New Days

And so the second-born is home. Or halfway home, as they like to call it. He is released into our tender and somewhat panicked care a mere 11 days after a bone marrow transplant, which three words still have the power to awe and terrify, but, nevertheless, seem to have been the most benign of treatments.

We are given his medicine chart. He has four medicines each day, between one and four times: we are measuring out eight times, checking and double-checking with each other for bubbles and the tiniest of measurements (0.19ml of Cyclosporin for example.) Surfaces have to be cleaned before and after food; the bath cleaned before and after his bath. We hoover and steam-mop every day. His bath towels, pyjamas and vests are all cleaned daily, as are tea towels. Nothing damp is left to fester. I suspect the nurses have spreadbets on which parents call for help the fastest. We make it to day three before Sam does huge, enormous, runny poos and we panic and call the hospital. Actually, in hindsight, the prunes I gave him the day before to shift his two-day constipation have been more than fruitful; his squealing laughter as Kath feels his ribs is enough to make us blush at having taken their time.

Each week we have to go back for them to take his bloods, something he has never bothered over, and give his immuno-globulin, an artificial antibody infusion which he may have to have the rest of his life. He's been having one needle every week since being here, no bother; now two tiny needles injecting 2.5ml into each leg and for the first time ever he screams blue murder. But it's life and he will have to suck it up.

Outside of hospital, life gets routine pretty quick. Sam is asleep between 6 and 6.30pm, awake at 10pm for a dream feed and two more shots, then sleeps till 6.30am. We also learn after just one day we are ready to stab each other in the eyes with our forks (although we don't because there are only four and the thought of washing them up is more than we can bear) if we don't get out, so we make a plan to get out every day. It's no small matter: we are on the third floor with no lift and the heaviest pushchair in the world, but get out we must. Otherwise go mad we surely will.

Today, Matt having been home to pick up Oscar, I took Sam for a walk along the quayside in the *bracing* wind, cool and clear and blue. It was utterly mundane and more than amazing to just be taking my 5 month old son for a walk in his pushchair. To be out in the fresh air without hurrying to or from the hospital, without Oscar in tow there or back, nowhere to be, but just doing an ordinary Mum thing: pushing my sleeping child in the fresh air so as to have been out of the house that day.

And Oscar came. It was a bit of a moment: we haven't all been together since 7 December , so there was a tiny bit of crying. And Oscar showing Sam some moves. And Sam showing Oscar his words. Sibling rivalry probs starts tomorrow.