Tiny Islands of Certainty

So, an unexpected thing happened yesterday morning at 5am, I took off my wedding ring.  I wish I could tell ya there was some grand reason behind it.  That maybe I woke up with clarity, arrived at some profound realization, or finally crossed some invisible milestone in my grief journey.  The truth of it is much less dramatic.  When I got out of the shower, I looked at my ring, gave it a couple of spins, like I’ve don’t most every day for as long as I can remember. 

Then I slipped it off and rolled it around in my hand, something I have not really done before.  There wasn’t any intent behind it.  No deep meaning, just a mindless motion.  I wandered into the bedroom and grabbed the chain with Sandy’s rings out of the dish on my nightstand.  I slide her rings off and sat them back in the dish, and slipped my ring onto the chain.  

I stood there for a minute or two looking at it.  Not really thinking, just staring at it.  Just doing, not thinking.  Then I said out loud, fuck it and slipped the chain over my head and went about my day.  I caught myself several times that day playing with it without even realizing it.  Running my fingers over the ring while I worked, while I was meetings, and while I drove home, all the while my mind wandered around between a forest of meaningless thoughts. 

That night I laid in bed staring at her rings sitting in the dish on my nightstand while I rolled mine around my neck.  All I could think was fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck.  Not because her rings were in the dish.  Not because mine was hanging around my neck on a chain.  It was because for the first time since Sandy died, I wasn’t sure where either of them belonged.  And I can tell ya, that realization fucking sucked. 

To be clear, the rings weren’t really at the heart of it.  The issue was that they represented one of the few things in my life that still felt clear.  After Sandy died, so much of my world became a gigantic question mark.  Who am I now?  What does the future look like?  Which  parts of my old life do I let go of, which parts do I hang on to, and which parts to I just learn to carry differently?  And somehow the rings remained simple.  

For months I knew exactly where they belonged, even when I had no idea where I belonged.  Her rings were on the chain, mine was on my finger. 

Tiny islands of certainty in an ocean of uncertainty.  Until they weren’t. 

And lying there in the dark, I realized I wasn't just asking where the rings belonged. I was questioning where I belonged on this leg of my journey.

As strange as it sounds, the next thing that popped into my head was the last cigarette I smoked, which was in 2004.  Most folks just assume when someone stops smoking there must have been some grand turning point or dramatic event.  But for me, there just wasn’t.  One day I was a smoker, the next day I wasn’t.  there was no ceremony, no strategy, no countdown.  Just a quiet decision that came out of nowhere one morning that I didn’t want to smoke anymore, so I didn’t.

The truth is, I don’t suspect it came out of nowhere at all.  I suspect that decision had been growing beneath the surface without me even realizing it.  And then one morning, I simply woke up and discovered what I used to feel was necessary, was not any more.  Laying there in bed staring at Sandy’s rings and absentmindedly rolling mine around the chain, I couldn’t help but wonder if grief works the same way. 

No because I am done grieving, I am not.  Not because I’m letting go of her, I never will.  Maybe I didn’t wake up yesterday and decide to take a step forward.  Maybe I simply discovered I already had.  Maybe sometimes all that works quietly in our subconscious, taking root while we are too busy surviving to notice. And then one day, we just find ourselves doing something unexpected and realize we’ve taken a step we never planned to take.  And If I am being honest, that realization is both comforting and terrifying at the same time. 

For months after Sandy died, the rings felt important because they were tangible.  Something I could touch.  Something I could hold onto when everything felt so damn intangible.  But lying there that night, I found myself wondering of the rings were ever really the evidence of our marriage in the first place.  Symbolic yes, evidence, maybe not.  After 38 years together, the evidence is everywhere, in stories, in memories, and in the habits we gave each other over the years.  It’s in the way I still talk to her sometimes.  It’s in the things that make me laugh.  Its in the way I still call her Bride without thinking about it. 

The truth is, I have no idea how long I’ll wear the chain with my ring.  Maybe this is where my ring belongs, and then again maybe it’s supposed to be just for right now.   What strikes me is that for the first time since Sandy died, I am willing to sit with the discomfort of not knowing.   Not knowing how long the ring will stay on the chain.  Not knowing if someday it ends up in the dish with Sandys rings, or maybe not.  Not knowing what any of it ultimately means.  And that is uncomfortable. 

If I am being completely honest with myself, I think what bothered me the most wasn’t the ring itself.  It was the realization that life keeps right on moving along, even when part of me wants to plant my feet, lean in and refuse to move along.  Every step forward in grief feels like a tiny betrayal, or a letting go of something ya don’t want to let go of.  Intellectually I know that is not true.  Loving Sandy and continuing to live are not mutually exclusive.  But as I have said before, my emotional self does not much care about my intellectual side, especially when it comes to the grieving process. The same damn dichotomy that still fucking sucks.   

For today, the ring hangs on a chain around my neck and that is enough.  I have no idea what the chain means yet, maybe that’s why I am writing this.  And maybe, maybe it means nothing.  Grief is a lot like life in that regard, you get the test before you get the lesson.  Things are revealed to us long before we can understand them.  My journey has been full of moments that I did not recognize were important until I was standing on the other side of it. 

Grief has a way of working behind the scenes.  It quietly rearranges things while were busy trying to survive another day.  Then without warning, it reveals results.  Maybe that is what happened here.  Maybe the ring was never the story.  Maybe the story is realizing that grief keeps changing us long after we think it has done its worst to us.  Maybe the story is discovering that some part of me has already begun adapting to this reality before the rest of me is ready to admit it. 

So here I am, not really moving on, not really letting go.  Just learning.  Taking one uncomfortable step at a time, trying to figure out how to carry 38 years of love into a future I never planned on living.