Raw

"It's just gonna be a scene," Ryan says with a devilish grin.

I look at him, doubtful at first-- but then I imagine how blown away Joseph will be when he opens this gift on Christmas day.

When he sees the tickets.

And really, it would be one helluva lark.

"All right. Let's do it."

So here I am -- two months later -- sitting in a crowded arena, flanked by my husband and son.

Directly in front of us -- an astonishingly short distance away-- a ring.

A Professional Wrestling Ring.
"My God-- this is gonna be insane!" I say to no one in particular.

Ryan says nothing-- just grins broadly, soakin' it all in.

Joseph can barely contain his excitement when a pleasant-looking man in a brown suit walks to the center of the ring holding a microphone.

The lights go down, and at first I can't make out what the man is saying over the thousands of madly cheering fans, but then his booming voice is suddenly clear:

" . . . weighing in at two hundred and thirty-eight pounds and standing six foot one-- Euuuugeeeene!"

A spotlight shines on an energetic fellow wearing a short white jacket and what looks like a shiny black speedo as he gallops through the crowd, then leaps into the ring.

Moments later, loud ominous music fills the air and again, the crowd screams as the announcer continues:

" . . . his opponent, hailing from India-- reaching a height of seven foot three . . . "

My head whips around to Ryan-- "Did he just say seven foot three?"

" . . . and weighing four hundred and twenty pounds . . .
The Great. Khaaaaaa-leeee!"

The crowd roars as Khali strides purposefully through the audience, climbs up toward the ring, and effortlessly steps over the top rope.

Eugene cowers in a corner, looking almost childlike next to this behemoth.



The "match" lasts less than three minutes.

Over the next three hours (that's right-- three hours) various heroes and villains parade into the ring and face off. And while there are some fun, wildly acrobatic moments, there's mostly a whole lot of really bad acting.

Despite this, Joseph is having a blast.

As the main event is about to begin, the crowd gets to their feet and begins shouting and chanting the name of the star attraction.

"CENA! CENA! CENA!"

I'm standing on tiptoes trying to get a look at this guy, when I feel a light tap on my arm.

"Mom, I'm tired," Joseph says, then leaning on me suddenly, "and I have a headache."

"Honey, do you feel low?"

"I... I don't know."

While everyone around us remains on their feet -- cheering Cena on as he marches toward the ring -- Joseph slides back down into his seat.

Even in the dim arena light he looks terribly pale.

"Honey, let's check your sugar," I say, feeling a rising panic.

He's 95.

Which wouldn't be bad, except that he's dropped more than 50 points from when we checked just ten minutes earlier.

That's way too fast.

"Bud, take three glucose tabs."

As I watch him eat the tabs, I'm wishing I could just get him out of here now (he looks that bad).

But the arena is dark; the aisles, packed with people.

"Mom, can I take another tab?" Joseph asks in a shaky voice.

"Go ahead, Bud."

I ask him several times over the next ten minutes if he's feeling better.

"A little," is all he tells me.

When the lights finally go up, we gather our coats and make our way across the crowded arena floor toward the high staircase that leads to the exits.

Thank God.

My stomach in knots, I walk behind Joseph while Ryan leads the way.

As we join the river of people already climbing the stairs, Joseph turns his head and says weakly, "Mom, I just wanna go home, I'm really, really tired and my head hurts."

Then he begins climbing.

A few seconds later, halfway up the staircase, he slips-- his face connecting with the stairs.

"Joseph!" I shout, my heart in my throat.

Grabbing onto one of his arms, I pull him to his feet.

"Are you all right?"

"No . . . no, Mom," he cries, "I just wanna go home."

There's some blood on one of his front teeth.

"Honey, does anything hurt?" I reach out and touch his face. "You're bleeding a little."

"I hit my mouth on the metal part of the stairs," he says, through tears.

"It's okay . . . you're gonna be okay . . . "

And then, frightened that his blood sugar might be taking a nose dive, I say:

". . . maybe we should check your sugar- "

"No, no, I'm sick of sticking myself! I'm just tired. I just wanna go to bed."

Ryan looks at me, mouthing the words "Let's go."

He's right-- we've got to get him out of this swarming crowd.

I turn back to Joseph-- "It's gonna be all right, Bud-- we just need to get to the car."

Holding onto him, I help him up the rest of the stairs, and then on out into the sub-zero cold.

A few long minutes later, we pile into the car, thankful to get out of the biting wind-- and away from all of those people.

Not long after buckling up, Joseph falls asleep.

Although his blood sugar is 111 when we arrive home, he's still not feeling right. I give him a snack and sit with him for a while before settling him into bed.

And then I can't sleep. I'm just so worried and angry about what happened. About all the other nights he's not gonna feel right -- or worse -- because of this damnable disease.

And I just want to scream.