This has been the worst 4 weeks of my life.
Packed, ready to leave the house, even had a confirmation letter in my hand. Then the phone rang...
The social worker here in Cincinnati didn't send my paperwork to the site in Venice Beach until Monday. Then the people in Venice Beach decided not to read it until Friday afternoon. The bastard doctor decided he "didn't feel comfortable" dialyzing me and had his secretary call me to tell me the bad news...at 5:30 yesterday. We were set to leave at 6:30.
Long story short...I can't go. Then I was left to make the decision about whether Jason and Alli would go. Now I'm the bad guy because I didn't want my family to go without me. So, not only do I feel terrible that they told me not to go, but now I have to feel guilty about asking them not to go. Alli's fine with it. No tears. Jason's pissed. I feel like he's pissed at me.
I'll get over it in time. But we're out ALOT of money. Had we known earlier we could have worked with the doctors, airline, and condo to get a refund. Nobody's going to refund our money at the last minute. We could find some things to do here at home. Stay-cations are fun, right? But we can't afford it. I'd love to take Alli to Kings Island or The Beach. Guess we can go to the zoo or the museum.
People have been telling me to accept help when it's offered. I accepted help from the social worker. Lots of good that did me.