Reverse makeover from hell

I’m currently on two types of antibiotics and two types of painkillers – and on first-name basis with the rather hot local doctor. I only met him on Tuesday morning, but every day I send Willem pictures of me via WhatsApp, because he asked me to.

“Your photos are likely not the worst my eyes will see today,” he tells me sweetly, but then ruins it by adding, “Scary pictures are unfortunately par for the course in my line of work.”

Because my face is falling off. Right now, be grateful that the photo on the top of this column is aeons old, as the picture I present as I write would put you off your breakfast.

I have cellulitis – cellulitis, OF THE FACE! I’m like an article in You magazine, one of those with a pretty picture of how the person looked on their wedding day to contrast with the horror of now, like a reverse makeover from hell.

If you will, imagine me with tight, red, swollen, pitted, and, most recently, flaking skin (corn flakes anyone?), with eyes like holes in marshmallows, and a nose like I’ve been on the heavy spirits for years. Gin blossoms? Nope, gin bouquet. And it hurts.

It started on Monday, but it probably really began a few weeks ago, when I got Covid, followed 10 days later with a cold that I couldn’t shake, then a sinus infection, then… a pimple. Yes, a pimple.

My immune system was tired though, and so that small, angry spot – like faraway Mars on the tip of my nose – developed notions of greater things, and single-handedly proved the Big Bang theory by exploding across my nose and cheeks.

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My new bestie Willem has sought two second opinions just to be certain of diagnosis. “We don’t want to mess around,” he tells me. “After all, it’s your face.”

Yes. It’s my face, unrecognisable: Face ID on my phone won’t even work.

I tell Himself, who is mercifully in Ireland. After 20 years together we are finally planning our wedding for November, but I’m not sure my face will be ready.

“That’s why they have veils,” he teases, though he can’t see me. I was never going to wear a stupid veil; I was channelling Bianca Jagger’s wedding suit.

Now, I’m leaning towards a niqab.