Over the past year, I’ve noticed a significant decline in my ability to smell. Although the loss of the sense makes little impact on my capacity to live, and despite its gradual onset, I still find myself mourning the long-lost function of my nose.
It wasn’t until now, in my realization that I can smell very little, that I have developed an intense appreciation for scents. Now that I smell so little, I find great excitement in the things I can smell. It’s a similar emotion to what people with stuffy noses experience—it isn’t until they are gasping for air as they eat food and mouth-breathing in their sleep that they miss and yearn for airway passage through their nostrils once more.
And now, still in my grieving period, I try in vain to recall the aromas of my childhood. On my drives down the beach, I roll down my windows and aggressively inhale for salty air. This seaweed-tainted breeze once repulsed me as a child. It smelled like fish poop and sand fleas. Now, it’s a nostalgic reminder of sunshine-washed Saturdays and boogie boards. Yet, as I pass the bridge at Torrey Pines Beach, I inhale nothing but air: the oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide. It smells like nothing.
Again, I try to catch the smell on Sunday mornings when I can predict a warm breakfast waiting on the kitchen table. When I was young, as soon as I opened my bedroom door, I was blasted with the yummy aromas of pan fried spam, scrambled egg, and jasmine rice. Other mornings, I smelled the sweet vanilla scent of chocolate chip pancakes. I always hurried downstairs, already excited for the brunch to come. But recently, I have not found the Christmas-morning anticipation to run down to eat with my family. Most mornings, I sit alone on my phone, staring at the ceiling, or still snoozing, unaware of the delicious aromas dwindling while my food runs cold.
It’s these special smells that remind me of happy memories that I miss most: ocean air, breakfast with my family, gingerbread on Christmas. I miss the smell of fresh hand sanitizer when my mom came home from work. I loved the explosion of smell and taste from my dad’s chimichurri.
I grieve these most.
But surprisingly, I find myself also missing the not-so-magical smells: my brother’s bedroom, the acid in my hairspray, the stench of car exhaust, burnt toast, wood fire smoke, and dogs. When my friends announce that something smells bad, I wish that I could share the thought. When my mom asks me if something stinks, I hardly know what to say. I suppose I’m just afraid that my loss of smell means I’m missing out on a part of life. And I know that it’s dramatic, but I feel as though I cannot experience life to the fullest, solely because I cannot sense my environment to the fullest.
However, I think my olfactory decline has left me with something beneficial, a newfound appreciation for my surroundings. Now, whenever I catch the slightest hint of flowers, perfume, banana bread, or the fresh dewy morning air after a rainy night, I’m fully present in the moment. Even the slightly pungent smells are still a reminder that I’m alive, and wow, that is such a beautiful thing. Any smell, no matter how putrid, is still a good smell. It’s not just a token to my childhood, but an acknowledgement of truly living life.
