The First Three Sentences

If you were to walk into my bathroom, you’d see two wedding rings hanging from the mirror on a 3M Command hook.  One is Bride’s, the other is mine.  They hang together on a necklace I bought shortly after Sandy died.  I wore it with just her ring, then in August it carried just my ring.   Then, I put both our rings on it and hung it on the bathroom mirror where I could see it every morning and every night.  The surprising part wasn’t that I took it off, I knew I would eventually.  The interesting part is what taking it off meant.

Grief has a funny way of attaching itself to objects and my brain.  After Sandy died, I needed something tangible.  Something I could reach up and touch when the reality of what happened hit me all over again.   The necklace and the rings became that thing.  At first it was just her ring.  I would catch myself holding it when I was thinking about her.  I would reach for it without realizing I was doing it.  It wasn’t jewelry as much as it was a lifeline. I never intended to wear it forever.  And early on, I just couldn’t imagine the day I wouldn’t.  And then one day I took it off.  Not because of some grand decision.  Not because I was trying to prove anything.  The first time I took it off, I put it in a dish.  The second time I took it off, I hung it on the bathroom mirror.

Looking back, I think I was experimenting without realizing it.  For a while I thought the necklace was keeping me connected to Sandy.  What I eventually realized was that I wasn’t wearing it because I was afraid of losing her.  I was wearing it because I was afraid of what it would mean when I no longer needed it to remind me.  It took me much longer than I care to admit to understand what was happening.  Early on I thought the necklace was helping me hang on to Sandy.  I thought it was the thing keeping her close. 

She was in the stories I tell without even thinking about it.  I can hardly tell a story about Oregon or Florida without talking about Sandy.  Over half my best stories start out with “Bride and I”.  Sometimes I don’t even realize Ive mentioned her until someone else points it out. She was in the stories other people tell me that I’ve never heard before, like the origin story of her nickname Sam.  When you love someone for that many years, they eventually become woven into the fabric of our life.

There isn't a place to put them because they're already everywhere.  Every story I have from the last 38 years seems to start with Sandy somewhere in the first three sentences.  Sometimes it’s the first sentence.  And sometimes, she is the whole story.  Every major life decision has her fingerprints on it.  Her adventurousness was a major factor in why we moved to Oregon and Nebraska.  Every room in this house contains evidence she was here.  Every person who loved her carries a version of her that I don’t even know.

The longer she is gone, the more I realize how impossible she is to lose.  If Sandy is in every story, every room, every memory, every person who loved her, what exactly was I afraid of losing?   I took it off because at some point I realized the necklace wasn’t what was keeping her with me.  The necklace was just the reminder I needed in those early days.  I don’t need to carry the reminder anymore.

The truth is, hanging the necklace on the mirror wasn’t as peaceful as I am making it sound.  The first few mornings I would look at it and think, Really?  That’s where they fucking go now?  Part of me wanted to put it back on.  Not because I needed it around my neck or on my finger.  Because I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant that I didn’t.  I wore that ring for 36 years.  Taking it off felt a little like crossing a line I had not agreed to cross.  I didn’t feel healed.  I didn’t feel finished.  Mostly I just felt uncertain.  The same uncertainty I felt when I took off my wedding ring.  The same uncertainty that has followed me through every meaningful step I’ve taken since Sandy died.  It felt suspiciously like moving forward.  Grief however   has a way of making every step forward feel a little like disloyalty.

These days the rings and necklace hang from my bathroom mirror.  Every morning I see them while I’m getting ready for the day.  Every night I see them before I go to bed.  I thought taking them off might feel like letting go.  Instead, it felt like acknowledging something that had always been true.  Sandy was always everywhere.