I lost my sense of smell yesterday

the disappointment of getting Covid for the 1st time, the recall of anticipatory grief, and a quiet, delirious hymn sing

Covid came to call this week. She brought ‘the throat’ and that incessant kind of low grade fever and headaches that Tylenol refused to help, all wrapped up in a heavy fatigue.

Most of you know exactly what I’m talking about. And many of you have experienced far worse and have your own stories to tell.

From time to time during the past few years, I’d tell my husband that I didn’t know anyone else who hadn’t had Covid. I’d been quite thankful and relieved (proud?) that I’d been spared because I’d been hospitalized with a couple of pulmonary embolisms (which felt like a heart attack) right before Covid came on the scene 4 years ago and I was concerned how my lungs would respond if I got it.

I was religious about vaccines and masks and all the things, ultra-vigilant to stay healthy, not only for myself but even more so for my Mom’s sake when she was alive.

But that’s a whole other story, a traumatic saga of anticipatory grief that left me with a shattered heart and sky-high anxiety from living on high alert for far too long.

It hit me yesterday that I had lost my sense of smell. And for some reason that’s really knocked me sideways.

I never imagined what it’d be like not to be able to … well … smell. I tried to inhale the scent of my favorite lavender lotion to be met with, well … nothing. It was a surreal experience. I felt a sadness wash over me that’s hard to put into words.

I opened the vanilla bean bottle and the same. Nothing. I headed downstairs and stuck my nose into the (unlit thank you very much) cranberry chutney Yankee candle. No dice. Brownies baking in the oven? Nada. His coffee brewing? Nope. Chicken and rice simmering on the stove? Zilch.

So it is what it is and all will be well, scent or no scent. A good night of sleep does wonders in recalibrating our thoughts. The writer of Lamentations reminds us that His mercies are new every morning (chapter 3). Ain’t that the truth.

But one thing I’ll remember is the night that my pounding head felt like a concrete bowling ball, the fever blooming, and all I could do to take refuge from Covid’s attack was to curl up with a cold washcloth on my face and sing very quietly in my soul. Every verse of every old hymn that the Spirit brought to mind. It was a sweet time for me, if maybe a bit delirious one. I felt deeply enveloped in the precious love of God and amazed at how good He was to bring those beautifully familiar words to me right when I needed to be focused on who He is … and not what I was experiencing.

‘All may change, but Jesus, never. Glory to His name.’
Linda

You can share your Covid stories with me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to listen. To commiserate. To encourage.