style="font-size:15px;"> She shifted awkwardly. ‘No, not every injection. Well, he hates it so when I prick his little finger, but surely I can tell just by looking at him? I mean, he hasn’t gone funny or anything…’ She trailed off and flushed. ‘Well, you try doing it when he’s screaming blue murder and won’t co-operate!’
Jennifer could see Andrew’s frustration as he turned to her. ‘Sister, would you, please? We’ll need bloods anyway for HbA1.’
‘Of course. Paul, could you roll up your sleeve for me, darling, so I can put this strap on? That’s lovely. Right, you hold this little bottle for me and see if you can turn it round and round while I just have a look at your arm here. Oh, that’s lovely! You’ve got very clever veins, haven’t you? What a good boy. Just a little tickle and it’ll soon be over — well done. Keep the bottle turning — that’s lovely. Good lad. All right, now,’ she released the strap, laid a swab over the puncture and withdrew the needle. ‘Could you hold that on there for me, nice and tight? Well done. There’s a good boy.’ She gave him a bright smile, ruffled his hair and winked.
While she waited for the result from the blood analyser, she bottled and labelled the blood for the lab, and disposed of the used syringe in the sharps bin, then put a plaster on Paul’s arm.
‘Well?’
She turned to Andrew and shook her head. ‘Sky high. The urine was, too.’
She told him the result and he frowned. ‘Mrs Downing, if you can’t manage the finger prick each time, you must test his urine. It’s not as accurate, of course, but it’s better than nothing, and if you find it’s high, then you must test his blood as well. Do you understand? Especially in the early stages until he’s stable. If you can’t manage that, I’m afraid we’ll have to have him in and do it for you here, and we don’t want to do that, but you really must understand that high blood sugar can lead to all sorts of problems for Paul later in life, like heart disease, kidney problems, eye trouble — sometimes we just have to be cruel to be kind, and the last thing you must do is bribe him with sweets.’
‘Well, what would you suggest?’ she asked defensively.
‘You could perhaps offer him a treat — a day out at the weekend if he’s been good about his diet and treatment, taking him to the cinema or the zoo, buying him something he particularly wants, but don’t let him hold you to ransom. It’s a part of his life from now on, and if you’re firm he’ll very quickly grow used to it and accept it. If he feels he can wind you round his little finger, he’ll do it. They’re great psychologists.’
He jotted down something in the notes, and handed them to Jennifer. ‘Could you take Mrs Downing and Paul through to the dietician please, Sister? And I’ll see you again in two weeks, Mrs Downing, to see how you’re getting on.’
‘Thank you, Dr Barrett,’ she replied, somewhat stiffly. She was obviously chastened and didn’t like the feel of it.
Jennifer schooled her expression, and held out her hand to Paul. ‘Come on then, Paul,’ she said with a smile, and he put down the aeroplane he was playing with and slipped his hand into hers. ‘Let’s go and talk about what you can have to eat, shall we?’
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