Imagine, if you can, being rendered incapable of differentiating between Vegemite on toast and caviar canapes. Imagine being impotent to the most cursory of culinary pleasures, like the tomato in tomato soup or the apple in apple pie. Or oblivious to the flavour and character in a glass of fine wine.
— Peter Lowndes talks about his adventures with anosmia in Losing my senses at The Age.
Imagine being able to smell it all and not being able to eat *any* of it. (My problem.)
Losing your sense of smell is awful, but surely not the worst thing that can happen to someone.
Actually not being to smell Vegemite would be quite good. LOL!
Oh that sounds AWFUL Bela. I hope it is not a permanent situation. My heart goes out to you, how do you cope? But you are right, losing sense of smell is not the worst thing that can happen..
I’m sorry if I sounded a little bitter there: I’ve had IBS for 16 years and It does get me down sometimes. It took me several years to be able to control it and now I can only eat the same – very bland – few things *every single day* (whenever I stray, pay for it the next day – sometimes it was worth it, sometimes not, LOL!). I try to shop without looking at all the foodstuffs that are around, and obviously I can’t eat out. But, most of the time, as Karen G’s husband below, I feel grateful that I have – touch wood – managed to survive all those years (at one time I really thought I would fade away completely since my body could not assimilate anything I ingested).
I did not read bitter, I read sadness. IBS is not fun at all. But hang in there! You’re alive and that’s what counts. What’s more, you can escape in scented clouds and appreciate all that entails.
So sorry 🙁
I lost my sense of smell for a couple of months a few years ago. It was absolutely awful – I couldn’t taste food to see if I’d seasoned it right for the family, I couldn’t smell smoke when something on the hob was burning, I couldn’t distinguish between Bois de Iles and disinfectant. I think I ended up eating more than usual, searching for something I could actually taste! The doctor gave me steroid nose drops; I had to do yoga positions to get them in. The first thing I managed to smell was Attrape Coeur – I dabbed on a sample for a woodland walk, and half way round I realised I could smell it. The joy was indescribable.
Interesting…part of the Shangri La diet, which apparently works for some people, involves clipping your nose so you can’t smell your food. Ugh. So glad the nose drops worked!
My husband became anosmic 9 years ago after brain surgery to remove a tumor. He also lost the sight in one eye. He is absolutely grateful every day to be alive, and to be able to continue doing the work he loves, but if he was given the choice of having the sight in his eye returned, or his sense of smell and taste, there would be no question…he would want to be able to taste food again.
He copes very well, never gets depressed about it, still loves to cook. I don’t think I would ever adjust if it happened to me.
It would be really, really hard. That’s great that he still cooks.
That is tough. It seems it is generally much harder to have had an ability or sense and lose it, then to never have experienced it all. I guess it goes back to that saying “ignorance is bliss.”
In light of the comments above, I feel guilty about feeling so lucky that my sense of smell is coming back.
The thing I find odd in the article is his sense seemed to have popped back, albeit unreliably, as good as it was originally. Mine is coming back through stages, really disgusting and totally stinky stages. The fact that his keeps “leaving” periodically is scary. I want mine to stay, stink and all.
Maybe because my loss came through a head injury, is part of the reason for me not being able to name and articulate notes. I tend to describe things in odd ways. For example, Shalimar has a thick firm base with a lillte “give” to it. This flattens out over time and disintegrates smoothly. It has an upper layer of granulated powder smooth spheres (poof with oomph!) that settles over the deeper layer and sinks into it as it flattens blending nicely. See what I mean? It is purely textural but is also composed of scent notes that I can pick up on, but can’t name.
Who on earth would understand what I mean by that. It is a totally useless description to perfumista’s. But it’s the vocabulary I have, at least for now. It’s getting better though.
When all is said and done, it can be frustrating, but it is nowhere near the worst thing that can happen. I feel lucky and my heart goes out to all those with troubles.
This makes complete sense to me. When a fragrance seems like ‘a hollow sphere with a jagged surface’ or ‘ear-splitting purple’, I would rather remain silent then say that aloud to many people. In fact, I’ll shut up now.
Lol, except for the fact I omitted. I like Shalimar!