You must have a cold, Sweetie

By Bernadette Regan

Sometimes I wonder what my boyfriend smells like. Or I try to remember the aroma of popcorn or the odors that fill your car at a gas station. The trace of ozone before a spring shower; the awful rose-tea scented perfume my sister got five years in a row for Christmas. That high school teacher everyone said reeked. I know I liked vanilla, cinnamon toast and mint chip ice cream. I was given a cedar chest once and it made all my sweaters smell like our pet hamster, Crappy. My hands would stink after sneaking a cigarette, and I would hastily cover the funk with some fruity Bath and Bodyworks spray. Cucumber melon was gross, but raspberry mist did the job of concealing my cancer-causing habit for years. I’m told even sex has an essence. I work in a bakery. Oh, how lucky I am to be surrounded by such a calorie-rich-smelling environment. I smirk at the conscience-stricken customers who savor the smells more than the morsels. They don’t know my secret. Should I stop running from skunks? If I use green apple soap and then winter-snowfall- smelling lotion, am I a clash of unfavorable scents? Why do I bother buying deodorant? After five days in the backcountry, can I truly believe him when he says he doesn’t notice my funk-filled gloriousness?

Sometimes it will tingle way up there, past even where my finger can reach. I’ll think this is it — it’s fixed itself — I’m a medical miracle! I’ll take a deep breath in savoring the moment, and then it stops.

A friend had given me some hand lotion as a get well present. I squeezed the bottle oozing a drop into the palm of my hand. I brought it up to my sniffer anticipating the fragrant smell of cherry blossoms. I smelled nothing. Zero. Nothing. That was weird. I got out of bed as quick as my aching body would allow. There was week-old Chinese food in the fridge, I went to the kitchen. I unfolded the white packaging, brought it to the tip of my beak, and inhaled deeply expecting to end this nonsense. Nothing. I went to the sink, tore open the cabinets, found the strongest smelling astringents, bleaches, soaps. Again, I brought each to the tip of my whiffer, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing, nothing and nothing. My banana was broken, not by fist, but by fall.

A few days before my discovery, I was learning to lead climb at a local quarry. I wasn’t on any glamorous route or anything beyond my limit. I was a new leader, learning how to use those wacky spring-loaded devices, forgetting about good stances, and freaking out. I was on the second pitch and 15 feet above my belayer.

Between him and me I had placed two cams. It was a crack, fistsized. I tried to layback it, tried to place a cam, and tried to keep control of my nerves. My attempts failed. I fell off. My next piece flew out of the crack with a loud popping sound. I kept going, upside down. While in flight, I whacked my bean against the rock, once, twice, three times, I don’t know. I ended up 15 feet below my belayer. I looked at him in a daze and stammered, “I want down.”

I can never repay my friends who cared for me and got me safely to the ambulance. Getting back-boarded is not fun, and I’m sure the nurse I puked on didn’t enjoy that either. I suffered a Level-II concussion, a traumatic brain injury. The rock and the back of my dreambox collided, resulting in a 1.5-inch laceration. The blow was softened by my Petzl Ecrin- Roc helmet, which apparently isn’t rated for side hits, but it saved most of my melon, even though both cracked. The permanent damage occurred as my brain bounced inside my skull.

The day after I buried my face in the decaying Chinese food, I was back to the doctor for an official “smell test.” The nurse had a dozen unmarked vials. Twelve times in a row, she brought a vial up to my nose; I would take a deep breath and shake my head.

Each time she looked at me in disbelief. At the end of it she said, “You must have a cold, Sweetie.”

No, I smell nothing.

In the five years since my discovery, I have learned to use better stances, and always place bomber gear. Also, I quit smoking three years ago. The technical term for lack of smell is anosmia.



Originally from the east coast, Bernadette Regan has found her way to the Pacific Northwest. Gone are the days of greasy limestone quarry climbing and welcome the days of nubbins, welded tuft and basalt cracks. She currently resides in Bend, OR.