ran, intending just to get himself a cool television network. But he really lost when he won the presidency. This last piece comes from the Michael Wolff book, Fire and Fury. And it sounds likely to me. This isn’t going to end well. But it is going to end.


Autumn in New York


I wrote this on 4 October 2012 and re-discovered it today while looking for something else on my computer. Seems that I wrote a whole lot in 2012. I still have this very same dream of visiting New York City and going to all these places and experiencing the city in so many ways. And now I’m post-transplant, have my new liver – so why am I languishing in Denver? It’s good to have reminders of your dreams lying about waiting to be seen again.

If you’re a native New Yorker, maybe you’d like to be my tour guide. Ya think?

I’ve always heard New Yorkers talk about the beauty of New York in autumn. The light changes as the leaves change color and fall to the ground and streets. And the sky turns a particular shade of blue that is deeper and more vivid and brilliant than summer’s skies were. They feel magic, New Yorkers say.

I’d like to visit New York City then, but with a homegrown New Yorker who knows where to go and when. Maybe I’d go with Diana Hornick. Walk in Central Park. (Oh, I’d have to go there after a transplant, when I have a new liver.) Find some of those pocket parks and languish in them. Visit Rockefeller Center. Go into St. John the Divine Cathedral. Ride the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building and step outside at the top. I know I wouldn’t walk up to the edge. It’s too frightening to me. Unless they had a high cage around the edge.

I’d want to walk around Manhattan and down to Ground Zero and imagine the twin World Trade Centers there, see the tree that was planted in their memory and in memory of all the people who died there that beautiful autumn day in New York in 2001. (I’m always grateful that my brother David didn’t live to see that happen.) I’d want to walk over to Battery Park on the other side of Ground Zero and watch the tourist boats and the tugboats chug by on the Hudson River. I want to cross the Brooklyn Bridge. Several times. I like bridges.

Museums? No. Galleries? Maybe. Small shops and restaurants and cafes and diners? Yes. Oh yes. I want to meet the people of New York and talk to them and move along the sidewalks with them. I’d want to take pictures with a real camera. Of interesting architecture. Of horses in Central Park, horses with policemen on them. I’d like to talk to cops and take their pictures. And I’d like to talk to mothers and grandmothers. I’d like to visit a famous hospital and a transplant center and have someone take my picture there. I want to find some small bookstores and browse there, buy some books. I want to visit the main New York Library. I don’t know where it is. I need to find out.

Before I’d go there, I would buy a good map of the city and study it the way I studied Paris streets and landmarks and know where to go. Know where I was. I’d like to find the wildlands that Terry Tempest Williams wrote about.

—from my journal, 438 words in 20 minutes


Recovery from Rat Years



Some days it’s great to be me.
Some days it sucks to be me.
It is what it is.
I know only this:
I am in metamorphosis, like Kafka’s Gregor Samsa who woke up one morning and had turned into a big bug. I’m changing now into a new human being with brand-new potential and desires. But I have been Gregor the Bug lately. (And was a Survivor Rat while I was sick.)

In October 2016, about five months after a successful liver transplant, I started feeling odd. Mentally. Emotionally. Since I’m used to moving through those kinds of things fairly quickly – processing through sadness and worry in a week or so – I just went with the flow.

But the usual things weren’t working and I wasn’t coming out of my funk. Instead I had metamorphosed nearly overnight into this useless, awful bug. I’d tell myself should be happy: You have this awesome new liver, and you don’t have to worry about this long grocery list of nightmares anymore, like…

  • Hospitalizations popping up at the most unexpected times
  • Procedures that were the biggest pain in my life
  • Scary events like 12-plus hours of internal bleeding, defying death
  • And god-only-knows-what-other-complications from what should have been just the “normal” hospitalizations from yet another liver infection, and trying to die then, too

I was relieved of all that. And I was having good weekly lab results and the lab visits weren’t too disruptive.

The funk continued. I’d cry a lot. I worried about money. I began having serious motivation problems. I could not get up off the couch and do anything, no matter how much I really wanted to.

Then I had a panic attack one afternoon. I was crying for an hour solid for no apparent reason. What in the hell? A friend asked, “Are you having a panic attack?” I don’t know. I’ve never had one before. What’s it like? Like this. Well, shit. I want it to stop. Now.

