Dad noticed last night that George had put another one of his walkers out by the road. It was gone this morning when I woke up. Someone picked it up and took it home.
"Medicare had to pay for that damn thing," my father negatively said when he saw it at the road.
"Maybe someone will get it that actually needs it," I told my father rather optimistically.
Well, the weather is just absolutely fantabulously gorgeous here today and Maggie I were sitting on my screened-in side porch as I browsed the internet and listened to music in the swing with my trusty iPad. George came walking out his side door of his house, waved to me, and just totally busted his ass on the carport step down. I hurriedly ran over as quick as I could.
"Do you need to go to the emergency room?" I asked George urgently. "Is anything broken? It won't take but a moment to call the paramedics."
I noticed one of his hands was skint and bleeding -- the hand he caught himself with.
"I am fine," George told me with the extremely heavy smell of alcohol on his breath. "I am glad you were out on your porch, though."
He almost couldn't talk he was so drunk. I got him up and standing and I walked into his house to make sure he got situated in his recliner.
"Do you want me to go get you something to eat or drink?" was the last thing I asked him before I left him alone. He assured me he was fine. He sure is going to be stoved up in the morning, though, as we say in the South.
No comments:
Post a Comment