Post-transplant, life is unremarkable. Sam turns a cheery glowing red, a sign, apparently, of the rich red blood cells Oscar has imparted to him. It should fade soon - at the moment he's a bit Violet Beauregard. He continues to thrive, gain weight, eat. Oscar goes home, an event remarkable only for being as painful as the last time we said goodbye and life ticks on.
And then something amazing. Suddenly Sam is being discharged and we can take him back to the flat. The doctors are so pleased with his unremarkable, sanguine (literally) progress, we are allowed to move immediately into what they term a halfway house, ie, our flat and prepare for life on the outside. We are thrown immediately into disarray: we have NOTHING up here for a baby. We thought we would be at least another two weeks in hospital before they considered moving us into purple isolation, ie being able to take him for short walks in preparation for the move to the flat. Lists. We must make lists as if we are starting from scratch with a newborn: changing mat, travel cot, bedding, towels, nappies etc.
It's not just the practical that is so discombobulating. We react in different, typical ways. I am pleased: I see progress, a return to reality on the cards, ticks in boxes and exams passed. Life is good and positive. Matt is pleased: but it also signals anxiety. We live in a bubble, free from responsibilities other than keeping clean. Here in the flat, we shall have to adjust to a much more elastic sort of bubble (Oscar can come, grandparents can visit!!), but for him the anxiety is that we have our safety net taken away, abruptly, without warning and we don't know how to cope. It's both a good thing and a bad thing: life is moving on and he isn't terribly sure how to cope with this Sam, this SCID Sam, outside of a hospital bedroom.
Today we were also moved from red isolation into purple. In practical terms, this doesn't mean a whole lot. A little less hand-washing, a little less rigidity about what passes from one side of the room to the other, the sign on the wall with the new rules is a different colour. But one line stands out. In bold. Line 3: Kissing IS allowed. For the first time since early December, we can kiss our son. With our lips. On his face. Like a parent. Strangely I didn't want to. Somewhere inside my head, a little voice is saying "You won. In this game of patience of not kissing him, raspberrying his tummy, blowing bubbles, you won eventually. And you don't have to give in now either." So I hold out for 10 more minutes and then I do kiss him. He's like "whaaaa?" Matt cries. That's probably a more normal reaction.
So now we prepare. And spend. A lot. Because we have nothing up here. We're trading dinners out and a bit of a lie-in in the morning (until the trek to hospital) for dinners in and lunches in and breakfasts in (for a couple of weeks anyway) and we have to go back to a 6:30am feed and being awake in the night for reasons other than drunk punters chunting on beneath the window. Obviously it's another good thing. But I'm glad it's after Newcastle Restaurant Week...
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