Mr Grumpy cracks a rib

Yes, there really is no stopping the wave of accidents afflicting Mr G. Some are down to post-stroke clumsiness, as he hasn't the strength and dexterity in his right hand that he used to have and others are caused by his habit of overestimating his capabilities.

Although of a thin, wiry build, Mr G has always had great upper body strength and used to climb overhangs. Not any more. Now he has cracked a rib lifting a very heavy box containing a Halford's gazebo (with sides). How does he know it's a cracked rib? Because he's done it before and knows the symptoms. Despite the pain, he put the thing up. Then he sneezed and oh, the agony. Now he can't twist or turn, blow his nose or laugh without going very pale and quiet, which is what Mr G does when he is in pain, as he isn't one who wants the world to know. Not like me. Everybody knows when I have a headache or a bad stomach. How else would they know to tiptoe quietly about, or avoid offering me curry?

When I first met Mr G, he used to suffer from violent headaches which he put down to migraine but which were probably precursors to his brain haemorrhage. He wouldn't tell me, he would just go quiet and snappy so I would get upset, wondering what I'd done or said wrong. For three years I put myself through emotional agonies, trying to figure out how I had annoyed him and he never, every told me it was just because he had a bad head.

When he had his brain haemorrhage, he collapsed while I was out, woke up on the floor, remembered he had to pick me up from the station three miles away, and though his vision was down to a pinpoint, he nevertheless drove, taking the motorhome as he figured if he had an accident, he'd have a greater chance of surviving. I got out of the station and found him lying on one of the benches in the motorhome. Seeing me, he got up, climbed into the driver's seat, drove home, then went to bed. Mr G never goes to bed with any ailment, not like yours truly, who takes to her pit when she feels something developing, in the hope of staving it off.

After five days of violent pain and disturbances to his vision, I finally nagged him into going to hospital. They had no beds and he was told to sit in a chair all night. 'I'm not doing that when I have a perfectly good bed at home," said Mr G, and promptly discharged himself. By this time, the hospital had lost his scans anyway. Next day, not feeling any better, he came back and they refused to readmit him and it was only due to his knowing someone on the board of the local health service that he got back in and finally got his diagnosis, that he'd had a major bleed at the back of the brain, the bit that they can't reach to operate on, in the Circle of Willis. Two weeks on and Mr G was laying a laminate floor in the new house I had bought. There really is no stopping the man. He is crazy, but he is a survivor. He won't let anything stop him. I bet that next time I come down the stairs he will be busy dismantling the gazebo, cracked rib or not.