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August 24, 2016
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Coming to You Live from Hockey Camp - Day 2



"117 at the moment," I texted Susanne from the ice rink, referring to the Dexcom.



"Nice number," Susanne texted back. "If it would just stay that way ..."



Today had been better than yesterday. We didn't have the same post-breakfast spike that made Charlie feel like poop during the rigorous morning drills. Although it was a short stay in the low 300s, he didn't like it.



The 117 being precariously close to the edge of safe, I figured I'd go back out to the grungy lobby to my makeshift office for just about 10 or 15 minutes to thaw out a bit.



Back in the rink, I found my usual spot - alone on a large segment of concrete bleacher seats. I pulled the Dexcom receiver from my pocket and aimed it at the ice like a television remote. Do your thing, Dexy.



After about five minutes, Dexy located the sensor on the back of Charlie's arm - underneath his hockey equipment - and alerted me in a red digits that Charlie was 72.



Charlie was lined up against the glass in the middle of a drill when I descended the bleacher seats toward him and rapped the glass with the corner of the Dexcom receiver.



Tap! Tap Tap!



Nothing.



Tap! Tap! Tap!



The foggy wet glass kept Charlie out of focus. With my hand, I made a circular portal in the glass and Charlie's teammate was the first to notice me.



"Your dad wants you," I imagined him saying in an emotionless Napoleon Dynamite type voice.



Charlie and his teammates found enjoyment in the round window I created in the glass - squeezing their heads together and smiling within the frame.



I showed Charlie the Dexcom.



"YOU NEED JUICE," I said trying to penetrate the glass with my voice.



He shook his head.



"NO??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO????"



"YOU ARE LOW. YOU NEED SOMETHING."



I again showed him the Dexcom to support my case.



He shook his head again and brought an imaginary drink to his lips in a gesture that said to me the following:



"Leave me alone, old man. You've been drinking."



Moments from going over his head and seeking out a counselor, Charlie called me over to a small gap in the glass.



"I already treated. I was 55. I had two juice boxes."



Charlie sped away, dropping from knee to knee across the ice in rapid succession as if performing a Russian folk dance.



Two and a half more days of this. God help me!

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