Everything tastes and smells like rotting celery soil sewage….and sometimes vanilla?

Many are talking about the long-term COVID-19 symptom of smell and taste loss, but fewer people are talking about how this symptom can evolve over time.

I had COVID-19 in June and woke about a week into the virus with a complete lack of taste and smell. Absolutely nothing. I lost most of my appetite and began eating just for sustenance and sometimes texture.

After a few weeks, my senses just came back on their own. Eggs and peanut butter had a slightly different taste, but I wasn’t too worried about it because they were still edible and I could taste them.

Then one day, eggs and peanut butter were inedible. They tasted and smelled like rotting chemicals. Everything did. These nasty chemicals seemed to be stuck in my throat and constantly exuded out of my mouth and nose — distorting everything around me

I don’t know if I noticed an exact turning point, but I do remember eating fried rice and scallops on a Friday night and it being fine. Then, on Sunday night, my husband was making steak (my favorite food) and I had to cover nose with my t-shirt because it smelled so bad.

I took one bite of the steak and had to spit it out. I cried and fled to the bedroom to cover my face with my shirt again…maybe even put one of our newly bountiful face masks on.

It sounds dramatic, and maybe it was a little, but it’s hard to explain how devastating it is to be surrounded by a constant smell of sewage and an inability to taste or smell anything else.

Upset and frustrated about this new development in my senses, I turned to Google, where my symptoms of phantom smells led to diagnoses of brain tumors. I called my doctor and they made me get another COVID test (which was negative).

From there, I began experimenting to see what foods I couldn’t eat and smells I could no longer be around. I found that nearly every protein (including beans) had the same terrible smell and taste, as did onions, garlic, TOOTHPASTE, and other random things.

Eating adequate amounts of protein became this almost obsessive concern for me and I finally realized I could handle protein powder and tofu. So, I started drinking a fruit smoothie with protein powder for breakfast, a tofu, avocado, vegan sour cream concoction I whipped up for lunch, and dinner was still a guessing game. Vegan grilled cheese had an altered taste, but was OK, and tomato soup was unpalatable. Most fruits, vegetables, carbs, and sugars were fine, but I had to be careful what spices I used to season my food — mostly just salt and pepper.

Instead of my husband cooking every night and us sitting down to talk over dinner, he made food for himself and I sat in the other room so I didn’t have to smell his meal.

This went on for so long that he decided to go on a 10-day green smoothie cleanse because I already wasn’t eating much, so it was a good time for him to do the same.

After continued research I eventually found one news article talking about this bizarre symptom of COVID-19 that develops after smell and taste “come back.” It led me to a Facebook support group for smell and taste loss where I found people across the world experiencing the exact same thing I was, and they all thought they were crazy too.

I posted in the group asking about the rotting chemical smell and was directed to a website called AbScent. This is an online community that started in the UK to give those with anosmia (loss of smell), parosmia (distorted smell), and phantosmia (phantom smell) a feeling of togetherness when it seems like you’re the only one who has this problem. They’ve also created a survey to collect research about how these disabilities are effecting people across the world.

Just being able to say “I have parosmia. It’s a real thing and that’s why everything smells and tastes wrong,” was reassuring.

Fast forward a few weeks later and here we are. It’s the day after my husband’s smoothie cleanse and I still can’t smell or taste anything the way I should be able to. We were discussing what celebratory meal we would order after the cleanse and couldn’t think of anything I could.

I discovered I can eat fish and sushi, so that may be our only option, but I’ve had that four times in the past week because it’s one of the few things that actually tastes normal. I just wish I could sit down and eat dinner with my family again. Praying that will happen soon.

There hasn’t been much research into loss of or distorted taste and smell. It has been considered a non-severe problem until now. The large number of those who have smell and taste problems from COVID-19 may change this thinking. The COVID-19 Smell and Taste Loss support group on Facebook has nearly 7,000 members now, and while this experience isn’t great, I think many of us feel comforted knowing we aren’t alone.

I wrote this blog to add something to the few resources available for us parosmiacs and hope you can find reassurance knowing there are people going through the same thing you are. We can’t smell you, but we can hear you.

My dog has anxiety and ran away. My dog ran away and I have anxiety.

Blog, it’s been awhile, but I want to share a scary story with a happy ending. I want to share what happens when your dog runs away and you have anxiety so all the fear is amplified by irrational thoughts and panic.