I made an appointment to see my internist. She agreed on the panic attack idea, prescribed a few Xanax and referred me to a therapist. This all started in early November, and I saw the therapist the first time on November 21, exactly six months after I’d gotten the call to go to Cleveland to have the life-transforming transplant.

The therapist said, after hearing a compressed version of my story, “I think you’re depressed.” Oh hell no. I don’t get depressed. I get sad for a few days, work it out, then I’m back to whatever is normal for me.

She insisted. I continued to disagree. She saw me for a handful of short visits then referred me to someone I could see long-term at, get this, the Depression Center. I came close to flat-out refusing just because of the name. Get. Out. I pictured a huge, windowless black monolithic tower with its own nasty weather at the top of it.

While all these events were unfolding, I was sitting on my ugly yellow-ish couch at home (I sold that couch) doing absolutely nothing. Maybe a little walking, some Facebook lurking, journaling, reading. But no more writing on any of my projects. Nothing.

It was the flatness and the paralysis I hated most.

Then I realized one day:  I’m trying to run this depression diagnosis the same way I dealt with a liver disease diagnosis. Denial. That might work to some extent for a physical illness. But this, this seeping cloud, undertow, silent but powerful rip? Nope, denial wasn’t going to work. I fought the diagnosis, but I did accept I was grieving the loss of 11 years of my life, all my dreams and goals I’d had before illness struck. I had to give up on all of them. That hurt, a lot.

So how long, I asked, is this grieving thing, depression, whatever you want to call it, going to take me to get over? I was pissed. I had big dreams I’d built into post-transplant, too, you know. This is shit. I wanted to be way into the writing of the book of my transplant journey, and hoping for it to be a guidebook for others on organ waitlists. I yearned to be physically strong again. This was my dance time, but now all I’m up for is sitting on an ugly couch and resisting every urge to get up. Where did my get-up-and-go get up and went? I didn’t even feel like looking for it. I cried a little but I didn’t know why. I just knew my heart ached and I was running out of money for this nonsense.

I kept going to the therapist. I think I performed for her. But sometimes the curtain wouldn’t go up for my act and I was left needing tissues to clean up the snot and tears.

I felt highly embarrassed and guilty. This felt like Big Ingratitude. I didn’t want, most of all, my transplant coordinator Tracey and the rest of my care team at Cleveland Clinic, to know what I was succumbing to. I couldn’t imagine a worse response to such an incredibly beautiful, generous gift. And hell, I didn’t want anyone to know.

But finally I told Tracey and she said, yeah, hon, it happens sometimes. But you’re strong, really strong. You’ll get through this. And I got off the phone and cried some more. Relief. But I still wanted someone to tell me How long. Please. Hint. Throw out a date. I don’t care (as long as it isn’t, in my estimation, too long), just something to shoot for.

I didn’t get a date. But I finally had some rumblings, tiny movements towards a sliver of light. It was so subtle I don’t have any concrete signs to describe. Just itty-bitty nudges, hints I was moving slightly out of my cocoon.

It took almost nine months to gestate into this new being I am still growing into. The bug part has sloughed off and I’m back to life. But this time it’s the new life I began on May 22, 2016, my rebirthday. I feel again like I did post-transplant, with that one phrase running through my head: This is a miracle. It started up as soon as I came out of my post-surgery drug haze, and was a drumbeat always thrumming, reminding me what had just happened. That beat is back, the writing is back, and the new me is evolving.

“…what brings healing is the integration of the past with the strong healthy person you are now. And it may take longer than you think.”

 – Blood Orchids, Toby Neal















Living Like a Rat


“Be like a rat. A rat will do anything to survive.”
—Paul Theroux, Hotel Honolulu

I’ve lived like a rat for a couple of long episodes in my life. Decades at a time, not just a few months. I know people who have lived like a rat for a few months. And others who have done it their whole lives. I don’t know about others living like that, but I didn’t choose that style because it appealed to me, seemed really attractive. I chose it – or it chose me – because I was gnawing to survive. I would do anything I had to do. And I did a lot of things I look back on now and don’t feel pride in them. Except I was, and am, proud of surviving.

But here’s the thing. When you can finally get out of survival mode, it’s hard to stop acting and feeling and seeing yourself as a rat. Rats don’t relax, kick back, see and enjoy beauty – or even look for beauty. Aesthetics is not their deal. Getting a break, making a little headway on any front is what they’re after. It means winning at whatever struggle you’re in.

