Like this:

Inside the hyperbaric chamber there is no scent, not even of myself. I breathe in purity itself, 80% scientific oxygen. Is this what makes dogs so crazy when their scent world gets covered with snow?

I don’t dwell on the olfactory nothingness, though, because I’m generally watching a movie on the screen just above the chamber. The nothingness makes itself more apparent when the treatment is over and the heavy chamber door opens. The real air that creeps in from the sterile hospital room smells like a delicious swamp, and I snap to attention like a hound. The first notes are the bass ones, fetid, damp, tinged with sadness. Quickly they are followed by middle notes of rose and violet. I’ve learned to anticipate those. The scent show ends almost immediately as I acclimate to the air, and within seconds I’m wearing Stink of the World eau de toilette.

Since my treatment two years ago I’ve cultivated some hedonistic interests to help me regain joy in my physical being. (This is not something to be taken for granted.) Recently I have become a perfumista. I read excellent blogs on perfumes, order samples of niche fragrances, and regularly troll perfume counters wherever I can find them.

The world of fragrance has changed since I last explored perfumes a dozen or so years ago. Scents are witty, subversive, narrative, foolish, blowsy–whatever a person could want as part of her physical envelope for the day. So when I get home after treatments I rush to my perfume treasure trove and fish for the perfect scent.

What does comfort smell like to you?