2 weeks ago

I could hear the laughter from the comedy club in the distance, echoing through the basement corridors. The comedian’s muffled words reverberated from his microphone and the crowd roared in response. I could hear the dampened jokes as if they were being delivered from the other end of a tunnel, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find the comedy club. I felt like I was walking around in circles for hours and I hadn’t seen a soul.

Finally, an elevator opened up. I attempted to step in but people were packed in like sardines. There was no room for me.

Odd dream.

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www.google.com

"pink fingernails; blood under fingernails"

As early as 400 BCE, Hippocrates taught that the nails reflect the condition of the inner body. It is true that abnormalities of the nails can often provide early clues to common medical problems or severe systemic diseases.

Red or deep pink: Can indicate a tendency to poor peripheral circulation.

Half white/half pink: May indicate fungal infection or, more seriously, kidney disease.

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A couple days earlier we had talked about the continuous glucose monitor. His eyes lit up when I explained it to him. For an obsessively compulsive control freak like Charlie, I was describing the Holy Grail.

Charlie would control time and space if the powers of nature would allow it. And with his telemarketer-like persistence, he just may some day. As it is now, he’s a walking, talking Timex. With a glance downward to his pump, he is quick to remind me when I’m three minutes late for just about everything.

To know what his blood sugar is all the time? To use the pump screen as leverage when making a case for a snack? Charlie saw endless possibilities.

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We can only hope that Charlie’s body was fighting off whatever it was that hit Maeve hard last night. Maybe that’s why his blood sugars were insanely high for a couple days.

It was a good run for Maeve (seven years, in fact), but last night’s virus struck with a vengeance. She vomited about every 20 to 30 minutes from 8 pm to about 3:30 am. Being such a long time since she had thrown up, she was pretty hysterical at first.

But as the long night went on, she became an old pro. Her face as stark and emotionless as a runway model, she raised her head out from the bucket, dabbed a string of saliva from her lip and calmly said ...

"18," referring to the number of times she had thrown up.

It was a long, horrible night. We went to sleep at about 3:45 am and it finally appeared to be over.

Until ... (READ MORE)

His moist, hot breath fills my ear with the scent of wild cherry bubble gum.

"She’s pretty," he whispers.

He is referring to the hostess who had just seated us.

I’m surprised Charlie tells me this. Talk of pretty girls is generally reserved for mom. Aware of the rare moment, I decide to press further.

"How about the waitress? Think she’s pretty?"

"Mmm hmm," he says, looking around to make sure the coast is clear. "But the other is prettier."

Of course Charlie’s diabetes is nothing to be ashamed of, but I don’t enjoy announcing it unnecessarily to the world. I feel like I’m selling him out when I do so.

Like on this night at the restaurant.

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We did everything we could. He just wouldn’t ever come down.

This was a night from hell.

Shot #1.

519 at bedtime. He was in no mood for a shot. He became irrational - fighting us.

"Do you want to be 500 all night?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to spend the night in the hospital?"

"Yes."

He knocked his head on the wall repeatedly as I searched for a spot to stick him.

"Charlie!"

Shot #2

Midnight. Blood sugar soared back up after coming down just a bit.

"Not good," I called to Susanne.

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