I am still transitioning from an eleven-year period of real serious illness that involved a hunt for a liver transplant. The disease itself takes a lot of work just to survive. You need a steady roof over your head, health insurance that will take you all the way through transplant, steady income, and support from a group composed of family and friends. A car helps. Except for the support from people, everything else is tied up in money. And you have one, sometimes both, hands tied behind your back to get money.

Once the disease started up, I was shocked at how fast the fatigue set in. And that translates into less or even no work, depending on what you were doing for work. So you get creative. Or, the rat kicks in. Here you are, three to six months into a long-term disease, years from a transplant and the end of it, and you’re already living, thinking, acting like a rat.

How does a rat-human think and act? Here’s what I did. I pushed aside thoughts of illness, any shred of sympathy or softness for myself, and lived mostly in denial. Of illness, disability, taking it easy. I did do things to make sure I was eating okay, taking the meds and supplements the doctor prescribed and recommended, and avoiding the things she told me to avoid (nightshade vegetables, a lot of common herbs, and especially no Chinese mystery herbs). I was compliant.

I was one year into a three-year graduate program and stayed in to complete it. But might have been better off trying to get a good-paying job then. And forget about doing anything even vaguely related to teaching. I was stubborn and determined. Sort of like a rat, but in that instance about the wrong stuff. I could have used some advice then. But probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.

A good rat, a clever rat, would have told me flat-out, “Go for the money. Forget anything else. You have to survive this shit and you need money for it. Not meaning or poetry. Get a grip. Get back to being a rat.”

Eventually I did have to return to Being a Serious Rat when I lost out, in my tenth year of illness, on my sixth potential live donor for transplant. Now, even the rat didn’t like the Live Donor Thing. Even a rat doesn’t like asking people for part of one of their most important organs. That’s over the top even for a rat. But the doctors kept saying, “It’s the only way you’re going to get a transplant.” They left this part out… “before you die waiting.” This time they were the rats. I didn’t want to personally know the person giving me a whole or even part of a liver. Did. Not. So the rat finally spoke up again – tap, tap, “Hey, find a transplant center where they allow anonymous live liver donors.” I asked for help from a huge agency who knew everything there was to know about transplants, and found four centers in the United States who offered exactly that.

I finally got the transplant. A year ago. From a different transplant center in a state 1,500 miles away from Colorado. The rat in me got there in one piece to meet everyone, be evaluated, and put on their waitlist. When I was told I was on the list, the transplant coordinator also told me, “Dana, we’re going to be looking for a liver for you.” No one had ever said that to me.

I could actually stop being a rat because everyone there was helpful, supportive, compassionate and exceptionally competent in everything they did at this center in the city that was home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Then I only waited six weeks before they called me – “Come on up, we have a liver for you” – and sent their private jet to pick up me and my friend. The rat took off. I didn’t need rat qualities anymore.

Now, I’m recovering from those Rat Years. A few months after an incredibly successful transplant with a split liver (a large liver was surgically split and two recipients got new livers and lives), I found myself inexplicably sad and anxious. Seems there were rat reverberations left behind. It’s hard on a human to be a rat. To scratch that hard to survive. To try to forget who you are and deny yourself comfort. It makes a human angry and hateful and, yeah, even depressed. Rats have no time for depression, just its active symptoms like anger and anxiety and sleeplessness. I’m having to excavate, with care, my hidden self that loved beauty, sought meaning, read poetry and strung words together for others to read and enjoy. Yet, I thank the rat for saving me for this day.

God, I want comfort.

An ending and a beginning


When I met with Dr. Koji Hashimoto and Tracey Reynolds, RN, my transplant coordinator, last week in Cleveland, I had a list of 20 questions for him to answer. He said, “Wow,” and then wow again when he saw it was three pages long. I’m curious…

But he took on almost every question, and the three of us chatted for about an hour. In an exam room, out of the hustle and bustle of the clinic. The first question (I’m not going over all of them) was about how many surgeons, who was the anesthesiologist, how many nurses and assistants.

There were a total of 13 to 14 people in the OR at all times. There were two staff surgeons – Dr. Hashimoto was number one and Dr. Masato Fujiki was second in command. There were also two surgeon fellows (I believe – no residents, I know that). Two or three anesthesiologists, several scrub nurses and assistants and a perfusionist.

A perfusionist is better known for their role in cardiac surgery for running the heart-lung machine when the patient is without a heart. That person monitors blood pressure, heart rate, breathing and all related matters. There was a period of time when I had no liver.

