Could there be anything worse than losing a wedding ring? I’m not sure, but there’s something that’s equally as disturbing: Losing the diamond from your engagement ring. (The real answer is actually: “Plenty!” I found that out the hard way, though. The day after I lost my diamond was D-day.)
The Discovery
The night before the D-day oncologist appointment, while Wayne hung out with my mom, I took the opportunity to make a run to Target. After that I needed to stop at Publix. It was en route from Target to Publix that I went to scratch an itch on my hand and brushed up against my ring in the process.
“What the heck?” I wondered when my ring felt rough and jagged.
I looked down (luckily I was stopped at a light) and saw where my diamond once sat nestled between the prongs, now there was a gaping hole.
The Reaction
“NO!”
Followed by tears, then the thought that I’d find it. Surely I’d find it in one of the Target bags.
But what if I hadn’t lost it there? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d paid attention to my ring. That morning, but now it was almost eight o’clock at night. I could have lost it any number of places.
The Flood of Emotions
Shock. Despair. Grief. Unbelievable sadness. Panic. Dread. They all seemed to hit me at once. My thoughts were all jumbled:
“Wayne’s going to kill me.”
“I can’t believe I actually broke my engagement ring. I’m bad with jewelry, I know, and I haven’t ever been given anything I haven’t broken, but my engagement ring? It had lasted me 12 years. I’d been so careful with it. Why break now?”
“Good question. Why break now? Does it mean something? Is it a sign? I’ve felt we’ve been having problems. Is the ring breaking significant and telling of the direction Wayne and I are headed?”
“That was the only diamond I’ve ever owned and Lord knows it took me forever to get that one. Wayne will never pop for another.”
“What’s the matter, kid? Ring lasting too long?” (That was my father’s voice echoing in my mind. Growing up, whenever I broke something –which was often—he’d say this line. Except instead of “ring” it’d be “doll,” “shoes,” “glasses”…whatever the item may be that I’d destroyed.)
“I guess this is why I should have looked into insuring my ring under our homeowner’s policy or something.”
Lastly, and the one that hurt the most was: “I was supposed to die with that ring on my finger.”
All That’s Left
Is a broken heart. I hate looking at my naked ring finger. It’s a bitter reminder that neither my first nor middle names are Grace for a reason. (“Destroyer” might have been good, though.)
But I am praying that it isn’t a harbinger of the fate of my marriage. I guess only time will tell on that for sure. (For now it’s safe to say we’re heading on the right track again!)
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