On such a winter's day.

I had another diabetes dream last night. It was even more horrible than the last one I had. The one where I was testing Charlie and a blue liquid spilled from his finger rather than blood.

At 2:17 am, I scrambled in the darkness and found a nubby pencil the size of a cigarette butt and scrap paper to jot it all down before it faded fast from my memory. I should have just stayed in bed and let this terrible dream disappear.

[WARNING: gets a bit heavy]

In my dream, I was grief-stricken from the start. I felt an enormous sadness as I made my way home from some far away place. Onlookers glanced at me mournfully as I parachuted from a plane in the heavy rain. Then I tumbled down a very steep hill like a competitor in an English cheese-rolling race. I was trying desperately to get home to my terminally ill son. It was Charlie. But as a baby. Like most dreams, it felt so real. The sorrow I felt is hard to describe.

Suddenly I'm on a street corner at nighttime. It's still raining, I think. Charlie is there, hiding in an alley. He's living on the streets. But then he's not a baby anymore. He's just a thing; an inanimate object like a toaster oven or a box. My subconscious tries to alter an otherwise grim outcome. But it's only temporary. He flashes back to a baby again and he refuses to come to me, my arms outstretched. He wants to hurt himself. He jumps in front of speeding cars. He raises his tiny arms wanting to get struck by lightning.

I'm finally able to scoop him up and take him home. Just inside the foyer, I'm still holding Charlie when I feel a fast stream of liquid spraying us, but mostly getting Charlie. A neighbor stood at the doorway shooting Charlie with a water gun filled with something. Something ... fruity. It smelled delicious.

"It's cantaloupe, plums, berries and red pepper," the neighbor said, hoping that his concoction would somehow cure Charlie if he sprayed it all over him.

"Ooh, that does smell good," my wife Susanne said.

And then I woke up.