My wife, The Queen B, and I were on the boat of some friends of friends in South Padre Island, Texas. My wife insists that I always accompany her on trips because she believes that when traveling life’s highway, you should carry your own your own dipstick. I am happy to be in her company and to do what I can to make her life easier. A husband is someone who takes out the trash and gives the impression that he has just cleaned the entire house. Women don’t need a remote control. They have the actual control. Every man needs a wife because there are a number of things that go wrong that we cannot blame on the government.

I love my wife. I will never forget the day I asked her to marry me. She accepted my proposal, provided that her father gave his consent. She warned me that her father loved her so much, that he was particularly tough and choosy about her suitors and that I should approach him cautiously. Thus warned, I walked on eggshells into her father’s study and blurted out, &uot;I want to marry your daughter!&uot;

&uot;Sure. Go right ahead and blessings upon you, young man,&uot; said her father. &uot;By the way, what did you say your name was?&uot;

So there my wife and I were, feeling the warm breezes of South Padre Island when my wife began to feel ill. Life is a test that we haven’t studied for. The Queen B hadn’t felt so poorly since that unfortunate incident with the Thigh Master. There happened to be a doctor onboard and she recommended that I take my wife in most haste to an emergency room. The kindly physician suspected the cause of my wife’s ailment was stress from living with me.

I did as she instructed and drove my wife to the hospital. My wife agreed to go. That is quite an admission for a good Minnesotan. Minnesotans believe a good sleep will cure most anything.

Once in the hospital’s emergency room, we quickly discovered that there is little difference between an emergency room and a waiting room. We waited a long time. I tried to cheer my wife by regaling her with tales of how ancient Egyptian doctors put their patients under before surgery by hitting them on the head with a mallet. I told her of a friend whose surgeon had left a sponge inside him. He told me that the sponge didn’t cause him any pain, but that he was always thirsty. I have always believed that a good laugh heals a lot of hurts. I tried to laugh in order to cover my fears.

The Queen B was questioned, probed and prodded by a number of highly trained medical professionals. They were all pleasant people doing a difficult job. Once a doctor was able to see her, my wife was admitted to a hospital in Mission, Texas; a long way from home. I worried so about my wife that I was unable to sleep while she in the hospital. A couple of days in that facility and loads of antibiotics given by IV and she was feeling feisty enough to be released. I was so happy to hear the doctor say she was being released. It was the best thing I had heard a doctor say since I heard my proctologist declare, &uot;You can straighten up now.&uot; I asked the doctor if her problem was hereditary. I thought if it was, I could have the bill sent to her mother.

We bought prescription drugs and understood why some folks drive to Mexico or Canada for them. Santa Claus definitely did not bring them. The price tag was many times larger than the pills. We are thankful that we have health insurance, albeit it one with a high deductible. We submitted the bills for everything to our health plan, something called managed care. I think that is because you are never certain when they will manage to care.

My wife is doing well. The thoughtfulness expressed by friends old and new warmed our hearts. I love the delicious Texas grapefruit that I brought home, but I will let my wife eat it all. I am married for life. It is so good to have her back home. Sometimes the best gifts are the ones that we have already received. Francis of Assisi said, &uot;A single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.&uot; My wife is that sunbeam. I am a wealthy man. I have a wife who both knows me and loves me.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.