I slip into the padded chair

and turn the crook of my arm skywards.

My name is checked and my date of birth as the torniquet is secured and then tightened.

He’s watching my every move and that of the phlebotomist too.

She looks him over and then asks me to have him stand away.

I ask him to move over to the doorway but instead he comes closer and hovers by the arm of the chair.

“Here, mummy, you  can hold my hand.

You can give it a squeeze if it really stings and I will take the hurts from you”,  he tells me.

The pathologist clucks at the absolute cuteness of my son as she pierces the vein and extracts the blood needed for testing.

I grasp his little hand

but not because of the pain.

Funny,

 aside from the swell of love for the boy,

I no longer feel a thing.