A NEW LANGUAGE - TEXTING

A NEW LANGUAGE

Every new generation makes up new words or create acronyms or abbreviations for words or phrases. But back when BBB (Baffled Baby Boomer) was a kid, there were only the usual acronyms that were created by the government, military, scientists, etc. such as MIA, CIA, FBI, UFO, SOS, VIP, DOA, DOB, COD, or for food such as KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) and blt (bacon, lettuce and tomato.) And once in a while some drunk imbecile would have the sole creative spark of their lifetime and make up one such as b.o. (body odor) only to end up later in AA.

However, now the new generation of the internet has caused an explosion of acronyms and abbreviations used for chat rooms or text messaging and it grows every day. I have seen lists on the internet that have compiled thousands of this new language. I have compiled a list to help reveal and break this new code. (note: I read that capital letters are rarely used except to express volume or SCREAMING and are rude to overuse them.)

kiss – keep it simple, stupid
rotf – rolling on the floor
rotflmao – rolling on the floor laughing my ass off
rotflmaaobpo - rolling on the floor laughing my ass and other body parts off (only used by zombies)
coo – cool (real time saver kids)
wut – what (again, so clever)
kk – ok (much easier)
wuteve – whatever (whatever)
Sup – What's up
ty – thank you
yw – you're welcome (at least it is shorter)
wdymbt – what do you mean by that (paraphrase of “What you talking 'bout, Willis?)
jk – just kidding
lol – laugh out loud
tbh – to be honest
wtf – what the fuck (C'mon, we all used this one before)
gtg – good to go, got to go
fml – fuck my life (used by optimists only)
bbiab – be back in a bit
bisly – but I still love you (aaf – as a friend)
jtlyk – just to let you know
omg – oh my God
nvm, nm – never mind
cya, cu – see you
bff – best friends forever
bf, gf – boyfriend, girlfriend
brb – be right back (I thought it meant burb, so my contribution is frt)
btw – by the way
fwiw – for what it's worth
btaim, btam – be that as it may
ntim – not that it matters
wb – welcome back
np – no problem (There goes my new acronym for “no penis” or “non-pollutant”)
afk – away from keyboard (very efficient)
bio – bio break, bathroom break, (older generation terms, PAL for pinching a loaf) .
asl – age sex location (My suggested response for kids – PCCJT - perv, calling cops, jail-time)
o rly – oh really?
Iirc – if I recall correctly
imho - in my humble opinion (I am a ho)
mtfbwy – may the force be with you (omg, I can relate to that!)
noob, nub, newb, noobie - newcomer, rookie, amateur
oatus – on a totally unrelated subject
plz – please
pmfji – pardon me for jumping in
rtfm – read the fucking manual
ttyl – talk to you later
thx – thanks
ty – thank you
tyvm – thank you very much
tytyvm – bad Elvis impersonation
l8r – later (finally using some numbers)
2day – today
Starbucks *$ (now used with 2 $)
2c4u – too cool for you
4ever – forever
4eva – forever (if you have NY or Boston accent)
458 or 459 – I love you (someone please comment how these three numbers say that)
fwb – friends with benefits (like health coverage)
f2f, ftf – face to face
glhf – good luck have fun
hak – hugs and kisses
hand – have a nice day
ily, ilu – l love you
nm – never mind
aitr – adult in the room
paw – parents are watching
pov – parents over shoulder
p911 – parents coming into room alert
kpc – keeping parents clueless (not anymore you rotten kids)
QQ – crying as an emoticon
swak – sealed with a kiss (oldie but goodie)
tmi – too much information (popularized by Uma Thurman in PULP FICTION)
wycm – will you call me (or I smell desperation.)
411 – all the information
hehe - laughing
AA – Adios Amigo, (or Alcoholics Anonymous tuof “to us older folk”)
AAA – Adios All Amigos, (Fix my Fucking Flat Tire tuof)
tb = too bad (tuberculosis tuof)
pip = peeing in pants (or Pip for you Dickensian types)


MADE UP BY ME USING MORE OF THE KEYBOARD:

