My husband started to smell really bad… I mean, REEK. I made an appointment for him with the urologist and decided to go with him for support.
He went into the doctor’s office and the doctor closed the door.
Five minutes later, the doctor comes out and his face turns red when he sees me.
Doc (barely holding back laughter): You might want to go in and see for yourself.
Me: ‘Doctor, what’s going on? Why are you laughing?’
Then my husband comes out.
He: Honey… I’m not sure how to say this… But I
I froze. His face looked as if he had just tried to swallow a lemon whole. His cheeks were flushed, and I could practically see the heat coming off his skin. In the cramped waiting area just outside the doctor’s office, the disinfectant smell mixed with that lingering, unidentifiable stench he’d been carrying around for weeks. It was a wave of odor that, if I’m honest, had become so much a part of him that I could sense him entering a room even before he said a word.
I glanced at him expectantly, aware of the curious stares from the people seated around us. An elderly couple to my left turned away, pretending not to eavesdrop—though I knew they were listening closely. The doctor cleared his throat from behind my husband, still bright red with suppressed laughter. After a few long seconds of agonizing silence, my husband continued:
“Honey… I’m not sure how to say this… But I… apparently have a small piece of… well… a fish hook stuck in me.”
I blinked, completely confounded. A fish hook? My mind rushed in a dozen different directions. Had I misheard him? My eyes flicked between my husband’s mortified face and the doctor’s grin, which was creeping up again no matter how he tried to contain it.
My husband started to speak faster, words tumbling in a clumsy rush. “The smell—this weird fishy smell—turns out it’s actually caused by a piece of bait that got wedged into a tear in my pants, which then poked me. And then apparently the leftover bits of the fish or the bait… they’ve been stuck there, festering, for days. The doctor just found the remains caught in the fabric near my belt line.”
I stared at him, not entirely sure what to feel. Relief that it wasn’t some looming health nightmare? Embarrassment that the entire waiting room could now hear the reason for his god-awful odor? A swirl of worry that maybe there was more to it? Because I had come here fearing some dire, hidden medical problem—a kidney issue, some bizarre infection, something that might threaten his health. Instead, it was… fish bait?
“Fish bait,” I repeated out loud, not quite believing it.
A snort echoed from one of the chairs behind me. The poor doctor looked like he was going to lose his composure any second. Trying to remain composed, I pulled my husband aside, guiding him out of the office and past the mortified nurse at the reception desk. My face was on fire from equal parts anger and embarrassment. The stench worsened as we walked—almost as if the movement jostled the rank odor from his clothes. Even though I’d come armed with gum and mints in my purse, as if that could help, nothing masked that rancid tang.
Outside, the crisp autumn air greeted us. It was late afternoon; the wind carried the faintest smell of burning leaves and the distant promise of an approaching rainstorm. Even that fresh breeze struggled to fight off the intense aroma coming from his clothes. My husband slowly lowered himself onto a bench just outside the clinic. He let out a sigh that shuddered, as though finally letting go of weeks of tension.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I could’ve sworn I smelled something fishy, but I thought it was just me losing my mind or something. Then you kept complaining about it, so I thought maybe it was something with my diet… Or my sweat… I just—I didn’t think it was an actual fish hook, you know?”
I felt a pang of sympathy. His eyes were watery, part shame and part relief. I reached for his hand. “Of course you didn’t,” I said gently, though I felt an awkward chuckle bubbling in my throat. “But honey, why in the world did you have a fish hook in your pants?”
He sighed again, that same slow exhaustion. “You remember about three weeks ago, when I took Mom and her friend Ernie fishing?” He waited for my nod. “We spent hours out on that little boat. She loves fishing, but I don’t. So I’m fumbling with all this gear, hooking bait, cutting lines… I guess that’s when something must’ve snagged. I thought I felt a small prick on my hip, but I was too busy trying to keep the boat from drifting away, and trying to keep Mom from toppling over, that I just ignored it. By the time we got home, I’d taken a shower, changed clothes, and never thought about it again.”
