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It is the ultimate cruelty to be forced to inflict pain on your own child.
He is at that in-between age where he worships his dad but is trying to create his own sense of self. Although he is not worshipping me now. His face is turned away from me and scrunched up in pain and anger. At least he is keeping his arm still, which makes it much easier for me to push the needle in. They have made his arm ugly. An operation so the needles can be easily inserted has created a bulging vein on his upper arm. Before all of this, he had the beautiful skin that all children have. And there is also a series of puncture marks that the needles have made on his arm. He has not mentioned his arm to me but I have seen him examining it, frowning and trying to squash the vein back to a normal size.
I have one hand on his arm and the needle in the other. I was not built for this. I didn’t want to be a doctor when I was growing up. I didn’t know what I wanted. Not sure I do even now.
I find a spot below the last puncture and push the needle into my boy’s arm.
‘Ow! It hurts! It hurts! Stop hurting me! STOP!’ STOP HURTING ME!’
He doesn’t look at me when he says this.
‘Oh, my boy, my beautiful boy,’ I think. ‘If only I could.’
I have to keep his arm still so the needle doesn’t move out of place.
Then I say out loud, ‘I’m sorry. I know. One in. One to go.’ I quickly grab the tape I had cut before and stick the tube connected to the needle on to his arm. I push the tape down very firmly. I don’t want the needles to fall out.
