My name is Cathy, and I’m an Oral Herpes sufferer.
I’ve been getting “cold sores” since I was two years old. Somebody with herpes kissed me, and who can blame him or her, really? I was pretty cute. Still would be if it wasn’t for the herpes-induced scar tissue on my upper lip.
You don’t notice it, you say. That’s sweet. People like me depend on friends like you during outbreaks to say things like, “you can hardly see it” and “I didn’t even notice it at all,” and other nice things. You would never let out a gasp of “oh Christ!” or “don’t get any on me.” You would never say to a friend within earshot of me, “eeew, look at that face on Cathy’s blister.
These days my outbreaks are few and far between, and I say that hoping to the glistening baby Jesus I didn’t just jinx my run of luck. Please, please, take a moment at some point today and knock on some wood for me. Say a prayer. Burn some incense. Castrate a goat. Anything that might stave off an outbreak is encouraged.
So, let’s just say that they are less frequent than they used to be, and way less severe. Occasionally I will feel that familiar and dreadful hot tingle of an emerging herpal visitor and notice nothing but a very small bump that never quite makes it out into bloom. Subdermal herpes, I call it, or “Surpes.”
Now when I feel that feeling, I eat something to protect my tum-tum and dose out with L-Lysine, an amino acid, which seems to stop the outbreak from becoming an unbecoming Full On Bubbly Throbber, hereby known as an FOBT.
A great example of an FOBT occurred while I was a sophomore in high school. I had me a bit too much sun at the beach over the weekend and Monday woke up with a swollen hot itchy upper lip. Within 20 minutes: FOBT. Thirteen separate blisters all huddled together as one. Shit.
About three days later it had progressed to that semi-healing stage where it scabs up and splits open and bleeds when you accidentally smile or, God forbid, laugh. Oddly, I don’t remember being hassled by any of my schoolmates, although I felt as if I had a piece of deep fried pork on my lip. And unlike hickies, one can’t pass herpes off as a curling iron burn. You could try, but they would know.
Appearing in public as if there is not an inflamed goop-filled crusted wound on my face is a two-part trick. Part One, the mental part, involves deciding to actually leave the house. Part Two involves artful concealment of the wound. I would like to suggest a MAC brand lipstick in a wonderful scab-tone, Verve. Anything other than a scab-tone will noticeably crust over on the scab as it oozes and dries up through out your day. Oh, and you will cancel many dates and social events, and have a library of excuses handy as to why you can’t reschedule for a full three weeks. Mostly you fantasize about pulling your sweater halfway over your face like that photo of James Dean.
Cold sores are fucking UGLY. And they hurt like hell. Oral herpes will make you wish for the genital variety. I haven’t yet tried any of the over the counter drugs you can get now, such as Acyclovir. Each gram of this stuff contains 50mg of Acyclovir in a polyethylene glycol base. I’ve seen it for sale online for $50 for 30 pills.
Now this is pretty sophisticated stuff compared to the $1.99 stuff I used as a kid, with names like HerpNo and BlisGo. One of these days I’ll buy Acyclovir, and probably love it. I’ll break-up with my L-Lysine and go steady with Acyclovir. I’ll lobby Congress to allow folks to marry anti-viral medications. I’ll be so inspired that I launch a line of affirming bumper stickers for herpes sufferers with slogans like MY OTHER CAR IS A COLD SORE, LIFE’S SIMPLEX PLEASURES ARE THE BEST and OUR LIPS ARE SEALED: WITH PUS.
Yeah. That’ll be a great day. But for now I continue to suffer, because someone with an oozing lesion kissed me.
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