I got the a call from my husband. He’s crying. “What’s happened?” “It’s not good,” he said. I picture him badly hurt and going to the ER or his grandpa died. He says something about a board dropping. I picture a wooden board on the ground with a giant nail sticking up out of it. Shad’s foot goes down on it and the nail goes through his shoe, through his foot.

“It scared Donnie and he ran away. I can’t find him.” Tingling and cold drops from my head down my arms. One of our dogs went to work with him today. We’re getting our driveway re-graveled and he has anxiety so he would have been barking and upset all day. He went to work to avoid anxiety. “What?” “Danny dropped a board by accident and Donnie got scared and ran away. I need to run to the car and go after him.” Running and heavy breathing. He’s going to have an asthma attack and die.

“Okay I’ll call my mom and have her help look.” My mom is closer than me. I call her. She goes. I call the humane society. They tell me to call the dog warden. I call the dog warden. They’ll keep an eye out.

I call Christy. She doesn’t answer but texts back. “Donnie ran away. Please pray.” Rachel, please pray. Therapist, please pray.

Boss, I need to sign off. Donnie ran away. He’s going to think I’m stupid because it’s just a dog. I do this all the time. I don’t work when I should. I had COVID and missed work – it was my fault. I should have powered through. I just took vacation. It was my fault I didn’t work.

Call Karen. She sets up PetFBI for me and puts it on Facebook. I don’t want to look at Donnie’s little face. People share it and I’m thankful but I see his sweet missing face over and over again. I’ll never see him again. I think about the logo I recently had made for my pet portrait business. It’s Donnie’s face. He’s going to be dead and gone. Missing. And I’ll have to look at his face on my logo and never want to paint again. It started with a painting of him. His little missing pink and black nose. How will I tell the world I lost my own spokesperson?

I call Janet. She puts him on NextDoor. Pray. 

The dog warden calls me, “There’s been a siting of your dog. A humane society staff member and a bystander have him in a ditch by the railroad tracks.” Confusing and vague directions follow. “Okay, I’ll tell my husband where he is.” “We’re sending a warden out to get him too.”

I call Shad. “Thank God. Where is he?” I relay the confusing directions. Hang up. He calls back. “I’m here but I don’t see anyone. Where was it?” I relay the confusing directions. Hang up. He calls back. “Can you have them call me? I don’t see anyone…I hear barking!” Hang up.

I call the warden’s office. He gives the same confusing directions. “Aren’t you sending a warden to get him at that location?” “Well, no, we’re kind of busy right now.” Call Shad. He answers but all I hear is rustling. Running. Shouts for Donnie to come. Did he find him? Is he running from Shad? Why is he running? What if he gets hit by a car right in front of Shad? He picks up. “I don’t see him.”

People are looking for Donnie in Columbus and I can’t go because this guy is graveling my driveway. I feel helpless. I’ve called everyone I can. I have everyone praying. Everyone looking. Asked everyone I can for ideas of how to find my dog.

Call Shad. Can’t find Donnie. Why would those people just leave him? Why would the Warden’s office say they were sending someone and then not do it?

So many calls for updates and all I hear are people out there yelling for Donnie to come to them. I feel helpless.

At about 7 p.m., I decide to pack a bag and take our other dog, Bobby with me to my parents’ house. Donnie was lost nearby and Shad was still out looking. It would be easier to be five minutes away if someone found him in the middle of the night and called. Shad needed to rest, too. He didn’t need to drive 40 minutes home.

I decide to go look for him before it gets dark. I have this idea that he’ll hear me or sense me and come running. If I look, it’ll be different.

It’s not different. I’m running up and down the railroad tracks where he was last seen. Yelling for him. The bags of trash on the sides of the tracks look like dead white dogs to me. Everything white looks like his body. He doesn’t come.

My parents stay up late with us and make a pizza for Shad at 10 p.m. because he hasn’t eaten. We do crossword puzzles to pass the time. Well, I read the clues to my dad and he answers all of them.

I get a text. “I found your dog.” “WHAT?!” I had just picked up my overnight bag to take upstairs and dropped it again. “Who has him?” Shad asks. I call the number. No answer. “Do you have him?” “Yes. He’s with me. I’ve sent you a code. If you’re the real owner, send it back to me.”