The logic of it was bizarre yet strangely plausible. That day had been chaotic. His mother is in her late sixties but tough as nails and with a fiery love for the outdoors. “So that piece of bait lodged in your pants, rubbed against you, and just… stayed there? For all this time?”
He flushed a bit deeper. “I know it sounds crazy. But apparently it was in a small pocket or tear. The doctor said if I’d worn the same pants a second time or even rummaged around in the laundry hamper, it could’ve gotten me again and reopened the little cut. Or maybe the smell worsened with sweat and everyday movement. The doc took a peek at the small wound, cleaned it, and said I should be fine. But it’s going to be sore for a bit.”
My mind was racing through all our frantic attempts to cover up the odor—candles, specialized men’s deodorant, extra showering, me cleaning every seat he sat on with disinfectant. My frustration mingled with the sweet relief that he wasn’t dangerously ill. And, oddly, I felt a bit of comedic betrayal at the thought that all this turmoil was triggered by a rotting morsel of fish. The corners of my mouth twitched, threatening a grin despite my annoyance.
“So that’s it,” I said, still incredulous. “All that fuss, and it’s some fish fiasco leftover?”
He nodded, letting out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “That’s it.”
The ride home from the clinic was mercifully quiet—if I didn’t count my husband’s repeated apologies and my own lingering exasperation. On the plus side, I already noticed that with the offending item removed, the smell seemed to be fading, as though some invisible cloud were lifting off him. Of course, it would take a thorough shower, plus a big load of laundry, to completely banish the memory of that odious stench.
My phone buzzed while we were stopped at a red light: a message from my mother-in-law, Linda. She wanted to drop by the house later in the evening. I glanced at my husband, who was inspecting the bandage on his hip. “Your mom wants to come by,” I said. “She didn’t say why. Maybe she needs something?”
He shrugged. “She might have left her crocheting kit at our place—she does that sometimes.” Then he gave me a tired smile. “We’ll figure it out.”
There was something about Linda’s timing that felt off. Usually, she’d give us more than a couple hours’ notice. A small flicker of anxiety ignited in my gut. Perhaps the fish fiasco was the last straw in some bigger family drama. Maybe she wanted to check if her beloved son was okay—no mother wants to hear that her child has some strange, rank odor emanating from him and an unexpected doctor’s appointment. I tried to push those worries aside.
By the time we pulled into our driveway—lined with our modest bed of daisies, now mostly wilted in the early fall chill—I just wanted to get inside, take a shower, and burn those cursed pants, if we could find them.
My husband must’ve read my mind. “I’ll find those pants and toss them,” he said flatly. “I don’t think I can ever look at them the same way again.”
A wave of affection for him rose in my chest. We were a team, as we had been since the day we’d said “I do.” We’d navigated job losses, a complicated mortgage, and a tragic flood in our basement. If we could handle that, we could handle a fish hook fiasco. I pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before we headed inside.
Linda arrived just after dusk, that in-between time when the sun was sinking below the horizon, leaving stripes of pink and orange in the sky. I’d showered, and so had my husband—thoroughly. We opened every window in the living room to dispel any lingering smell. Thankfully, it seemed mostly gone, replaced by the gentle fragrance of my citrus-scented candles.
When Linda walked in, her navy-blue windbreaker rustling with each step, I noticed immediately she wasn’t alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in behind her. His short salt-and-pepper hair gave him the look of someone who worked outdoors, or maybe a retired army vet. His eyes scanned the room politely, yet there was a hint of nervousness about him.
“This is Ernie,” Linda said, her voice sweet but a little unsteady. “You remember, from the fishing trip?”
I nodded, dredging up a memory of a broad grin and a big laugh from those hours on the boat. But I didn’t recall seeing him up close. On that day, I’d mostly been back on the shore, occasionally snapping pictures. He had seemed nice enough—a longtime friend of Linda’s, apparently. I noticed that he was holding a small cooler. The cooler’s plastic handle was cracked and taped over. Strange item for a casual visit, I thought.
