Fundo diary part 5: Home

I've discovered something: the threshold of our house is magic. As we crossed over it, LG's face lit up, his shoulders relaxed. The same thing happened to the rest of us (with less squealing) The relief of coming home from hospital – no more obs, no more grubby kitchen mugs or plastic-encased pillowcases. Just a whole private house to ourselves with nobody sticking their head around the door brandishing syringes and rubber gloves.

LG's appetite began to perk up instantly. And although for the first day he was still a little clingy and under the weather, within 24 hours he was bimbling about as usual. Picking things up, chucking things around, charging about like a nutter with his brick trolley and learning new words. (“Flower!” “Banana!”)

Meanwhile I started sorting things. I cleaned the bathroom, I did mountains of laundry but then I decided that wasn't enough and started clearing out my drawers and deep-cleaning the bedroom. I steam-cleaned the basement, vacuumed everything that didn't move. And I realised I'd been putting all this stuff off until “after the operation”. As if everything else in life was on hold until we had got through this.

The best job of all was throwing out the dozens and dozens of oral syringes that had taken over the kitchen. Every night I'd spend ages washing out the seven syringes a day that we used to deliver LG's anti-reflux drugs. Now, if everything goes OK, we won't need them any more.

OK, I told a small fib there. I didn't throw them out – I'm too superstitious for that. Instead they're in a shoebox in our cellar, along with all the leftover drugs that aren't near their use-by date. I hope one day to throw that box away without even opening it. I never want to see them again.