Olfactory Vagaries

Regular readers of my blog and book know that my nose has been on strike ever since the Great Chicken Gut Call of 1994.

For weeks or months at a time, I have no sense of smell. My sinuses can be perfectly clear, I’ll feel perfectly fine, but if you blindfolded me and held a rancid skunk directly under my nose, the most I’d be able to manage is a vague, acrid hint of… something.

Not enough to identify as an odor, at any rate.

Invariably, my sense of smell abandons me when it might be useful, like when I’m trying to detect the odor of ketones on a diabetic’s breath, or the odor of alcohol metabolites that might tell me if my combative patient from the car accident might be drunk, or suffering from a head injury, or simply an asshole.

During such times, I have to rely on my partner’s sense of smell to detect those subtle clues.

Since it has been largely gone for almost seventeen years, I don’t much miss it any more. Not being able to smell is simply part of the landscape.

But every now and then, my schnozz decides to start working again, just to remind me of all the stuff I no longer notice.

Like necrotic decubitus ulcers.

Or body odor.

Or Toxic Sock Syndrome.

Or crack cocaine.

Or weed.

Or cigarettes.

Or urine and feces.

All of which I have smelled in various combinations in the past 48 hours, as my rebellious nose punishes me for one little insult seventeen years ago, but being hyper acute to all the stuff I don’t want to smell.

If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Olfactory Center, you can go dormant again any time now.