Episode 4: Dementia, The Healing Power of Touch and Scent
Full Transcript: English
Episode Four: Dementia: The Healing Power of Touch and Scent
Intro
Hi, It’s good to be here again with you…. this episode ties back to a thread from the last one — Episode 3 — where I briefly mentioned a moment in the botanical garden with my mother…
That moment stayed with me. Actually, there were at least two from that day — similar in feeling, but each unfolding in its own way.
Not because it was extraordinary in the way the world often defines it — loud, shiny, or somehow dramatic — but because something subtle happened…
Something internal… Something that required being fully attuned —
to the moment, to my body,
to the nature around us,
and maybe most importantly, to the energy between us.
It was small only on the outside…. Inside,…. it was huge. Intense….powerful….
The kind of moment when something opens ….
And you only notice it if you’re really… there. In your body, when you’re right inside the moment you’re living….Tuned in.
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We’d already been walking a while when we came to the Rose Garden — a kind of circle or maybe more of an oval — surrounded by different tall, beautifully majestic needle trees.
Along the outer edge stood a few white, vintage-looking benches—old, weathered,
And in the middle, arranged in neat rectangular sections, were the rose beds.
You could walk between them on narrow paths and …
Depending on the shoes you were wearing, you’d feel gravel under your feet differently—soft, uneven, grounding and nicely rustling as you walked- my mum seemed to visibly enjoyed it, really, I could tell…
…. There had been some light summer rain just before. You could smell it in the air, hat earthy, ancient scent that only rises after rain — Geosmine
earth smell, soil scent
I’m pretty sure I might talk more about that another time, but for now… let’s just say it’s the kind of smell that makes you stop….
Rooted, ancient, deeply grounding — familiar in a way that’s hard to name ….
Makes you feel your body, speaks to something deep inside you,
It connects you, it connects your nervous system with the veins of the soil, the Earth, like your body is tuning into the Earth’s pulse…
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There were rose petals scattered on the ground, still wet, some sparkling with raindrops…
I asked my mother to pick some up. She touched them — they’re soft, silky, almost like skin, right ? ….
And … she enjoyed sensing the texture, there was no mistaking it….
and she brought them to her nose. And you could just see… the pure happiness…
Not in words. In her face.
The way her fingers lingered, the way the muscles around her eyes softened…
All the emotional shift, it’s in the quiet shifts of the body;
the way someone’s shoulders relax,
the way the mouth opens slightly
Those tiny movements — if you’re really watching, really listening —
you notice them and they tell you everything.
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Some time later we found a small enclosed part of the garden — filled with therapeutic herbs… like thyme, lavendel and…
Melissa officinalis — lemon balm — was growing in the corner….
I encouraged her to bend down and gently rub one of the leaves with her fingers.
That’s the beautiful thing with plants like this —
when you rub the leaf, the cells that hold essential oils break open.
The scent is released. Almost immediately.
Unless your sense of smell is impaired — which, in her case, it was. And that’s normal. I mean, normal in this kind of situation….
She brought her hand to her nose — first the left nostril, then the right…
And here’s something not many people know: we actually perceive smells slightly differently depending on which side we inhale through.
The left nostril is more attuned to new, unfamiliar scents. The right picks up what we already know. And I could see it — in her face, the subtle shifts in her expression. There was a flicker. Recognition.
“Do you recognize it?” I asked.
She paused. Looked down. Said quietly, “I’m afraid… my sense of smell is gone.”
There was it again, I could tell — her doubt, her sadness, she was feeling and looking almost guilty…
That self-awareness people with Alzheimer’s sometimes have, even if they can’t put it into words.
But I reassured her. ´
“It doesn’t matter right now. “You are smelling something, aren’t you?”
And she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can. But I don’t remember the name…”
Then I asked, - “Do you think you have a tea at home that smells like this?”
And she smiled. “Melissa.”
I clapped. We both laughed. That small moment — was huge. Magical, actually….
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It wasn’t just about her reconnecting with something. It was also about me reconnecting with her. Without words. Through the senses.
So, here is the thought - Sometimes when dementia takes away words and linear thoughts and clever logic — something else opens up.
Something more primal, more sensory.
And often, more honest.
But to notice it, you have to be open to it. You have to be willing to take your time, to slow down, yes — because it doesn’t show itself in a rush…
These things ask for stillness. And they’re worth everything. Because they can only be experienced that way. There are no shortcuts. But maybe that’s the point
— we live in a efficiency-obsessed world, focused on shortcuts, as if they were the holy grail, sacred.
But the rising tide of mental health issues inspite of the growing awareness
and professional offers, seems to tell a different story…
Maybe what’s sacred isn’t speed.
Maybe what’s sacred is presence…
I know I’m adding my voice too.
But the point isn’t to say more—
it’s to say less.
And differently.
With care for the meaning…
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That moment with the melissa got me thinking about why scent can reach us when other things can’t.
Smell.
The sense of smell is powerful — and actually, absolutely vital. Essential.
Sure, some scientists might argue with that, pointing out that a person can live without it.
But the question remains: what kind of life would that be?
What kind of quality of life?
Most people don’t give it much thought.
It’s probably our most underrated sense — until it’s gone.
Some even see focusing on it as superfluous — a kind of luxury. Fancy. Indulgent.
But it’s not.
It’s essential.
Smell is carried by the olfactory nerve —
the first of the twelve cranial nerves, the brain’s own direct pathways —
and the only one that’s directly exposed to the outside world,
through highly specialized, tiny areas in our nose.
It translates scent into signals that go straight to the parts of the brain that process memory—
like the hippocampus—and emotion.
Not through logic
Not through the reasoning brain.
- actually it bypasses it entirely -
But directly—fast, instinctive, deep.
This is, of course, a deeply fascinating and important rabbit hole—
and I’m not going down there today, don’t worry.
But what matters isn't the science - it's what my mum was able to experience and what I saw in the garden that day...
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What a lot of people don’t know is that a severely diminished sense of smell can be an early biomarker of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, depression.
Last year, I gave my mother over thirty safe organic essential oils to smell.
Almost all of them — she said they smelled the same. Only two scents stood out. That was one of the signs.
Yet, Even when memory fades, even when the sense of smell weakens, something can still reach us.
Through presence.
Not pressure. Not explanation.
Just… being there.
And this is something we often forget — not just when we’re with someone who’s ill, but in general.
We tend to approach others from the outside in — trying to fix, explain, persuade.
Pretty often, presence can be enough.
Really often, it’s more than enough.
And it’s not just for the person we’re with.
It’s a mirror.
It shows us something about ourselves — if we’re willing to slow down and see.
Try it, if you like.
Go into a garden, or simply into your senses.
Smell something. Touch something.
Notice how your body responds.
And if you do — I’d really love to hear what you discovered.
What opened up for you.
Outro