the smell

He woke from a deep sleep surrounding a dark dream, unsure of the place or the time he found himself. His arms were extended and rigid before him. He could not for the life of him remember if he was pushing something away in his dream, or pulling something closer. He leaned to his right and felt for his watch on the table beside him. He pushed the little button that released the androgynous timekeeper and listened as the proclamation was made. “The time is (pause) three fifteen (pause) a.m.”

Conrad scratched his head and yawned. He heard the creak of the bed and felt the cold metal railing on his left. He remembered he was in the hospital and yawned again. He always had the strangest dreams. The one he was just having concerned a little girl in a room with hundreds of doors. Each door was a different size and color and there seemed to be some imperative in finding just the right door. The most interesting thing, of course, was that Conrad had never seen a room, a door, or a little girl. He had been blind since birth and was in the hospital for an operation that just might give him vision.

He decided to stretch his legs and take a walk around the hospital ward. At this time of night he wasn’t likely to run into anyone and would be free to move through the halls at his own pace which was usually slow. He tossed his watch back on the table and eased himself out of the bed. He felt around for his slippers, slipped them on, and shuffled his way across the room to the door. He wondered briefly how big the door might be and what color before opening it and stepping out into the hallway.

Conrad had been in and out of hospitals most of his life and the one thing that never seemed to change was the variety and commonality of the smells in these great institutions of healing. He was in the preop wing and the smells here consisted mainly of disinfectants and air fresheners. Every now and then he’d smell flowers in a room he passed. It was like smelling a warm spring day. It was nice and he smiled as he made his way down the hall to the nurses’ desk.

He could tell before he rounded the corner that no one was at the night desk. It was quiet as a morgue down there. The only sound he could hear was the soft whoosh of air blowing through the air conditioning vents. The nurses were probably making their rounds and the orderlies were probably smoking in the stairwell. That suited him fine. He liked the quiet and he liked being alone. He turned the corner to his right and moved into B wing.

St. DeAngelo Hospital was known for two main areas of expertise. They were the best in Boston when it came to working with burn victims and they were among the very best when it came to treating most kinds of cancer. No matter how many times he made his way by the burn unit, he was never truly ready for the smell. The first and worst of the smells was that of burnt human hair. It smelled like a thousand bad things sprinkled with sulfur and dipped in screams. It repulsed him and made him very sad at the same time.

The second wave to rape your nose was the smell of scorched human flesh and the puss and fluids that moved in and out of the flesh. It smelled like a hellish limbo where the spirits are ready to leave but remain trapped by the agony of mortality. Conrad made the sign of the cross and whispered a short prayer for the poor souls fighting for their lives or waiting for their deaths.

He moved on, knowing that the next wing would offer no respite. When he was seven, his father developed cancer. It started in his lungs and slowly spread throughout his body. Little by little, he began to smell different. At first, Conrad thought it was the medicines. Then he thought it might be the chemotherapy. In the last days, right before his father died, he realized it was his father’s spirit, corrupted and fatigued that smelled. In the beginning it smelled like fear and in the end, like love.

He couldn’t walk by the cancer ward without thinking of his father. But here at St. DeAngelo’s, at three o’clock in the morning, he didn’t smell love. He smelled sharp, savage waves of pain and dark dripping bits of unconsciousness. There was no hope here. These patients were terminal and not even flowers could mask the scent of death.

Conrad turned around and decided to head back to his room. The next ward was a cancer ward as well, for children and adolescents. The fourth and final ward was for HIV and AIDs victims. He just couldn’t bring himself to walk by those wings and smell the anguish he knew would be there. Instead, he walked slowly back to his room, kneeled on the floor and said a prayer for everyone who suffers. He climbed into bed and lay there with his thoughts until dawn when the clattering of trays and rising voices reminded him of the hope that comes with each new day. Hope he had for an operation that just might give him sight.