We'd planned, from the beginning, to make it a short trip.  I'd fly into Boston on Wednesday, do some work, and get things ready.  Joey would join me on Friday so he could finish his work week, then hang out for the evening.  We'd drive on Saturday, or maybe even Sunday, it didn't really matter.

When it actually happened, Joey's dad was in the hospital, and not in very good shape, so we decided we'd sleep the night at my parents' and go early Saturday morning.

I don't really want to write what happened to Dad.  I'm not sure what the legalities of it all could be.  Let's just say that his ending up in the hospital, this particular time, was a surprise, and a very bad one.  We didn't have the usual clues about what might happen.  So the couple of days before I left we spent a bunch of time in the hospital, and Joey was there while I was working in Boston, and we would get there again as soon as we could.

Meanwhile, I was obsessively checking my immigration paperwork.

When you move, legally, to Canada, you are allowed to bring your possessions - there are regulations on things like alcohol and cars, you can't bring your plants (that was a tough one for me - I had two plants I'd raised from cuttings which I loved) - but for the most part, you can have what's yours.  You have to document everything, and you either have to bring it in when you land or give them a list of what you'll be bringing, bring it within a year, and be able to account for it.

We brought it all.  So I had a list a mile long.  Dollar values, too, that's required.  Even an estimate of what your four-year-old sleeper sofa is worth.

And I had our marriage certificate, pieces of our application, a pile of papers proving anything I could think of which might help.

My parents and I picked Joey up from the airport and had some dinner - barbecue of course - which made me sick, which was entirely unsurprising.  Severe stress makes my stomach act up.  On the way home from dinner, Joey got a call from his sister saying we should get home sooner rather than later.  We decided we'd leave around 7 the next morning.  Should be about 10 hours of driving.  We could be back at the hospital by late evening if the border didn't take too long.

(Let me just interject right here that I am a kickass driver.  I had backed that truck into my parents' driveway, a few feet from the garage door, perfectly.  I was ready to rock and roll that thing right across the state of New York.  Except, of course, that I was paralyzed with fear over the immigration bit.)

Let us also remember that this was February.

We packed the last things and went to bed.  We got up, shoved my old laptops and stuff in the truck.  My parents waved goodbye from the driveway.  It was oddly formal.  We had Wheat Thins, water, fruit (which we planned to eat or throw away before we hit the scary border).  Paper towels.  The knowledge that, if we just drove on 90, we'd get to Buffalo.

So we did.  And it snowed.  And the food on the way was awful, and I was afraid I'd get sick again.  But I didn't, and after a lot of singing along with the radio during the scariest squalls, we were at the Peace Bridge.

We drove in through the Van/RV lane.  A guard came to the window - I was driving at this point.  I gave him my best grin and said, "I'm landing as an immigrant today!"  He looked like he believed I was happy, which really I was though I couldn't quite feel it, and told me to park the truck over by the gate, which I did, and we went inside.

Immigration side first.  They wanted my form, from the guard, which of course he hadn't given me.  The guy thought about it for a few minutes and decided that Customs would deal with that.  Oh boy.  But he asked me about three questions, had me sign a form, stapled it into my passport, and sent me on my way...over to Customs.

While waiting, I prayed that I would get the nice-looking young officer, instead of the older, more jaded looking one.  Of course, a third person came back to the counter and called me over.  A woman in her fifties maybe.  I said, "I'm landing as an immigrant.  The guard didn't give me a form."  She was surprised, and asked which guard.  I hope he didn't get into trouble.

I gave her my itemized list with valuations.

"How much do you think it's worth altogether?"

I briefly calculated.  I gave her a wild-guess sort of number anyway. Brain not working.

"OK."

Some typing.

"Meet me at the cashier window."

She prints something.  She hands me a receipt.  It says "Amount Due: $0," which it is supposed to say.

"That's it?"

"That's it - welcome to Canada."

Now, I am 100% - completely - certain that this is a rare case.  I'm sure that if I hadn't looked dog-tired and terrified, and my dog-tired and somewhat differently terrified husband hadn't been holding onto me, they would have searched the truck, and found the oranges we forgot to throw out, and opened some boxes and whatnot.

But nope.  Ten minutes at the border and we were done.  I was a legal Canadian resident!  I just had to wait for my Permanent Resident Card before I could travel outside Canada again. 

No time to celebrate, though, and we pushed on for Toronto, about another hour's drive.  We had to get back to the hospital.

To be continued.