"Pretty cool, huh?" I say to Charlie's soccer teammates, as I remove his pump from his pants and hold down the up arrow.

We met for ice cream and handed out trophies yesterday afternoon. Charlie couldn't wait for his first-ever trophy. He was giddy all morning despite having unexplained high blood sugars.

The boys watch, with dripping brown, blue and white beards, as I hold the up arrow button down for what feels like an eternity. 97, 144, 172. Higher. 201, 233, 268. Higher. 280, 312 and , stop! 339. Phew! At least it wasn't 340. Now that would have been high.

I cringe as he bites into the chocolate ice cream and his own brown beard takes shape around his mouth. He smiles at me, knowing that his face looks funny. I smile back uncomfortably. I hate this disease! I hate this disease! I HATE THIS DISEASE!

As hard as it is for me to watch him eat ice cream at 339, there is no way in hell that I'm about to say no. Some of you may not understand this. It's not about the ice cream. It's the moment. It's smiling and laughing and talking like a robot with his little friends. It's him coming out of his shell. Initiating conversation and being silly. If you could only see the joy in his face as he and his teammates "ooh" and "ahh" above the colorful tubs of ice cream behind the glass. "Ooh, I want this one!" "Ooh! I want that one!"

No way in hell will I say no. Not now. Please insulin. Do your thing and do it quickly.

A blonde-haired boy with shiny silver fillings in his teeth asks how the pump goes into Charlie's body. The kids are very curious about that. Once, a kid at soccer lifted Charlie's shirt and slowly followed the tube trail to see where it ended. When he got to the waist band of Charlie's shorts, I stepped in and stopped Christopher Columbus from exploring any further. "OK, move along, nothing to see here."

It was an ice cream party. I didn't want this to become all about the little needle lodged in Charlie's ass. I immediately change the subject.

"Who wants their trophy?"

The hands shoot up like bottle rockets.

Brown beard makes up a song on the car ride home about having his very own trophy. It's a catchy, folksy little number. What he doesn't know is that his site is shit and must be removed. In mere moments, he'll be howling in pain.

And then I see a whole other sort of face.