Mom woke me up at about 2:30. Dad was in the hallway behind her, making "she's crazy" motions. She said that he was handling her. We went downstairs.
Dad followed Mom around on fleet legs, that god-damned new hip working with great efficiency. Anyhow, we went and sat in the living room. Dad was in his chair between us, babbling stupidly. He was trying to protect Mom from commiting suicide. She was going to jump out of a window or down the stairs, in his mind. We were just telling him it's not real.
I don't have any more patience for that shit. And this time it was worse, because it was dark. And he came after me, condemning me for the look on my face. Again, I have no time for that bullshit. And I just told him he wasn't making sense. I tried to explain to him that he had a medical condition that is affecting his mind, but that was useless. Urinary tract infection can present as delusional or absent behavior, oddly enough. He was in a dark state of mind, and I was evil. He didn't use that word, but he behaved in ways that call back and put a face to the religious nightmare of my early life.
And it calls back a question. I recently started asking Dad to please not touch me. Well, I've been acting it, keeping distance, and earlier in the day I said it. (I'd had to come home from work because I was worried about Mom. Dad had called me about a "crisis" in which he was worried about Mom and guests coming over and she's over-worked -- stupid bullshit.)
But this was that night, at about 2:30. We sat up, Mom and I not knowing what to do. She called the hospital, the calling of which was an onerous task in the traumatized atmosphere. But we didn't know what to do.
Dad was standing above me and hacked my skull with his cane. Broke the shitty thing, and I had to grab the remaining stick to keep him from hitting me again. I wrestled my way up, standing, and I tried to get the stick from him. I couldn't. Mom was dialing 911.
I told Dad "fuck you. This is how we're going to remember you. You fucking asshole."