His legs were already over the bedrails by the time I got to him.
"You'll have to wait a minute to get up until I get your walker" I said.
He tried to get up anyhow. He's not demented or confused, just convinced that his seventy-eight-year-old, six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound body works as well now after back surgery as it did before. The two-foot-long incision might give the lie to that.
He got to the chair, let go of the walker, and plopped into the chair with one buttock on the chair arm.
We had a little discussion after that. He'd fallen the night before--sitting down hard on his ass after getting out of bed despite raised siderails and a bed alarm.
"Look," I said, "you *have* to wait until I get in here to get up. And you *have* to use the walker correctly, or else you will fall again and have another surgery. If you fall, I'm not even going to try to catch you. I'll just get out of the way."
"You won't try to catch me?" he asked, disbelieving.
I looked up at him--he's still taller than I am, even when he's sitting and I'm standing, and said, "Uh...no."
Tell me where these people come from so I can shut the gates.