The Smell of Death

The Smell of Death

Acrid. Foul. Pungent. Just plain Nasty.
Death smells like cigarette smoke.
Lexi tried to hide the smell of her husband's and mother-in-law's smoke.
She bought scores of Irish Spring and Dove soap bars. She placed them in her clothes, in the hallway linen closet, in her bedroom closets, everywhere she could think to mask the offense.
Going through her clothes after her death, the cigarette smoke smell clung to each piece; undeterred by her efforts to neutralize its impact.
Her primary lung cancer was partially from her own smoking years ago, from her late teens to her late 30's. Her own twenty years of inhaling death was contributory. But the cancer really hit because she lived with second hand smoke and stress. Stress of having to house your divorced husband to help pay the bills. Stress from living with a mother-in-law who disregards and dismisses you. Stress from a son who became psychotic and savaged his wife and family. Stress of knowing that she will never be able to retire; her mortgage and bills will require her to work into very old age. And her lung cancer came after being a five year breast cancer survivor.

Walking tonight with Reilley, I smelled cigarette smoke, and felt immediately offended. Invaded.
As I feel when confronted with an "air purifier", those ubiquitious, cheap attempts to cover up normal human odors.
I have been invaded by Death for three plus years; I know how it smells.
It permeates the cells, creating a constant sense of being dragged through Hell. Acrid.
It takes away pleasure. Foul.
It takes away caring, about anything. Pungent.
It made me long for my own death. Just plain nasty.