These Trails I've Walked
"Mommy, look what I can do!"
Mom looked up from whatever it was she had been doing - most likely making me more pudding. It was the only real thing I could eat since my tonsils had been taken out a few days before. She watched me from my place on the couch a couple of seconds, yet didn't see anything. "What, honey? What do you want to show me?"
"Look, Mom, look!" I did it again. She still didn't understand, so finally I had to explain. "I'm breathing from my nose! Isn't that cool?"
To my surprise she just gave me a strange look. Only later would I realize what that look had been; a mixture of confusion and realization, with perhaps just a bit of fear. What I had seen as a true accomplishment she had always believed a given. After all, most people could do what I was in that moment instinctively.
~ * ~ * ~
A few years before my tonsils had to be removed, when I was in first grade, I got the chicken pox. My sister had it first yet, as was the usual cycle in our home, my case was far worse. Mom tells how the little red bumps covered every inch of me; she says there was nowhere she could touch on my skin where there were none. As a result there are bumps of various sizes on my body, mostly on my stomach and arms.
But it would turn out, the scars went beyond those we could see.
~ * ~ * ~
I'm sitting at home. We just moved in the day before. My sister and her friend are in the other room playing Super Nintendo. I'm in the dining room, having just put hot dogs on the stove, and am reading my book. I stay close so I can be sure to hear the timer.
"I smell gas!"
I look up from my book to find my mom has come home and is now running over to the stove. The water from the pot has boiled over, extinguishing the flame. For the next few minutes, I'm lectured on how I should have been more careful and how we could all have been killed by my carelessness. It's followed by a question; how did I not know that smell was gas?
I shake my head weakly. "I- I didn't smell anything..."
That look on my mom's face returns. This time I know what it means. By now I know that something is 'wrong' with me. But for the first time, it actually scares me.
~ * ~ * ~
In my teenage years, I became obsessed with hygiene. I would over-do it with the mouthwash and toothpaste, even bringing them with me to school so I could brush my teeth following lunch. I often went through two shirts in the morning, because the first one I tried on got those annoying white strips from my layering on the deodorant too thick. I avoided wearing any open shoes following an incident when I wore sandals during a youth trip and gave the poor driver a headache from the smell. Nightly I put foot powder both on my feet and in my shoes, just in case.
Just because I couldn't smell myself, my mind reminded me daily, didn't mean others couldn't.
It became a bit of a gag when I began working at the pizza place and my 'secret' became known. Suddenly I was being asked to always serve certain customers or do duties such as cleaning messy bathrooms, since I could handle the odors with a straight face. I'd hear my coworkers laugh at times then call my name, and knew right away what it meant; someone had let 'one rip' and they wanted me to walk through it to see if I noticed.
When I discovered how closely linked our sense of taste is to smell, I became painfully aware of why I liked the food I did. The actual taste has little to do with it; it's more how it feels in my mouth. A few mis-uses of seasoning resulted in my being extra careful with how much I use, if any at all. I mostly avoid them when cooking just for myself. What's the point? I can't taste them.
Even today I'm careful on how much body spray I put on or how much Febreeze I spray into my room. I never buy any sort of smelly stuff like candles without a friend with me; I don't want to buy something too strong or which smells gross. If I do go alone, I buy something in a 'safe' fragrance, having memorized a list in my head long ago.
Friends, often forgetting, hold up candles or sweets and ask, "Doesn't this smell wonderful? What do you think?" I smile and say, "Smells good."
Through it all I'm not too fazed, or at least don't believe I am. After all, this is my normal.
~ * ~ * ~
"I want you to take this and smell it. Okay?"
I nod as the doctor rips open a small package and holds it under my nose. Very faintly I can detect something, although I'm not familiar with it. I continue sniffing it, willing my mind to identify the odor while I ask, "What is that?"
I look towards Mom and find her holding a hand to her face, her eyes watering. I look back to the doctor, who disposes of the packet before answering, "Smelling salts."
I nod slowly, my heat sinking although I am unsure completely what it all means. I've been here for over an hour now. I've had x-rays taken of my head, cotton covered in various unidentifiable stuff has been shoved up my nose, questions have been asked, and now this.
Finally the doctor explains how the nose is very sensitive. There's a specific nerve which transmit to the brain what it's sensing. Taking a hard hit to this area, or even certain illnesses, can cause this nerve to be damaged. My bout with the chicken pox at age six rendered me with a very weak sense of smell and, by relation, taste.
While it's something I've known for quite a while, for the first time I'm genuinely saddened by this knowledge. And for the first time in my life, it has a name - Hyposmia, a weakened ability to smell.