It sounds so obvious now, but in my mind I think it’s some kind of PetFBI security setting, so I send him the code Google just texted me.

“Do you have any other active phone numbers?”

Crap, this has to be a scam. I’m such an idiot. He’s somehow stealing your credit card numbers now. Your bank account will be empty in two minutes. He’s stolen my identity.

I Google it. It is a scam. They just use your phone number as a gateway to Google Voice so they can scam others. They can’t steal your information in any way. I have to follow steps to reclaim my phone number. It’s so hard to think, but I claim it. I think it’s done.

We get ready for bed. Bobby doesn’t know why we’re in a different house. Where’s his brother? He jumps on and off the tall guest room bed. We cry again and tell each other it’ll be okay. “We’ll get him tomorrow,” Shad says. He falls asleep holding both of my hands.

Shad’s phone ringing jolts me awake at 6:19 a.m. He grabs for it. “Hello? Are you serious? Okay. I’ll be right there.”

“Donnie went back to the office!”

I worry it’s another false alarm. I worry the general manager doesn’t really know what Donnie looks like. It’s another dog. It’ll be a disappointment.

But, it’s not. Shad brings Donnie back to my parents’ house. He’s a little scraped up, limping a bit, and red but he’s HOME. He’s okay!

My mom makes him eggs and toast because we don’t have food for him. I take him home.

When will he run away again? We won’t get so lucky next time.

Can we talk about the angel who bought me a Jaeger Bomb?

I was probably 20 in college and I went out to Clancey’s — a bar/dancing venue in Delaware, OH. I had been dancing, so I pushed my way through the crowd and up to the bar to get water.

Right next to me where I had squeezed in, there was a man standing out of place in his 3-piece suit. Clancey’s isn’t the place for suits (it smells like beer-stained floors, sweat, and old wood and is known for its Jell-O shots). I now imagine this man with a glowing white aura around him even though I don’t think that’s quite what happened.

The man asked me what I like to drink and, thinking I was cool even though I do love them, said a Jaeger Bomb. He asked the bartender for two.

As we waited, the man asked what I did and I was I was an English student at Ohio Wesleyan…something something something…he noticed the stamp marking me as underage.

He said something like “ohh…you’re not 21.” “No…I’m not.” The bartender, on cue, delivered the Jaeger Bombs and the man handed one to me and took his and cheersed it against mine. We downed it and he probably wondered why he agreed to drink NyQuil and RedBull for someone under 21. But then he looked me right in the eyes and said, sincerely, “Enjoy your life.”

He paid the bartender, stood up, and walked out. I’ve always jokingly said he was an angel because he was so well-dressed and out of place as he offered words of wisdom, but I’m not sure angels are allowed to buy underage college students alcohol…are they?

How Did This Happen? (Stupid Things I Do Every Day): Episode One

Wednesday…

It was kind of cute. I imagined the microscopic zoomed photos of baby spider eyes staring at me from my front door. He was fuzzy, small, and seemed to have little cerulean spots on his back.

I did have to get inside, though, and I wasn’t about to get closer or let him in…regardless of his puppy spider eyes. Naturally, I hit my keys against the door frame. Spidey shifted. I did it again. He scampered down the crack between the door and the frame toward the bottom. I stomped on the deck and hit my keys on the door until he was far enough away that I felt safe to open the door.

Good boy, hurry on home now.

Thursday…

He’s back. Taunting me to with his scattered movements and stupid blue spots. Come on, sir, do we really need to go through this again?

I stomped, hit the door with my keys, and yelled, but nothing worked. He hid under the doorknob like the asshole he was. What if I had reached for the knob unknowingly and touched him? I threw my crumpled Penn Station bag in his general direction. Nothing happened.

I closed the screen door and hoped the spider would move if I pretended to walk away. Upon opening it again, he had moved, but only into the crack.

I had almost resolved to stay outside forever when a call from my husband reminded me that my dog was waiting for me inside. Poor Donnie was probably scared from my stomping.

After closing the screen door again, I opened it to find the spider in the center of the door. I imagined myself missing and the spider crawling up my foot and into my boot. Does he bite? Or would I just feel eight tiny, fuzzy legs against my skin? I had to try. For Donnie.

I raised my foot up to the door, reared back, and kicked.

My door flung open and I watched as splintered wood splayed across the carpet. Oh no…

The spider rappelled down the door, unscathed. He ran his little self outside, leaving me to deal with the destruction left in his wake.

