What the Body Remembers

October 15, 2020 § 25 Comments

By Amy Grier

Two years ago, I lost most of my ability to taste and smell literally overnight. A stubborn sinus infection knocked me low, requiring antibiotics. I cooked up a pot of chunky chicken soup: vegetables, broth, spices, fresh garlic and onions, all the good stuff that’s supposed to help fight an illness. One day, I heated up a bowl in the microwave, anticipating a steamy, comforting meal. I took a bite and tasted nothing. The bits of potato felt like sand on my tongue; the chicken like chewy rubber between my teeth.

I wasn’t worried. It had happened before, also during a sinus infection.  When the inflammation had receded and my sinuses cleared, I could smell and taste again. So I thought, I remember this. It’s okay. It’ll come back when I’m better.

It didn’t. I saw my ENT doctor, who slid a scope down my nostril and declared my sinuses healthy. He gave me a lengthy scratch-and-sniff test, tabulated the results, and looked genuinely shocked: You were right, he said, you’ve tested very low; as if I’d been exaggerating the loss. An MRI found no anomalies. The default diagnosis is nerve damage. Prognosis: my senses may, but probably won’t, return.

Now that COVID-19 has robbed so many of taste and smell, perhaps more people can understand the strange grief that accompanies this loss. I used to wonder: if I had to give up either wine or coffee, which would I choose? I couldn’t imagine it. These days, I drink quick espressos, grateful caffeine still works, though I can’t enjoy the flavor. Wine is like liquid iron on my palate, acrid and metallic. A sip of Cabernet makes me want to cry.

It’s hitting me now how much I rely on taste and smell as I write memoir. These senses ground my memories in a particular way. As the neurologist Donald Wilson explains, “The olfactory system, anatomically, is right in the middle of the part of the brain that’s very important for memory. There are strong neural connections between the two.”

Remembering the taste of the tart green apples that fell from the tree in my family’s back yard leads inevitably to my mother’s obsession with keeping the yard clean; how she sent me out to collect the good apples and claw the rotting flesh of the bad ones out of the grass and into a bucket with my bare hands. The edible ones she’d smash into a thin sauce and serve as a side dish. My lips puckered when I ate it. Those apples and my mother’s obsessive nature are inextricably linked in my memory.

Two years of this loss, though, and I’m beginning to lose some of my sense memory. I want to write how the scent of Oil of Olay—my mother’s favorite lotion—reminds me of her narcissism, of her soft body and how she’d stand too close to me, coopting my personal space, of her smothering, critical presence. It also brings to mind my childhood longing for the warmth and affection that lived only in my fantasies of her, of the mother I could make her into if I were good enough.

Struggling to write about this, I realized: I can’t remember what Oil of Olay lotion smells like. I can’t go to CVS, buy a bottle, open the cap, and take a sniff to remind myself. That particular scent is lost to me. I never thought I could forget it, but here I was, trying to remember the scent that kindled such longing and repulsion in me. Was it floral? Powdery? What does that mean anymore? They are words mostly disconnected from my reality. Perhaps my memory of smell and taste had lost its reality, too. Can I still depend on them for writing memoir? Can I trust them?

I sat with this question at my desk recently, staring at the monitor. How do I write about something I can’t remember? I closed my eyes and imagined the large pink bottle with the black cap sitting next to the bathroom sink; how every Christmas my mother would buy it for herself, wrap it, place it under the tree, then open it Christmas morning, grinning at her self-generosity.  I imagined her smoothing the lotion over her face and neck, and I suddenly felt the answer: my muscles were tense. My lips curled as if I’d tasted something bad. I felt claustrophobic. And I understood that all that all I’d experienced as a result of that smell still lives in my body. The sense memory manifests in my physiological response regardless if I can remember how the lotion smells. The nerve damage is in the front of my brain. The memory, as Wilson says, is in the middle—still alive, still accessible.

My body knows, and will probably always know, how the scent of Oil of Olay makes me feel sad and suffocated. My face will always cringe when thinking of a blob of mashed up green apples on my dinner plate. I can still feel all of this, which means I can access the memory of smell and taste. Which means I can write about it with as much truth and clarity as ever.


Amy Grier earned her MFA at Lesley University. A singer and classically trained pianist, she has taught music and English in the U.S. and Japan. Amy has a master’s in East Asian Studies from Washington University in St. Louis and one in Literature and Writing from Rivier University. Her prose and poetry has appeared in Poetry East, eratio, Streetlight Magazine, xoJane, and Dream International Quarterly. Her current project, Terrible Daughter, is a memoir about surviving childhood with a mentally ill mother.

On Writing “Breathless”

January 27, 2014 § 4 Comments

author_photo_homeHeather Sellers discusses the origins of her recent Brevity essay “Breathless“:

I began in my usual way.  I sit quietly for a period of time. Then, I rough out the scene with pencil—a kind of floor plan showing me who, what, when, where. I note in the margins of this diagram everything I see, smell, hear, taste. I try to feel what the air felt like on my skin. It’s mostly a listening practice and it’s the same kind of listening you do when you are with someone you value. You listen with the fiber of your being. I’m not sure what the fiber of my being is, exactly, but I know it’s real. Then, I followed this young part of myself as she walked across Orlando. I’ll never forget that day; I’ve written about it elsewhere. What haunts me from that day has, I think, the seeds of most of my work in it—the father-daughter relationship, the vulnerability of girls, seedy violence in an Edenic landscape, and desire.

I wrote the walk.  I got to the apartment and I got hung up at the fridge. A trusted reader helped me simplify the logistics of entering the apartment. I got to the bed. My favorite part is how the wave of the foot echoes my experimental, innocent, dangerous waves at men.  In the original diagram I did for the piece there was the death of a Florida girl in the news, and a dead Michigan girl, and two dead girls from my high school days .  Joyce Carol Oates’ portrayal of Arnold Friend was lurking around the edges, too. I remember reading that short story when I was in college and wanting to write my true story; Connie’s internal experience of the world of men led me to myself in a crucial way.

I began “Breathless” as a poem with a prosaic title, “Walking Across Orlando.” When I noticed all the lines went to the right hand margin and I’d filled a page, I re-formatted, and put the sentences in time order and when I read it aloud, I found my title.

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