#ack – attack
:hole - colon hole = asshole
^ur : - up your ass
^ ^ naway - up up and away (5th Dimension fans)
Ioua - I owe you a (kiss, hug, new car, etc.)
cuO - see you around
4u - for you
iminH7 - I am in Heaven
H(<'sQQing@u,qtpie - Here's looking at you, cutie pie.
s9h(< - sign here
swn – she wore an (ene, wene, yellow polka dot bikini)
KC@ > - Casey at bat
14the$ - one for the money
24thesho - two for the show
32getrede - three to get ready
&42go - and four to go
aaakkkkkkkkkkkkkk – having stroke


DOG and CAT TEXTING LANGUAGE:

lmb - licking my balls
itisapc - I thought I saw a puddy cat
fb - fur ball
ttmtp - tear that mieces to pieces
bih - bitch in heat
cod - cat or dog (I'm calling the ASPCA, dogcatcher, police)
gyahnwmbisoyp! - get your ass home n walk me before I shit on your pillow!

tag words:  texting, internet, chat rooms, chat, internet slang, sms

WB FILM FAVORITES LIST ONE

Welcome to WB FILM FAVORITES LIST 1 - 7    The link below will take you to my Astore on Amazon where I am listing my top 250 favorite films and locating the DVDs on Amazon for your convenience.  Of course, I expect comments about my list because there were easily another 100 movies not on my list that I had considered.  I've seen too many films over the years.  It was so much easier at 17 to just say my favorite film was "THE GRADUATE."   Or at 5 to say "101 DALMATIONS."

Hope you enjoy the list.  Had to put into groups of 40 because Amazon only allows 40 product suggestions per list.  Here is a direct link to all of WB Film Favorites List.
  

.WB FAVORITE FILMS LISTS 1-7

MEET YOU AT THE FLAGPOLE (aka Sticks and Stones and an AK-47)

MEET YOU AT THE FLAGPOLE (aka STICKS AND STONES AND AN AK-47)

“I'll meet you after work by the flagpole.” Suddenly my spine turned to jelly and I had to grab the handrail on the escalator to keep myself from collapsing, all the while fighting off the rush of nausea that over-came me. But why? Because my co-worker simply mentioned the words “after work by the flagpole” when picking an unmistakeable location outside our office building for us to meet later? And the answer was “Absolutely yes!” The spoken sentence was too close to the phrase that would strike fear into me or anyone else at my middle school (at that time called Junior High School) in the 70's. Only one word had to be replaced – “I'll meet you after SCHOOL at the flagpole!” – The words that meant certain death unless you were a 13 year old navy seal or at least a black-belt in one of the martial arts.

When that threat was said, it meant you and the neanderthal child who mumbled it were going to have a fight at that spot at that time. The cretin who threw down the gauntlet by saying these words was always confident of his victory for a number of reasons: either because he had been in hundreds of physical altercations before and had been victorious, or he was a foot taller and a good 50 lbs heavier than his opponent, or perhaps he received daily beatings by his older brother or sister so he had become immune to pain. For whatever reason, he was confident of the outcome.

However, there were the few rare times that a soft-spoken, timid boy would challenge a much bigger foe; the words spoken in a rush of anger, obviously not after a period of serious contemplation. Perhaps the little twerp just fell on his head in gym class due to an intentional foul by the hulking philistine, and the challenge was muttered by the pint-size kid while the first stages of a concussion set in. If the small kid's brain waves did unscramble themselves, it was always a site to see his cherubic red face flushed with rage, suddenly drain to a deathly white paler once he realized he had just signed his own death warrant.

These physical confrontations between humans have been happening since the species first appeared on earth. In fact, it's the only species (as children or adults) that will fight over words spoken, a dirty look, or the last vacant seat on a bus or train. The reason why is still a mystery and most people have concluded that we humans are violent by nature. But can't we fight (oops), I meant alter that instinct? We are instructed as children by our parents, teachers, or other adults that “violence solves nothing,” yet we often experience that “to the victor go the spoils.” This contradiction is not helped by the inane nursery rhymes we are taught. “Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words can never harm us.” All it really informs us is that the combatant that arrives with a stick or a stone is going to win that argument. Even the “Good Book” tells us how David wouldn't have walked away whistling a happy tune if he hadn't brought that slingshot along. Will “might” always be victorious over “right” or even “wrong?” One can't help but ponder the answer to that question when an adolescent future cage fighter is raining down hay-makers on your face causing it to resemble a Picasso abstract painting.