I was amazed at the number of people there for the whole ten-hour procedure.

I asked who dictated the operative report and Dr. Hashimoto grinned and said, “I did! Do you want a copy?” Wow, I hit the jackpot. Of course I did!

Other items of interest –

  • There were no pictures of the old liver (right lobe was atrophied) or the left lobe of the new liver I received.
  • Dr. H. made the first incision, on the left side of my abdomen extending up to the midline and then down on the right to just above my waistline (I don’t think surgeons call it the “waistline,” just sayin’).
  • The first incision took place at 2:42 pm on 5/22/16, and was closed at 11:13 pm, 5/22/16 – nine-and-a-half hours. I went up to the OR around 11 a.m. so there was lots of prep.

There were two paragraphs in the report that made me weep. When I read “We mobilized the liver,” I knew what was coming. And four short sentences, one dissection and five transections of blood vessels later came this – “…to complete recipient total hepatectomy.” My now-disconnected old liver was then lifted it out of my body. End of that journey.

Then there was some merging of hepatic veins between donor and recipient to “create a venous cuff for anastomosis,” and then this next paragraph:

“We brought the new liver in.” I stopped there for a long time. I’m pretty sure Tracey was in the OR, too, because she told me how they hooked it up to me and it “got all pretty and pink.” Dr. Hashimoto wrote, however, “We reperfused the liver without difficulty.” Same as pretty and pink!

At the end of my questions, I had written a favorite quote of mine from “Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding V:

“What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.”

 I’ve carried that thought around in my head since I read “Four Quartets” in 2006, when I was first diagnosed with liver disease. What was the end? What was the beginning? I believe there were many of each. I know this surgical ending and beginning marks a brand-new life for me. I am beginning.

I stumble. I get lost and confused. But I have more energy, more determination, more stamina to get up and move and even sprint sometimes. And I’m not weighed down by illness anymore.

Getting to that point on May 22nd, 2016, was my hero’s journey. I made it. I’ve returned home, changed. I still have challenges and I welcome every one of them. Everyone has a chance to be their own hero in their life’s journey. I’m not sure you know you’re in it till you reach home.


This is Dr. Hashimoto’s idea of a great photo op! Yes, post-op in ICU, pissed off because I was still intubated – and drugged out of my mind! He carries it around in his phone and shows it to people. Here’s gratitude for your 10 hours of intensity, and 2,000+ other transplants. Yeah, I’m badass.



I don’t have a single idea for a blog post which is due today (Thursday). Not one. I’m filled with anxiety about my eyes and see the ophthalmologist next Wednesday morning in Cleveland. She’s going to measure my ocular pressure again and who knows what else. Then give me the lowdown. What happens next, prognosis, maybe surgery to slow it down, all that kind of stuff.

Thinking about vision a lot since I saw Dr. Singh a month ago and she gave me these two words: severe glaucoma. I think of others who have it, who had it. I had a great Aunt Wixie Parker who was Head Librarian at Chapel Hill main library. She lost her eyesight to the “thief of sight,” and I understand she was pretty pissed off about it. My father had it, too. He had peripheral vision.

Jorge Luis Borges, poet and novelist from Buenos Aires, probably lost his sight to glaucoma at age 55. He continued as a librarian at the Naciónal Biblioteca in his hometown. He also had a butler and a cat and a nice house he owned in the city.

Bono has had glaucoma for about 20 years. I like the glasses he wears and want some like them. The light hurts my eyes a lot and enough exposure to it makes me very tired.

Whoopi Goldberg has glaucoma also. I heard she smokes marijuana to keep the ocular pressure down in her eyes. But I’ve read that you’d have to be pretty stoned all the time for it to really work. So I’m not sure if that’s true about Whoopi.

I take two different eyedrops daily now. The new one I got last month from Dr. Singh I take twice a day, 12 hours apart. My pressure in my right eye last month was 22, pretty high. Just 16 in the left eye.

Here’s the twist. I took a ton of prednisone in order to keep my new liver. A whole lot. That is probably the reason my eyes got so much worse than where they were. What are you going to do? I wanted that liver. Bad. It wasn’t my idea to take the prednisone, by the way – but you probably know that. Sometimes shit happens.

I just want to ask a seemingly unrelated question. Why doesn’t American health insurance cover vision, hearing and our dental health? All three matter a lot to a person’s overall health. And all three are expensive to care for.



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