She’s a woman, we’re about the same age, and we’re both survivors. The most significant thing I have in common with Theresa May, though? It’s actually one thing we both would rather do without: the new British Prime Minister and I have Type 1 diabetes.

Theresa May, the UK’s new Prime Minister.

Millions of people have diabetes. Only a small fraction of us have Type 1, though. That’s the one that is also known as juvenile diabetes. I was diagnosed with Type 1 at age seven. Prime Minister May was diagnosed in 2013. This BBC story about her last Tuesday demonstrates just how complicated it can be to fully understand the chronic disease:

She has rarely opened up about her private life although she revealed in 2013 that she had been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes and would require insulin injections twice a day for the rest of her life — something she says she had come to terms with and which would not affect her career.

I looked up an interview where she mentioned her diagnosis. “I’m on an insulin regime so I’m injecting insulin four times a day,” she said (the emphasis on the number four is mine). In the interview She also explained that she takes additional injections when she eats extra carbs or her blood sugar tests run high.

Okay, I hear you. It’s just a number. What’s the difference between two, and say, four? Or more? Trust me, it’s a tremendous difference when you’re the one taking all those injections. Not to mention the blood test you need to take throughout the day to determine if you got the amount of insulin right the last time you took a shot. Or whether you still need to take more

Type 1 diabetes — the kind Theresa and I have — comprises only 5 percent to 10 percent of diabetes cases. Type I diabetics have to inject insulin –pills won’t work. In Type 1, the immune system destroys the cells in the pancreas that make insulin. Researchers have not yet been able to figure out why that happens, but they do know it has nothing to do with the person’s behavior.

Ninety to ninety-five per cent of the people who have diabetes have Type II, and in those cases doctors often prescribe exercise and weight reduction. A number of people I know have been “cured” of Type 2 by exercising and losing weight. Type 1 is a whole different story. Prime Minister May and I could run, jump, swim, skip rope, lift weights and do cartwheels from sun-up to sundown (okay, truth is, I could never do a cartwheel, even when I was a kid, but you get the picture) and we could shrink down to a size 3 dress, but we’d still need to inject insulin. That’s because, no matter how much we weigh, those of us with Type 1 produce no insulin. None. Nada.

And so, Theresa and I — along with millions around the world who have juvenile diabetes — take insulin every time we eat. We test our blood several times a day to make sure glucose levels are within range. We balance meals, snacks, exercise and medication to prevent diabetes complications, which can include kidney failure, amputations, and … blindness.

Fast-acting insulins, insulin pumps and home blood monitors were not available 50 years ago when I was diagnosed. I took shots, avoided sugar, and tested my urine at home from time to time to get a guess at what my sugar levels were. I was advised not to have children, warned of the likelihood of complications and told I likely wouldn’t live past age thirty.

No surprise that throughout my childhood I saw my juvenile diabetes as a weakness. In early adulthood, though, I decided to fight back. I studied the disease, bought one of those new-fangled home glucose monitoring machines, and with my husband Mike’s help and support we started testing my blood regularly. I became more vigilant about exercise, walking everywhere and swimming every other day and closely monitoring how much that exercise brought my blood sugars down. I figured out how much my favorite foods brought my blood sugars up, too, and now I inject that new fast-acting insulin six, seven sometimes eight times a day to balance the meals and snacks I like to eat.

A new blood monitor at home talks — it calls my numbers out loud, so Mike doesn’t have to be around every time I want to check my sugar levels. Controlling my blood sugar keeps my weight at a steady level and gives me good overall health. Best of all: It makes me feel good.

Today’s appointment of Theresa May as UK’s new Prime Minister makes me feel good, too. Her appointment gives me even more reason to think that our Type I diabetes is not a weakness after all. It’s a strength. Living well with the disease teaches us perseverance, self-control, discipline and resourcefulness. Coordinating meals with insulin injections forces us to think ahead and make good decisions. Here in America we’ll be making a decision soon about a new leader. I hope we choose one with characteristics like those of my fellow Type I diabetic. Prime Minister May shows good judgment and is careful about her personal management. Maybe it’s just me, but it sure seems having control of yourself is a good place to start when it comes to taking control of a country.

Whew. I’m tired.

Beth and I traveled to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin Saturday afternoon—a strategic location for our long awaited trip with our son Gus and his Aunt Bev to a Milwaukee Brewers game.

We weren’t in the front row but we had good seats in right field. Thanks Aunt Bev, for the photo.

But not just any game. At this game, every single attendee received an alarm clock. But not just any alarm clock: A Bob Uecker alarm clock.

