The X-ray of Charlie’s belly went fine. He stood in the middle of the room, holding the back of his gown together and smiling nervously as the X-ray machines were thrust into motion.

"It’s like when they put Darth Vader back together," I said, referring to the futuristic hum of moving parts and metal unfolding and twisting above our heads.

Charlie smiled and nodded.

When it was done, the technician let us take a gander at Charlie’s insides on the computer monitor.

"You’ve got a lot of air in there, Charlie," she said.

She pointed to different spots on the X-ray.

"This is air. This is air. This is poo-poo (yes, she said poo-poo). And this is more air over here."

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Charlie turned 8 yesterday. Can you believe it? He was 4 when I first started blogging about him. My very first blog was our fundraising letter for the Walk to Cure Diabetes:

"On the outside, Charlie has the appearance of a normal, healthy, mischievous 4-year-old boy, content in smashing cars, squishing bugs and embodying Luke Skywalker. But inside, his body is waging a war 24 hours a day, every single day."

The weekend was fine. Well, before our furnace stopped working on one of the coldest nights of the year. That was fun. Charlie asked if this meant his birthday was a terrible day.

I said, "yes."

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Getting ready for work this morning and listening to music as I often do, it was hard not to notice the striking juxtaposition of what was happening in the next room and the gorgeous melody filling the kitchen air. This morning it was "Cold Water," sung by Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan.

Cold, cold water surrounds me now

"You’re hurting me!"

And all I’ve got is your hand

"Ow! You’re hurting me!"

Lord, can you hear me now?

"I’m not trying to, Charlie. Please try not to move!"

Lord, can you hear me now?

"Wait!"

Lord, can you hear me now?

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Charlie sat on the bench in a somewhat meditative state. Even the blank expression on his face seemed by design to be a strategy in which to conserve energy. If he blinked his eyes less frequently and stayed perfectly still, perhaps his blood sugar would remain above 100.

"Charlie, you can skate a little bit before hockey starts," I said. "You’ve got about 10 minutes."

"Neh," Charlie said calmly and without emotion. "I really don’t want to go low this time."

Who can blame him after last week’s debacle.

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"So much drama," the hockey dad said to me, scuttling his son back onto the ice.

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

I wanted to shoot red lasers at him from my eyeballs.

I should go back to the beginning. Back when I was getting Charlie’s pads and skates on and looking angrily at a 415 on his meter. 415 was not at all part of the plan.

From the cold bleachers we watch Charlie through the glass. We watch him grimace and straighten his back. We watch him as he falls to the ice and stays down too long, pressing on the outside of his ankles.

Why is he on his knees so much, we ask? The other kids aren’t doing that. Why is he so uncomfortable?

Is it because he’s 400?

Can we blame diabetes? (READ MORE)

Sometimes, as strangers walk by, you hear just a word or two that raises your antenna. When I commuted to New York City for a short time, I collected these words as people darted passed me on crowded streets. I jotted down what I heard in a journal, wondering how bits of random people’s conversations would sound if merged together. It was sort of interesting.

It may have been something like:

Chicago at 4:20. I'm going to get a second opinion. That bitch betta not be there. God bless.

At the ice skating rink on Saturday, I was taking off Ben’s skates when two lanky teenage boys and two girls walked by.

"Wait," one of the girls said.

"My testing crap!"

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