My Rings

Mike designed my engagement and wedding rings.

When we were dating, he once asked me what my favorite cut of diamond was in a general conversation about gemstones. Because our conversations normally covered many topics, it never really occurred to me that he was doing research at the time.

(Besides, I thought, without a bit of secret remorse, that I had frightened him off of the idea of marriage by my consistent disinterest in the topic.)

I am not sure of the order in which he did things, but I imagine that he first came up with a design. Months later, he would show me his drawings on AutoCAD (software he used to design schematics for various engineering projects). They were so precise, including measurements in fractions of millimeters, and impressive in the level of detail.

He told me that he purchased stones from a diamond merchant and brought the stones and his drawing to a jeweler who made some adjustments to the design. One of the things they discussed, Mike said, was making sure that the ring didn't snag on clothes and would be comfortable to wear daily.

From this collaboration came a 3-stone engagement ring with modest sized stones: two pear-shaped diamonds flanking a princess-cut diamond. The band was thin, and the stones were set at a moderate height.

I know that during our 5 years of dating, I had expressed my distaste for oversized jewelry, and he later told me that he took heed of this when designing my ring. In fact, he told me that the jeweler he hired wanted to make the band wider than Mike had specified. "Too thin," he said, and not exactly en vogue. But Mike stuck to his guns, and I have always been glad for this.

At some point along the way, Mike recruited my friend Laura to determine my ring size. I do not actually remember how she went about doing this, but somehow, they determined that I was a size 7. (I was not; I was a size 6.25.)

This is my engagement ring's origin story.

My wedding ring was a similar endeavor, for which Mike got my input. A half eternity band, again designed on his computer. Again with a thin band.

As for Mike himself, he opted for a plain band with no stones. To be precise, it was a thick band to match what he called his "sausage fingers." (For the record, I adored his short fingers.)

I tell this story now because it paints another picture of the man Mike was: thoughtful, generous, and very meticulous.

I have loved our wedding set not just for what they represented, but for everything that Mike poured into their creation.

When he died, I didn't think of removing my rings. In fact, it never even occurred to me. At the time, I had worn my engagement ring for over 18 years, and my wedding ring for nearly as long. They had become a part of my person. Beloved items I rarely removed.

I remember taking them off a few months after Mike passed so that they could be cleaned, but they returned to my hand right after.

I remember sitting in a GriefShare session where a woman showed us her rings and her late husband's ring on a chain around her neck. Her way of honoring their marriage. At the time, I thought, "I don't think I could wear our rings on a chain like that."

As for Mike's ring, it was one of two items that I was able to retrieve from the hospital after his death. The second being a ring I had gifted him for our wedding anniversary that he wore on his other hand.

(The hospital had lost all his other belongings, including his clothes, shoes, wallet, and other personal effects.)

I retrieved his rings from the hospital two days after he died. To say that I was upset to discover that there was nothing more than his rings to take home with me is a gross understatement.

My grief was so raw, and I was struggling with the idea of never seeing him again. Not even his body.

All the same, I was grateful to have his rings. I thought, of all the things they lost, I am glad they didn't lose these. They seemed more precious to me post mortem.

So when I returned home, his rings were put directly in a safe place, where I couldn't lose them.

But I continued to wear my rings.

Then sometime in November of last year, not even 10 months since his passing, I was washing my hands when I noticed that my engagement ring looked odd. In fact, it looked warped, with the stones no longer upright.

I removed my rings and looked at my engagement ring in disbelief. I did not remember it looking like that when it was cleaned just a few months before.

But there was no denying it: my ring was not the same. It was no longer standing tall. Like it was standing in defeat. Just as I had been feeling.

Mystery of mysteries!

I couldn't stand looking at it, so I decided to put my rings away with Mike's rings.

And I haven't worn them since.

Removing these rings has been another loss for me. A new tear in an already gaping wound. When I put them away, I was devastated.

"But wait!" you say, "you could have your ring repaired!"

Yes, technically, I could.

To be honest, I could not stand to part with it in that way. Perhaps someday, I can.

"Never wear them again? Maybe you can have them made into earrings." This was another suggestion.

No, this is out of the question. The effort that Mike put into having these rings made for me makes them sacred.

"You can still wear your wedding ring by itself..?"

To me, this would feel incomplete. I would always look at it, knowing that something is missing. It is almost easier to put them out of sight.

Almost.

Because I feel naked without my rings. I also feel like I have sealed my "unweddedness" by removing them.

My bare finger reminds me of our marital vows: "'Til death do us part." And I mourn the loss of my marital identity. It feels like wearing a sign that says, irrevocably, "no longer wed to Mike," even if in my heart, I still am.

I have now been without my rings for over 10 months, and I still cannot get used to their absence, even though physically, nothing looks amiss. The tan line that existed on my ring finger is no longer there. The callus where my wedding ring used to rub against my finger has disappeared.

But I can still see where they used to sit on my finger. I even imagine an indentation that my daughters insist is not there.

I try not to look at my bare finger too much. Doing so still hurts.

To this day, I do not have an explanation for how my ring changed shape (although I admit that I have imagined some supernatural/mystical explanations).

I imagine I will have it repaired when I am ready to part with it and can entrust it to another human, but I wonder what I will do with it when it is returned to me.

Will I wear my rings again?

This is when new thoughts swirl: What if I lose one of the stones? What if I get mugged and they are taken from me?

I don't think I could ever forgive myself if anything else were to happen to these rings, so I think that the answer is: No, I will never wear them again.

Even thinking in this way brings me a fresh pang of pain.

But as hard as it is for me to not wear my precious rings, I don't think I could ever bear it if anything else happened to them.

I know they are just objects, but I don't have to think very hard about what they have meant to me. And more importantly, what they meant to Mike.

So at the moment, I am working on making peace with this other loss.

And here's the truth: the real struggle with the loss of Mike is that losing him has meant the loss of so very many things in my life. And each one, I mourn separately.