The Cold Sore

I have a cold sore on my face whose presence is invading my life.

I looked it up, it’s a form of herpes. What the hell! Who is more reserved than me, I mean sexually, a nun maybe? I didn’t kiss a loose man or woman, unless you count my husband but he’s only loose with me. I must have had some pleasure that I should feel guilty about? I am Catholic after all.

Buddhists say that if you are tolerant in one life then you will have a beautiful face in the next lifetime. I was sure of two things about myself; that I was tolerant and that I was beautiful. Maybe it’s time for me to be sure of something else.

My children don’t even notice it of course. They might notice if my nose was missing but a cold sore doesn’t faze them. Aoife is the exception. At the age of 2 years and 4 months, she spends a lot of time in close proximity to my face and hence my cold sore. She spent about 10 minutes solid staring at it. (She had nothing else to do; I was trying to get her to sleep.) I could see the budding scientist in her. Her face said “how did it get there? Will it go away if I stare long enough? I would like to touch it but it might pop off her and onto me, yuck!” Detached curiosity in her eyes, caution in her body language, her concentration never failed.

Women love to chat. Some of us have a hard time pulling ourselves away from each other. As soon as we are in close proximity, our mouths go on automatic pilot. We jump endlessly from one subject to another. Being with one such friend is a joy for me. It is exciting, stimulating, empowering and inspiring. So it is, even with a cold sore. But with a cold sore there is a difference, my friend’s eyes are also on automatic pilot. They keep jumping from my eyes to my cold sore. My friend inwardly admonishes herself and drags her eyes back to mine. She must know what it feels like to be a man who just can’t help staring into a woman’s cleavage. So I feel like I am no longer an intelligent woman, I am a viral affliction!

The most honest reaction of all to the dreaded growth beneath my lip was a very fleeting one. I was rushing by an acquaintance, Kevin, saying hello in passing. Kevin is a tall, fun loving, exuberant redheaded man who has great affection for me. He greeted me in his usual loud and cheerful manner “Heeeeeyyyy Maaaary” and then he saw it. His face dropped. He no longer saw his beloved Mary. He had a whole new relationship happening with the blemish. “What the heck? What are you doing there?” said the frown on his face. I am left to wonder how he would do with cleavage!

The dear man who shares my bed every night cannot be kissed. At every greeting he is offered my cheek. He can still hug me but the temporary lack of lips in our exchanges is sorely missed. Upon each return to the homestead, he gets an update on the thing that sits squarely in the way of our intimacy. It is like a child who refuses to go to bed.

It is drying up now. It doesn’t even look dangerous anymore. In a few days it won’t even be a memory. I will be perplexed thinking that that something’s missing. I have learned so much from it. But it cannot stay. Unless...it is immortalised here!