I’m finding I don’t do loss (or jewelry) very well.
I awoke. Sleep rolled in close, then swept back out.
Flibbertigibbet! I had to teeter.
It was dark, cold and all I wanted to do was tumble back to sleep. But no. The moment sleep’s fingers drew close enough to grab my consciousness, a tight bladder called me back.
Ugh.
I threw back the covers and stumbled to the bathroom.
There in the blinding light, wanting more than anything to fall fast asleep again, I glanced down at my hands.
DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN.
The ring was gone.
My left ring finger wore only a gold wedding band. My diamond solitaire ring and tenth anniversary band (the two rings had been attached to prevent just such a catastrophe) gone.
“John. John. John.” I ran in the dark toward our bedroom. “My ring,” I said with barely a breath — only possible by of a woman on the verge of a supernova panic attack, “it’s gone.”
The next few minutes were a blur of both of us waking up our minds and trying to figure out the last time I saw it.
The only thing I could remember was the night before. We had sat at the bar of a local restaurant. Another couple we hadn’t seen in awhile happened to be there. We laughed, had a few glasses of wine, ate a great meal . . . and I played with a big funky costume ring I bought at Target a few weeks ago. Moving it back-and-forth from one hand to the other.
Maybe in the midst of all that playing with my $7 ring I took off my diamond and NEVER put it back on?
In the early morning hours, I paced the floor and gnashed my teeth.
At some point my husband said, “I guess sex would be out of the question.”
I looked at him.
He answered, “We were both up. Just saying.”
I should never have nice things.
My husband had to agree. I’ve lost diamond crosses and earrings. The stone to my first engagement ring fell out. I wore my grandmother’s amethyst ring to a water park and cracked the stone so bad it had to be replaced.
But I’d never F**ked-up like this.
This was monumental. Was this punishment for trying to do too much? God saying . . . You can’t handle life Jamie.
The morning proceeded as usual except when I looked down to see my naked finger. Cue the shooting pains which tore at my stomach.
I went to church. I was fine till the sermon then I turned all weepy.
Who absentmindedly tosses away a two-carat solitaire?
I never wanted fancy things but one thing I always wanted was an engagement diamond.
When my husband proposed 25 years ago, I got one. A very tiny one. I never said anything. Not until one night many, many years later after too much wine. “I was disappointed when you pulled the ring out of your pocket.”
Horrible. Who tells their husband she was disappointed in the ring he picked out on his starting salary?
Me.
Then on our 20th anniversary, the diamond was my gift. I was blown away, utterly surprised. I loved it.
But I didn’t know how much until I looked down at my finger that Sunday morning.
Staring at a slim gold band surrounded by way too much old lady skin.
The ring I was going to give to my daughter. The one thing I could pass down.
Gone.
I still had no idea when it left my finger. The restaurant was only a guess. How could I be so unfocused not to know when a ring slipped off my hand?
The restaurant was closed Sunday and Monday so I left a voice mail and got busy with life until I could go there on Tuesday.
Sunday was a normal Sunday punctuated with jolts of how could you be so stupid after a glance down a my left hand.
Monday morning was the holiday. I’ll make pancakes. Be a blogworthy — albeit ring-less — mom and make the most of the holiday.
After the deed was done and dishes lined the sink, I looked to the floor. A dusting of flour ringed the range.
Sweep that mess Jamie. Hmph.
I got the broom, swept under the stove and looked back down.
MY RING!
Unbelievably my diamond lay there on the floor like it had plopped down off the clear blue kitchen ceiling. (Our kitchen does have a blue ceiling.)
I snatched it up and put it on my finger before you could say “I do.”
Texts of “I found my ring!!!!!!” rang out to all my friends. Friends who I couldn’t talk to about my misfortune the day before without breaking down.
That I found it while cleaning was like my husband pronounced, “Seeing Halley’s Comet twice in a lifetime.”
Coming to grips with the death of my father, I’m finding I don’t do loss well.
But I’m learning having loved and lost makes the finding so much sweeter.
