Sympathy is the Best Medicine(?)

I'm sick with bronchitis. I was home from work yesterday, wallowing on the couch drinking tea. I called my mother who told me to call the doctor, drink orange juice and put a cold washcloth on my head.

I got snippy with her, "I didn't call you for advice, I called for sympathy!"
"Oh, babycakes," she said, "I'm so sorry you're sick. I wish I could do something to help you!"
"That's what I needed," I said. "Thank you."

Later in the afternoon, I was feeling worse when my dad called. "I hear you need sympathy," he said.
"I do! Sympathy is the best medicine."
"It really is," he said. "You poor thing. You poor, poor thing. You must feel terrible."
"I do!" I whimpered, "So terrible!"
"Bless your little heart," he teased.

My parents know the importance of pity. Mike does not.

When Mike got home from work around 7, I listed my symptoms and he said, "Did you take anything?"
"No."
"Seriously?" And he marched off to the kitchen. I would have called out for him to come back, called that I just needed company and attention and pity, but by that point, I had no voice.
He returned from the kitchen with a little cup of thick blue liquid. "Drink this."
"It's not going to help!" I whined.
"Drink it or I won't give you sympathy."
I drank it. Immediately my throat felt better. Within 15 minutes, I was sitting up for the first time all day.

"Medicine is the best medicine," Mike said with an annoying, all-knowing smile. And instead of arguing, I smiled back.

Just an example of how, like the song, Mike doesn't always give me what I want, but always knows what I need.