I bashed in my front door trying to kill a spider. In my defense, it shouldn’t have broken like that, so it needed replaced anyway. #WheresTheLowesCard

When I get an idea and end up learning how to draw a dragon at work…

Sometimes my brain runs away with a thought and I can’t pull it back until it’s completed. Unfortunately, this happened at work today while I was supposed to be…working.

I’m in charge of social media and I was trying to think of a cool Monday post. I figured #MotivationMonday would be a great idea! I decided to use one of my favorite quotes by Neil Gaiman from Coraline.

Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.

Then I was like, this would be really cool if I wrote it out on a sticky note in a cool font – then it would be unique! I always forget that I hardly have any typography skills, so I wrote it in cursive.

Then I was like, THIS WOULD BE SO COOL IF IT HAD A LIGHT DRAWING OF A DRAGON BEHIND IT! Again, forgetting that I can’t draw anything without tracing or directions, I searched “how to draw a dragon.”

So, I’m sitting here at work (well, standing at my converted standing desk so I don’t fall asleep), following step-by-step directions on how to draw an elaborate dragon on this sticky note.

Anyway, my coworker probably saw my screen and thinks I’m a slacker, so I showed her to explain myself and swear it’s for a work post…but it was truly doing too much and accountants (the majority of my social audience) probably don’t want to see a sticky note with words you can barely read and a pencil drawing of a dragon watermarking them.

So now I’m blogging about it because I need to explain that it truly was a well-intentioned work break. I also think it looks pretty darn cool, so I wanted someone to see it.

Thanks for reading my rant 🙂 Comment if you also have a story about your wandering mind.

5 Things I’ve Learned After 2 Weeks of Unemployment

1. The Ohio Department of Job & Family Services is there to help! I had an issue submitting my application for unemployment and I was worried the department would be extremely difficult to get a hold of. After sending an email about the problem, someone from the office actually called me. She spent 15 minutes talking to me and gave me her direct phone number in case I needed any further help. This was very surprising to me and I’m very glad to find that I’m not seen as a number or statistic.
2. There are a lot of marketing positions open right now. Are you looking for a job or thinking about switching? Now is the time for marketers! I have applied to over 40 marketing jobs in the Columbus area in the past two weeks and there are more added every day! Get out there and search!
3. If you went to college, the career services department is for alumni too! I called Ohio Wesleyan Career Services last week and found out that they help out alumni for life. I was put in contact with a fellow alum who volunteers in the office. He has been emailing and talking to me about how to improve my resume and giving me advice on how to proceed for days now. He seems to genuinely care about quickly getting me back in the workforce. If you are currently unemployed, check with your alma mater — they might be able to help!
4. The more house painting I do, the more opportunities I see to paint. When we first moved into our house, we painted all over the wood paneling in all of the rooms. This made me feel very accomplished and like everything was finished…then I started doing touch-ups. I started painting the doors. I started painting the window casings. I started thinking about painting the insides of the closets. I never want to paint again because of all of the painting I’ve done, but I feel like my whole house needs to be painted.
5. I am very loved and have the support of a lot of people. The day that I got laid-off, I talked to more people on the phone than I ever have in my life. Everyone wanted to hear what happened and make sure I was okay. Everyone offered to help in any way they could. I’ve had friends edit my resume and cover letter, send me jobs, and offer to be references. Several people have checked on me since and I want you all to know that I appreciate every text and phone call and I am doing fine 🙂

Buy the Big Round Noodles

Just a quick PSA: Buy the big round noodles!

Shad and I have been renovating and buying things for our home for over a month now. This included giant expensive like all new carpet and a water sulfur system and reverse osmosis system so our well water is drinkable and no longer smells like rotten eggs.

Needless to say, we need to be on a budget now. We also have to put our funds together to make things easier. This means I can’t buy tons of clothes all the time, even if they look cute and keep popping up in my Facebook news feed.

We went to Meijer last night for some Thanksgiving essentials. I asked what we were hanging for dinner that night and if we could buy pasta and sauce. He said sure.

I perused down the pasta aisle while he searched for the russet potatoes I forgot for our vegan scalloped potatoes recipe…On the bottom shelf, I found a bag of really big round noodles. These look like fun! I thought. So, I grabbed those and some sweet basil sauce and went to track Shad down.

