I have the most frustrating reaction to stressful, anxious, highly emotional, over tired situations ... cold sores.
Well, cold sore - singular - in the giant form.
I always have.
Often over the course of my life these highly emotional events have actually been positive ones - I chewed on Lysine tablets like they were lollies in the lead up to our wedding to try and avoid it.
Same with my 40th this year, because nothing is worse than having celebratory event photos being ruined with a giant cold sore under your nose!
I think the only event I didn’t get one for was Pete’s funeral ... and I’m pretty sure that‘s because my body was in such a state of just trying to operate at its most basic functional level, it forgot to grow one.
And so now, with the last couple of weeks we’ve been dealing with, it was reared it’s ugly head once more, determined to savour its place in that sensitive skin area between your nose and top lip.
Because nothing ruins trying to deal with all the emotions by trying to make sure you don’t look as a big of a train wreck as you feel like a cold sore.
I’d been waiting for it - perhaps this anxiousness over anticipating it aided it?
I wouldn’t know. I’ve been so busy being anxious and stressed about all the things I wouldn’t be able to pin point what exact thing that brought this one on.
For weeks now, remote schooling has been mooted. But never confirmed. Every day we hung off the words of the Premier’s announcement of covid numbers wondering if this was the day they would reach a level that would trigger it all again - tighter social restrictions and remote learning.
As someone put it, the oppressive weight of the unknown was forcing all our sanity to buckle, ever so slowly but surely.
I added into the mix the concerning health crisis of the cat; the emotional start to a delayed hockey season (which has now only run for 2 weeks before being shut down again); some pretty appalling nights’ sleep; an awesome girls night to bolster my reserves; some messages so touching I don’t know that I really deserve their contents; conversations with friends who openly discussed the ‘us’ and ‘ours’ of their two-parent family; 4 kids having colds and 2 needing COVID tests which took 4 days to get back and which mean everyone was home for the week sick; trying to work and by last Saturday night, I was a wreck.
It all just seemed too hard.
And then I got a message saying someone had heard that someone knew someone who knew something from State parliament and remote schooling was coming back this week on Wednesday.
I was done.
It was all too heavy. Right then, it was an unbearable load that I was just going to have to haul on my own whether I liked it or not.
And I knew it.
I knew that I was just going to have to find a way to deal with it.
And I didn’t want to.
Because with border shutdowns, I can‘t escape to the farm or have my parents come south.
Because as someone (who frankly I wanted punch) helpfully pointed out with a joyful sing-song tone in their voice: No running away from the first few weeks of it all up north this time... you’ll have to do the whole lot like we did.
Yep. Thanks.
And so with my own crippling anxiety about how I could handle all of this, the cold sore appeared, and I added painful face and nose/top lip feeling about as big as a fist.
Actually, if I think about it, maybe I could corner its appearance down to using bedsheets as a tissue (sorry Mum...) when I was completely losing the plot on Saturday night.
I don’t even know why it all seemed to suddenly collapse around me, but it did. And I sobbed and sobbed into messages to friends and dropped great big tears into sheets and pillow cases ... and, because by that point I was resorting to childlike coping mechanisms ... I just used my bed sheet to wipe away the snot also pouring out of my nose (I used the sheet Pete’s side ... it doesn’t get much use ... and it’s unlikely to get noticed by anyone before I change the sheets again).
I’m not sure flannelette is the softest of fabrics for that sensitive skin area. When snot-dampened, it’s quite abrasive.
This abrasion is, perhaps, at the root of this particular cold sore.
When the announcement came on Sunday, confirming all the details of the 5th hand message I’d heard about, my heart sank.
I was at a friends house and I could only take a big deep sigh.
They sent me home with wine. And great big (probably illegal) hugs.
On Monday I woke up determined to make this manageable. I tried to find anyone I could think of to get help in. To pay someone to help. I struck out. I also bought bike for the kids who’s bike didn’t work or fit them (just chucking money at a problem again) so they all have the opportunity to just get out and be active easily if it all gets too hard.
Then, after another fitful night’s sleep trying to work out the answer to the question: How the fuck...? I woke up this morning and decided I needed to tell my boss I needed time off to work it all out. Proper protocol probably means I should ask. I just told. Nicely ...
And I had a call from one of the kids’ schools. I am not an essential worker, they agreed, but we cannot morally let you struggle through alone again. You send them in.
I cried.
Because in two phone calls the pressure valve had eased enough to breathe.
And before I am no longer allowed visitors, I am having them, for cups of tea and for dinner (within the 5 people limi) so I can get a fix of as many of ‘my village people’ down here before I cannot see them in the flesh again for another six weeks.
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