Jill and I were crestfallen. We could not believe that the hospital had been taken in by Greg. The social worker asked to see me separately and promised she would keep an eye on both him AND me, but she advised me to be optimistic and give him the benefit of the doubt. Jill had to get back to the Midlands. She had her own family to see to. She had been a marvellous help and support for those last few days. So too had my best friend who, although ill herself, had managed the previous week to travel across from the other side of London for a day to visit Greg and prop me up.
The occupational health people arranged to visit me the next day to inspect the house. The upshot of it was that they ordered zimmer frames for him to get around, a crutch to help him up and down stairs, a perching stool for him to recline on while he washed in the bathroom and chair-raisers to alter the height of the armchairs. All this was done before he could be discharged from hospital. My home was quickly transformed into a convalescent home overnight. Once everything was in place, Greg was to be allowed home the following day. That evening, I visited him for one more time in hospital. He was so excited at the thought of coming home, although annoyed he could not come home that very evening. I hardly said a word. I was too choked. I tried to smile at his chirrups of excitement, but all the while I was dreading the thought. He was coming home. My four-week respite was about to finish.