My husband must’ve thought so, too. “Uh, hey, Ernie,” he greeted uncertainly. “Everything okay?”
Linda stepped forward, tapping a foot anxiously. “We need to talk… about that fishing trip. About what might have happened that day.”
My heart stuttered. Had Linda already heard about the fish hook fiasco? That might be why she and Ernie had come over. But the tone in her voice suggested something bigger.
“All right,” I said, forcing a pleasant smile. “Come on in, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
Ernie shook his head, returning my husband’s uncertain grin. He set the cooler down on our coffee table and sank into the loveseat, while Linda perched right beside him, her posture stiff. I saw how her eyes flicked to my husband’s bandaged hip. She must’ve noticed; maybe she’d known he was injured. But she said nothing about that directly. Instead, she cleared her throat.
“I know it’s awkward,” she said. “Ernie and I have something to confess.” She shot him a glance, and he nodded in encouragement, so she continued. “That day we went fishing, well… we weren’t just fishing, we were also scattering some of my late husband’s ashes in the water.”
I felt a twist of sympathy. My husband’s father had passed away a few years ago, and Linda had told us she intended to scatter his ashes in one of his favorite lakes someday. But apparently, she’d decided to do so in secret. A heavy quiet settled over the room, thick enough I could almost taste the tension. The hush was broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Linda drew in a breath. “There was a… mishap. As we were scattering the ashes, a gust of wind blew them all around the boat. Some of it got into the bait, onto the lines, onto our jackets. And we were so distraught that we didn’t think to check every single item afterward.” She swallowed hard. “I’m worried that maybe the piece of fish bait that hooked you wasn’t just fish bait. It could’ve been… well, I think it might’ve had some of Dad’s ashes on it.”
A heavy weight settled into the pit of my stomach. My husband went pale, a mixture of shock and realization flooding his eyes. Now the unusual stench, which we’d chalked up to rotting fish, might have been complicated by his father’s ashes? My mind whirled: was that possible? Could ashes smell like that when combined with fish and bodily sweat for weeks? I felt a bit sick at the thought.
My husband swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Wait, so… Dad’s ashes might have been in that piece of bait?”
Ernie interjected gently, “We’re not sure. It could be. I’m sorry if this is upsetting. That day, everything went wrong. Linda and I were feeling emotional, not paying attention, and some of the ashes got into the fishing tackle. But we just realized it two nights ago when we were cleaning up the boat for storage.”
I looked at my husband, whose expression teetered between horror and heartbreak. The memory of that vile stench suddenly took on a new layer of meaning. My father-in-law had been a well-respected, kindhearted man. The notion of him inadvertently “haunting” his son through an ill-fated fish hook felt like some bizarre cosmic joke. We had prayed for him, grieved him, and at last found acceptance. And now this?
Linda reached over and squeezed my husband’s hand. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know this must be shocking. But I wanted to tell you because… well, I just wanted to be honest. I wanted you to understand that if you felt any… presence or closeness to your father in the last few weeks, that might be part of why.” She gave him a trembling smile.
It was all so… improbable. Yet the pieces seemed to fit. No supernatural forces here—just a series of unfortunate, very human errors. I drew in a slow breath. “Linda, I appreciate you telling us,” I said softly. My own heart squeezed. “I’m just glad my husband is all right. And if in some strange way Dad’s presence has been with him, maybe it’s not so bad. You know, if you look at it in a symbolic sense.” My voice wavered with emotion.
Ernie nodded, leaning forward. “I never intended for any of this to happen. Your father was a great man. I wanted to help Linda give him a final tribute. I guess we messed up the logistics. Now, I feel like we’ve intruded on your personal life in a way that’s not fair.”
My husband cleared his throat, eyes shining. For a moment, I thought he might cry. “It’s… a lot,” he managed. “But it’s okay. I’m not angry. I just… I wish I’d known sooner.” He forced a small smile at Ernie, then turned to his mother. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sure Dad would get a good chuckle out of me ending up in the doctor’s office over a fish hook with bits of him on it. He always said that accidents make life interesting, right?”
