Spent tonight in the Emergency Ward at Westmead. Family. Sister. Pneumonia. All a very low level reason to be in hospital, though my sister, with the style that she is known for, relied on people interstate and drunk, and not her family, when she couldn't breathe and was puking everywhere. Like I say: the girl's got issues. Of course, not the kind of issues the recovering heroin addicted in the Emergency Room bed next to her has, but we all can't be that lucky. As a tip, however, accusing your nurses of deliberating not helping and having ugly French sounding names will not assure you the full medical attention you so richly deserve.

Eventually, my sister was wheeled through the twisting hallways and into a room. Four beds: the one next to her was curtained off, and held a young woman with a respirator. Her breath rasped back and forth in an oddly hypnotic rhythm. Across from her was an older woman, asleep. Next to her was Ernest C., an older man with white hair and a thick white goatee, who was, it appeared, asleep. I took a seat in the wheelchair while we waited for the nurse to return, and Ernest tossed and turned and then sat up and began pushing one of his blankets down.

Once he had finished, he looked at me and said, "Sometimes life can just be so tedious."