Pineapple Express

I take baths now. Standing, balancing, scrubbing, the slow-healing hole in my throat are my reasons for shying away from showers. As I prepared myself for my daily soapy stew, Aimee snatched the clothes from my hands. She told me they reeked of body odor. I reminded her that my injury had taken my sense of smell.

"I understand. That's why I'm telling you. Remember the doctors told you to use me as your frontal lobe," she said. "Oh, and you might want to wash your hair, it's starting to smell pretty bad. And why aren't you using your deodorant?"

"Do I have to tell you again? I can't smell anything anymore. Unfortunately for you there might be a few weeks where I'm not the most appealing to be around. Plus, along with my smell and taste I believe I lost the importance for strong personal hygiene. We'll have to wait and see if it comes back."

Losing my smell and taste didn't sink in until the other day. After all I was pleased with my condition considering the extent of my injuries. I focused on my improved eyesight and for not needing to wear glasses. I tuned into my music and my new found appreciation for melody. So losing my smell and taste didn't affect me, in fact, it seems to affect those around me much more than it does me.

For some reason, my family; my wife, many doctors and nurses, neighbors, view food as the ultimate remedy. Every time my curtain is set to drop I'm told I need to eat something, that I need nourishment. I tell them that without taste or smell food has now a become a chore, a necessary task, but not necessarily an enjoyable one.

I told them that Pineapple is the only thing that I can remotely taste. So now my refrigerator is filled with Pineapple. Every meal has a slice of Pineapple included. I know complaining isn't appropriate. I know I should consider myself lucky for my present condition and for having people that care for me. But there's only so much Pineapple a person can ingest before damaging their brain, or in my case, adding to the damage that's already there.