Linda returned his smile, eyes brimming with tears. “He sure did.”
After Linda and Ernie left, my husband and I sat for a while in silence, holding hands on the couch. The last pink threads of sunset had faded into a soft gray, and the living room lamps cast a warm glow over our wooden floors. The day felt as if it had contained a whole lifetime of awkwardness, from the humiliating fish hook reveal at the doctor’s office to this emotional bombshell about his father’s ashes.
I felt a gnawing tug in my chest. The fish fiasco that had haunted our home for weeks was suddenly more than a smelly annoyance—it was tethered to the memory of someone we loved and lost. As bizarre as it was, I found a strange comfort in it, too. Maybe it was Dad’s way of lingering around, making sure we were all right, forcing us to come together and talk. I reminded myself that it was all purely coincidental, of course—no supernatural forces at play—but the meaning we derived from coincidences could be powerful.
Eventually, my husband exhaled and leaned against me. “I need to do something,” he said. “Something to honor Dad in a less… comedic way. I don’t know, maybe have a little memorial out by the lake. Properly scatter what’s left of his ashes, if Mom still has some. We could invite the family.”
I traced the back of his hand with my thumb. “That’s a beautiful idea. We can do that. And hey, this time we’ll be sure the wind forecast is clear.”
His eyes lit up with that affectionate grin I loved so much. “Yes. No more fish bait. Just a sweet, peaceful tribute.”
I squeezed his hand. “And no fish hooks near your pants.”
He laughed—a real, hearty laugh. It was a good sound to hear. Maybe we needed that comedic insanity to break through some unspoken grief. Maybe we hadn’t really let go of Dad’s memory the way we thought we had.
A few days later, in the quiet lull between my job’s morning meetings and the chaos of the midday rush, I found myself replaying the events in my head. My husband had recovered quickly from the minor wound on his hip, though it remained bandaged for the time being. The reek was gone, thank goodness, and the house smelled fresh. Every once in a while, though, I’d get a phantom whiff of something vaguely fishy and find myself flushing with embarrassment or letting out a silent giggle.
Meanwhile, Linda had called to confirm that she did, indeed, still have some of Dad’s ashes in a small wooden box. She confessed that she’d only used about half when she and Ernie scattered them. “I saved the rest for you,” she said. “In case you wanted to do something special.” That phone call was tender, with Linda admitting how tough it had been to lose him and how she feared overshadowing our mourning process by making all the decisions herself. We decided, together, to organize a small ceremony at the lake the following weekend—just family and a few close friends who’d known Dad.
My husband took the day off work to help me finalize the plans. The only glitch was that the lake was a few hours’ drive, and the weather forecast threatened rain. We tried to pick a day that might be calm and sunny. Also, there was a sense of mild dread about returning to the place where the fiasco had started. But in a way, maybe it was exactly what we needed—some closure to the entire experience.
That Saturday morning, we piled into our sedan, with Linda in the backseat. She clutched the wooden box of ashes in her lap, hands clasped around it. My husband drove, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, obviously nervous. The early autumn sun peeked through a layer of clouds. The roads were mostly clear, with occasional bursts of color from the changing leaves lining the highway. Every now and then, Linda would let out a shaky breath, as if trying to steady herself for what was to come. I couldn’t help but wonder if she felt guilty about Dad’s ashes fiasco or if she was anxious about giving him the peaceful tribute he deserved.
When we arrived at the lake, a few relatives were already waiting in the gravel parking lot. My cousin Janine, who’d always been Dad’s favorite to banter with, stood with a thermos of coffee. My husband’s sister, Sharon, was leaning against her car, arms folded across her chest, lips pursed as though bracing herself for an emotional moment. A couple of old family friends milled about, greeting one another with hushed voices. The wind was soft, the lake’s surface gently rippling in the sunlight. It was almost perfect—cool but not cold, the sky a muted blue behind wispy clouds.