As we were driving home, Shad said, “Wait…were those noodles you bought fresh noodles?”

“Yes…”

“Abby, how much were those noodles?”

“….$3.00….” (They were actually $3.99.)

“Abby! We are on a budget! You cannot buy fancy noodles!”

I got out of trouble by calling him out on buying a $30 SLICING MACHINE THING for the potatoes.

Anyway, we got home and (after dealing with issues with our new water system) made the pasta. Not only were they delicious, but they were actually fun noodles! Shad ended up putting one in his mouth and chasing me around trying to blow on me through the big round noodle. This, friends, is entertainment that could only be brought on by BIG ROUND NOODLES.

In conclusion, buy the big round noodles. If a $4 smile is the worst thing you buy all week, I think you’re doing okay.

I Have an Issue with Faith; or, Shad is Eating a Very Cold Bowl of Soup

I have an issue with faith. I can’t bring myself to believe in something I can’t see for myself. I joke about this, and people think I’m being ridiculous, but I truly have a hard time believing space and the galaxy is real just because some teachers told me it is. I see the sky, the sun, the moon, and the stars, but that is all I know. I can’t just take it for granted that Pluto is there because scientists say it is. I don’t know these scientists and I haven’t seen Pluto. Even if I saw it in a telescope, I would still be skeptical. I’m pretty sure I would need to sit my ass down on Pluto to actually believe in it.

Religion is something that I have a deep internal battle about. I grew up with it. I grew up praying and believing and “giving it to God,” but at some point, I began to question how we know God is there. My fiancé, a former pastor, told me that I need to work on my faith. And he didn’t just mean in religion, he meant my faith in love, my faith in others, and my faith that everything will end up okay despite anxiety, stress, or unforeseen circumstances.

At Sunday church services, I’ve had feelings in my chest, chills, goosebumps, random tears, people randomly praying for me when I needed it  most, and moments when the pastor says exactly what I’m thinking or offers prayer for the exact, specific challenge I’m facing at that time. Shad says it’s the Holy Spirit helping me along. Despite feeling all of those things, I still push it aside and chalk it up to being cold. I truly have no other explanation other than spiritual experiences and I continue to deny it. Shad says that where I am now with my faith, Jesus would literally need to wake me up in the middle of the night with a choir of angels around him for me to believe in him.

So, I started reading the Bible. Even if it doesn’t make me fully believe, it may help me understand or see what others see. I may find verses that calm my anxious soul, or ones that inspire me to write blogs about faith (*cough* *cough*).

As it so happens, this blog was inspired by a Bible verse:

“Holding faith, and a good conscience; which some having put away concerning faith have made shipwreck:” 1 Timothy 1:19 KJV (YouVersion).

Interestingly, I like the King James Version of this best. This version is one of the hardest to read and is also one of the closest to the original Hebrew. After reading several different versions of this verse, I found this one the most beautiful and most resonate. There may just be something about the hard “k” sound ending it or the colon leaving an open end for deeper thought.

Has my faith been made shipwreck? At what point in my life did I stop trusting my instincts and start questioning the existence of space? If I can’t believe anything people tell me on faith alone, can I really believe in anything?

Shad tells me to think about the things I absolutely know to be truth and start there. So, this is what I have:

• I’m in bed with a cold.
• Shad is eating very cold broccoli cheddar soup that has to be gross by now.
• I have an adorable bunny who is always destroying his deluxe habitat because he’s too big for it and has a vendetta against his food bowl. Against all bowls.
• I love my parents and my Shad.
• I constantly want pie.

Obviously there are more true things, but apparently that’s my top five for the day.

Wish me luck on my faith journey. I’m gonna need it.

On Writing: The Stream-of-Consciousness, Unconventional Version in Blog Form

I’ve been writing my whole life. I remember writing in Notepad on my grandma’s desktop computer when I was in elementary school. I wrote about secret agent teenagers and families who owned old-timey general stores filled with cinnamon hard candies, wind-up toys, and cartons of milk. I was the kid in high school who wanted to edit everyone’s essays and actually got excited about (some) writing assignments. I love writing so much that I ended up going to college to study creative writing.

