Band-Aids

I was thinking about Band-Aids today...

If you're old enough, you remember the distinct scent of a genuine Band-Aid. Like the scent of my mother's skin, or fresh washed sheets, the smell of a Band-Aid was immensely comforting to me as a young child. Wrapped snugly around my finger, I'd often lift the humble charm to my nose, breathing in the heady balm that whispered shhh... you're safe... the pain will subside... everything is OK.

My faith in the Band-Aid barely diminished as I grew. Even when I was old enough to know better, a whiff of that incomparable scent swiftly recalled those memories of certain protection—of utter trust. When I went shopping and couldn't afford the real thing, having to make do with a cheap generic version, I'd take a moment to open each store-brand box and surreptitiously sniff the contents—ultimately disappointed with any and all but the original. My mother would sometimes include a box of Band-Aids in the packages she mailed to me at college. She knew.

I'd long reconciled to the loss of the little metal box with the hinged lid—the pleasant tinny plink of it replaced by a characterless paperboard box. I knew the magic lived within the contents, not the container. But then came the fateful evening when, stopping at the store on my way home from a very rough day at work, I found myself in the first aid aisle in need of a bit of comfort. I lifted a box of Band-Aids to my nose, anticipating the intoxicating fragrance like a cat responds to a can opener, but instead took in a bland odor not unlike all the other counterfeit bandages. The next box, and the next, held the same disappointment. My heart sank.

A similar experience followed soon after at the next store. I began searching the aisles of every store I entered. Occasionally I'd find a lonely relic at the back of the shelf, snatching it up with glee. I couldn't buy every box I found, but it was nice to know it was there—like finding a long-lost friend.

Hoping it was a temporary phenomenon, I telephoned the company. I learned that their original adhesive was responsible for the Band-Aid's unique fragrance, and I was told they'd begun using a new, more cost-efficient adhesive. And, no, they would not change their minds. Within a few months, the store shelves offered only the new unimproved version of my talisman.

And so I sit here, my knees decorated in strips of fluorescent orange, green, and pink bandages—the result of a dog-walking incident I'd rather not get into right now. My children selected these from among the multitude of Band-Aids available today; Winnie the Pooh, Elmo, Batman... we've had them all. But even though none of these Band-Aids smells right to me, I've observed that they have the same calming effect on my children. I know now that it isn't the adhesive, but another bonding agent that encourages the healing of our wounds. It's that peerless, immutable, tenacious quality called love that works its magic for all of us. I may not be able to transfer that love into a specific scent for my children, but it's there for them to feel and remember, long after they've outgrown their belief in the bandages I carefully apply.

But... I have a secret. Years ago, rummaging through his old shaving kit, my husband found a treasure. Like my mother did then, he knew the depths of my soul, and so he brought the thing to me. Reverently, I pried open the lid of a battered box of Band-Aids to discover four perfect plastic strips within—the delightful scent wafting up to my nose and straight into my heart. That box is now safely tucked away in a dresser drawer with other sentimental items I no longer need, but it's nice to know it's there.

Comments? Send me an email.