At the grocery store last week, there was a strange announcement over the loudspeaker.  Code something-or-another to aisle 5.  Still squarely in aisle one, focused on gathering my Thanksgiving fruits and vegetables, I figured whatever spill or security problem was occurring would be long gone before I made it that far.

Several minutes later, while I was still perusing the cranberries, an employee walked by and was stopped by the person stocking the apples.  "What happened over there?" she asked.

"There was a young girl...real little...with....you know?  Sugar? And she collapsed, kind of."

"What did you do?  Did you give her peanut butter?  I think that's supposed to be good."

"Well...her mother was with her and had something in her purse.  We got her a chair."

"Did you call the ambulance?"

"No...I don't know...Steve's still over there with them, but I think she was o.k."

I was taken aback at how little these people knew about diabetes, starting with the word itself. 

With my purse full of juice boxes, smarties, glucose tabs and glucagon, I made my way through the grocery store, on the look-out for this family.  As far as I know, I never encountered them.  Though if they'd picked themselves up and continued with their shopping, the diabetes would once again be invisible and they would have looked just like any of the multitude of Thanksgiving shoppers.

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