However, it's good 'ole Mother Nature that steps in to lend a helping hand to the pipsqueaks of the world, by giving them different traits that help balance out the apparent deficiencies from not having an ogre for a father and a pit-bull for a mother. The majority of the time, the smaller children are fleet of foot, meaning they can run like hell away from the brutish bullies chasing them. And almost 100% of the time, the weaker kids are smarter than the mean kids. This superior intellect is the reason why these after school barbaric beat-downs were held at the flagpole in the first place.

The name of the original nerd who, back when the school first opened, convinced his troglodyte tormentor to meet at the flagpole remains unknown. However, it is due solely to his mental prowess that generations of weaker kids survived these death matches and were seen limping to class the next school day. The reason being, the flagpole was located on the lawn right in front of the principal's (your “pal” not your “ple”) office. This assured the weak kid will only be beat-up for the amount of time it took the principal to wolf down his three o'clock junk-food snack. Re-enacting that first conversation between a bully and his intended prey, I imagine it probably went something like this:

Bully: “I'll meet you after school at the, uh,...”

Nerd: “Police station?”

Bully: “No.”

Nerd: “Art Museum?”

Bully: “Huh? Don't know what that is.”

Nerd: “School library?”

Bully: “Don't know where that is.”

Nerd: “How about the flagpole in front of the prin (coughs), school?”

Bully: “Yeah, the flagpole. I know where that is.”

Thus allowing the principal to eat two donuts while watching the beginning of the fight, and then casually walking outside to break-up the fight and save the nerd while he still had vital signs. (the student, not the principal since the principal had been a virtual zombie since his earlier years as a classroom teacher.)

I can still remember the first time I was informed by one of the school ruffians that he would meet me at the flagpole after school. Leaving my locker at the end of that day, I walked in some kind of somnambulistic trance towards the doors. My total experience in fighting mano a mano up until then was playing with my Rockem Sockem Robots toy I had received as a birthday present. As I used the last of my strength to open the doors to the outside world, I could have sworn I heard a voice say, “Dead student walking.”

The brilliantly sunny rays were in direct contrast to the dark Ed Munch colors of “The Scream” that I perceived the front lawn of the school to look like. The ghoulish peanut gallery of students had already assembled around the flagpole. Word of a blood-bath always spread quickly through a New Jersey middle school. These rubber-necked students would grow up to be the same blood thirsty adults that would cause traffic jams by slowing their automobiles to gleefully look at the gory human remains of a 10 car pile-up. I was keeping a stiff upper lip as I approached the flagpole, but my lower lip was doing a Rumba. That was when I first caught sight of my executioner; his lips not moving at all, but his mouth was foaming like a rabid dog that needed to be put down. Of course, his puny little sidekick lackey with the pinata like face (type of face everyone just wanted to smash) was at his side. Suddenly memories of a Sumo Wrestling Championship I had watched on television flooded my brain. Perhaps I could use one of their fighting techniques in my quest to survive. However, I quickly realized the only way I would resemble a Sumo Wrestler was if my opponent pulled down my pants and finished me off with an excruciating wedgie in front of the crowd. That was when I saw the school bus.

I jumped off memory lane and back into present time just as the city bus passed my co-worker waiting for me at the flagpole in front of the office building. The bus continued up-town towards my humble $2,500 a month studio hovel where the 4 locks, 2 deadbolts, and Louisville slugger hidden in my kitchen closet would give me the false impression I was safe for the night. My smile of satisfaction was returned to me by a fellow work-a-day passenger about my age across the aisle. That was, until we both spied the vacant seat in the back of the bus.

http://www.snapixel.com/portfolio/Waybe
Site where many photos of mine can be seen.

http://www.baffledbabyboomer.wordpress.com
Site similar to this one, but with several different articles, photos, etc.

