It was mid-afternoon as I strolled into the local pharmacy. I needed more Novolog insulin pens and today's trip would prove itself as unsmooth as usual. The diabetic smack in the face did not come for me, however, but for the slightly unsorted diabetic fellow ahead of me.

This day's pharmaceutical quest was not stunted by the feared insurance decline, or the "too early" for a refill drama. Not even the "out of stock" song from the pharmacy tech, or wrong sized needles being slid over the counter. It was simply an, "I'm sorry, I can't help you" interaction.

Unsorted Diabetic: What do you mean I can't refill my syringes here?

Pharmacy Tech: I'm sorry. I have no record of you as an approved customer.

Unsorted Diabetic: I don't usually get my refills here. I was just in the area.

Pharmacy Tech: Some muffled explanation and seemingly helpful recourse.

I stood confused as to why this man thought he could accomplish this transaction without a prescription. He also stood confused. And stood. And stood. As if to silently say, "I'm not happy, and will not leave until I am."

I was beckoned to the counter as the employee left this man to his own devices. The perturbed technician rung me up without haste and tried to get the line moving again. The fellow diabetic slowly threw his backpack over his shoulder and began shuffling away.

I then noticed the sun beaten skin of his arms, and the dingy ensemble of clothing. It suddenly dawned on me. It was unlikely this man had a valid prescription at any pharmacy, let alone a place to call home.

Some part of me felt sorry for him. Another part wonders if insulin was the main draw for his requested syringes. But for all I know he could have unmanaged diabetes and living in a needy state of desperation.

I hope you find some satisfaction in your days my fellow diabetic. Or as the case may be, unsorted addict.