No scents

About this time last year, I was collapsing back into bed on a daily basis.  I had what I presume to be a variation on the flu that was going around.  (I hasten to add, I'd had my shot.)  I heard a lot about this virus (or whatever it was) that winter and into the spring, as it hit friends and acquaintances.  A strangely debilitating bug, that didn't seem as bad as it was, presenting a new symptom each day.  Every time I swore I was getting better, I was felled by a sore throat, then, the next day, a racking cough, followed by congestion,  then shakes...

For nearly two weeks, I didn't have the energy for much more than television - a depressing prospect in the daytime.  I was never more grateful for the Turner Classic Movie channel, and their annual "31 Days of Oscar". Last winter, they picked films with wins and nominations in rather esoteric categories, such as Best Song or Best Makeup, so I saw a raft of films I wouldn't ordinarily have seen.

When my strength finally returned, I had a lot of catching up to do.  As a result, it wasn't until last April until I noticed that my sense of smell had vanished.

Generally, the loss of a sense is unmistakable.  You notice instantly if you lose your sight or hearing.  Loss of touch is something else missed the moment it happens.  Losing the sense of taste will register pretty damn quick.  But the sense of smell?  That can drift away unheeded.

My first clear memory of the realization occurred on elder daughter's birthday.  She adores scented candles and gleefully brought them to me to sniff.  I don't recall being surprised when I couldn't smell them, so I must have been faintly aware of the absence of scents.  I had continued to be somewhat congested since my illness.

Then May came, and I couldn't smell the lilac.

Smell is connected with taste, and I began to realize that I wasn't always aware of spices the way I had been, but on the whole, I could taste, and still can.

I'm wondering now if my brain is filling in the gaps, the way you can "hear" a familiar song that's far away, or covered by other noise.

As the year has progressed,  I've come to a fuller and sadder comprehension.  I can't smell the sea - once a recurring joy of returning to Victoria, and now poignantly ironic now I've returned for good.

All roses are fragrance-free.  At Christmas, the lingering odors of tourtière, mandarin oranges, and evergreens do not linger for me. The aroma of toast, baking bread and cookies -- gone.  The Resident Fan Boy has given up the ritual of bringing me the bag of freshly ground coffee when it's first opened; there's no longer any point.  I can't smell the rain on the streets - I only know that the outside air is odorless, while indoor air smells vaguely metallic.

When I use a powerful cleanser, or bleach, I feel only a strange tightening in my nostrils.  I worry a little about not smelling smoke, and find myself paying extra attention to personal and domestic cleanliness, because visual clues are all I have now.

Mostly though, I feel a resigned sense of no scents.

Some years begin with a whimper

If "begin as you mean to continue" applies to years, I may be in trouble. I did try to begin 2017 with energy and motivation, but soon found myself wheezing, whimpering, and coughing in a corner of the living room, felled by the Resident Fan Boy's Christmas gift to me: a man-cold in all its phlegmy glory. He also gave me the DVD set of Wolf Hall, lest you think less of him.

As someone who hasn't really had a bad cold in over a year, I am out of practice with invalidism. I do wipe down surfaces with rubbing alcohol to excellent effect, but got trapped in our tiny front hall with four of the RFB's power sneezes, which, he insists, he is unable to contain.

Heaven help us if we're ever in hiding.

I'm deriving dubious comfort from this song from The Divine Comedy which was released in 1999, but, I believe, didn't chart in Britain until a decade later. It's about allergies, but I'm living with symptoms -- particularly those liquidy sneezes in the instrumental bridge.

Carpe diem

I'm nipping into a supermarket for a quick purchase, so I slip down the side corridor, which ends behind the cash registers.

I'm listening to a podcast, earbuds in, so am momentarily confused as a lady wearing the store's worktop backs into me. Beyond her I glimpse a splayed arm.

I yank my earbuds out, and step to the side. A man is stretched out on his side, eyes unfocussed, limbs jerking in a seizure. An older man in some sort of uniform kneels by his head, supporting him and restraining him. I can't tell if the elder man is a paramedic or a security guard; I don't want to just stand and stare. I glance discreetly (I hope) over my shoulder as I make my way to the shelves, doing my best to get out of the way. The kneeling man seems to be consulting with a semi-circle of three supermarket employees.

