My mom refused to let me go to the hospital because she "paid for the plane tickets."

I recently posted about the incident that became my final straw for going no contact with my mom. At the end, I mentioned there were plenty of other stories.

Well... buckle up, because here's another one.

This also happened on the Hawaii trip from my last post, because apparently, one family vacation wasn't enough trauma for a lifetime.

It was our last night there, and my then-boyfriend (now husband) and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with being stuck in the hotel room. My mother and stepdad had spent the rest of the trip either screaming at each other or, when they weren't fighting, my mom would loudly sob in hopes that someone—specifically me—would comfort her.

Spoiler alert: that strategy wasn't working anymore.

So my boyfriend and I escaped for a while. We wandered around, found a little ramen place, had dinner, walked some more, and finally went back to the hotel to get some sleep before our flight home the next morning.

Except... there would be no sleep.

A couple of hours after falling asleep, I woke up with what I can only describe as a rumbly in the tumbly.

"Oh," I thought. "Maybe I just ate something that didn't agree with me."

Oh, dear reader...

It was not "something that didn't agree with me."

It was food poisoning.

I had never had food poisoning before, so I was blissfully unaware of the horror show that was about to unfold. I basically lived in that bathroom for the rest of the night. The pain was unreal.

Morning came, and somehow we still had to get to the airport.

I threw on the comfiest clothes I had, accepted my fate, and tried to power through. I was pale, clammy, nauseous, exhausted, and operating entirely on stubbornness. At that point, all I wanted was to get back to my safe space—home. I wanted my own bed, my own bathroom, and my dog. Home felt like the only place I could actually fall apart, and I was determined to make it there somehow.

As long as I was sitting down, I was... mostly okay.

Then we returned the rental car.

The second I had to actually walk through the airport, my body completely gave up.

I doubled over in pain.

I got dizzy.

I honestly thought I was going to pass out.

The only thing my brain could come up with was, "Lay down."

So I did.

Not inside the airport.

Not after security.

Not at the gate.

Outside.

Before we'd even made it through the airport doors.

I laid down on the ground beside a bench because the pain was so intense that standing was no longer an option. I was pale, clammy, dizzy, and convinced I was about to faint.

I told my boyfriend, "Take my bag. Please get me a wheelchair."

Without a second thought, he took off to get one.

Meanwhile...

My mother decided this was the appropriate time to start yelling at me.

Not asking if I was okay.

Not seeing if I needed help.

Not showing even an ounce of concern.

Nope.

She started berating me.

My boyfriend suggested I go to the hospital because I was clearly in no condition to fly.

My mom's response?

"But I paid for these plane tickets, and you ARE getting on that plane."

Apparently, my medical emergency was less important than getting her money's worth, because obviously, the airfare was the real victim here.

My boyfriend got me into a wheelchair, and we slowly made our way toward the terminal.

When we reached the security checkpoint, airport staff brought my boyfriend and me to the front of the line because of the wheelchair. My mother apparently took that as an invitation for her to come with us.

It wasn't.

She was quickly told she needed to wait in the regular security line with everyone else.

Tiny victory, but honestly, I needed one.

Once we got through security, I was still barely holding it together. Still pale, still clammy, still quite nauseous, and trying my absolute hardest not to pass out.

My mom looked at me—still pale, sweaty, and sitting in a wheelchair—and apparently decided my lap was the perfect place to pile all of her carry-on bags while she got herself organized.

Yes. She literally used me as a luggage rack.

Thankfully, my boyfriend immediately picked every single one of her bags off my lap and carried them himself because there was absolutely no reason any of that should have been on top of me.

He then wheeled me over to the airport medical station, hoping they could at least give me some fluids or do something to help.

But when we got there, the door was closed. There was a note posted that basically said if no one was there, the nurses were assisting someone elsewhere in the airport, and to please wait for them to return.

We waited as long as we could. Unfortunately, my stomach had other plans.

I ended up having to make another desperate trip to the restroom, and after that, we realized we couldn't just keep waiting around hoping someone would come back. At that point, I figured I'd have to suck it up and somehow make it onto the plane.

Instead, I spent the next two flights rotating between my seat and the airplane bathroom.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Thankfully, we were flying Southwest, and because I was in a wheelchair, my boyfriend and I were able to pre-board. We grabbed seats in the very front row, and for once, we didn't save seats for my mother and Stepdad.

Petty? Maybe.

Deserved? Absolutely.

They could figure it out.

Meanwhile, I spent two flights in the worst pain I've ever experienced, trying not to pass out every time I stood up.

Looking back now, I should have gone straight to the hospital.

But between being sick beyond belief, and having my mother screaming that I was getting on that plane because she paid for the tickets... I didn't.

Thankfully, I recovered once I got home.

But it's one of those memories that really sums up our relationship.

To her, the money she'd spent on my plane ticket mattered more than the fact that her daughter was lying on the pavement outside an airport because she was too sick to stand, then spent two flights practically living in airplane bathrooms instead of getting medical care.

Looking back now, I should have gone to the hospital. I know that.

But when you're raised by someone who tells you that wasting a plane ticket is a bigger problem than a medical emergency, your priorities get... skewed.

And somehow, she wonders why we're no contact.