A call arrived as I was eating dinner at the home of friends. A gentleman at the Biltmore felt that his blood pressure was high. The meal was ending, so I took my leave.
Driving the twelve miles downtown, I parked and opened the trunk to retrieve my black bag. It wasn’t there. Dismayed, I realized I had left it at home.
I keep the bag in my car. My driveway is outside, and during hot weather I take it into the house to keep the heat from melting my pills. Getting a housecall jogs my memory, but I had driven to friends without giving it a thought.
I phoned the guest to explain that I’d have to return home. Before I could apologize, the guest apologized, explaining that he was running out of blood pressure pills and only needed a refill. He knew his travel insurance would not pay for this, so he claimed to feel ill. He wasn’t ill. I wrote him a prescription and went home.
This blog is full of incidents whose entertainment value is based on things going wrong. But sometimes everything works out.