My husband Bob had surgery. It was not a time for martyrdom; it was time to call for reinforcements. My father-in-law stayed with me in the waiting room and drove Bob and me home after the surgery. My wonderful sister-in-law Bev made us a casserole. Our son David came home from college to help with errands, such as picking his brother Michael up from work.

When Michael got home, he ate up three-fourths of the casserole that Bev had made. David, a.k.a. the "helper," helped himself to my car, money, food and laundry facilities then went to spend the night with some of his old high school chums.

We got home about 9 p.m. Bob’s dad went to pick up the prescription since my "helper" was long gone. I made Bob some chicken noodle soup and got him settled with his leg elevated on a large pile of pillows. He was in some pain and began talking like a whiny 6-year-old: "I am in a lot of pain. Will you take care of me?"

I almost laughed out loud. Pain? Puhleeeze. Men can be such babies. Let me see him in labor for 23 hours without even an aspirin or a stick to bite on for pain, then deliver a 10½-pound baby.

Bob felt better the next morning, and I suddenly became the human remote control for the television. I felt we never really needed a remote control. We considered it part of our frugal exercise program. I had always figured a man invented the remote control.

Wrong! A nurse definitely invented it. After about an hour of changing channels and sound levels, I began making a list for the store. I was buying a remote control, and price was no object.

Upon entering Wally World, I went straight to the electronic department. I asked the clerk, "Quick! Show me to the universal remote controls!" She knew she was dealing with a deranged woman. She pointed. I began to review the different makes and models, noticing that one kind glowed in the dark.

"Yes that would be good," I thought to myself. Then I asked the clerk, "Do you have one that has one of those fancy GPS systems like they have for cars, so you can locate the remote when it is lost?"

The clerk shook her head. So how much does it cost for the technology they do have? $399. Oh, it needs batteries too? Ok. Throw those in. Do you take Master Card or Visa? You know what? I think I better buy two: one for the family room and one for the bedroom.

When I got home, I threw a plastic bag on the patient’s tummy. The bag contained the remote control, batteries, and a candy bar. Soon Bob began calling me. "What’s the candy bar for?" he asked.

"I bought one for myself and thought you might like one," I admitted.

"You bought yourself a candybar?" he asked. "I haven’t seen you eat a candybar in years. You must be stressed out about something. Honeybun, I hate to bother you but could you change the channel? I am having trouble figuring out the directions on this remote and it will be a while before I can make it work. I don’t want to waste my time watching this show."

I snatched the directions out of his hands. "Let me take a look at those directions. Two heads are better than one, and you’re on medication, you know."

During his recovery, I’ve helped him dress, brought him food, kept the toes of the "bad leg" covered when cold, uncovered when hot.

This is that "sickness and health" thing the minister had warned me about 27 years ago. I should have paid more attention.

Here are the two lessons I’ve learned: a remote control is worth its weight in gold, and nurses are horribly underpaid. I can hear him flipping through the channels. Maybe I’d better go and buy more batteries.