Sometimes, hubby's deaf ear is good

When my husband called to check on me one day earlier this week because I hadn't been feeling too well that morning, I told him I was fine. Really. No problem. I'd be over this stomach thing in just a couple hours.

Thank goodness my husband doesn't listen to me.

Usually, the fact that he doesn't listen to me would aggravate me no end, although it can come in useful. For instance, when I catch him in the middle of watching a pivotal playoff game on TV and tell him, "Sweetie, I went shopping today and found tons of great bargains, including five pairs of super cute shoes and a couple dresses," and he grunts and says something about "How can they run a tight-end block like that?" I can truthfully claim that I revealed all when he's later checking the credit-card bill and gives me the Evil Eye. Was it my fault that he wasn't really listening?

But I'm so glad he didn't listen to me when he called to check on me and I told him I was fine and he didn't need to come home because I was sure this little stomach bug wouldn't be a big deal and I could just shake it off.

Because I was wrong. So, so wrong.

If you had the stomach virus that made its rounds around the Shoals lately, you know what I'm talking about. And if you haven't, I'll spare you the gory details.

When my husband came home even though I'd told him not to, I was still able to claim that all was well. But he didn't listen to me again and soon I was practically bent over double. I couldn't walk, I couldn't talk. I just wanted to lie down on the bathroom floor forever.

And since by now he knows that my usual stubborn way to approach being sick is to say, "Oh, really, it's nothing. I'll be fine. Don't you worry about me" all the way to the hospital, he knew I'd probably need some help.

But he wasn't the only one who helped me that day. I cannot say enough about the nurses and doctors and other medical professionals who helped us.

From the nurses who apologized profusely for having to stick needles in my arms multiple times to the doctor who brought me a warm blanket, every single person was helpful, sympathetic and good at what they did - even though I threw up on their shoes.

Listen, this stomach bug is bad stuff. In the morning I was a relatively healthy and happy person and by lunchtime, I was a blithering crying weakling who couldn't even think about food and wondered if I'd even see suppertime. It gets you that fast and lays you that low.

But because my husband wouldn't listen to me, it turned out just fine.

Cathy Wood is a freelance writer living in the Shoals. For more from her, visit TimesDaily.com.