To the four nurses at North York General Hospital who wouldn't help me last night, I say "Thanks For Nothing". Did you ignore me because I was being too assertive? Did you ignore me because I was wearing a red clown nose and had my hair in sticky-upy pony tails? Or did you ignore me because you are so inured to the reality of your job that you've decided to leave the "care" out of "health care worker"? Here's the story.

Phone rings Chez Crabby last night: "Crabby? Can you come? I'm at the hospital with the boys. We've been here for seven hours. Sammy's really sick. Adam hasn't had any dinner yet. Can you come get him?" And she's crying. So I cry too. "I'll be right there." My sister's youngest boy has had viral asthma-related breathing problems. When his lips turned just the right shade of blue yesterday afternoon, in they went. He's only 17 months old! Oh honey, why did you wait so long to call me?

I called Mr. Crabby, who while upset for my sister and the baby, was more than happy to leave his midnight shift to rescue us all. He picked me up at home, and we tore up the Don Valley Parkway to the inhospitable hospital. When I entered the Emergency department, I faced one of those ubiquitous "Do not enter without a mask" signs. Naturally, there was nobody at the mask/registration desk, so I grabbed a very large, ill-fitting one and proceeded to the next obstacles - one unhelpful nurse after another. I walked through the ward twice, looking around, feeling like I was invading people's privacy. "Look," I finally said. "They've been here all afternoon. A blonde woman with a blonde baby and a red-haired boy. Last name Peters. Surely somebody can tell me where they are!"

At that moment, my five-year-old nephew comes tearing around the corner in standard five-year-old nephew mode. "Hey!" I called to him. "Heyyyyyy!" he called back, laughing at my clown nose. "Auntie Cwabby!" His shock of red hair and pale face under that flourescent lighting made me blink back more hot tears.

Mindful of Uncle Crabby idling outside, I said "let's blow this joint, Buddy. Wanna get a burger?" He led me to my sister, who was lying on a bed behind a curtain with a very sick-looking little boy sleeping on her lap. He looked smaller than he should be. My heart, thick with both our tears, broke a little just then. Meanwhile, my buddy gathered up his gear and we kissed my sister goodbye. As he and I made our way out of the ward, he insisted on saying goodbye to the doctors and nurses with whom he'd made friends during his afternoon adventure. "Auntie Cwabby's taking me to McDonalds for a burger now. I'm going now. Bye now. Thank you for the popsicle. Bye." One doctor shook his hand, glancing sideways at my fetching clown-nose-over-surgical-mask look.

"Uncle Cwabby, can I have some music back here please?" Uncle Crabby smiled and turned on the car radio.

"Could I please have a happy meal with a cheeseburger with no pickles and some milk and a hot fudge sundae with no peanuts please?" "Honey," I say gently, "I think that's a Dairy Queen thing." "Oh right. Then whatever kind of sundae you have would be fine, please," he says to the McCounter Girl. She offered him his choice of two toys. "My baby brother's really sick at the hospital, and I think he'd like this one best." Enter more hot tears. My heart broke just a little more.

I sat watching Adam and Uncle Crabby eat their burgers, then we took the boy home and put him to bed two hours later than usual. "Can you tell me when we get to Primrose Street, Auntie Cwabbie? I'm a little tired now."

The baby's still at the hospital, with very low blood/oxygen levels. Mr. Crabby assures me that he's in the right place, he's where he needs to be... but that hasn't stopped the hot tears from rolling down my cheek.