I Was Tormented by a Mysterious Smell

The first time I noticed the smell was while walking in my house after work. I tossed my backpack and purse on the chair by the door before asking my family, "What is that smell? Did someone dump nail polish on the floor?" My nose instinctually flared in distaste and distrust. I repeated my inquiry, Why does it smell like nail polish or sanitizer?" My teen daughters and husband ignored me. I sniffed my way through the living room, dining room, and kitchen, nostrils hyperalert. The smell dissipated and I moved on to other matters, like the smell of the litter pan and what to make for dinner.

I'd forget about the smell until it returned. Opening the passenger seat door at work to collect my belongings for the day. The guest chair in my office as I passed it on the way out of the door. The living room couch. Sometimes the smell was faint, a slight whiff, barely noted in passing and easily forgotten by a distracted mind. At other times the odor was so noxious that it seared the membranes in my nostrils, causing a pulsating and pounding marching beat above my eyebrows for hours at a time. My car is dirty, so, each time before driving, I bent low, searching under the seats and in seat pockets. It was like the scent was taunting me. Following my every move. I held my well-worn and well-loved sneakers close to my face. They smelled, but they were not the cause of the smell in question. I sniffed my mask, certain it must be the sanitizer I spritzed on it regularly. My nose was the lead investigator, deciphering the mystery, dissecting the details, ruling out suspects.

If it wasn't hand sanitizer it had to be COVID. I took to the internet for answers. Were the apparent mystery smells, that only I was sensitive to, a COVID long-hauler symptom? I haven't been diagnosed with COVID, or had any of the hallmark symptoms, but it seemed obvious that I was experiencing phantom smells from my asymptomatic case of the virus. I tested negative, again, that week.

I could not determine a pattern. No common denominator. Except me. One night the acrid smell thumped through my skull like a marching band at the state fair. It tested my sanity. I cupped my hands and blew into them. I stuck my nose to the flesh of my palms and breathed deeply, and with great focus and intention. The scent was breath, with tones of recently eaten chips and hummus. But not alcohol. Or acetone. Or sanitizer. I took to the internet for answers. Then, I stood with my hands on my hips and bent forward, my face leaning toward my husband's. I blew hot, anxiety-fueled air on his nose.

"What do you smell?" I inquired.

"Did you go on Web MD again?" he replied.

"I have diabetes." I replied.

"Your breathe smells....fine." He craned his neck to see the TV, disinterested in joining me in my investigation and enabling my hypochondria.

Weeks after the first smell, I accepted my fate. "This is my life now, " I'd tell myself as I hung my coat and backpack on the back of my office door. "It's in your head," I'd murmur as I loaded my backpack, purse and lunch tote into the back seat of the car on the way home. "You will never not have a stinging in your nose." I chided myself as I picked up the kids dirty clothes, strewn on the floor over a tossed couch pillow, and my tossed backpack and coat. I felt alone in my pain. No one in my family admitted to smelling anything gross. Outside of urine from the cat pan or old cheese from over-worn gym socks.

Until my mom visited.

"Do you smell that, Mom?" I asked after walking into the house after work. I tossed my backpack and lunch tote on the chair by the door. "It smells like sanitizer or alcohol or something fermenting." She reaffirmed what I'd been worried was a product of my paranoid and mysterious mind. "Yes." She agreed. "I have smelled it since I got here yesterday. It smells like sanitizer or something fermenting." Embarrassed by my dirty, stinky house, I committed to leaving no stone unturned in my quest for an answer. I yanked pillows off of the couch, slid my hand under seats. On hands and knees I crawled my way along floors, craning my neck to look under furniture. I moved all appliances in the kitchen, as well as half empty olive oil bottles, a French press, teapot, and several bags of half empty hot dog rolls. I pressed my nose against the windows, picture frames, and lamps. The dog, excited about all of this, pressed his nose into me. I stared at him. He stared back. My mom stared at both of us. I threw my arms overhead and flopped in the chair by the door, only to hop up for fear that I'd broken my laptop inside of the backpack I'd cast there upon walking in the house. I unzipped the bag to inspect the device and a stinky bomb of fumes exploded into the air. I pulled out the device (unharmed by my butt), cord, mouse, mouse pad, office keys, notebooks, a few pens and my go-to lip balm. With the flick of my wrist the bag was upside down. I shook it up and down and to the left and right until I was sure it was empty. On the last shake, a quarter fell from a side pocket that I never used and hardly noticed. It was a deep pocket, with elastic at the top, to ensure whatever objects were stored inside stayed inside.

Like a bolt of lighting, my mind lit up and my life flashed before my eyes. Or at least the life of that backpack. The fluorescent lighting of Target reflecting off of my glasses. The mounting items in the red, plastic shopping cart that I used to support my weight as I calculated the cost of our upcoming purchases. The aisles of rubber cement, glue, number 2 pencils. Hundreds of Five Star notebooks and 3-ring binders. 1 inch, 2 inch and 3 inch. My daughter's insistence on buying the trendiest, most expensive backpack in the back-to-school section. Our agreement that she would contribute 15 dollars of her own chore allowance to pay for it. Ten months later finding the bag in the donation pile. Emptying my black Best Buyish, office-issued computer bag and carefully storing my laptop, mouse, mouse pad, cord, notepads, office keys, pens and lip balm inside of the backpack. Wearing it to work everyday. Tossing it on the guest chair by the door in my office. Tossing it on the floor in the back of my car. Tossing it on the chair by the door in my house.

Packing my kid's snacks for school every day and insisting she take them to school. Healthy snacks. Snacks she hates to eat. Snacks like apples and oranges.

Without fear, I plunged my hand, wrist deep, into the pocket. My fingers dug into something soft and round and I tugged it up and out. Raising it and thrusting it forward, like show and tell on the corner back carpet. The peel of the orange was green and bumpy. Parts of the pulpy flesh of the inside of the fruit shown where the skin has disintegrated. I pulled more and more out of the pocket, each piece crumbling as I pulled, bits and pieces clinging to the underside of my finger nails.

I washed the backpack in hot water and a Tide Pod. I air dried it and placed a nest of dryer sheets in the side pocket. I packed my laptop, cord, mouse, mouse pad, notebook, office keys, pens and lip balm back inside. I threw the bag in the back of my car, again. I threw it on my office chair and the chair by the door at my house, again and again and again. On most days, my nostrils unwillingly flair at the light scent of hand sanitizer or nail polish or something fermenting.