On the Smell of Human Flesh

Have you ever noticed the distinct smell of human flesh? The smell of bodies, or the scent of someone you love that you can only catch when they are near?

I first became conscious of this phenomenon after I spent a summer working in an emergency department in NYC. After a shift, I would leave the hospital, walk a few blocks, and sweat a little from the heat bounding off of the boiling black asphalt and from my thick cotton polo and long dress pants.

When I rode the elevator up to my floor, however, I noticed an odor. It wasn’t me–it wasn’t a sweat smell, or the faint “shower clean” scent of my deodorant, nor was it just your classic body odor. It was a smell that I can only describe as human flesh. The bodies of the ER lingered and cozied their way in between the fabric of my polo. When I got to my room and pulled my shirt off over my head to take a much-needed shower, the smell whacked me in the face. I was carrying peoples’ scents with me. Their bed pans, their exhaustion from waiting, their sweat, their skin, all hung like a cloud in the ER which I absorbed during my hours there. But I couldn’t distinguish the smell until I left. It’s not exactly a bad smell, it’s just distinct.

After I realized where this odor came from, and how tightly it clung to my clothing, it felt strange to carry it home with me. I would immediately change when I got home, regardless of how hungry I was or what time of day it may have been or if I needed to meet up with someone soon. The smell of human flesh seems like it should be a private thing, not something that mingles in a crowded ER for everyone to inhale and take home.

That same summer, I observed a surgery for the first time. I stepped into the operating room; I didn’t dare move or speak so as not to be deemed a distraction to the procedure. One of the first surgeries I saw was an orthopedic surgery. Again, I learned a new smell that day. The smell of burning flesh. I’ve had it described to me as White Cheddar Pirate’s Booty, a type of popcorn snack. To me, it smelled unnatural. I tried to ignore it. I believed if I thought about it too much, it might make me queasy. Part way through the surgery, the bone saw came out. I’m pretty sure they were doing a knee replacement, but I can’t exactly recall now. The saw slicing through bone, moving so quickly and cutting so easily that the bone seemed like Jell-O, emitted a different smell. It was similar to when I get my teeth polished at the dentist. Somewhere in between smoky and metallic. I was transported to my dentist’s office, my mouth wide open, tongue drying out, with the taste and smell of the polishing tool whirring against my teeth. Every time after that when I went to the OR, I recognized the smell of burning flesh. When the surgeons cauterized something, I heard the little zap and pshhh of hot metal touching a warm, bleeding body. When they used the bone saw to cut through ribs to perform a triple CABG. When they delicately peeled back the scalp, cauterizing along the way to open the skull to relieve the pressure building inside.

But then there are less graphic, more comforting smells of human flesh. Like the smell of my mother. It has been ingrained in my brain since birth. When I share a chair with her to watch a K-drama, or when I hug her in greeting after she comes home from work, she has her own smell, as everyone does. That coupled with her warmth (despite the fact that she herself is always cold, her fingers almost purple at times) makes it a comforting smell. Even when I borrow her coat to run outside, or toss on her scarf to grab the mail, her scent lingers in the cloth and I immediately feel at home; I feel younger and safer.

There’s also the smell of newborn babies. This, I know, is a smell that everyone loves. When my youngest brother was born, I remember I loved to hold him in my lap. My seven-year-old arms cradled him gently. His wild hair that stuck straight up as if he was constantly charged with static was prime for smelling. His soft, delicate skin and teeny tiny fingers and toes were fun to hold; he would wrap his whole fist around just one of my fingers. Even when I held him up and he spit up right below my face and all down my shirt, in the end, I could not be disgusted by his little sweet scent and wide innocent eyes.

The final smell of comfort for me, of another body I have come to know, is of course, my boyfriend. While we are sentenced to long distance for the foreseeable future, I cherish that first moment when we embrace after a few weeks or months. When, even with our masks on, I can bury my nose into the side of his neck, drink in his distinct smell, and feel safe and comforted and loved.