At Twitter.com    SweetiePieCat

GOOD SONGS GONE BAD

 

NICE SONGS GONE BAD

Just imagine if the same songwriter(s) of “MY BOYFRIEND'S BACK” (aka “My Boyfriend's Out On Parole”, “Oops, There I Go Again Getting Involved with an Ex-Con”, “My Psychotic Boyfriend Has Found Me”, “I Told a Little Lie To Make My Boyfriend Jealous”) had written the playful little tune “Santa's Coming to Town” in their same dark, twisted view of the world. Strangely enough, it would need very few changes except near the end.

You better watch out
You better not cry
Better not pout
I'm telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town.
(Like I mentioned, these original lyrics could stay the same since it makes Santa sound like one bad dude coming back to the old hood.)

He's making a list
(What kind of list? People that ratted him out to the cops or owe him money?)
And checking it twice
(He's being very methodical this time around. No loose ends.)
Gonna find out who's naughty or nice
(You best be on his naughty list since he ain't in the business of being nice. If you've been naughty, then you've been making him money while he was away in the joint.)
Santa Claus is coming to town.
(The threat speaks for itself.)

He sees you when you're sleeping
(Crazy dude just breaks into your house, stands there, watching you)
He knows when you're a fake
(Keeping double books don't fool him)
He knows if you've been ripping him off
So don't go messing with his take
(Clear enough)

O! You better watch out!
You better not snitch!
Better not cry,
Like a little (radio edit)
Santa Claus is coming to town! (Now the background singers kick in)
Chorus: And he's packin' heat.
Santa Claus is coming to town!
Chorus: And you're dead meat.
Santa Claus is coming to TOWN!
Chorus: Wait and See!

PLEASE HOLD (aka "Get Lost", You're Screwed", "F.U.")

This article is about how attempting to have your phone bill corrected guarantees you either getting an aneurysm or committing hara-kiri.

I recently changed my cell phone carrier, naively thinking that with one telephone call, I could stop services for my cell phone number as well as my land-line number I had with my present carrier (in this case, AT&T.) It all seemed much too easy. Too good to be true. However, these are modern times and everything is done by applications, software, and computers. (People? Get with the times, grandpa – People are obsolete.) I was assured by the person that I would receive one more bill for both the land-line and cell phone numbers. She then said, I may even get some money refunded, before she quickly covered the mouthpiece so I would not hear the belly laughs of herself and the other troglodytes sitting near her. No fool like an old fool, I stupidly smiled as I hung up the phone.

Within a month I received two bills claiming I owed over fifty dollars. Admittedly a paranoid schizophrenic, I still firmly believe that all the telecommunication carriers make these billing “mistakes” (always in their favor) counting on the fact that the large majority of customers won't check their phone bill and even if they did, they wouldn't have the basic math skills to figure out the amount was incorrect. Of course, for those who do follow-up, their private hell awaits. But ignorance and stubbornness are two traits I wear proudly, so I made the call thinking, this shouldn't take long.

Now, this wasn't my first time at the rodeo. I've learned to push the number that brings you to the “adding new services dept.” because these calls get answered quicker than billing questions. What an optimistic, gullible moron I was to think they hadn't figured that old trick out by now. This is the new AT&T. Not the old one that was broken up for being a monopoly back in the day when any domestic long distance call would cost you an arm or a leg – they would give you the choice.

Having the survival instincts of a lemming, I dialed and that is when I entered Dante's seventh circle of hell. I got the dreaded automated voice asking me my number, last 4 digits of my social security, and several other identity stealing questions. The “voice” finally acknowledged my persistent screaming of “Operator!” by informing me wait time for an available operator was two minutes...and then the Beelzebub Philharmonic Orchestra began it's unending loop of muzak. This form of torture (which makes “water-boarding” feel like a day at the beach) is the carrier's third line of defense, knowing that only people with the patience of Job or a death wish will remain holding. And there is always their final line of defense that is the meely-mouthed double talk of the customer representative that accidentally takes your call off hold.

