Orthonasal Olfaction

Smell

The bedroom had a sour smell. I thought it might be the laundry, which was waiting for me to go to the laundromat. I thought it might be a cat hairball I missed. Maybe my slippers. 

It was cancer, of course. Because cancer does smell.

When he returned to Cooper the second time, he lost his scent completely, removed by drugs, machinery, wound care, sickness, dirty hair. Just gone.

When Chris died, I ran around the house, frantically smelling all the sweatshirts, t-shirts, his coat. Flat, musty, empty. His robe was particularly strong, which I noticed when I curled up with it one night.

I cried, horrified that I would never find that smell of peace and security again, the one you only find in your partner. The sense of smell is often overlooked. Well, maybe not in a post-COVID world. But the scent bond we create with other humans is pretty wild when you think about it.  

I threw out his robe today, the mattress pad, a few sweatshirts. Cleaned the carpets, mopped the kitchen floor. Changed the bedding. 

I can’t have that smell, that presence, hanging over my home, festering in the fibers of what should be a forgiving, dare I say healing, soft place to land. I need that soft place to land right now - in people and environment.

I was rummaging in the bathroom cabinet for cuticle scissors when I saw it and barked a laugh.

Tiger Balm.

I applied Tiger Balm to him twice a day in the summer season when his job demanded heavy lifting. The menthol became reassuring over the years: the person I loved was sleeping beside me.

At least I have that? Right now, I’ll take what I can get. It’s close enough.