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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