It ceased to hurt me, though so slow

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I was quite moved by this post from a friend of mine on Twitter, because the same thing  has happened to me several times in my life, and its uneventfulness is striking:
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There is, of course, a wonderful poem on this subject, which I happened upon this weekend in the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson again:

It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I could not feel the Anguish go—
But only knew by looking back—
That something—had benumbed the Track—

Nor when it altered, I could say,
For I had worn it, every day,
As constant as the Childish frock—
I hung upon the Peg, at night.

But not the Grief—that nestled close
As needles—ladies softly press
To Cushions Cheeks—
To keep their place—

Nor what consoled it, I could trace—
Except, whereas ’twas Wilderness—
It’s better—almost Peace—