Uncle P. watched the kids for us last weekend so that we wouldn’t have to drag the kids to a funeral service.

The service was pretty horrible. On the faces of the family was grief in the rawest form. The faces were the definition of grief. Though often a cliché, a piece of them was clearly missing. They were empty.

We got into the car and drove home, exhaling and shaking our heads. I loosened my tie.

"It’s different though," I said, in response to Susanne.

"We’ll keep Charlie healthy. We’ll keep his A1c under control. He’ll always be active."

"It’s still diabetes," Susanne said soberly.

"Type 2," I said.

"Yes, I know," Susanne said. "But it was complications of diabetes nonetheless."

Uncle P. (not to be confused with Uncle Q.) had the situation under control back at home. On the phone he mentioned that he gave Charlie a small boost of carbs since his blood sugar was 85. I guess that good judgment comes from having the disease himself for almost 20 years.

When he started packing up to leave, Uncle P. noticed that he was out of test strips. When he asked for just one test strip, it became a diabetic version of a visit to grandma’s house.

"Take the whole canister," Susanne said, stuffing it in his black supply case.

"Susie, I just need one strip to get me home. I have plenty at home," Uncle P. said.

"Take the whole box," Susanne demanded, as if forcing him to take leftover brisket.

"It’s not like I’m even going to test myself while I’m driving," he said. "I just need one strip."

"You’ll pull over if you need to," I interjected, playing the role of grandpa.

Uncle P. finally conceded.

So, we shared a potato chip big enough for two.