(Originally published on January 8, 2021, revised November 20, 2022)
Revisions aside, this was based on very current events at the time of original submission. It was written over the winter holidays at the end of 2020. Though COVID isn't the main focus, it's significant to the plot. If that might be a "trigger," we ask you to skip this one.
The story extends into late 2021, which, at the time, didn't yet have its history recorded. Thankfully, it seems to have stood the test of time as this update is posted.
As always, every character is of adult age.
This whole pandemic "thing" has introduced new words and phrases to the everyday vocabulary of those paying attention to the news. Things like "N95", "social distancing," or "six feet of separation," are front and center, along with "Face Coverings Required" signs, et cetera. Every big-box store has tape on the floor at the registers, and many also have "one way" signs in their aisles.
Hell, where I live, "curbside pickup" was a very rare convenience at very few restaurants. Now, every single eatery, at least those which have managed to stay open, offer it as a way for both the customer and the business itself to try to stay alive.
Early on, a word was introduced to the unaware.
Anosmia
. The loss of the sense of smell
The word was identified as a symptom to be watched for. That's how my older brother realized something wasn't quite right.
Our mother had made a meal one particular night, it being his favorite since it happened to be his twenty-first birthday. It was too rich for my tastes, so I opted for a simple sandwich instead.
I remember him asking, "Did you change the recipe?"
"Same as always," our mother said. "Why?"
"It just seems—I don't know… kind of bland?"
He picked up his plate and sniffed the steaming casserole.
"It doesn't smell like normal."
He reached over the table, his hand moving toward the pepper grinder.
He stopped short and said to me, "Grind some of that into my hand. I don't think I should touch it."
I stared at him. He gesticulated and bobbed his head toward the grinder, so I did what he asked.
He held his palm up to his nose, tentatively sniffed, paused, then snorted. I saw a number of the fine grinds go straight up into his nostrils as if it were some sort of snuff.
"Nothing," he said. "Absolutely nothing."
"Camp has the '
rona
!" I said, getting out of my seat and jumping away from the table.
"Campbell, tell me everything you've touched today," Mom said.
He identified a dozen or so things, and she, already having donned her mask, followed him around the house with a bleach wipe and aerosol sanitizer, leading him back to his bedroom where she told him to keep his door shut and group-text the family if he needed to leave the room for a bio-break or something. She left the package of wipes and the can of spray in the bathroom.
She unfolded a TV tray in the hallway next to his door, brought his food and placed it there before coming back to the kitchen to wash and sanitize her hands.
"Lucky him," I said.
"Well, we'll be lucky if the three of us don't already have it," my dad said.
"I guess we should all go to the pharmacy and get tested tomorrow," said Mom.
"Camp'll have to take his own car. Finn, you take yours, and your mom and I will go together, I guess."
Lo and behold, three days later, Camp's test result came back positive. Luckily, my mother's and father's came back negative. Mine did, too.
At that point, I was about ready to sneak into his room some night, stick my finger in his mouth, then shove it up my nose, because I hoped maybe I'd be similarly affected as he had. But, of course, it never happened, because I'm not a freaking moron, or that disgusting. I do admit, though, I was a bit envious of him.
His three-day cough sounded wicked, but he managed to pull through with only sore ribs for a few days after the coughing eased. Two weeks later, he cleared his second negative CV19 PCR test, and he emerged from his bedroom quarantine.
Anosmia
. It'd be almost a blessing in disguise.
I'd lived with its opposite for a good chunk of my life. Yeah, I have suffered from
hyperosmia
since I was like nine or ten years old. Most of the prior decade was an absolute pain in the ass.
At home, I had no problems managing my condition, because the family, sometimes begrudgingly, adapted to it. Plus, there's the "olfactory fatigue" effect, which means any odors one is constantly subjected to seem to fade into the background. I know, it sounds absolutely crazy, and by all accounts, it is. My mother was the first to notice something was going weird with me when she tried her hand at cooking a new recipe with spinach as an ingredient.
I wasn't particularly fond of spinach at that age, but I could eat it if I didn't have a choice. I guess I was kind of neutral to it. It never really bothered me until she made the new recipe and I found myself, while sitting at my desk working on a reading assignment, suddenly struggling to reach the wastebasket before I began heaving.
The aroma was simply overpowering, and it completely filled the house. My dad was praising my mom's cooking skills when he smelled it, while I was retching when I did.
So yeah, it does sound crazy. And, at first, my mom thought it was precisely that. Some sort of psychological issue, prepubescent rebellion, or whatever. She didn't believe such a thing was possible, so she tested me.
My brother (older by two years) stood with me in the living room. In the kitchen, completely out of view, she opened up a random jar of ground spice or dried herb, wafted her hand over it a few times, then put it away. He and I walked through the kitchen. I could smell the oregano before I got closer than six feet from where she was standing. Camp smelled nothing even after he picked up the closed jar.
Same result with cinnamon, vanilla extract, nutmeg, and coriander, though I only knew the names of a few of them. I mean, what unpracticed ten-year-old would know anything about cumin or sage? When I was able to prove it was real, she got really worried.
Then came a barrage of doctors' appointments as they tried to diagnose me with something they could fix. None could. The final diagnosis was termed
benign idiopathic hyperosmia
.
Idiopathic? Maybe. Benign? Hardly.
My family, through fitful and often frustrating trial and error, learned to avoid or eliminate the odors of particular foods, toiletries, detergents, whatever, which I simply could not handle without having to go outside for fresh air. I could smell things no one else would. Like opening a jug of milk. Most people don't notice the sour smell along the threads of the lid, even though the contents of the carton is fresh and tasty. I do, though, so I have to hold my breath when I pour a glass.
Fantastically delicious aromas could become overpoweringly strong. And, considering ninety percent of what we perceive as flavor is actually aroma, it made otherwise appealing foods inedible to me sometimes.
Jeez. I mean, I love them all to death, and I felt horrible because they had to deal with accommodations for me.
