Words That Wound

It’s funny—not “ha ha” funny but “strange” funny—how a smell, a sound, or even just a word can affect us. This happens to me all the time. I am going about my business, and, out of nowhere, something—something intangible but very real—comes along, blindsides me, fucks up my psyche, and messes with my equilibrium.

Sometimes that’s a good thing, even welcome—like when I inadvertently stumble upon a few bars of a long-forgotten song on the radio that reminds me of someone I love, or of a particularly happy time.

Usually, though, it’s melancholy—not necessarily unwelcome; just unsettling. Those are times when I catch a whiff of an older woman in a store wearing my Mother’s perfume, or I pass a construction worker on the street who resembles my brother Gregory, or I see a new Mom pushing a stroller and am instantly transported to when I was a new Mom.

But every once in a while, it is a brutal sucker punch. This happened just the other day, in the most innocent and banal of circumstances. I was editing an article on great restaurants with a focus on their desserts. Then came the word that cut through my heart: “macerated.” The dessert being described was made with macerated cherries. But I was catapulted to where I was the last time I heard the word “macerated.”

It was in my Baby’s autopsy report. It had been a year after her death before I could bring myself to read it. And that was the word that was used to describe the condition of her body. Until then, I’d only ever heard that word used to describe fruit. So I looked it up, and sobbed, and swore I would never look at that report again. And I never did.

Now I was seeing that word again, used the only way it ever should be. I took a deep breath and put it out of my mind, then continued, with trepidation, editing the rest of the article. I didn’t see that word again. Thank God.