We walked down to the shore together. Someone had brought a small folding table where Linda placed the wooden box. My husband’s sister had a bouquet of wildflowers, which she set carefully beside the ashes. I tried to focus on the sounds around me: the distant calls of geese overhead, the crunch of our shoes on the gravel, and a quiet sniffle from someone wiping their eyes. I felt my own throat tighten with emotion. Even though Dad had been gone for years, this felt like a new wave of goodbye.
My husband cleared his throat, glancing at me for reassurance. I nodded, so he stepped forward. “I, um, I want to thank everyone for coming,” he began. “I know Dad’s been gone for a while, but recent events…” He paused, and we shared a private, knowing smile. “…recent events reminded me how important it is to honor him the right way. He always loved this place. He taught us how to fish right here, taught us how to set up a tent, how to cook over a campfire. And as silly as it sounds, he once told me that if he could be anywhere in the afterlife, he’d be on a boat with a fishing rod in one hand and a cold beer in the other.”
A small murmur of laughter rippled through the group. Even Linda cracked a teary-eyed smile. My husband continued, voice trembling at the edges, “So we’re here to give him that chance, in whatever symbolic or spiritual way we believe in.” He glanced around. “If anyone wants to say anything, please do.”
Several people spoke, sharing short anecdotes or heartfelt notes of gratitude. Janine recalled how Dad had cheered her on during her first heartbreak, how he’d told her never to settle for less than she deserved. Sharon recounted his booming laugh whenever he beat everyone at cards. Linda, speaking last, told us how he’d insisted she treat herself to a day at the spa whenever she felt down—how he’d been her partner in every sense, her confidant, and her greatest cheerleader. I wiped my eyes discreetly, feeling the wetness threaten to blur my vision. Even with the comedic fiasco overshadowing recent days, it was moments like these that reminded me of Dad’s genuine impact on all our lives.
Then, gently, Linda opened the wooden box, revealing a plastic bag inside. With my husband’s help, she carried the box down to the edge of the water. Together, they lifted out the bag of ashes, and, standing just at the water’s edge, they began to scatter them across the surface, letting the wind carry them softly. Unlike last time, the wind was calm, carrying the ashes gracefully over the shimmering lake. A hush fell over the group. I closed my eyes and listened to the soft flutter as the ashes met the water.
A swirl of sadness and relief mingled in my chest. Sadness that we were finally saying a second goodbye—relief that maybe this time it was the right goodbye. When Linda and my husband finished, they stepped back, letting the final wisps drift away. Ernie, who had driven separately, stood off to the side, his head bowed. I wondered if he still felt guilty about the first scattering gone awry. But I also sensed a gentle peace in the air.
For a while, nobody spoke. We just watched the ashes dissolve into the water, rippling outwards in concentric circles, the lake’s surface reflecting the sun’s bright glimmers. Finally, Linda cleared her throat, voice quiet. “I think he would’ve liked this. Thank you, everyone.”
We spent another hour by the lake, reminiscing, sharing snacks, even breaking out a small cooler of soda and water. The mood lifted, and a few half-laughing remarks about fish hooks found their way into the conversation. My husband took off his jacket and waded a little ways into the shallow water, letting the cool lake lap at his ankles—maybe a small personal moment of reflection. I stood on the shore, hugging myself against a mild chill, and realized that I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
That evening, back home, we returned to a house that smelled not of fish, nor shame, nor lingering sadness, but of warmth and memory. The fish hook fiasco was behind us. Yes, we’d joked about it in the car ride home—my husband threatening to swear off fishing for life, Linda teasing him that Dad would roll over in his watery grave if he abandoned fishing entirely. But beneath the jokes lay a feeling of resolution, of an unexpected chapter closing.
I curled up on the couch next to my husband, both of us exhausted from the emotional day. He put his arm around me, and for a moment, I shut my eyes. The world felt still, content. My mind wandered over the last few weeks—how I’d gone from frustration and fear (wondering why on earth my husband smelled so rank, imagining worst-case medical scenarios) to relief, shock, embarrassment, and finally acceptance. Life was so unpredictable. The strangest accidents could shape our perspective, reminding us how fragile we all are—and how connected we remain to the people we lose.