“Hello. My name is “Bill” (instructed to always give a different fake name.) “How may I help you?”

Ahh, the friendly voice of the customer service representative trained by the carrier to assist you down the road to insanity. I knew that I could not let them sense fear, so I took a deep breath and then slowly explained how the billing amount was incorrect, since I had stopped service exactly at the end of their last billing cycle. A smile appeared on my face. I had run the proverbial gauntlet, proven my case, and had survived. But they were not throwing in the towel...not yet. The only thing more dangerous than a wounded mother animal protecting its young is a telephone carrier protecting its profits.

The customer service rep proceeded, without ever taking a breath, to explain how my calculations were wrong because I didn't take into consideration the following factors. To paraphrase the rep, “Sir, your calculation would be correct if it were not for the differing billing cycles of your land-line and your wireless numbers. Therefore, you still owe for some days of use of your wireless phone. In addition, if you would please refer to the line on your May and April bills saying Credits/Adjustments/Other charges, you'll see you were billed for services that are non-existent, but still, legally binding. Also there is the extra charge of you being brazen enough to think you could take on an organization that has been ripping of its customers way before you were even born. Nothing can stop the powers that be from getting their seven figure bonuses, especially a bottom feeding lowlife such as yourself. However...(said in a friendly tone) I could credit you for three days at the end of May which would lower your bill by twelve dollars and three cents. Before you answer please remember that this call is being taped and we know where you live. Shall I have your bill recalculated and sent out to you or would you prefer to speak to my supervisor?”

These may not be the exact words said, but they were certainly implied. I got their message. And I knew better than to be put on hold to wait for an indefinite period of time for the next cadaver that showed any signs of reanimation to speak to me claiming to be a supervisor, only to have this generous offer of twelve dollars and three cents rescinded.

“I'll take it”, my weak, frightened voice said into the phone. “Fine,” the rep replied.. “You'll receive the new correct bill in three to five days. Is there anything else I can help you with today?” As I laid in the fetal position on the wood floor in the corner of my room, I managed to raise my head high enough to see through my window my hefty neighbor in her apartment playing the piano and singing. I put the phone to my lips and softly answered, “No...And thank you for your help.”

MY BOYFRIEND IS OUT ON PAROLE

“MY BOYFRIEND'S BACK” (aka “My Boyfriend's Out On Parole”)

Only time I really listen to music on the radio anymore is when I'm driving my car. I don't have a long commute to work (since I'm unemployed), however, I do live in Los Angeles where even a drive down the block can take anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour, depending on traffic. I was “station surfing” (channel surfing except with a radio – this is Southern Cal, dude – any excuse to surf, especially for a middle-aged man like myself originally from New Jersey.) It was an “oldies” station. You know, playing those classics of yesteryear when there were no problems in the world (let's just forget about that little missile incident in Cuba in '62 for now ) and the songs represented those times with titles like “Earth Angel”, “One Fine Day”, “Peggy Sue”.

However, after the DJ finished spouting his nonsensical gibberish, the next song he played reminded me that not everything was peaches and cream (pre Peaches and Herb) back in the “good ole days.” The song is called “My Boyfriend's Back” and was recorded several times. I am not sure which version I heard or who the original writers are, but this singer was a young lady (older than “Sweet 16”, perhaps “Psychotic 17”) and the tune was playful and optimistic. But then I started listening closely to the lyrics. I must mention the lyrics I am quoting for this article are by memory, so I'm not 100% certain they are correct, nor am I 100% certain I took my medication today. I should also mention that when I refer to the singer's intent, I am actually referring to the songwriters' intent (male or female, I don't know.)

Let's just take a look at some of the lyrics in the song. The theme is right there in the opening line (or shall I say, opening threat) that is sung: “My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble.” Next line after chorus, “If you see him come, better cut out on the double.” Well, it rhymes.

“Look out now, cause he's coming after you.” That should certainly help cure the aspiring Casanova of his insomnia.

