10.06.2016 Views

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INE YEARS AGO, on an April morning in San<br />

Francisco, I awoke to a concussion that seemed<br />

to silence everything around me. I noticed halfpainted<br />

canvases lying haphazardly around the room; I ran<br />

my fingers along an eggshell-white wall punctuated with<br />

slivers of light filtering through half-shuttered windows.<br />

I felt strangely disconnected from my environment.<br />

There was something that hung<br />

like a veil over my perception. It<br />

was first apparent that something<br />

was wrong when I took a bite of a<br />

falafel sandwich that morning and it<br />

hung like tasteless cardboard in my<br />

mouth. Later that morning, I drove<br />

through the rush-hour traffic on the<br />

smoggy highway that cuts through<br />

the valley between San Francisco<br />

and Sacramento, unmoved by the<br />

exhaust that was out streaming in<br />

through my open window.<br />

At a time I had worked at a fondue<br />

restaurant where the odors of<br />

melted cheese and broth were<br />

particularly strong. Some days they<br />

made me want to gag, and some<br />

days they made me hungry, but they<br />

were always there, permeating my<br />

clothes and hair long after they were<br />

washed. For some reason, I didn’t<br />

notice them that day. I thought it had<br />

something to do with the fog of my<br />

concussion, but when I went back to<br />

the kitchen to dump out a pot of<br />

My concussion came after a day<br />

of trespassing to take photos in a<br />

Bayview-Hunters Point graffiti yard<br />

with an old college friend. Afterward<br />

we went to a bar, where after one<br />

single beer and a puff of medical<br />

marijuana, They told me I’d passed<br />

out cold, and promptly transported<br />

me to a hospital by an ambulance<br />

where I was given a dismissive<br />

diagnosis of a mild concussion.<br />

“You’re in the Tenderloin—we see<br />

this all the time,” the attending ER<br />

physician told me, before sending<br />

me home to be watched by my<br />

friend overnight. Other than the<br />

bruise to my head, I thought I was<br />

okay when I drove home to work the<br />

very next morning.<br />

ater my general practitioner<br />

would order a string of tests—an<br />

EEG with forced hyperventilation<br />

and strobes to test for epilepsy,<br />

a fasting blood-glucose test, and<br />

an MRI to look for potential brain<br />

and skull injury all in an attempt to<br />

17 seeing smell

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