There is a lady in front of me at Starbucks.  She's getting more than a little billigerent with the poor barrista.  I'm catching only snippets of what she's saying, until I hear this exchange.

"Coffee.  And juice, I need juice.  Juice."

"You want what kind of coffee?  What kind of juice?"

"I don't know."  

I step forward a little bit, turn myself to face the woman, who looks harried.  Blonde hair all sticking up, pale, sweating.

"I think she's drunk."  Says the barrista.

"Give me a minute and some orange juice, right now, please."  

"Are you OK?" I ask the lady, "Do you have diabetes?"

"Yes," she says, fumbling at her waist, I see that her pump site has, in her low bloodsugar squirming, become dislodged.  Now that she's facing me, I can see the infusion set and cord, hanging from the top of her skirt.

The barrista hands me a juice and I grab the woman's arm gently, saying, "It's OK, I'm a type 1 too.  I have a pump too, let's go sit down."  

"Where am I?"  She asks, as we walk to a table four feet away.  Man, this is a bad one, I think.  

I put a straw in the juice cup and hand it to her as soon as she's seated.  She's pawing at her clothes, and still sweating.  Her eyes are completely out of focus.  I am wondering if I should call 9-11.  I know enough not to ask her this, and encourage her to drink more juice and faster.  I have no idea the legal ramifications of giving someone a glucagon injection, so I keep my kit in my purse instead of taking it out.

I ask if she has a test kit, she says, "I don't know"  So I pull out my own and she feathers her fingers forward, auto piloting.  The test rings in at 23 mg/dl.  I wonder how she's still awake at all.  

She finishes 12 ounces of juice, I go back and ask for more.  She is slurring, "I need to get back to work.  Where am I?"

"You're at Starbucks downtown," I respond each time she asks "Don't worry you can go back to work afterward if you need to."

At around forty five minutes, I can finally see her coming around.   We retest.  She's come up to 78 mg/dl.  Her skin is starting to color a bit and she's shivering.  She tells me her name, she knows where she is, I ask where she works and after just a tiny pause she tells me that too.  

"I don't know how I got here."  She says.  "I should get back to work."  

"How about a half chicken sandwich first.  You really should have some protein before you go anywhere."  

"OK..." Looking down at herself she continues, "Oh, shit, I pulled my pump site out...  Where is my purse?  And oh, I look a mess."

"You look fine," I say, "I have an extra infusion set. Let's take care of that first.  You have a cell phone, but I wasn't sure who to call, did you want to call work and let them know you're OK?"  

"Yes," she says, and she does.  And then she puts in the new infusion site, right there at the table, and I decide I like this woman.  

"Wow.  Thank you," She says, "Most people would've just called the EMTs or something."  

"Oh, I know," I say, "And I know that's the last thing we usually want.  That was a scary one.  I'll walk you back to your office when you're done eating."  

"Really?"  She says, "Thank you."  

"Oh, you're welcome.  I've had a lot of kindness paid to me with my diabetes, it's really no problem."

She's wobbly just about the whole walk back.  And when we get to her desk, she tests at just 84 mg/dl.  I hand her the bag with the other half of the sandwich I'd bought and say "You should eat some more."

Her purse is poured out all over her desk, there are papers all over the place, and I see she had a jacket on at one point that got tossed to the floor.  She's surveying the mess, and I can see she's still struggling her way back, as she stuffs things back in her bag with one hand and eats with the other.  

A tall older woman stops and asks, "Are you OK?  You look like hell."  

"I had a bad low downtown," She says, "I'm sorry."

"Oh no, it's OK, I'll let Tom know.  If you need to, go home."  

"Thanks, Sylvia," She says.  

"I'm not going home."  She whispers to me as Sylvia walks away.  I pick up her jacket from the floor and tell her that I have to get back to my own office.  I'm amazed at how her co-worker knew exactly what she was talking about and seemed genuinely interested in her well-being.  

"You going to be OK?" I ask.  

"I think so." She says and we exchange phone numbers.  She's less quaky now, and I can see that she's as stubborn as I am, and that she'll sit at her desk to the end of the work day, trying to get things done even with a glucose hangover.  

I walk back to my office.  Glad to have been able to help, hopeful that there will be people around to help me in the inevitable case that I'm in the same position someday.

She texts me at 5:45.  "Thx again. fnd u on dlife.com - nice blog.  I owe u - even if u don't think I do.  BG is (of course) 302 now - ty rebnd.  Ugh.  At least no er today.  Dunno how 2 really say thx."  

I return, "Thnk me by giving some insulin.  No problem really.  Let's have lunch soon."

And the last text "As lng as not at S-bucks."  

Diabetes, I hate you for putting people through the ringer, but you've introduced me to some pretty funny, smart, strong, wonderful people and I guess I'm thankful for that.