“You're gonna be sorry you were ever born.” Now that is just cruel to say to a teenager or any young person. This regret of being born should happen naturally, like when the person is middle-aged and working at a thankless dead-end job because he has a wife gaining pounds by the second and several snot-nosed know-it-all kids depending on him for food and shelter.

“Cause he's kinda big and he's awful strong.” Could very well be describing a gorilla at this point. But it's a cop-out. The last word should really rhyme with “born.” The writer(s) must have been a little hungry or tired at this point of venting. I mean, I can easily think up some alternative rhymes for the word “born.” How about “corn, thorn, horn, mourn, porn, torn, worn,?” Let's try it out: “You're gonna be sorry you were ever born,” “Cause he's awful horny and running out of porn.” or “Cause his favorite stuffed bear is worn and torn.” or “Cause his friends told him 'bout how I blew your horn.” I'm just saying, there are alternatives.

The song continues, “Now you're gonna get a beatin'.” When someone says, “Beatin'” and swallows the “g” on the end, you know it's not good news. It most certainly means they didn't pronounce the “t” in the word. There is a direct corallary between the lack of enunciation with the viciousness of the promised “beatin'” If you don't believe me, just spend some time in certain neighborhoods of Brooklyn, Bronx, and New Jersey.

“You're a big man now, but he'll cut you down to size.” I see nothing positive to take from this line. It's almost a promise, there will be some type weapon involved in the assault. And this is the only time the background singers follow with three simple words, “Wait and see!”

“If I were you, I'd take a permanent vacation.” Well, at least it's a positive suggestion. Maybe this threatening hussy is singing another tune now. “I can see he's coming, now you better start a running.” No, she's still singing the same tune of violent vengeance. Plus, she's now adding words like “a”. Unless she meant it as a sarcastic suggestion like “You better start, uh....running.” Another mystery of these lyrics that will be taken to the grave.

As I pulled into my driveway, the next song had begun. It was Lesley Gore's “Judy's Turn to Cry.” I shut off the ignition before Judy even had a chance to whimper. But before I opened the car door, I did take a long look from my driveway to the front door. You know, a permanent vacation is not a bad idea. I could use the rest.

PERCENTAGE OF DOCTORS WHO DONATED ORGANS

Answer: Unknown      My Guess: Very few 
 

If transplant surgeons truly believe that living organ donations are of “minimal risk” as they claim, I would be curious to know how many actually have stepped up and offered their own organs to deserving patients. Now that would be an interesting survey...

I was a living liver donor in October, 2002, at one of the top hospitals in Manhattan. my surgeon will be known as Dr. K. I donated my liver to my mother; her surgeon – and the department head – will be referred to as Dr. A.

I want to make it clear, I am not against living organ donor operations. Who wouldn't want a chance to try and save a loved one?

My goals in this letter are the following: to ensure that potential living organ donors are apprised of the very real risks (some long-term) involved in these procedures; and to create awareness of the need for a “safety net” for the organ donor if things go wrong.

The potential living donor must be told the realistic facts and/or percentages of the possible negative effects that may happen. Not once, before or after the my operations (the original donor operation and two incisional hernia operations I had within the following 8 months, the last operation a 10” mesh was implanted) was there talk about ill effects from scar tissue. Every operation (especially in the abdomen) creates scar tissue. This scar tissue can cause many different types of problems such as trapping a nerve (neuroma) or interfering with your intestines causing other problems. I was told by pain specialists in New York and Los Angeles these are the reasons for my pain today. Unfortunately, I was also told by top surgeons at Cedar Sinai, UCLA and Montefiore (I was seeking a surgeon to operate and fix my condition) that no responsible surgeon would operate on me in my current state with a mesh. It would be too difficult to fix and an operation may only cause more problems and certainly more scar tissue. Only in a life threatening situation such as a full bowel obstruction, will anyone operate. However, that would mean that I (or any other patient in this predicament) would be at the mercy of whatever surgeon was on duty at the emergency room of whatever hospital was closest. There would be no time to set an appointment for an operation with any specialist in that area (dealing with reconstructive surgery, meshes, adhesions, organs, hernias, transplants, etc.)

