"I have that," the birthday girl's grandmother said to me, pointing at the contents of Charlie's diabetes bag as the cake entered the room.

She wore earrings the size of donuts and called me "sweetie."

"Mmm hmmm! Keep it right on my desk all the time."

"Oh," I said, popping a test strip into the meter and ripping open an alcohol wipe. "You have …"

"Mmm hmmm. I can't afford to get another cold this year," she continued. "Oh, no!"

It was then that I realized she was talking about the massive jug of hand sanitizer that spilled out of Charlie's bag and onto the table and not his diabetes supplies.

Meanwhile I was on the phone with Susanne discussing the dimensions of the cake and signaling the young kids distributing the cake to hold off on the piece for Charlie.

Normally I wouldn't explain why I wanted a small piece with the icing mostly shaved off the top. But they seemed a little perplexed at why I was holding up the process with such anal-retentive instructions and coordinating a plan for the cake as if it was a nuclear bomb.

"I know it seems strange," I said. "My son has diabetes."

Grandma watched as I bent down on my knee to prick Charlie's finger and fire off a round of insulin.

She watched mournfully.

"Diabetes?"

"Yeah," I said.

And like finding exact change or locating an ingredient for apple turnover cake, she said plainly …

"Mmm hmmm. I have that."

And then ...

"Will he outgrow it?"