Leaning my head against his shoulder, I asked softly, “How do you feel? About everything?”
He considered for a moment. “Weirdly calm,” he answered. “Like I’ve made peace with Dad all over again. Maybe that’s what we needed. A bizarre chain of events to force us into facing the fact that we never did a proper scattering ceremony. We never had that final sense of closure. And yeah, I’d rather it hadn’t involved me smelling like a fish market, but maybe it was fate.”
I squeezed his hand. “We can laugh about it now,” I said, “but I’ll never forget that day at the doctor’s office. Poor doc. He tried so hard to hold back that laugh. Now I understand why it smelled so bizarre—fish bait and ashes. I just hope you’re not traumatized.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest. “If anything, I’m grateful. I know it’s bizarre to say that, but it’s true. We got a good story out of it, plus the motivation to give Dad a better farewell. That’s something.”
We sat quietly for a while after that, letting the hum of the heater fill the silence. Outside, raindrops began pattering against the windows, a gentle lullaby. I thought about how uncertain and brief life can be. One day, we’re healthy and strong, catching fish with family; the next, we’re gone, our loved ones left to figure out what to do with our memory. Perhaps the lesson was to cherish the random stumbles, the comedic tragedies, the messy tangles that bring us closer to those we love.
Finally, I peeled myself off the couch. “I’m making us some peppermint tea,” I said. “Perfect ending to a weirdly beautiful day.”
He smiled. “Sounds perfect.”
A week later, I found myself recounting the story to a close friend over coffee. She was horrified, enthralled, and amused in equal measure. I realized how the entire sequence of events, from the initial stink to the final scattering, formed a kind of surreal but heartfelt narrative. Even now, every time I see a fishing rod or a suspicious pair of cargo pants, I crack a small smile.
It’s funny how life teaches us lessons. My takeaway from this entire ordeal is that sometimes, what appears to be the worst-case scenario—like your spouse suddenly smelling like a decaying carp—can lead you to discover truths you’ve been avoiding or moments of family connection you didn’t know you needed. The best part is the reminder that even after we say goodbye to the ones we love, they remain woven into our daily lives in unexpected ways.
My husband continues to nurse that small scab near his hip, but his spirits are high. He’s taken to joking that we need to rename the local fishing charter “Ash & Bait Adventures,” which is either the funniest or most inappropriate thing I’ve ever heard. Linda is doing well, too—she told us she’s found a new peace of mind now that she’s fully honored her husband’s wishes. Ernie, for his part, apologized profusely each time he saw us, but now we’ve all settled into a comfortable acceptance of the entire mishap. Life moves on, and we find laughter in the cracks.
A few days ago, I hung a small frame in our living room. Inside it, I placed a picture of my husband’s dad sitting in a fishing boat, wearing that silly bucket hat he loved so much, brandishing a rainbow trout with the biggest grin. Below it, I pinned a tiny fish hook—safely nestled behind the glass, of course. It isn’t the same hook that snagged my husband (that one we threw away with all the rotten fish bait bits), but it’s a reminder of the fiasco and, more importantly, a tribute to the man we loved, the man who unknowingly guided us to a new sense of closure.
Some nights, I stand there in the living room, looking at that photograph and the little hook. I recall the stench, the confusion, the doctor’s stifled laughter, the heartfelt conversation on the lakeshore. It’s an odd blend of embarrassment, sadness, and gratitude. Because in the end, life isn’t just a series of perfect events lined up in neat order. It’s a collage of mishaps, misunderstandings, breathless laughter, and sometimes, the strangest calls to action that bring us back to the people we need.
And that’s our story. The story of how my husband’s vile odor led us to scatter Dad’s ashes, fully and finally, at his favorite lake.
I hope it made you smile. Maybe it tugged at your heartstrings a little, too. And if you feel inclined, I’d love for you to share this story with someone who might appreciate it. Or even leave a comment—tell me about a strange coincidence or an unexpected turn in your life that led to something good in the end. Because sometimes, the weirdest moments become the ones that matter the most.