There are presently studies about long-term effects on living donors. AtoAll is one study and, in fact, Dr. A is associated with that study. I wonder why I was not included since I was told many times by the staff of the Transplant Department, that I was the only liver donor at that hospital to date, who has experienced longterm complications. I would think it would be difficult to overlook me. 
 

Secondly, there has to be more of a “safety net” for any living donor. This includes the cost of any follow up operations due to the original donor operation. My Transplant Hospital did cover my expenses for the next two operations, except Dr. K's office charged my health coverage in the second hernia operation for over $10,000. When I pointed this out to him, he answered something in this tone; “My office made a mistake. You have a million dollar limit on your policy. Nothing to worry about.” Unfortunately, it is a concern due to how health companies will perceive you as a risk.

There must be a guarantee that the donor will not lose or be without health insurance due to the health insurance companies classifying you as having an pre-existing condition. That is my situation now. In countries with socialized medicine, such as Canada, that is not a problem for donors. However, the U.S must fix their health insurance situation.. That is why it is imperative that you send a letter or call your congressman or senator. Only by public (and media) pressure will the government “eventually” make a change. And only by having these changes made, will future potential donors feel secure and confident enough to decide to donate an organ and help save someone's life (maybe yours.)

As I mentioned above, I am not against living organ donor operations. Who wouldn't want a chance to try and save their child, sibling, parent, friend (and in some amazing cases, donors do it for strangers), etc? However, they should be informed of the real possibilities of longterm effects and should have a safety net for them. If I knew all these facts before I had donated, I don't think I would have changed my mind. I was determined to save my mom's life. However, I am certain my mother wouldn't have allowed me to take the chance if she knew all the facts. We would have been forced to take a chance with the very disorganized and inefficient cadaver organ distribution system in place. I was told by the doctors that my mother would never receive a cadaver liver in time, so I really had no choice unless I was willing to watch her die a painful death.

I'd like to end this portion of my letter with a prayer for all of you who have a loved one who is sick and for all of you who have participated in the organ donor process, whether as a living donor or a recipient.

MY PERSONAL EXPERIENCE AND OTHER PROBLEMS WITH THE ORGAN DONATION PROCESS

This second part of my letter will deal with more specific issues and situations that I experienced with hospitals and doctors. It is more a cathartic exercise for me to finally speak out about some if these issues. We must first realize that we are dealing with an industry that has over 100,000 admitted accidental deaths a year (almost twenty times the number of U.S. Military deaths in the entire Iraq and Afghanistan wars combined to date as of this writing.) This is not counting the number of mistakes where people do not die, but still suffer. No other industry could or should continue to exist with these many mistakes without addressing them.

As I have mentioned, I was a living liver donor for my mother in 2002. She was dying from cirrhosis of her liver due to hepatitis C which she had contracted from a blood transfusion in a previous surgery many years before. The transplant operation went fine and the right lobe of my liver was doing well in my mom. Unfortunately, she never got well enough to be released from the hospital and ended up dying five weeks later from a brain hemorrhage. The hospital health care worker who was supposed to be in the room at all times watching my mother, had “stepped out for a moment.” I tried to get her medical records, but the hospital makes it very difficult. They said only a lawyer representing her will could order it, not her sons or daughter. Even to get my records was difficult, only to discover the records were shockingly incomplete in recording the events that actually happened to me.

First, I would like to say that all the pre-operation medical procedures (MRI, Cat Scan, sonagram, X-rays, blood tests, etc.) are very limited in the information they give to the surgeons. Not until the surgeons open you up, do they really know what your liver looks like. I underwent all those pre-operation procedures and the doctors still didn't know that I had two veins that went into the right lobe of my liver until they operated. My brother and sister were informed this was the reason my operation was taking longer (approximately 2 hours longer.)

Afterwards, I asked Dr. K why he didn't know about the anatomy of my liver. His answer was the pre-operative medical procedures are never conclusive. I accepted that fact until later when I was complaining about pain. They did a sonagram on me and said they found nothing wrong, that I was fine and should continue all normal activities. So apparently, the medical tests are conclusive or inconclusive at the convenience of the doctors. I've met used car salesmen that talk out of both sides of their mouths, but these are surgeons we trust with our lives and the lives of our loved ones.