Uecker is known for a lot of things, among them being a comically bad Major League Baseball player—he did deadpan bits on how bad that made him a favorite on late night TV. He had a role (as a dad who is also a sportscaster/writer) in a popular 1980s sitcom called Mr. Belvedere. He made the unforgettable “I must be in the front row” commercial for Miller Lite. And, playing the role of the Cleveland Indians radio announcer in the movie Major League, his understated and sarcastic call, “Just a bit outside,” on a wildly wild pitch lives on.

Easily forgotten, however—or simply not known to those who’ve not had the pleasure—he’s an absolutely fantastic baseball radio announcer. There can only be one Vin Scully, but in my view, Uecker’s a close second. Uecker’s home run call typically goes like this:

Get up, get up, get outta here!

Uecker on Johnny Carson, 1982. He’s been a staple of late night.

We had a great time, but the driving to Watertown to pick up Gus, and then to Miller Park for the game, then back to Watertown, then back to Milwaukee for the night—well, it wore this guy out. Not to mention remembering how to get Gus in and out of the wheelchair and in and out of the rented car without ending up in traction.

I’m happy to say, I haven’t lost my stuff on that fathering front.

But boy am I tired. Sure am glad I have this to wake up to tomorrow morning.

You have to watch, and listen, to believe. (Click for a taste.)

The temperature was 90+ degrees in Chicago Wednesday. Our time at a rap concert outside at Grant Park that night was hot — in more ways than one.

I wrote a post earlier this week about my quest to understand what young people are listening to these days. If the musicians we heard in the Petrillo Band Shell Wednesday night are any indication, those kids have very good taste! The Taste of Chicago concert was free if you stood on the lawn, and thousands upon thousands of teenagers and 20-somethings gathered there peacefully — and happily — to hear Donnie Trumpet and The Social Experiment, The Roots, and … Chance the Rapper, a last minute addition. My disability status allowed me $25 seats in the shell. We opted for those. It wasn’t long before Mike guided me to a walkway behind our seats, though. I needed to stand up — and dance!

Donnie Trumpet and The Social Experiment opened the show. Donnie’s real name is Nico Segal, he’s a good friend of my friend Chance the Rapper, and he plays, guess what? The trumpet. A lot of people were there Wednesday to see Chance the Rapper, but if you ask me, it was The Social Experiment’s time to shine. The band features three trumpets, a trombone, two sax players, two keyboards, guitar, bass, drums, and … vibes. I really, really, really liked The Social Experiment.

Before Wednesday, I hadn’t quite taken to this rap thing. I’d assumed rap was more talk than music. I have trouble understanding what they’re saying. I can’t see to watch them do their cool moves. But The Social Experiment changed all that for me. It’s horns, back-up singers, and rap — all in one.

Donnie Trumpet, The Social Experiment and Chance the Rapper. A beautiful night.

The band’s performance was a 21st century variety show. Donnie brought one young performer on stage after another, boasting over and over again to the audience that “These musicians are all from Chicago!” I especially liked Michael Golden, one of many rappers who came out to perform with the band. He had his Go lyrics choreographed, so sometimes, when he’d repeat a phrase, like, say, “Don’t Go, don’t go” the guys on stage would chorus along, often in harmony. Like Motown! Female singers in the background were doing harmony, too — beautiful.

I read up on Donnie Trumpet a.k.a. Nico Segal a little bit and learned that he has Cuban background. That might explain the band’s Afro-Cuban sound. The music The Social Experiment played Wednesday also combined gospel, doo-wop, Motown, rhythms like Prince used, jazz like Miles Davis played, reggae and even … marching band. You couldn’t help but dance to it.

Mike and I were so sweaty it was gross to hold each other. Whitney the Seeing Eye dog stayed home (she doesn’t like crowds) so I unfolded my white cane and danced with it instead. About half an hour into Social Experiment, Chance made his entry, the audience went ballistic, and the exhiliration left Mike and me laughing — with joy.

It wasn’t all fun, though. Many of the lyrics I heard Wednesday touched on violence and chaos. A Chicago Tribune review of Chance the Rapper described his Paranoia trac “as incisive and moving a perspective on Chicago’s poverty-stricken killing zone as any piece of art.” In the article, Chance talked about growing up on Chicago’s South Side. “You have to be around it, you get sensitive to the sound and sight of a fight, the way a gun sounds — it doesn’t sound like the movies,” Chance told the reporter. “The idea of having friends who passed before they were 16, 17, you realize other people who aren’t from here aren’t like that, and they fear us.”

The concert was on Wednesday, the night before this week’s shootings in Dallas. Alton Sterling had been killed by a police officer in Baton Rouge the day before, and after the crowd took a moment of silence to ponder that, Donnie Trumpet stepped back up to the mike. “Moments of silence should be followed by moments of joy.”

