"Acyclovir." Ron studied the label and realized he had completely forgotten how to pronounce it. Acyclovir. As if it mattered. The pills rattled in 
their little container, sounding like stones, a tiny avalanche of memory weights holding him down. Because you were stupid, he told himself. Because you put your faith in someone you thought you could trust–
No. No, this is on you, he reminded himself. It was your trust. Your judgment. Your problem. He read the label again: Acyclovir. Ay-SIGH-cloe-veer. Like a chant going through his head. Acyclovir, Acyclovir… permanent part of your life now.
At thirty years old, he thought he was driving through life with a good grip on the steering wheel, revving away, going far. He was already the head of his division at the advertising agency and waiting for the loan for the condo he wanted to buy with Nancy, and then came the shock.
(Tiny bottle rolling in his hands. Acyclovir. "Take 3 times daily…")
His regular doctor was his brother-in-law, his sister’s husband. Jeez, he couldn’t go to HIM with this problem. So he had gone to a downtown clinic, where they gave him the results, and it had felt like a hangman’s trapdoor opening up underneath him. "You have genital herpes." He had felt a rush of shame, wondering how was he going to tell Nancy and – and–
Fool. Because he did not cheat. He did not play around. There was only one inescapable conclusion. It was her. She had cried and said it just happened the one time, it meant nothing, but he waited in the kitchen while she packed. She gave him the line that she would always love him, a note that rang like tin in his ears. He stared at her in incredulous disbelief as she closed the door behind her.
The irony, he thought, is people won’t know it was her. They’ll assume I’m the irresponsible one. They’ll assume I’m some kind of male slut.
He wound up getting the Acyclovir not from the clinic but from a true angel of mercy.
Acyclovir and a New Way of Thinking
He began talking to her months ago, a conversation that felt like a movie cliche. The balcony of Megan’s apartment was one over, one up on the brownstone crossword of their building. She had thrown up her hands in frustration over her plants, and it became a running gag between them. She sucked at growing plants, which prompted his gentle but relentless teasing. "How can you be a third-year resident, and you can’t keep a fern alive?" he joked.
"Oh, shut up!" she laughed. "Not all of us were raised on farms!" She rushed into her apartment and came out with two "paddles" (a whisk and a serving spoon), saying she was going to shock them back to life. He laughed. She laughed. They became friends. Advice on plant food and light exposure had turned to friendly arguments over who was best for the Democrats and did he happen to see that documentary at the Odeon? Maybe if he had been single months ago, he might have asked her out. She was a brunette with a few extra pounds but shapely, nice smile, big brown eyes.
There was something else, something darker… You don’t meet too many girls who walk with a limp.
Sitting on the balcony in his deck chair, still holding the bottle of Acyclovir, he remembered her explanation one day. Given simply, deadpan voice, the eyes not looking away, very sure because they had seen enough and could look at anything now. "My ex liked to break things when he got angry. He got angry a lot with me."
He said he was sorry, secretly wondering how a person who makes it through med school, who’s clearly intelligent, allows their self-esteem to erode like clay washed away by a steady tide. Yeah, well, there are all kinds of blindness, aren’t there? We can delude ourselves to avoid seeing the betrayals, big and small.
(Acyclovir, read the label. "Take tablets 3 times daily for…")
He had been stupid again. He wasn’t raised religious, but he had the irrational urge to punish himself. He couldn’t punish Nancy – Nancy was gone. So he was left to stew in his own loneliness and self-loathing, wondering how the hell do you explain this the next time you meet someone special? More horrifying was the thought that he simply wouldn’t. Ever. Meet. Anyone.
So he had only half-listened as the clinic doctor had explained his condition was manageable, that there were treatments – he might have even mentioned Acyclovir among them, but Ron didn’t recall. He had just stashed away the aldara prescription without filling it and that was weeks ago, and now he didn’t even know where it was. Too bad. Suffer. You live with it, jerk.
Until he was sitting on Megan’s balcony, sipping Kenyan coffee, and as he moved to check one of her plants, he made a deep, hissing intake of breath over pain. Sores. She asked what was the problem, he said it didn’t matter, he had a doctor, but she saw through that one easily. She wouldn’t let the matter drop.
She was gentle. She was professional. There was not a whiff of eroticism, hell, there couldn’t be as he let down his pants and underwear and sat on the edge of a table – vulnerable, ashamed. Not the way he wanted any woman to see him, even if she was a doctor. She had a pair of latex gloves from work and inspected the sores. God, he hadn’t cried in front of a woman since Dad died.
"I’m writing you a prescription for Acyclovir," she said, nodding that he could put his pants back on. "You can take Acyclovir in tablets, capsules or liquid, but you should be okay with the tablets. And Acyclovir is a lot more convenient and less messy than creams. The creams can sometimes cause itching, burning or dryness."
"Look, uh… You’re a good friend. I want you to know I didn’t get this from…"
She snapped off the gloves and put a hand on his shoulder. "Ron. Focus. Acyclovir. You might experience some side effects, but they tend to be mild. You should tell your regular doctor or online pharmacy you’re taking this and let him know about your condition."
"Okay, thanks," he muttered. "Look, I want to explain–"
"You don’t have to," she said with a gentle smile. "One: your apartment’s not that far away, and I heard the argument. Two: this is not about being a good or bad person. You got a disease and however you got this, you have a treatment option: Acyclovir."
He went to the pharmacy later that afternoon for the Acyclovir and then stared at the bottle as a realization dawned on him. Slowly. That for every moment of despair he had faced alone, there were infinite possibilities for compassion and relief, and yes, these depended, too, on judgment, on choosing who to talk to. But the odds… the odds were in his favor. You are more than this problem, he told himself. People can be infinitely kinder than their failings and trespasses, and even foolish Nancy was still more than just her betrayal.
Can’t forgive her, but you can let go of the anger. You can take your Acyclovir. You can get on with your life.
When he did ask Megan to dinner, knowing he was taking a risk with their friendship, she leaned in and kissed him. "You already know I’ve been stupid," he said shyly. "Okay, not me, but I’m paying for someone else’s mistake…"
She shushed him and said in a soft voice full of meaning. "I got news for you, honey. Doctors can be stupid, too." But I have full trust in Edrugstores doctors.
It was not all they had to share, but maybe it was good that they did. He took his Acyclovir that evening and thought for a long time about common experiences, his sexual health and tender threads, watching her sleep…