Around us, business as usual. People are maneuvering their carts around the trembling, sprawled man -- there is just enough room to pass.

It feels callous to make my small purchase and leave, but I have no help to offer. It is clear that they are waiting for medical assistance.

I decide to depart by way of the main store, figuring a gurney or stretcher will need a clear way in through the corridor. I emerge into the street to find a young woman bearing down on me on her bicycle. As I sidle out of her way, I notice she's clad in a yellow visibility vest. She's a police officer, a vanguard of the approaching ambulance, which I don't hear for several long minutes. I'm at the bus stop when I spot it several blocks away, zigzagging its way through stubbornly oblivious motorists and pedestrians. It finally pulls up outside the supermarket, and after what seems to be a long pause, the paramedics climb out, set up the gurney and wait by the door where I was nearly bowled over.

My bus takes me away from this man's altered day. Gazing out at the passing buildings, I imagine his morning: sunny, with no hints of the sudden bend in the road.

Unbeknownst to me, a friend of mine is being driven down the Pat Bay Highway outside Victoria by her husband, who suddenly suffers a major stroke. In the confusion and panic, she grabs the wheel, ending up in a ditch with her neck broken. She will spend the next week visiting her speechless husband while hobbled by a body brace.

Last night, I learned of his death.

Every now and then, we are confronted with the unpredictability and fragility of our situation. As with the shaking man on the supermarket floor, I have no help to offer beyond prayer and an inadequately worded note.

Nothing to do but seize what handhold I can find and hang on for dear life.

Jingle Dog

In Canada this week, the papers have been full of the trial and conviction of the father and mother whose nineteen-month-old son died of meningitis because they thought he had croup, and, believing in natural remedies, gave him mixtures containing horse radish, garlic, and onions, among other things before consulting with a naturopath. By the time they realized the severity of the little boy's illness and took him to hospital, he was beyond medical help.

Well, you can imagine the debate, and the largely unhelpful comments accompanying the online articles, mostly along the lines of:  "How could they not know how sick he was?"

The Resident Fan Boy and I know all too well how imperceptibly illness can creep up on a small body.  The week after elder daughter turned six, younger daughter slid quietly into lassitude.  She didn't seem seriously sick, but she kept drifting off to sleep.  We'd find her sprawled across the living room carpet where she had been playing, the cat sitting on guard beside her.

Our regular family physician was on holiday, but the locum was attentive.  I think we took younger daughter to the doctor's office three times that week as she failed to improve - or worsen.

That Friday, I was observing an ESL teaching practicum, a nicely flexible job that I did for the university.  The Resident Fan Boy stayed home from his work to take younger daughter to the doctor, as we'd prearranged as a follow-up to the previous appointment.  I returned from the morning class to find the house empty and a message on the answering machine.  The locum had sent them straight to the hospital.

I frantically starting throwing clothes, diapers, and other supplies into a packsack, weeping to myself:  "Oh my little darling, she'll be so frightened!"

The RFB knew I'd arrived when the nurse informed him that his daughter's grandmother had come.  For some reason, she thought she should repeat this story to me as she led me through the corridors.  I had no time to be irritated; younger daughter, flopped against the RFB's shoulder, caught sight of me, and started arching backwards, crying out and reaching for me.  I automatically lunged toward her, and as I took her in my arms, she sagged bonelessly against me, clinging to my neck.  She was clad only in a diaper and already hooked up to an IV.

When I placed her in the crib in her hospital room, I rummaged in the bag I'd flung together, and produced Jingle Dog, a favourite toy that one of my English cousins had given her the previous autumn.  It was the first time I'd seen her smile in a week.

The RFB went home to resume care for elder daughter, and I spent the night snatching sleep on the love-seat next to younger daughter's crib, not quite having the nerve to try to crawl in with her.  In the morning, the nurses discovered that she liked Pedialyte popsicles, and soon took her off the IV drip.  Late that afternoon, after a very long wait for a doctor to sign her out, we took her home.

All through their childhoods, we vaccinated our daughters and took them to doctors regularly.  I'm not sure that makes us superior parents; we still slid into this crisis doing all the "right" things.  We were lucky - younger daughter came home from the hospital. I do know people who do not vaccinate and who distrust doctors, like the mother and father who have lost their son.  None of these people are stupid or uncaring.

It's just hard to grasp how gradually, then how quickly, things can go wrong.