The doctor prescribes some medication for me to take, in hopes it might strengthen the nerve again. It's a long shot, he tells me, and yet I go home and faithfully do as I'm told. For weeks I take the medication, and every day wait to see if anything happens. I come home every day to my mom asking if I can smell certain things, or if the food I'm eating is somehow different.
Nothing happens. It isn't until the last pill is gone that I realize I actually had slight hope something would.
~ * ~ * ~
I wonder sometimes what it would be like to smell fully like those around me can. What if I could walk into a room and have my stomach growl because I've had the crock pot simmering all day? What would food be like if I could taste the flavor? Be able to detect what was in it rather than just the basic spicy, salty or sweet?
What if I could know it was spring because of the flowers around me giving off their fragrance? Not get a headache from perfume, but actually be able to distinguish the brand? Be disgusted by a port-a-potty? Be able to know I'm burning something on the stove or in the microwave early rather than by the time I see the black smoke?
I'm curious of this realm of reality which escapes me. Smell is merely a recognition that something is in the air. I can't distinguish any particulars; can't tell the difference between apple pie or a skunk, for example. (Actually, I can somewhat - my nose does allow me to tell if something is 'bad' or 'good', yet that's all I can tell.) To me, the air is just 'funny' - my brain doesn't compute any more. Ironically, some things - hairspray, for instance - I can taste but not smell. Even then, it's just an invading yucky taste which comes to my mouth.
It's hard explaining to others what "I have no real sense of smell" means and what dangers can happen as a result. Most people have never heard the word hyposmia before; not even the spell check program is familiar with it. There is an estimated 4 million people in the United States who have hyposmia or the related anosmia, which is the complete lack of ability to smell*, and yet sometimes I feel alone.
So I'm left curious. I laugh and joke sometimes about it, like when my friends seem amazed at me being able to go into a port-a-potty. Sometimes I become sad or even scared, such as when my hall in the dorm had a small fire. It wasn't until my RA came knocking on my door that I knew about what was happening since I couldn't smell the smoke. I didn't sleep at all that night. Overall though, I am never diminished by this part of who I am.
I have hyposmia. And that's okay. I'm okay. Incomplete sure, but okay.
So hey, if you ever need someone to clean your bathroom...
~ * ~ * ~
"The study of disease and identity cannot be dis-joined." - Oliver Sacks
* This statistic comes from the Wikipedia page for hyposmia.
Mom looked up from whatever it was she had been doing - most likely making me more pudding. It was the only real thing I could eat since my tonsils had been taken out a few days before. She watched me from my place on the couch a couple of seconds, yet didn't see anything. "What, honey? What do you want to show me?"
"Look, Mom, look!" I did it again. She still didn't understand, so finally I had to explain. "I'm breathing from my nose! Isn't that cool?"
To my surprise she just gave me a strange look. Only later would I realize what that look had been; a mixture of confusion and realization, with perhaps just a bit of fear. What I had seen as a true accomplishment she had always believed a given. After all, most people could do what I was in that moment instinctively.
~ * ~ * ~
A few years before my tonsils had to be removed, when I was in first grade, I got the chicken pox. My sister had it first yet, as was the usual cycle in our home, my case was far worse. Mom tells how the little red bumps covered every inch of me; she says there was nowhere she could touch on my skin where there were none. As a result there are bumps of various sizes on my body, mostly on my stomach and arms.
But it would turn out, the scars went beyond those we could see.
~ * ~ * ~
I'm sitting at home. We just moved in the day before. My sister and her friend are in the other room playing Super Nintendo. I'm in the dining room, having just put hot dogs on the stove, and am reading my book. I stay close so I can be sure to hear the timer.
"I smell gas!"
I look up from my book to find my mom has come home and is now running over to the stove. The water from the pot has boiled over, extinguishing the flame. For the next few minutes, I'm lectured on how I should have been more careful and how we could all have been killed by my carelessness. It's followed by a question; how did I not know that smell was gas?
I shake my head weakly. "I- I didn't smell anything..."
That look on my mom's face returns. This time I know what it means. By now I know that something is 'wrong' with me. But for the first time, it actually scares me.
~ * ~ * ~
In my teenage years, I became obsessed with hygiene. I would over-do it with the mouthwash and toothpaste, even bringing them with me to school so I could brush my teeth following lunch. I often went through two shirts in the morning, because the first one I tried on got those annoying white strips from my layering on the deodorant too thick. I avoided wearing any open shoes following an incident when I wore sandals during a youth trip and gave the poor driver a headache from the smell. Nightly I put foot powder both on my feet and in my shoes, just in case.
Just because I couldn't smell myself, my mind reminded me daily, didn't mean others couldn't.
It became a bit of a gag when I began working at the pizza place and my 'secret' became known. Suddenly I was being asked to always serve certain customers or do duties such as cleaning messy bathrooms, since I could handle the odors with a straight face. I'd hear my coworkers laugh at times then call my name, and knew right away what it meant; someone had let 'one rip' and they wanted me to walk through it to see if I noticed.
When I discovered how closely linked our sense of taste is to smell, I became painfully aware of why I liked the food I did. The actual taste has little to do with it; it's more how it feels in my mouth. A few mis-uses of seasoning resulted in my being extra careful with how much I use, if any at all. I mostly avoid them when cooking just for myself. What's the point? I can't taste them.
Even today I'm careful on how much body spray I put on or how much Febreeze I spray into my room. I never buy any sort of smelly stuff like candles without a friend with me; I don't want to buy something too strong or which smells gross. If I do go alone, I buy something in a 'safe' fragrance, having memorized a list in my head long ago.
Friends, often forgetting, hold up candles or sweets and ask, "Doesn't this smell wonderful? What do you think?" I smile and say, "Smells good."
Through it all I'm not too fazed, or at least don't believe I am. After all, this is my normal.
~ * ~ * ~
"I want you to take this and smell it. Okay?"
I nod as the doctor rips open a small package and holds it under my nose. Very faintly I can detect something, although I'm not familiar with it. I continue sniffing it, willing my mind to identify the odor while I ask, "What is that?"
I look towards Mom and find her holding a hand to her face, her eyes watering. I look back to the doctor, who disposes of the packet before answering, "Smelling salts."
I nod slowly, my heat sinking although I am unsure completely what it all means. I've been here for over an hour now. I've had x-rays taken of my head, cotton covered in various unidentifiable stuff has been shoved up my nose, questions have been asked, and now this.
Finally the doctor explains how the nose is very sensitive. There's a specific nerve which transmit to the brain what it's sensing. Taking a hard hit to this area, or even certain illnesses, can cause this nerve to be damaged. My bout with the chicken pox at age six rendered me with a very weak sense of smell and, by relation, taste.
While it's something I've known for quite a while, for the first time I'm genuinely saddened by this knowledge. And for the first time in my life, it has a name - Hyposmia, a weakened ability to smell.
The doctor prescribes some medication for me to take, in hopes it might strengthen the nerve again. It's a long shot, he tells me, and yet I go home and faithfully do as I'm told. For weeks I take the medication, and every day wait to see if anything happens. I come home every day to my mom asking if I can smell certain things, or if the food I'm eating is somehow different.
Nothing happens. It isn't until the last pill is gone that I realize I actually had slight hope something would.
~ * ~ * ~
I wonder sometimes what it would be like to smell fully like those around me can. What if I could walk into a room and have my stomach growl because I've had the crock pot simmering all day? What would food be like if I could taste the flavor? Be able to detect what was in it rather than just the basic spicy, salty or sweet?
What if I could know it was spring because of the flowers around me giving off their fragrance? Not get a headache from perfume, but actually be able to distinguish the brand? Be disgusted by a port-a-potty? Be able to know I'm burning something on the stove or in the microwave early rather than by the time I see the black smoke?
I'm curious of this realm of reality which escapes me. Smell is merely a recognition that something is in the air. I can't distinguish any particulars; can't tell the difference between apple pie or a skunk, for example. (Actually, I can somewhat - my nose does allow me to tell if something is 'bad' or 'good', yet that's all I can tell.) To me, the air is just 'funny' - my brain doesn't compute any more. Ironically, some things - hairspray, for instance - I can taste but not smell. Even then, it's just an invading yucky taste which comes to my mouth.
It's hard explaining to others what "I have no real sense of smell" means and what dangers can happen as a result. Most people have never heard the word hyposmia before; not even the spell check program is familiar with it. There is an estimated 4 million people in the United States who have hyposmia or the related anosmia, which is the complete lack of ability to smell*, and yet sometimes I feel alone.
So I'm left curious. I laugh and joke sometimes about it, like when my friends seem amazed at me being able to go into a port-a-potty. Sometimes I become sad or even scared, such as when my hall in the dorm had a small fire. It wasn't until my RA came knocking on my door that I knew about what was happening since I couldn't smell the smoke. I didn't sleep at all that night. Overall though, I am never diminished by this part of who I am.
I have hyposmia. And that's okay. I'm okay. Incomplete sure, but okay.
So hey, if you ever need someone to clean your bathroom...
~ * ~ * ~
"The study of disease and identity cannot be dis-joined." - Oliver Sacks
* This statistic comes from the Wikipedia page for hyposmia.