musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

The Mutable Rank-scented Many


Too much time by myself can be troublesome: I begin to wonder about things that I should have resolved years ago had I bothered to think more about them. Or, perhaps I did, and decided to shelve them while I got on with my life. Retired hands, though, are often bored; they open things the years have hidden; ask questions still unanswered -or at least now puzzling to an aging brain…

What does it mean to have a geometry? I’m reminded of the Platonic Forms: idealized things like, for example a chair. Chairness, as it were, is something any child can recognize, and yet it can assume any number of shapes that defy easy categorization. Is a log a chair? Well, sometimes… Is a large stone a chair? A table? A lap…? In my dotage, I may well be mischaracterizing Plato’s original intent, but so be it; it’s what Age is for: blurring, obfuscating.

But even with the liquidity of definitions, I continue to hope for something more -more reliable, at any rate. The evident mutability of imagination does little to assure me I am actually understanding the world…

There are some things it is hard to get my head around -even if they do have a shape, a size, or a geometry. I mean, once you identify boundaries, you should be able to measure them, categorize them, name them. You should able to plot their dimensions on a graph; you should be able to visualize them, if only in your mind… They become objects, in other words: things.

Of course, although something like belief is also a thing, I suppose, although its dimensions are harder to pin down. Like love, it is in a different Magisterium than most physical things -I get that; but then how would you classify something like smell? The effect it has on its surroundings is more physical than those of belief, I think, and its presence is often more noticeable; indeed, depending on its strength, or variety, it can be almost palpable, if rarely visible.

In a way, smell occupies two kingdoms: it operates at a distance -like hearing and vision- and yet it also partakes of the intimacy of its cause -much like touch and taste (the word ‘taste’ is likely derived from the Latin tangere -meaning to touch). So where does smell actually live? And, does it have boundaries, edges beyond which it no longer contains any useful information? Borders beyond which it is essentially meaningless?

I suppose if we think of smell as some sort of a gas, then, like any gas, it can be diluted beyond recognition, beyond any effects. But is that what it is: simply a gas? And by smelling it, am I, in a sense, consuming –tasting– whatever is producing it? Am I becoming the rose…? Touching it, without actually feeling it? Olfacio, ergo sum…?

We smell, we now know, via the brain’s olfactory nerve (Cranial nerve 1), and it is the only nerve from the brain directly exposed to the environment without an intermediary to protect, or modify its signal… ‘When we see we remain who we are, when we smell we are absorbed entirely.’ The touch of the eye is theatrical, that of smell absorptive. ‘Vision, does not penetrate, but glides … It is a touching that does not absorb’:[i] some Philosophical reflections on smell… Whoa!

But how can you convey that excitement to someone without getting unnecessarily nerdy? How can you convey it to a stranger on a bus in the limited time available? Smell, after all, can have unpleasant connotations to someone you don’t know: it may suggest that you noticed their odour -no matter how you phrase it; no matter how you try to work it into a casual conversation it may hasten their departure. And your seeming need to explain your fascination with the topic may not speak accurately about your intent. Even the mention of their perfume, may suggest an unwanted intimacy.

Still, I get enthusiastic about things, and sometimes they bubble out of my mouth with the slightest excuse; smell was just the latest of my blunders, I suppose. I had just boarded the #250 bus from the Park Royal Shopping Center, on my way to the Ferry Terminal on the far edge of West Vancouver. It is the bus which winds along Marine Drive, taking its time depositing many older people to their residences along the way. Since I, too, am old, I feel right at home with passengers who are not glued to their phones, but who seem to doze, or stare comfortably through the windows at passing cars.

I can’t say there is a characteristic odour on the #250, but the perfumed bodies remind me of my mother when I was growing up; there is a nostalgia of smell to those of us who have been exposed to many over the years. It was with just such memories in mind, that I wondered if others of that generation –my generation- were similarly affected and I decided to mention it to an elderly white-haired lady sitting next to me. That she had a smile on her face as she stared out of the window, boded well, I thought.

“Are you ever reminded of your parents when you get on the #250?” I said in a pleasant, pass-the-time voice. I thought I saw her blink at the question, so I took that as a signal to clarify my inquiry. “I mean, how they…” I suddenly realized that asking how they smelled might sound rude, so I attempted a mid-air change of words: “… you know -how you knew they were in the room…?”

Another blink, but whether of annoyance or incomprehension, I wasn’t sure.

“Maybe it was my mother’s perfume,” I continued, “but I could certainly tell if she’d passed through a room…” I wasn’t sure if I had described it well enough. “Same with my father, though…” I added, so the woman wouldn’t think I was being unduly sexist.

I meant to explain that it was the odour of the pipe tobacco that clung to him, but before I could clarify my point, she interrupted. “You mean the smell of age?” she asked, making hard eye contact with me.

“No… I just meant…” I felt caught in a trap of my own making.

She suddenly smiled at me and touched my arm with a bony hand as she nodded. “I think we all notice it, but most people don’t mention it -especially on the #250… I hardly notice it anymore…”

I felt terrible; I always seem to go too far with strangers. I suppose I must have blushed, because she actually stroked my arm before she pulled the cord to signal the bus driver to stop.

“I work at the Senior’s Center,” she explained as she stood to leave. “You get used to the smell of memories there…”

It occurred to me that I had got off lightly.

[i]https://psyche.co/ideas/i-smell-therefore-i-am-on-the-philosophy-of-the-olfactory

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gozzter

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