Six years ago, I wrote about Bob's catastrophic illness: a cold. Recently, he had another. Plus a splinter in his left thumb. You can't imagine such screaming and suffering. And I'm referring to myself.

Please understand that I'm a very nurturing person, but Bob's insane.

I mistakenly said, ''You'll be OK, sweetheart.'' Hence, he needed to prove how critically ill he really was.

He flung himself on the bed and grabbed a Kleenex. He blew his nose without using his thumb. ''This splinter's grueling,'' he moaned.

''I took it out five days ago.''

''I've got gangrene.''

I checked. No remnants of the splinter. ''It's healed,'' I said.

''Then it's the other thumb.'' I wouldn't look. I researched gangrene on the Net. (You never know.) He didn't have it. I lied, ''If it's gangrene, the opposite thumb gets numb.'' Mistake.

He tried blowing his nose. ''Now I can't. One thumb's got gangrene and the other's numb.''

''You're not going to ask me what I think you're going to ask me to do, right?''

''My nose is running,'' he whined. ''Please help?'' I didn't. He put the Kleenex on my pillow, stuck his face in it, and blew his nose.

''It's not gangrene, Bob.''

''Then why is my thumb numb?''

''Because your brain's numb.''

''Oh God! What's that called?''

''Lunacy.''

I took his temperature. Mistake. It was normal. So I told him. Bigger mistake. He tried to stand but pretended he couldn't. He did the dying swan thing as he ever-so-slowly collapsed back on the bed.

''How about TV?'' I said, putting the remote in his hand. He looked as if I had asked him to swim the English Channel - underwater, on his back - twice. He feigned weakness. He held the remote as if it weighed 11 tons, then dropped it. He reached to pick it up, then continued to roll toward the floor, where he remained, curled in a fetal position, and began a long-drawn-out coyote-type howl.

I lugged him back onto the bed and said, ''You're not unconscious. There's nothing to do, so watch TV.''

He passed out.

I whispered his favorite food, ''Pepperoni pizza.'' He sat right up, looked at his watch and said, ''How long have I been out?''

Realizing my approach had been wrong all along, I said, ''Four days, honey. I'm terribly worried.'' I nuked some pizza.

To provide you with some history so that my next step makes sense, I'll tell you about his mother. She hates everybody, including us. (She lives far away and doesn't know I write columns. She'll never see this.) How do we know she hates us? She leaves sweet messages on our answering machine, in a singsong lilting voice, such as, ''Hi dears. It's Mum. Just calling to say I love you.'' Then she ''forgets'' that she hasn't quite hung up the phone. After she's said goodbye, we've heard variations of ''you lousy rotten stinkers.''

After Bob finished his pizza, I said, ''How are you feeling, you poor thing?''

''Oy vey.'' He's not Jewish. ''I'm not sure I'll pull through.''

''And your thumbs, my sweetheart?''

''Awful. Now my feet are numb, too.''

''Honey, I'll call the EMTs.''

He sighed. ''No. I won't live long enough for them to get here.''

I started dialing. ''Who are you calling?'' he said.

''Sweets, if you're this sick, you should tell your mother.''

And with that, he hopped out of bed, grabbed the phone, hung it up and said, ''Suddenly I feel great!'' Somehow, I knew he would.

And so, I have marvelous news. I don't mean to brag, but I'll probably be on the cover of Newsweek. Though no scientists have found the cure for the common cold, I have: Bob's mother.

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