So, why is it that I hardly ever write for fun anymore? Every day, I think about how I want to go home from work, sit down on my bed, and write a blog or story. I even think up entire pages in my head — playing out each scene of what I’m writing, picturing myself writing it, and wondering how readers will react to it. When I struggle with my anxiety disorder, I think about how writing down my feelings may help me sort them out. I wonder whether others have similar experiences with anxiety and ask myself if writing about mine and sharing them would help others cope and feel less alone.

But, when (if) I actually sit down to write, I have a hard time. This is either because I’m exhausted from writing a long speech in my head and can’t force myself to actually type it, or because I’ve thought of so much that I can’t remember everything I wanted to say.

I know I’m not alone in this. I have read and seen and know many writers who procrastinate or have writer’s block, so I need to stop pitying myself and wondering why I was the only writer cursed with the inability to write anything down. I’m sure Stephen King has days where he doesn’t want to write, but allegedly, as he says in On Writing that he forces himself to write a certain number of pages or for a certain number of hours every day. I always picture him locking himself in a dusty room with scuffed up wooden floors, an old kidney-shaped table, and a typewriter until he finishes a novel. I don’t know how many times I’ve pictured Stephen King writing like this…but it is astronomically more times than someone should if they are trying not to be weird or inaccurate. I wonder if he ever scares himself with his writing. Do you think he gets into bed after a long, dusty day in his office and says to his wife, “Tabby…I wrote the scariest shit today and I don’t think I can sleep tonight!” I hope so because that’s what I would do.

This is, in fact, a blog I wrote in my head and attempted to recollect on the page…it is, of course, an incomplete and choppy recollection. I also had something about not wanting to write because then I have to read and edit my own work and read it again and edit it and so on and that is just TOO MUCH, and something else about the horrifying coleslaw I made earlier…

In regards to writing about my anxiety, sometimes opening up like that even makes me anxious, so let’s start small. I have this irrational fear that there is going to be a tarantula under the toilet seat every time I sit down. I picture it sticking one hairy leg out and poking me in the butt. I told my boyfriend and he said that could definitely happen and that I should start checking — thanks, Shad. I’m even worried that by writing this down, now someone will sneak into my house and plant a spider in my toilet…so just don’t do that, okay? Let’s just not and say we didn’t. Thanks.

Anyway, I guess we can count this as a blog. At least I wrote something, right?

 

The Clubhouse Blog

I.

I creak open the door labeled “The Red Nose Tavern.” A metallic man with a red painted nose is the doorkeeper, but he never questions my entry. I walk past the work table, lined with plastic drawer sets — the many-sized compartments are filled with screws, bolts, nails, hooks, and other metal shrapnel for creating.

I turn the small corner to find the ladder that leads up to my clubhouse. Grandma is waiting for me and she already has the pink plastic teacups and fresh-baked foam cookies set out on a wooden footstool. I was almost late for tea!

I notice that she’s hung up a drawing of someone I don’t know on the walls. It appears to be some giant-headed woman with a tennis racket and ball. She’s tossing the ball up and looking at it in a way that seems like she might bite it with her giant teeth.

After tea, grandma and I color and paint. She likes to add sketches of squirrels into my discarded coloring pages. I’m always impressed by her ability to draw — I wonder why she isn’t featured in the art museum where she takes me every week. I love her squirrels. Sometimes they wear letter jackets.

She also paints fruit on the “kitchen” wall. The piece of plywood is now adorned with oranges, pears, and apples. I pretend they are real fruits on a shelf or recipes for smoothies I create in a wooden stove.

II.

The plastic draws are now sticking out at different angles. The metal things are rusted. The shed is rundown and covered in layers of dust. A Harley Davidson charm hanging from a chain is barely recognizable from corrosion. The way to the attic is blocked by old brooms and rakes. I consider ascending, but the ladder rungs are now thick with spiderwebs.

My mom says, “There are probably raccoons up there.” I’m sure they’ve ransacked my supply of painted fruit, Disney princess teacups, and unidentified caricatures. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return to my clubhouse. I’ve been excommunicated and frightened away by nature. Maybe I can return to see what remains of my toys — what hasn’t been chewed, rotted, or stolen to decorate a nest.

P.S. I tried to go back and get pictures for this blog, but Grandma closed the shed doors because there’s a family of raccoons living inside. She feeds them daily. Bexley’s wild animals are single-handedly sustained by my grandma’s Chinese leftovers and cat food. My childhood is home to a family of raccoons. My memories are covered in spiders and trash pandas.