Amber jars cast long shadows across my nightstand in the morning light. The vessels are dark and intimidating yet their healing properties may only be felt if I unscrew the tops and expose myself to their mysteries.

I lift up from my pillow to open the jars, one at a time. I lower my nose and take shallow bunny breaths that hit the top of my nostrils but go no further. Like waiting for the ping of a pebble dropped into a well, I pause two, three, four seconds for the echo of recollection to move from my olfactory nerves to my brain. But there is no ping, no recollection, no scent. Frustration pushes me back onto my pillow and yet I promise myself: Try again later.

Twice a day, I sniff essential oils that researchers specializing in anosmia recommend: Eucalyptus, lemon, cloves, and rose. My scent training also includes lilac oil for lilac is the very last thing I remember smelling.

It was four years ago, a late spring morning, when I buried my face in a magnificent purple haze of new lilacs. Even more than the up-lifting sight of the heart-shaped inflorescences, I longed all winter for the lilacs’ potent, intoxicating scent – a sure sign the respite of summer was just around the corner. That sweet, heady inhale stayed with me long after the short-lived blooms had withered, long after it was clear this would not be a calm, rejuvenating summer. There were too many commitments, too many responsibilities, too many people around. And then, when the lilac bushes were not the only flower that had passed, our oldest – my 21-year-old stepson – was killed in a car accident.

The weeks that followed are a blur, but each long day was memorable in the minutia of what we did to stave off sadness: puzzles, walking, staring off into space, and for me, cooking. One October afternoon stands strong in my mind. I had forgotten a pot of beans cooking on the stove. The heavy, enamel lid prevented the smoke from escaping, but not a rancid odor, which sickened my family when they returned home many hours later.

I could not understand how I hadn’t smelled food burning. I scurried around the house, trying to prove that my husband and kids were over-reacting. I stuck my nose in crushed garlic, chopped onions, coffee, Pine-Sol, bleach, floral fabric softener, nail polish remover, arnica gel, a bottle of Chanel No. 5.  Finally, I had to admit. I could not smell a thing.

I didn’t know anyone who had lost their sense of smell. My primary care doctor had little experience with it. The neurologist saw no structural problem. My ENT seemed bored with my symptoms. He did an exam, ran tests, and shrugged his shoulders. Without a head injury or other incident, I must have had a virus that destroyed my olfactory nerves. Whatever the cause, if my smell didn’t return within 18 months it was likely gone forever.

Pre-Covid, the idea of being asymptomatic for a virus seemed preposterous. Certainly, I would have remembered being sick. But then again, it had been a traumatic few months. A friend gently suggested emotional blockage could be the cause.  Our entire family was reeling from the death of Liam. Though we were all grieving, I was trying to hold us all together. Perhaps sadness, worry, and stress were to blame. The acupuncturist, manual therapist, Reiki master, and grief counselor thought they could help. They did not.

That was four years ago.

I try not to complain by ignoring or making light of my loss. There are many worse things to lose: sight, sound, a sense of safety and security, laughter, someone you love. Being unable to smell, or truly taste, was the least of my problems.33

And yet.

Cooking is my passion – my way to unwind, be creative, and nurture the people I love. The only flavors I detect are salty, sweet, bitter, and sour. Not garlic and onion, cardamon and cumin. Not the smokiness of a good paprika or the refreshment that comes with a sprinkling of tarragon. Not a single spice, nor the freshest herbs. Being unable to smell or taste-as-I go puts my culinary skills to the test and forces me to rely on recipes, or worse, someone else to fine-tune the spices. Eating is necessary rather than fun, and usually just a little disappointing Most wines taste like Hawaiian Punch or vinegar. Beer, coffee, and tea taste bland or bitter.

Walks in nature became less enjoyable without the smell of pine trees, the briny sting of an ocean wind, or the invigorating smell of the air after a rain. Bath time is less wonderful without lavender salts and a bayberry candle.

It is the scent of people I miss most. It is unutterably disappointing not to be able to luxuriate in the new baby smell of my infant granddaughter. I long to nuzzle into my husband and smell his Irish Spring soap. I want to whiff our daughters’ freshly washed hair, or even the awful Axe body spray our college-age son used in high school.  I can’t go into my stepson’s room and detect his essence in the jacket still hanging in his closet.

Covid survivors speak of depression, sadness, and fear that comes with anosmia, even when their loss is temporary, as it is with most. They miss the taste of food; they fear they will serve their family something spoiled or miss a gas leak, a fire. Their openness about their struggles helped me realize I had been living a less joy-filled life. My loss of smell may be the least of the reasons, but it was the only one I could do something about, even if I don’t know the cause.

Instead of the art of cooking I turn to the science of bread baking, cheese making, and pickling. Focusing on foods that allow for expression within the confines of a recipe returns to me some of the satisfaction that disappeared with my sense of smell. When I walk, I notice more birds, changes in wind patterns, and the endless varieties of flora, seashells, and mushrooms.

And I do olfactory training – getting my nose used to smelling familiar scents. Though many Covid survivors, and perhaps others, have success with these exercises, they are a struggle for me. I’m unable to imagine what a particular scent smells like without using other scents. Oenophiles use terms like chocolate, tobacco, grass, and cherry to describe a wine. But how does one describe chocolate, tobacco, grass, and cherry without using other fruits and plants? How can I describe the scent of cloves? The closest I come is telling myself it’s like cinnamon, only spicier. But does it? I can’t remember. It’s like describing the color green to someone without sight. Or the dramatic beauty of Beethoven’s 5th symphony to someone who cannot hear.

I’ve read that a technique for helping blind people imagine color is to associate sensory experiences with a color. Stand in the hot sun to get a sense of the color red. Hold an ice cube and imagine blue.

Perhaps those of us with anosmia can rely on feelings, too, to bring back our sense of smell. But rather than tactile feelings, we use emotion.

It is time for bed and the amber jars look cold and impotent under the glare of my reading lamp. I take a moment to clear my mind and vow to practice patience as I train with the essential oils. I open the top of the eucalyptus jar and take twenty shallow breaths. The effort burns the back of my nose, a feeling I once mistook for smell. Unable to tell myself what eucalyptus should smell like, memory takes over. I remember my mother massaging VapoRub on my concave chest during a bout of bronchitis. When I lower my nose into the next jar, I remember pressing cloves into a navel orange for my Girl Scout badge in arts and crafts, and of sitting by the fireplace sipping a cup of mulled cider. The lemon oil brings the vision of a bright yellow dress that belonged to my sister, of sunshine, and sitting in the shade with a dear friend, drinking fresh-squeezed lemonade so tart it made my mouth water. I save the lilac oil for last. Before sniffing, I think of the words of Walt Whitman:

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

Then I lower my nose into the jar and remember that day four Junes ago. The dew on the purple blossoms, getting woozy in their heady scent, the promise of a spectacular summer. I smell nothing, but the memory is enough to propel me to try again tomorrow.

Virginia Ryan holds an MFA in creative writing from Lesley University and writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and travel essays. Her work has appeared recently in Sky Magazine and journals such as Embark, Adelaide, and Anak Sastra.