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He is quiet for the moment with his face still turned from me, although I can still see enough to notice his mouth is stuck in an angry frown and there are tears on his cheek. I close my eyes for a moment so I don’t have to see his face.
‘I’m sorry. Just one more,’
As if that was any consolation.
‘You already said that,’ he snaps.
‘I know.’ I wipe his arm with an alcohol swab.
‘It’s cold.’ This time his voice isn’t angry. More matter-of-fact but also distant. He has moved from anger to surrender in a few moments.
I don’t give him any warning about when I am going to insert the needles. If I do, he just tenses up, and makes putting in the needles even harder. Pulling the skin tight, I jab the next one in, about five centimetres below the first.
‘OW! It hurts!’ And then he mumbles to himself, ‘It hurts’. As if he was reassuring himself that what he felt was real.
I tape down the second needle, pushing the tape as firmly as I dare. Then I adjust the blood pump and check the pressure of the blood going in and out of the machine. There is a moment to breathe. The sound of the pump is oddly soothing.
‘Okay, all set boyo.’ I tousle his hair then smooth it down.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Can I have my book and pencils?’
‘Here’s ya go.’ A few weeks ago, I bought him a huge scrap book full of blank paper and a collection of Derwent pencils. He loves drawing. And Derwents are special. He took them for show and tell once. ‘And your pencils.’
He takes them from me and flips open the scrap book to an empty page. Suddenly all his focus is on the new page.
