The Trip to Toronto

Ford after being transferred from his bed at the ICU in Vancouver to the stretcher for his trip. Can you see him? He's there.



Arriving at YVR, excited to check out the plane... umm, it's quite a bit smaller than the ambulance... are you sure we're going to be able to pack 5 large guys and a baby inside?



No... But we're gonna try. Babies first.



Me next - in the back corner behind the baby, then everybody else. A slow and creeping panic consumes me as they shut the door and start the engines. I'm stuck with no room to move in the smallest space I've ever stuffed myself into, accompanied by 5 strangers and a really sick baby.




Still, once I got over the panic (the complimentary yellow cases behind our seat really helped us all - well me and Ford at least - stuffed as they were with every sedative known to mankind) it was unarguably the most comfortable flight I've ever had. Riding in a Learjet means riding in style, even if it's cramped and stuffy - note the brass and wood veneer accents in the previous photo. This particular plane was reportedly owned by Imelda Marcos, first lady to the late Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, before servicing BC as an air ambulance... not sure where she would have put all those shoes. I wish the plane had absorbed her moniker: Steel Butterfly, but sadly no...


After waiting idly on the runway in Toronto for a few minutes - the following conversation:
Where the hell are they? Wait, did you call them to let them know we were coming? Umm, yeah, they're supposed to be here. Ok. Well, they're not. I'm going to call Vancouver. Hello? Isn't there supposed to be an ambulance here to meet us? They weren't dispatched? Well, could you please call them and let them know we're waiting on the plane here and we all really need to pee! - 15 minutes later the ambulance arrives and we wrestle our way out the door.
Babies last!


Getting into the ambulance from the plane. Thrilling ride from YYZ to SickKids. Allow me a brief public service announcement: Please do whatever you can to get out of the way of the ambulance that's wailing and barreling down on you from behind, even if you are an aggressive, jaded rush-hour commuter in Canada's largest city. Where do all these people come from?



Still, we made it to the hospital before the batteries died on this mess of equipment that keeps Ford eating, breathing, sleeping, and living. Quite a mess of wires - oh those carefree days of our youth.


Gentle Paramedic.


Ford is stable in the CCCU and we are comfortably checked-in at the Delta Chelsea hotel a block away. Ford is on the waitlist for a new heart and we are on the waitlist for a room at the Ronald McDonald House. While the transfer was far from problem free, and we are currently in the thick of asserting ourselves here as the only people qualified to manage the continuity of care that Ford needs to stay comfortable and well - we have already had a few breakdowns and heated arguments with doctors - we are trying to remain calm and optimistic.

Tomorrow is slated to be full of several hours of briefings and evaluations, prepping us for the realities of transplantation, including a psychosocial consult that attempts to determine if we are sane enough, strong enough, and socially relevant enough (I'm serious) to qualify as a family that deserves something as valuable and as hard to get as another dying baby's healthy heart.

While I ought to be sorting out a haircut and and a shave, to boost the appearance that I'm a useful member of society, I'm lounging over a beer in the Chelsea's bar waiting to meet Christa for dinner. More often than not I find myself pulling at my hair wondering what the heck we've gotten ourselves into...

Bon chance Ford... Bon chance.