"If it's not frozen with nuke directions in big letters, I'm not buying," he said B.C. (Before Cappy). At that time, he knew all there was to know about a microwave oven. As far as Babe was concerned, marrying a Southern cook was an epicurean fantasy sent straight from God. He hasn't strolled down the frozen food aisle even once since he strolled down the aisle with me nine years ago.

Most of the time it doesn't matter. But today it does. I have been sick as a dog all night long with a stomach virus. By five o'clock this morning, I was afraid I WOULDN'T die. Having just fallen into a fitful sleep, I am startled awake by Babe's pacing the floor at the foot of my sick bed.

For a nano-second, he actually appears to be worried about me.

"Babe, it's just a bug. I'll be all right." My voice is as sweet as sugar cane and weak as well water. I sound like Melanie in GWTW telling Scarlett to take care of dear Ashley after she goes to that big plantation in the sky.

Babe eases a glance at his watch.

"I know you'll be okay, Honey. But, uh, I was just . . ."

"What, my darlin' husband?"

"You might want to think about putting some food in your stomach."

The man owes his life to the fact that he's pacing at the foot of my bed, not at the side of it. I shove the covers back faster than the speed of light and dash to the bathroom, breaking Wilma Rudolph's long-held record.

Five minutes later, I am on my hands and knees crawling back to bed with a small plastic waste basket clamped between my front teeth. Babe is still walking the floor like a character in a country/western song.

"What is that you want, Babe?" I'm praying to the Kitchen Goddess that he won't repeat the "F" word before I can get a better grip on the waste basket.

"It's just that . . . well, I've got a nine o'clock tee time and I was wondering if& uh&"

I glare at him through sleep-encrusted, scary eyes and a mouth so dry it could hold a flame, while he hums to himself and nonchalantly sinks a ball into my bedroom slipper with his putter.

"Babe! If you'll tell me what it is you want, then you can go play golf and I can die in peace."

He pauses in mid-putt. "You wouldn't want to get up and fix me some breakfast before you croak, would you?"

Babe was a star linebacker for the North Carolina State Wolfpack and that might well have saved his life for the second time in less than five minutes. I don't know what it was I throw at him, but he manages to avoid it by dipping left, then right, as though trying to tackle Troy Aikman. Whatever it is, splatters onto the wall and sounds like glass. I hope it isn't Mama's Waterford crystal vase.

He yells, "I could have you arrested for that," then tears out of the room at top speed, going for the touchdown no doubt.

I wonder what he will do about his breakfast, I think, but the thought sweeps in and out of my mind like everything in the past twelve hours has gone through me.

Pretty soon I hear a noise coming from the kitchen and figure he is fixing himself some cereal and milk. Even children can do that. But it's only the back door slamming behind him as he beats a clear path to the Waffle House.

So here I languish, huddled all alone in what feels like my death bed. No sweet-talking man is hanging over me murmuring, "There, there, wittle wabbit. It's only the womiting wirus."

Then gradually, through the black hole of fever and sporadic nausea, comes an empowering thought. It is like an epiphany. My womiting wirus is wery contagious, and what goes awound comes awound. Wight?