Number three son in hospital in bad way. Ain’t nothing we can do for him. His compulsory hypochondriac nature is killing him. Neither one of us including the rest of brothers and sisters have ever been able to get through to him. He’s married, between himself and his wife they know more than any medicine man he’s ever been to see. He flagrantly ignores doctors orders. He’s become prescription drug dependent. He sees multiple doctors for multiple prescriptions. He has drunken enough Mountain Do Do to destroy his organs. There’s a rumor he’s about to expire via cardiac arrest. He likely started this one himself. Frieda and I have been helpless to help the kid for years and even more so these, perhaps, last days.
Meanwhile, I’m wondering how Frieda and I may travel. I can no longer be trusted behind the wheel for more than a few miles and light traffic.
Holly’s gone down the road with daughter Fillis. She’s good as gold by last reports, minding and telling Fillis when she needs to go outside. AND, she ain’t biting me. Della the cat has become a bit chummier. So, it looks like until I bring a dog home my own size and tend him around the clock we won’t have a dog. And, then it’d be a work dog.
The swelling in my left hand has gone down some. The two fingers beside the thumb have become moderately useful. I no longer need a bench vice or channel lock pliers to open my medications. Whew. BGKC.