The moment we stepped foot inside, a familiar smell sent images of my childhood rushing back.
That office.
My mom.
The receptionists.
The dark carpet and sticky chairs.
The cold, off-white, dimly lit rooms and crunchy paper.
Visit after visit and that smell!
The building we had just walked into smelled exactly like the doctor’s office I visited so frequently as a child. I despised that place. I was sick quite often as a child so I came to associate this place with feeling unwell.
On several occasions I remember fainting in the lobby and having to be revived by the receptionists with those awful-smelling ammonia sticks. The dark, smelly carpet underneath me. My worried mother kneeling above me. The receptionist rushing about once again to get me juice and a snack.
The smell in the lobby we had just entered paralyzed me, as the memories rushed forth.
“That smell!” I said. To which my partner replied, “It smells like crayons.”
The comment broke my memory and I became curious about her experience with this smell.
My partner proceeded to share that the crayon smell is a fond memory of her first-grade classroom which always smelled of crayons. It’s a pleasant memory because of the teacher, who showed genuine care and respect for and belief in her students.
I turned in wonder at the power of our senses—how a single smell can take us back and how that same smell can be experienced so differently by two people who are smelling it at the exact same moment in time.
What a profound metaphor for life. If only we could accept one another’s perceptions of life. How much of what we believe and how we experience the world begins this way—with memories no one else can see? Perhaps we can begin to understand by taking the time to ask and listen.
My partner’s crayon story warmed my heart. I felt happy that this lobby smell could provide a positive memory before heading into what was going to be a rather painful procedure for her.
Before entering the next doorway, I turned to take another glance at the lobby. I took one last deep breath, envisioned that smelly, dark doctor’s office of my childhood, whispered an inward, “Thank you for taking care of me”, and said goodbye.
