The Birthing Tale of a Wedding Ring

Here’s an interesting case to ponder: When my husband (of how many years I won’t reveal—suffice it to say, it was quite awhile ago) proposed to me (yes, romantically, on bent knee), he presented me with a delicate, curved white-gold ring, inset with three tiny diamonds. This ring was only half of the actual wedding ring. When we were married, the other half was attached, and that part had a larger diamond which, when connected with the engagement segment, became surrounded by the three small diamonds.

Some people only wear their diamond rings on special occasions, because they’re worried a diamond could be lost. Others keep theirs tucked away in safes and only wear them on special occasions, because their diamonds are so monetarily valuable. Although any diamond ring is costly, mine isn’t all that expensive. Rather, it is invaluable to me for the memories it holds, and what it signifies, including the bond made between me and the man I wanted to share my life with, and vice-versa. Therefore I never remove that ring from my finger.

Of course there have been instances where I’ve absolutely had to. A couple times throughout the years I had the ring polished. In fact, over a decade ago I lost the large diamond during the time I was working at my favorite job—as a reporter. We had to have it replaced. Then, I’m guessing it was eight years later, my boss died and the paper was closing. I was going through my file cabinet, and in between my papers was the original diamond! My husband had it set in a bracelet and gave it to me as a Mother’s Day or birthday present; can’t remember which.

Well, over a week ago I glanced at my hand, and the large diamond was missing! I can’t find it anywhere. I kept wearing the ring, while waiting to find out what the deductible will be if our insurance will cover it. But meanwhile, the empty prongs were tearing the skin on my fingers on each side of it. I had to take it off.

I couldn’t. For some “strange” reason, my knuckle had grown and the ring wouldn’t slide over it. I tried lotioning up my finger; that didn’t work. The ripping of skin continued.

Eventually, I had to get it off! My husband suggested using Vaseline, so after soaking my hand in cold water, I swathed the finger with it. Then I pulled, and twisted, and turned the ring, watching the portion of finger in front of the ring turn red, then blue.

“Come on, you can do it. Turn it like a screw,” my husband urged. I looked at him in agony and kept at it.

“You don’t have that much further to go,” he coached. I looked closer; he was right. The ring was nearly at the top of my knuckle. Bearing down, I twisted and pulled and turned it some more.

“You’re almost there. Keep pushing!” he cried. Screwing up my face in pain, I persisted, refusing to push the ring back to home base and give up. Finally the ring was on top of my knuckle, but the skin in front of it was bunched up. I tried mashing it down while still turning. The agony grew but I refused to stop. Then I pushed it, kept trying to force it over the obstacle, and voila—the ring slid off! I ran to my husband and hugged him in joy.

I honestly think birthing my daughter was easier than removing that ring!

I’m not sure if the will, the sheer persistence and stubbornness, to fight against pain is normally in my human nature. There were so many times I wanted to give up. But the goal I was reaching was the impetus. My ring will probably have to be cut so it can be made bigger, but I couldn’t bear having it cut off my finger. It means too much to me.