Ken is normally a pretty happy-go-lucky guy. Not much bothers him. He usually takes things as they come and doesn’t make a big fuss about anything.

But when it comes to going to the ER?

He’s such a baby!

Over the past year, Ken has been having some trouble with—well, how shall I put this delicately? Let’s just say he’s been having some “tummy troubles” that often end with a quick trip to the crapper.

There. I said it.

About two weeks ago, he finally went to his doctor. They told him to take Imodium, which helped a little bit, but I wasn’t sold. Something just didn’t seem right to me.

The problems continued, so I finally told him, “I’m taking you to the ER.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not paying $200 and sitting there for eight hours just so they can tell me to take Imodium.”

Oh, please.

Naturally, I argued with him. I also reminded him that we have a cruise coming up in two weeks, and I certainly didn’t want to spend our vacation worrying about where the nearest bathroom was every five minutes.

Eventually, he gave in.

Off to the ER we went.

After blood tests and a CAT scan, we discovered that perhaps—just perhaps—I had been right to insist that he go.

Ken had diverticulitis.

But that wasn’t all.

His sodium level was also very low. Low enough that the doctors decided they were keeping him in the hospital.

Let me tell you, Ken was not a happy camper.

He went into the hospital Tuesday morning and didn’t come home until Friday afternoon.

The diverticulitis turned out to be the easier problem to treat. They gave him IV antibiotics and sent him home with pills to continue taking.

The sodium level was a different story.

A normal sodium level is generally between 135 and 145. Ken’s was 127. The doctors told him they wanted it to reach at least 129 before they would let him go home.

Two little points.

Doesn’t sound like much, does it?

Apparently, it is.

They called in a nephrologist, who kept a close eye on things while they worked on getting Ken’s sodium level back where they wanted it.

And that nephrologist wasn’t budging.

Ken wasn’t going anywhere until that number hit 129.

Of course, I suppose kidneys are rather important things to have working properly, so it was probably a good idea for Ken to listen to the doctor—even if he didn’t particularly like it.

By the time he finally came home, his arms were covered in black-and-blue marks. Poor guy looked like they had used him as a human pincushion. Between the IVs and all the blood tests, I think they found every available spot on both arms.

Then there was the food.

Lousy.

But really, isn’t hospital food supposed to be lousy? I think it might be a requirement.

And Ken definitely wasn’t thrilled about being awakened every two or three hours for another blood test.

Welcome to the hospital, honey!

But after three nights, plenty of poking and prodding, IVs, antibiotics, blood tests, bad food, and probably a fair amount of complaining, Ken finally came home Friday afternoon.

And I was very happy to have him back.

Now, there is just one little question I have for him:

The next time I tell you that you need to go to the ER, you’re going to listen to me, right?

Right, Ken?

RIGHT?

Sometimes the people who love us see something we don’t—or something we simply don’t want to see. We can be stubborn. We convince ourselves that everything will be fine. We don’t want the expense, the inconvenience, the waiting, or the hassle.

But every once in a while, we need to listen.

Even if we hate admitting later that someone else was right.

So now I’ll turn the question over to you:

When should you have listened to someone, but didn’t? And what happened because you didn’t listen?

Eydie