The Widower’s Rant: Ring around the rosie

Ring around the rosie,

A pocket full of posies.

Ashes! Ashes!

We all fall down!

I mentioned before that at the ER, I asked for Beth’s Ring and jewelry. They were put into a pill bottle that ended up on my dresser. I don’t remember exactly when, but soon after I drove home from the hospital, suddenly and unexpectedly transformed into The Widower (no cape, no secret decoder ring, just an inglorious ceremony that begins with the words, “She’s gone.”), I reached for Beth’s Ring. But I had no idea what to do with it. Put it on a chain around my neck? No, maybe the Chakana. For a moment, I couldn’t remember the word, ‘Chakana.' I typed out, ‘Chicasa’ but that sounds like a home leasing service in Chicago or a vacation rental for Hispanic women. But I digress.

Her Ring neatly fit on my left-hand pinky finger. It sat right next to my Ring, the one that has rarely left my hand since our wedding. Inside of my Ring is engraved “Beth Ann 1-17-87” and inside of hers is “Donald 1-17-87”. Having the date in there is handy with a January wedding as you gain or lose a year without thinking carefully. Getting your Anniversary date/year wrong is not advised. Having the two Rings together felt odd at first. Like looking over in your bed and seeing a big empty, except the opposite. I don’t expect another gold ring on my finger.

In College, I had a signet ring with my initials in cursive. I should have written, “In University, I sported a signet ring like all the fellows from prep school…” This was one of several checker moves my father made to signal our upper-middle-class status from the perspective of someone who grew up with less than nothing. He dressed me and my mother up like someone who wandered into a Brooks Brothers store with a credit card and no idea of what to do. I don’t remember when I stopped wearing the signet ring, but I imagine it was before I met Beth. Otherwise, the only jewelry I have worn is a watch and my wedding ring. Okay, there was the regrettable year after the Hawaii trip when I wore a Puka shell necklace. We all have unfortunate middle school moments. Some of mine have photographic evidence.

I love my wedding ring. It reminds me how lucky I am. When I traveled around the globe, looking at my Ring meant that someone I loved, and someone who loved me, was waiting back at our home. I was slaying dragons, harvesting bacon, all that. Beth made it possible, and that’s how we built our life, our family, and the airline miles that enabled so many adventures. On my travels, I would often run into mileage-weary peers who would exclaim, “I fly so much that on my vacation, I will never get on another airplane.” We took the opposite approach. When we barely had two nickels to rub together (do Venmo wielding Millenials have any idea what this means?), we could fly our young kids to Hawaii, to Australia even. Accommodations were sparse, but they started to see the world, and I was a proud dad that my hours on airplanes had a benefit beyond the paycheck. "Son, I built all of this by sitting. And infrequently reclining, but always with my seatbelt fastened."

After some weeks or maybe a month, I started to consider that maybe my Ring should be on my right hand. But it didn’t fit. So back on the left, it went. My ring finger has atrophied a bit from having our Ring on it for 37 years. And there is a tan line. But it slides on and fits like a warm hug. Beth’s Ring fit okay on my pinky, but when I washed my hands I could feel it begin to slip off. Losing that Ring…I just couldn’t fathom. So, I began to take them both off at times. At night. When I did anything outside, or anything that meant a lot of hand washing.

The best way to lose a ring is to take it on and off. Ask my mom. She famously lost a very large diamond ring. As she and my father tried to recreate the events of that day, it became apparent that she took it off to wash dishes, put it in a Kleenex™ (only branded Tissues for my parent’s house), and fastidiously threw it away. I’m glad I was away at college when that happened. My dad could be unpleasant.

I started to fret about losing our Rings. Losing them when wearing them. Losing them when taking them off, so I don’t lose them. Having them both on my left hand felt like the ultimate tribute to our successful partnership. But that partnership was now in my heart and in my head, but no longer in our house.

I asked a few people what they knew about the rules regarding wedding rings after losing a spouse. I looked at the /Widower subreddit briefly, but wow, much sadness. Turns out there isn’t a rule book here. I prefer rules. Comedian John Hodgman has variations of quotes around this theme, “I am an only child. A member of the super-smart afraid of conflict narcissists club. I don’t want to break the rules. I want to follow the rules perfectly so that everyone will approve of me and love me in the world.”

We all have variations of this concern, “is this normal?” We see physicians because we are afraid that the fever, the lump, the rash, isn’t normal. Perhaps I see a therapist because I want validation that what I’m going through and my reactions, highs, lows, etc., are “normal.”

I don’t want to do anything that isn’t “normal.” Do you know the expression, “Dance like nobody is looking?” Well, for me, the only way I’m going to dance is if I’m confident nobody is looking. I can dance in front of my dogs because they don’t have a reliable way of telling someone else, “You should see the bald one dance. He makes Elaine from Seinfeld look like Fred Astaire.” (I’m having some gender continuity problems with this line, but grief brain is tired and is laughing anyway).

A friend told me that a widower they know sat in a pew in her church a few weeks after her husband passed, and these words echoed in her head:

Till Death Do Us Part

And she took her wedding band off and put it into her purse. On April 5th as I passed through a portal from blissfully married to unwillingly not, I also passed into a new civil status painfully illustrated on any official form I will be asked to fill out:

Between the fear of losing our Rings, and the ignominious reality of no longer being married in the eyes of civil servants, my Ring began to grow heavy. When I would talk to people, I began twisting it awkwardly, as if it might suddenly conjure Beth into the room. When I did the same to Beth’s Ring, well, it just hurt. This is her Ring dammit. Not mine. It no more belongs on my hand than it was unceremoniously removed from her unconscious body in the ER. Truth be told, it was tenaciously holding on to her limp hand. The nurse, watching me squirm, was quite gentle, and assured me she could remove it without needing to cut it off. I could not have endured having her Ring severed from her finger.

No rules. Where is the rulebook? I think the mortuary should provide a rulebook along with the shiny cardboard tube Beth’s ashes came home in. It’s nice they used a black cardboard tube. I imagine the bright pink tube caused a stir. The thing about The Widower’s journey is there are no rules, no right, no timeline, no normal. It is as unique to me as my DNA, and the life journey that brought me to April 5th.

I have an idea about turning the Rings into a piece of new jewelry. Maybe a piercing (okay, I said that for effect. Ouch!). I could turn them into gold teeth, like Jaws from James Bond. Except Richard Kiel is about 20” taller and 2.6x my weight, so instead of Jaws, they’d have to call me Piranha. Or Minnow with the awesome teeth.

My choice today is to stop wearing our Rings. One morning it just felt like the right step. I can change my mind. I can wear them in my ears. But in my heart, I know this enduring truth: No piece of precious metal, no Death Certificate, no cardboard tube will change my reality. I love Beth forever. I will miss her forever. She will always be mine. And she will always have me. Wherever those Rings might be.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald