Sawzall to let pets go in and out of our fenced garden at will; the countless times wine had been spilled, or coffee, or milk; the smoldering embers the fire spat up and over the screen, leaving a burned-carpet smell and a black spot; and the dust from the books in the bookshelf.
My house with all its marvelous smells was my refuge, my joy and comfort, the only place that could persuade time to slow down, back off, and sometimes, at very special moments, like when I was cleaning and became distracted by a book, even stop altogether. I could revel in the house's sensuality, not just the smells but the images they summoned, the people and moments when we had all been so much younger.
I opened my eyes. The smells, such as they were, vanished. What would my home be like now? Not just this chair, but my garden? My kitchen? This room stripped of its layers of fragrance was a barren cell. It would no longer delight my eye, its physical beauty having been formed by the smell of it. I might as well live in one of those new condos that Cam suggested we take a look at now that the kids were gone, with their white Sheetrock walls and plastic carpeting and sanitized air. No dust, no dirt, no crumbs allowed. No pets or children. No memories.
What did this room smell like now that the bad odor was gone? How do you describe what isn't there? Especially something that is off-limits even to memory, trapped forever in some shuttered chamber deep in the brain? The brain can store pictures and events, and melodies, and even smells, especially smells—but like Sleeping Beauty, who can only be awakened by a certain kiss from a special prince, smell and all its attendant emotional connections lie dormant until triggered by smell itself. This requires a working nose. Without my sense of smell, my great-grandfather's wing chair would gradually become a stranger. Its visual presence would mock the richness of what it had once been to me. It would be like the photograph of a loved one who has died. Wouldn't you rather, until the pain has dulled a bit, put the picture away?
11. Senseless Eating
B ECKY PHILLIPS SAID it took months for her to stop dreading meals: the shock of recognition "with each and every bite," as she put it, that steak was no longer steak but something profoundly and repugnantly altered. In other words, while anosmia might come as a relief from phantosmia's twenty-four/seven assault of putrid smells, it would not restore my pleasure in eating.
When you can't smell, the simpler and more familiar the food, the more traumatic its transformation. Buttered toast, the ultimate comfort food, is no longer familiar. You've been conditioned through long years of exposure to expect toast's symphony of delightful sensations, beginning with the sweet aroma, then the liquid saltiness on the tongue, and finally the crisp yet chewy feel between the teeth. There is no way to describe the revulsion that attaches itself to the poor excuse for the food that every fiber of your being is begging for. To compare the taste of scentless toast to cardboard is to admit defeat.
I'd been smell-free for a month when Dr. Cushing took me off the amitriptyline. I assumed the stench would return. My husband assumed the opposite. To him, the end of phantosmia signaled recovery. He was convinced that my sense of smell was on the mend—until the night I tried to cook dinner for a dozen guests. Lasagna seemed like a no-brainer. How could I screw that up?
Cam never said the flavors were off. He didn't have to. The evidence was on all those confused faces around the dinner table, and on those half-full plates, and in the second pan that I always had ready for second and third helpings. It's hard to cook well when you can't smell, almost as hard as it is to eat when you have no appetite. The extra pan went back in the fridge untouched.
No one asked for seconds, even after I'd helped myself to thirds.
That was the weirdest part. I couldn't stop eating.
"I know,
My house with all its marvelous smells was my refuge, my joy and comfort, the only place that could persuade time to slow down, back off, and sometimes, at very special moments, like when I was cleaning and became distracted by a book, even stop altogether. I could revel in the house's sensuality, not just the smells but the images they summoned, the people and moments when we had all been so much younger.
I opened my eyes. The smells, such as they were, vanished. What would my home be like now? Not just this chair, but my garden? My kitchen? This room stripped of its layers of fragrance was a barren cell. It would no longer delight my eye, its physical beauty having been formed by the smell of it. I might as well live in one of those new condos that Cam suggested we take a look at now that the kids were gone, with their white Sheetrock walls and plastic carpeting and sanitized air. No dust, no dirt, no crumbs allowed. No pets or children. No memories.
What did this room smell like now that the bad odor was gone? How do you describe what isn't there? Especially something that is off-limits even to memory, trapped forever in some shuttered chamber deep in the brain? The brain can store pictures and events, and melodies, and even smells, especially smells—but like Sleeping Beauty, who can only be awakened by a certain kiss from a special prince, smell and all its attendant emotional connections lie dormant until triggered by smell itself. This requires a working nose. Without my sense of smell, my great-grandfather's wing chair would gradually become a stranger. Its visual presence would mock the richness of what it had once been to me. It would be like the photograph of a loved one who has died. Wouldn't you rather, until the pain has dulled a bit, put the picture away?
11. Senseless Eating
B ECKY PHILLIPS SAID it took months for her to stop dreading meals: the shock of recognition "with each and every bite," as she put it, that steak was no longer steak but something profoundly and repugnantly altered. In other words, while anosmia might come as a relief from phantosmia's twenty-four/seven assault of putrid smells, it would not restore my pleasure in eating.
When you can't smell, the simpler and more familiar the food, the more traumatic its transformation. Buttered toast, the ultimate comfort food, is no longer familiar. You've been conditioned through long years of exposure to expect toast's symphony of delightful sensations, beginning with the sweet aroma, then the liquid saltiness on the tongue, and finally the crisp yet chewy feel between the teeth. There is no way to describe the revulsion that attaches itself to the poor excuse for the food that every fiber of your being is begging for. To compare the taste of scentless toast to cardboard is to admit defeat.
I'd been smell-free for a month when Dr. Cushing took me off the amitriptyline. I assumed the stench would return. My husband assumed the opposite. To him, the end of phantosmia signaled recovery. He was convinced that my sense of smell was on the mend—until the night I tried to cook dinner for a dozen guests. Lasagna seemed like a no-brainer. How could I screw that up?
Cam never said the flavors were off. He didn't have to. The evidence was on all those confused faces around the dinner table, and on those half-full plates, and in the second pan that I always had ready for second and third helpings. It's hard to cook well when you can't smell, almost as hard as it is to eat when you have no appetite. The extra pan went back in the fridge untouched.
No one asked for seconds, even after I'd helped myself to thirds.
That was the weirdest part. I couldn't stop eating.
"I know,
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