God, they are REALLY attention-seeking aren't they. You know what it's like? It's like they cannot bear the emotional pressure of having to think that there are other people in the world other than them. That you might be in infinite pain compared to a stupid bruised hip.
I cannot see why their solicitor should need the death certificate. Frankly - and I am judging by my own parent's standards of self-absorbtion here - I wonder if they just want to show it to all their friends and be the centre of attention. While they totally ignore you, their daughter, who is in need of support.
(It's not the same thing, not nearly as bad in fact, but when I got divorced, my parents took it as a pile of anxiety that I was dumping on them. It wasn't about me - it was all about them. They did absolutely nothing to support me - even though I was having to sleep in my car for a bit - but the whole thing was a gigantic emotional burden on them. And they kept in close contact with my exP, even though he was irrational, threatening, and violent. Some parents are just SHIT!!)
I got Grewellypoo when I moved into a London flat as a student. It had been empty for six weeks and it smelt just awful. I was trying to find the source of the smell and managed to work out it was something in the bedroom. Under the bed, there was this pile of fur - and I then realised it was a cat! I thought it was dead, but as I pulled it out, sack of bones as it was, it opened an eye. I was quite young and had never been responsible for anyone else before, and I wasn't allowed pets - so I told myself I would try to save him and then take him to the RSPCA. I spent the next 4 days feeding him water and watered-down catfood out of a syringe ever 3 hours day and night. Of course, by the end of that time, I had completely fallen in love with him and couldn't be parted from him.
When I rang my landlord to tell him that there was a cat in the flat he said "Oh I know, he was abandoned by the last owner. His name is Growler". He had just left him there to die! So he couldn't really object when I said I was adopting him. He was called Growler because he was the cat of an arsehole DJ who used to frighten him and he would growl like a dog whenever he was afraid - so when something unusual happened e.g. someone knocking at the door you would get this 'RRRRRRRRRR' noise. I struggled to call him 'Growler' because of that history. From the moment I met him he did nothing but eat or obsess about food for about 18 months. So he ballooned from skin and bones into a massive, fat bruiser of a moggie who very much ruled the roost - at which point I started to call him Grewellypoo because it seemed so incongruous for this huge, swaggering beastie. He's a black tuxedo cat and I bought him a very girly pink bow to wear, which seemed to complete the effect. 