I was told before my surgery that there was a five to 15% chance of morbidity. Small things that were easily fixed, nothing longterm. So when I had water retention due to my liver's response (30 pounds over my pre-operation weight), I fell into that category. Studies now show that morbidity rate can be well over 50% and there is a chance of longterm effects. Dr. K asked me after 6 days if I was feeling well enough to go home. My feet, legs, abdomen and testicles were still holding over 25 pounds of water (not a pretty site.) Even that used car salesman I mentioned would know better than to send me home. That was the first time I started to question Dr. K's judgement. When Dr. A (top surgeon of the transplant team) looked at me, he immediately said that I wasn't going anywhere in that condition. (Dr. A's bedside manner and judgement were always excellent.) Why did Dr. K want me to go home in that condition? I would hate to think he was concerned with health insurance issues and how it affected the profit margins of the almost half a million dollar operations (mine and my mother's combined.)

After I was released and went home, I told my sister (who was going to visit our mom in the hospital) to tell Dr. K that my wound was looking discolored. Without seeing me (a pattern with this doctor and some others) Dr. K told my sister there was nothing to worry about. When I came to see him for a scheduled appointment several days later, he literally yelled at me in front of my brother, saying “What have you been doing?” when he saw my incision was infected and he had to squeeze the puss out of it.

Another important topic is how the doctors and their staff treat you once they have finished taking your donated organ. The short answer -- they don't want to deal with you after a certain point. They will responsibly set up several follow up appointments with you, but easily get tired if your needs exceed that time. The hubris of the doctor/surgeons and nurses can be shocking. They will say (sometimes over the phone without seeing you) that you are fine and anything such as pain is probably in your head. This was told to me several times by Dr. K., the nurse coordinator and Dr. H (the organ transplant team psychiatrist.) However, none of them apologized and admitted they made a mistake after I had two more surgeries. You would think they would listen to patients' more seriously, especially me since they were wrong twice and I needed two additional operations. My last phone message left for Dr. H was in 2004. I asked if she could call back and tell me if “adhesions or scar tissue” have been a problem for any donors. She never returned my call.

Even after an in person checkup by Dr. K, he told me I was fine and to do all physical activities I would normally do. However, two months later after Dr. K and Dr. M (an associate of his from a previous hospital) finished implanting a 10” mesh in my abdomen due to multiple hernias and weak spots in my fascia, does he ask me, “Wayne, what have you been doing?” Again, the inference was I was to blame when all I had been doing was listening to his advice and trying to live my life normally. Dr. K needs to operate on himself to remove that foot from his mouth.

I must mention Dr. M's inability to listen to patients and to learn from her mistakes. I warn the squeamish to stop reading here. I informed Dr. M that a catheter should remain in my penis after the operation since I had needed a catheter in my previous seven abdominal operations to void. She agreed. However, when I awoke there was no catheter in place. When I couldn't urinate (what a surprise) and they had to insert a catheter, there were specific instructions from Dr. M to only insert a catheter if needed until I voided, then to immediately remove it. That was her second mistake. When the nurse incorrectly tried to open the second catheter inside me, she had not inserted it far enough and it ruptured my penis. The combination of my blood and my screams made a resident run into the room and take that one out and replace it later since I still couldn't void. When I confronted Dr. M about this, she said her experience was that a catheter would not be needed. Did she admit she was obviously wrong or apologize – Never. I worry about a surgeon who is too stubborn or arrogant to learn from her mistakes and thus, exposes future patients to harm.

There is too much to say in one letter, so I will end here. The main thing is, the system has to be changed for donors. Secondly, some doctors/surgeons need a refresher course in “bedside manner.” I will conclude with one last Dr. K statement. On the phone after I told him of my constant pain after every meal and after every normal physical activity, he quickly asked, “Wayne, it sounds like you regret ever donating your liver to your mother.” Not wanting to curse, I remained quiet. However my answer to his question was and still remains, “Yes, I do regret having the operation. But only because you, Dr. K, were my doctor.”