Monkee Love

When You're Sick

After a long day in the studio, Mike calls you over in his booming tenor to ask your highly-valued opinion about a song he wrote. He always appreciates your ear for country. It may be mostly about troubled souls and long winding trails, but mostly, it gave you a sense of value and bonding time with Mike. Your stomach begins to turn over as you slowly stagger in, using the wall to prop you in a standing position. Mike turns from his papers and notices you start to double-over in agony. "You don't look so good, Darlin'. Are you alright?" A queasy feeling begins to bubble up before you can answer him. He leads you into the bathroom like a horse and master. His strong guitar-player hands grip your hair back, not permitting a single tress to fall. His face never gives a flinch as you vomit over the open toilet. Thank goodness Mike isn't the sissy-type. Any other guy would grimace, flee and/or try to hold off his own gag-reflex. When the nauseating episode is over, he guides your dizzy head to the sink and washes off your face. You open your mouth just enough to let the water wash out the atrocious stench and acid. Strong and dependable Texans like him don't mind too much getting dirty. Though neither of you say much of a word, you know he'd never do this much for a girl if he didn't care. Eventually, you get your breath back, finish rinsing your mouth and narrow the cause down to the applesauce that tasted a bit off. "I hate you having to see me like this, all green and smelly. It's like a spoiled piece of roadkill." He starts to smile and notes how green is one of his favorite colors. It was the color of his favorite wool hat after all."Thank goodness, it's nothing serious. I never trusted doctors and I never will." Mike leads you over to your favorite set of pillows, pours you a glass of ginger ale, leaves a plate of whole wheat crackers and rests his hand on your shoulder. "You just take a load off, have a few sips and get an extra 40 winks tonight." With a kiss on your forehead, you hunker down knowing that you're in the safest care in the world.

Peter has brought you up in the attic to show you some old family heirlooms. You even find some records from Chopin and Handel. At the sound of your first sneeze, Peter starts the questions. "What's wrong, lovely?" You try to tone it down saying it's "just a bit of dust", but he has his eye on you. (More so than usual. You are after all, a goddess in his eyes.) You blow on another record, upon which you practically hack up a kidney in the attempt. Peter jumps at the sound and begins gently patting your back. As you massage your sore throat, he convinces you to come down and lay in bed. You always were stubborn and hate it when he worries about you too much, but you hate disappointing him even more. You decide to cut him a break as he cooks up a natural remedy of this herb, that spice and the left-over lasagna. Five minutes later, you're welcomed in with a bunch of flowers picked for your bedside along with the concoction on a tray on top of your bed. "Peter, it's just a cold, nothing to worry about." "I know. I wanted the bedroom to look pretty, since you'll be in here all day." He points to the remedy. "That little tonic worked on everyone I've ever known. It hasn't failed yet, so I know you'll be better in no time." Peter sits by your bed and reads to you from a book of his favorite poems while you enjoy the spread. You finally teeter off halfway through Chaucer. As much as you don't like being coddled, you know Peter always puts his heart into everything, especially you. That doesn't mean he won't check on you every half-hour and brush your hair with a kiss.

You and your Manchester sweetheart are enjoying a picnic in the park. The food is all set with chicken sandwiches, iced tea, ice cream bars and every fruit you could slice into cubes. You grab the Frisbee from out of the bushes, when you start breaking out in a collection of splotches. "Whoa, 'ow d'you get so red?" "I don't know." you grunt as you dig in your nails around your elbows. The more you claw at the blots, the more agitated and irritating they become. Even the birds tweeting are enough to drive you crazy. Davy takes no chances. Together, you call it quits, wrap up the food, head home and call the doctor. After a few nods and "thank you" s, Davy hangs up the phone. "The doctor says you've got poison-ivy." You dump your oily clothes into the washing machine while Davy lays out some silky red robes for you to change into and draws a warm bubble bath, just the way you like it. The warmth soaks in, soothing you up to cloud nine. After you're dressed, Davy lays you in the comfiest bed. He grits his sharp white teeth, stretches on some gloves from the shed  over his hands and pours out the calamine lotion. Gently, he massages you up and down like a Sicilian with a lump of dough. Every limb is given a special little squeeze noting his affectionate nature. He could never keep his hands away from you. You begin to enjoy the special treatment purring and growling like a tiger. It has been a lifetime since you went to a spa. Once you're all pink and gooey, he tells you stories to keep you distracted from scratching. You chuckle at his mother dumping flour over his dad's clean uniform and his time with the nurses during his appendectomy. But, if you do get distracted by the itches, Davy catches the look in your eyes and holds you tightly at the reins. One glimpse up at his hypnotic maple-wood eyes and you're out of your body and united into each other's souls. Once that link is formed, you feel you're bodies are only a myth. Before you know it, you've fallen into a trance-like sleep. Davy kisses your pink-streaked head, knowing he did a job well done.

You were never so scared as when you were told you needed to have your tonsils out. The surgery all went fine, (hardly any excess bleeding, and no complications) but your throat is still in so much pain, you can hardly believe it's not fatal. After spending all morning getting checked on by the nurses, you're glad to be able to see your boyfriend. Micky brings with him a toy doctor kit and begins switching back and forth talking to himself playing doctor and nurse. "How's the patient doing today, Doctor? Hmm, it looks like the cat has got the patient's tongue. Hmm, a cat with a lady's tongue, that's sure to be one chatty cat." After a few attempts on your part to laugh, he puts down the Popsicle stick and gives you a snuggly hug filled with relief. Thank goodness the nurses gave you a notebook to communicate. You scrawl, 'As much as I love your impressions, it hurts too much to laugh.' "I'm sorry, baby. It's just embedded in my nature to cheer you up. Hey, I had mine out when I was 6. All I wanted was ice cream and a circus in my room." You can't be mad at him for trying. You gesture a simple apology with a mastered puppy dog face. "What is there to do in a hospital recovery room with a silent girlfriend?" He sits at your bedside nearly all day. The notebook is soon filled with drawings, guessing game answers, Tic-Tac-Toe and Hangman. He admires your bunny and chicken drawing, "You'll have even better handwriting once this is over, maybe you can become an artist." Alternating between the notes and charades, you learn more and more about each other than you realized, like how he notices details as small as the finest hair in your face, which he strokes back and how he squints more when he's thinking seriously. The nurse brings in a blood pressure cuff and a clipboard, reminding Micky that visiting hours will be over soon. He points his thumb at you and complains sarcastically, "I think she's mad. She's given me the silent treatment all day." Your eyes snicker at his cheekiness and crack a smile. He can't help but hug you one more time and give you a peck on the cheek. The last few seconds tick by as he flashes your new secret signal, 2 hands pounding on the chest and a kiss. You manage to whisper to him, "I love you too".