Chance and the band responded with a version of the song “Blessings” and its refrain, “I’m gon’ praise him, praise him, ‘til I’m gone.” It was moving — and exhilarating — to be in the midst of thousands of happy, peaceful fans enjoying music together.

And so, with this post today, I’m gon’ praise Chance, Donnie Trumpet, The Social Experiment, the fans, the Chicago Park District, the City of Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs and the security staff for providing such an eye-opening, ahem, night to this middle-aged blind music lover.

I’ll leave you here with another Chance the Rapper quote from the Chicago Tribune, this one about his track called Paranoia.

”In Chicago people are afraid too. So to say, ‘I know you’re scared,’ it’s a kid speaking to an adult, to anyone who is outside this. He’s saying, ‘I’m in the same position, I’m scared too.’ I can’t be inattentive or unprepared. Because they could pull on me at any time. It’s fear of the next step. That song is saying if everyone would stop and say how they feel, we might realize we have a lot more in common than we thought.”

Last week, in my ongoing quest to understand what the young people are doing these days, I took advantage of an offer to get two tickets in the handicapped section for a Taste of Chicago concert.

The bands are The Roots (who I know of thanks to QuestLove) and someone called Donnie Trumpet, who I’d never heard of. I looked up Donnie Trumpet, checked out a You Tube video and he sounded pretty cool. Interesting — almost pretty — music.

Mike said he’d come along. We bought two tickets.
This morning  when  Mike checked out the Chicago Tribune web site he saw this big news:

Chance The Rapper announced that he will be opening up for The Roots on Wednesday along with his friend Donnie Trumpet.

I. Love. Chance.

He first charmed me when I turned on the kitchen radio on a lazy Saturday morning last summer . There he was, a guest on NPR’s Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me during a live taping of the show at Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park. Chance was sweet, smart, very, very funny and was wearing one of his grandmother’s favorite yellow cardigans. Two young woman from the audience stormed the stage. I would have held on and jumped up there, too,  if I’d been with them
in the audience.

I heard him on Saturday Night Live and fell in love all over again. and now I hear him every time Mike has a White Sox game on TV (and that’s a lot of times).  Chance is a fan, and he narrates the White Sox 2016 promotion videos, which appear before games, and also run as TV commercials.

More from a story in Chicago’s RedEye.

And you can view the Chance videos by clicking on the image below.

Fans get a rush out of the video. His monologue tells of the city’s rise and being “built upon the muscles of broad shoulders and strong backs.”

The speech is set against a backdrop of Sox highlights and snippets of Chicagoans going about our everyday work lives.

“To make it in Chicago, there’s one thing we’d better be able to do,” he says. “Step up.”

I’m steppin’ up tonight.

Now, what do I wear?

Here we are on July Fourth, and as a show of patriotism, a big American beer brand decided to rename its beer America for the summer.

This Canadian brand did something very different to celebrate that country’s own independence celebration, Canada Day, July 1.

Your assignment: Compare and contrast.

Alanna Royale was smokin’.

For our part, Beth and I celebrated the holiday by dynamiting ourselves out of our Printers Row cocoon and heading to an old standard, an all-time favorite: Fitzgerald’s. Every Fourth of July, the funky, homey, welcoming unpretentious club in Berwyn (an unpretentious suburb of Chicago) holds a four-day American Music Festival. Musical acts play on multiple stages in tents, in the club, in the Sidebar—it’s like an American music smorgasbord.

We took the Blue line. The club is a short a half-mile walk from the L stop. We got there around 3:00 p.m. We saw several acts and hung out with our friends (and friends of Harper) Chris and Larry, and heard a lot of great music. I peppered the two of them about their upcoming annual hike down and back up the Grand Canyon, for probably the umpteenth time. (They’re a patient lot.) I try to talk myself into it (but always end up thinking better of the idea when I get back to my couch).

The highlight was a band called Alanna Royal. Beth had heard proprietor Bill Fitzgerald talking up this act on the local NPR station earlier this week. When she found out they have a brass section, our Saturday was immediately determined.

They didn’t disappoint. Alanna Quinn-Broadus, the lead singer is, well, a force of nature. A hunka’ burnin’ love and blues and soul. The horns were great, the band was tight, and if you get a chance to see this Nashville group, do it. They get around pretty good.

The music at Fitzgerald’s American Music Festival ranges every year from a bit of traditional jazz to some folk, blues, and soul. You know, the kind of stuff it’s really fun to be proud of America for.

Oh, and the beer was good, but there wasn’t any America, I don’t think.