Last week, my dad felt horrible. I took him to his primary care doctor and they guesstimated that he had a bladder infection. I got him his antibiotics, continued to look in on him over the weekend, and was worried because the medicine seemed to make him even sicker. He seemed to be feeling better by Sunday evening, before I left for the seminar.

I decided to call him on one of my breaks during the first day, Monday, and he was in the middle of the worst pain he'd ever had. He described what was going on, and I was horrified. Instead of urine coming out when he went to the restroom, it was strictly blood. He immediately told my mother to take him to the ER.

Here's where things get fucked up. As you may know, my mother is a hypochondriac bipolar multiple personality mess of problems. She wanted to go with us on Thursday to Dad's doctor, because "I think I'm coming down with the same thing." When my dad told her to take him to the ER, my mother insisted that he see her urologist, and went off to find the number. When he got upset with her for wasting time, she came over to my house, where Mower was with the kids. She did not tell him where she was going. When I called him, he was searching for her and trying to not let me know he was crying, which I have not seen him do in years. He cried harder describing what happened, and he was scared and barely able to walk. I told him to go to my house and have Mower take him to the ER. I told him I loved him and then called Mower and told him to take my dad and if my mom got in the way, tell her to fuck off. My dad went to our door, since we live right next door, and saw my mom there, and said, "Oh, you’re here." My mother told them to wait for her, whom Mower ignored as he loaded the two kids into their carseats and helped my dad into the truck. My mother then came over to the truck and said she would have to follow them because a cat had gotten out and she needed to get him.

Her compassion overwhelms me. More concern for a cat that had previously been an outdoor cat for years, than for her husband of almost 40 years who is bleeding instead of urinating, after several days of being ill. My dad insisted that I stay at the conference instead of coming home, so after a good cry and making sure the hospital knew he was coming and his doctor knew he was going there and that he got to the ER, I stayed to make him happy.

My mother called with updates, like that he had a CAT scan and they thought it was kidney stones. Then they got the results and no kidney stones. A few more tests and they finally determined that his kidneys both failed and he was admitted to the hospital. His kidneys failed and my mom thought the cat was more important. She made him wait to get treatment because she had to have a say in things and try to convince him to see her doctor, as if the other urologists in our city are no good because she hasn’t seen them. I hate that she hits his doctors up for info that pertains to her when they are trying to focus on him. I hate that she thinks she is a nurse and will talk to me and Mower like we have never seen the word hospital, much less had our own experiences in one. I hate that she is a selfish, spoiled, tunnel-visioned pain in the ass that gets to play the wounded wife when my dad was problems. In short, I can’t stand her. God forbid something happens and my dad passes away first---her ass will be in a home ASAP because there is no way I can deal with her on my own.