I think Mousie nailed it in her comment from my last post. The age of 6 really is shaping up to be a time of new understanding. And yes, Charlie is clearly dealing with diabetes on a new level.

These days he's showing signs of wanting more control. He now loads the test strip into the meter, though he's not ready to test himself yet. He's also started reading labels for total carbs. A tug of war over a bag of crackers usually ensues when I try to make sure he's right about the carbs before I enter it into the pump. He's getting frustrated.

Charlie: Can I eat now?

Me: (pulling) I just want to check the carbs!

Charlie: (pulling) I told you! 16 carbs!

Me: (pulling) I. Just. Want. To. See. The.

Me: Shit!

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On rare occasions, diabetes fades into the background like the hum of a distant freight train or barely audible elevator music. If I have nothing to write, that's likely a good thing. Last weekend was not one of those times.

On Friday night, Charlie muttered "damn, diabetes!" angrily after I put the kibosh on the candy push-pops being handed out at the baseball field.

On Saturday, in the shower, Charlie asked what all the little marks on his fingers were. He asked if the marks would go away. I weakly said "I think so."

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Went to the elementary school art show last night. Lots of lovely art hanging from the walls, displayed in the cafeteria and in the classrooms. Paper mache dragons. Ceramic tribal masks. Robots made from junk. Seems Charlie's series on oceanic creatures urinating in the wild didn't make the cut. Whatever. I guess the art teacher and I will agree to disagree on what is art. I didn't see one thing getting peed on.

Seeing Charlie interact with his little classmates is a major highlight for me. Especially on a night like this where there's a little red carpet buzz in the air. Kindergarten girls with their tiny voices, saying "hi Charlie," in unison as they pass him in the hallway, absolutely makes my day.

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His knees are bent.

Like a frog.

His nostril whistles.

He sleeps peacefully.

He's 56.

"Charlie," I whisper into the dead of night, giving him a slight nudge.

The ceiling fan hums.

"Charlie, you're low. Have some juice."

"Charlie!"

So many nights I've whispered these words into his sleeping ears. So many nights for four-and-a-half years. So many nights Susanne has. So many nights other moms and dads around the world whisper the very same words to their children in the darkness. We need a cure.

He keeps his eyes closed.

He just nods and opens his mouth when he feels the straw poking at his lips. (READ MORE)

Our team, Charlie's Angels, has been raising money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation since 2003 – the year Charlie was diagnosed.

For the first few years, we sent out our fundraising letter to friends, family and co-workers and did remarkably well. Last year, however, I started to feel uncomfortable asking the same people to give so generously yet again. I felt like they were investors in a cure that I was falsely promising. A cure that was "closer than ever" or "within reach" or "right around the corner." To be honest, I really don't know how close we are to a cure. But, what else can I do? I can't cure Charlie. I can only raise money and give it to the people who say they possibly can. I'll sell it like a snake oil salesman if I must.

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We try really hard to stay away from high fructose corn syrup around here, although, man, that stuff is in everything! Even bread. I think there are two or three brands that don't have it.

Olivia used to drink a lot of diet soda. I'd buy a couple of 2 litre bottles every week for her, in addition to drink mixes like Crystal Light. Sometimes I'd make diet Kool-Aid, using Splenda instead of sugar. One week, I added up how much of my grocery money was going towards diet drinks and was apalled - it was easily $10 or $15 a week.

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