GRIEF IS SO SMOOTH

Smooth can mean many things. 

We are born into bright lights and loud noises in a typical hospital delivery room. Right from the get-go our senses are heightened to detect large changes in environment yet it's only after a few years of sensory adaptations (pudgy baby fingers become thinner child fingers to grasp more adroitly) that our senses are honed to detect subtle nuances and small changes. Little differences require a more detailed perspective. 

The human eye can detect upwards of 7 million colors. Seven million! Our skin can detect sensations varying between temperature and other types of pain such as an itchy wool sweater. Even without seeing, our fingertips can discern pattern, shape and size. The nose (and brain) can distinguish at least 10,000 different odours and as of March, 2014, one study suggests that number should be 1 trillion; therefore, our nose can differentiate more scents than we could reasonably even visualize in number. I mean, really. How much does a trillion even look like?

But then, there's grief. 

Grief wipes out colors, or at least, it did for me. All of a sudden when I received official confirmation of my husband's death, the room went black. Every color disappeared into blackness. I didn't faint, if that's what you might have thought. I was fully awake...just stunned. Grief will do that to you. 

Grief obliterates colors in other more symbolic ways, too. My colorful, happy existence was forever changed and the "colors" of my life during grieving are mostly grays. Nothing very exciting. Same every day. Lots of widows experience this and I'm just a normal, average person. Yes I can see colors but I'm not really experiencing them in the same way I used to.

But have you ever considered that grief makes things smooth? Not smooth as in easy, but smooth as in textureless. Flavorless. Same old, same old. Day after day. Those underpinnings of joy that used to describe peaks and valleys changing sunset into sunrise are just not part of my new person. Just. Not. 

I used to love the comfort of one fluffy blanket. Now any blanket will do and lately, I need many more blankets because I'm always suffering from the cold. My hands are freezing. 

I used to hate touching lettuce (although I've always loved eating salads) so I never made salads. Now, it's just one more thing in my daily food prep. I touch cold lettuce like a boss. The texture no longer sends me to grab rubber gloves or die. 

During grief, smooth is not a good word. It's just one more piece of evidence that life will truly never be the same and that the change is startling. Who knew that my perception of textures would change after Rob's passing? 

Smooth. Just one more change to deal with. My life is so smooth, now in the Aftersmash. Kinda miss the rough parts. You, too?