One Ring at a Time

Rick has officially been gone 6 months today. Half a year. HALF a year. It feels like yesterday I kissed him good bye and came home to a dead body in my basement. And yet at the same time, it feels like I've been through a war and spent a whole era of time all alone.

I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love - my first book since Rick's death - and it resonates with me. With all I have been through these last 6 months, I feel like I could write my own Eat, Pray, Love story. 

Today, I began my day by doing something big. Well, big for me. 

I took off one of my wedding rings. I took off my engagement ring I've worn for the last 7.5 years. My diamond. I nestled it inside Rick's wedding ring, which is nestled inside of Rick's watch. Which sits on a large dish on my kitchen counter. 

I've written before about my dilemma with my wedding rings. How people ask me how long I've been married or because I'm young, if I just got married. It got to be a point of pain for me, because explaining or choosing not to explain or hurting either was difficult, but I wasn't ready to take off my wedding rings to make the conversations stop. 

Well today, on the 6 month anniversary of Rick's death, I decided I was ready. But in baby steps. I only took off the large engagement ring. Left behind is my thin wedding band. It draws less attention, but I still feel comfortable knowing it is there. A few months ago...even one month ago...I wasn't ready to remove either of my rings. 

But today, I was ready to remove one. 

One at a time. 

Maybe the band will stay on for another month...or two... or 6... or even another year. It is up to me, and right now one was enough. 

My hand feels strange. Lighter. I find myself looking down in panic, thinking, "Oh my God, where did it go?" But then I remember. I wield my left hand in the old way - maneuvering it so the diamond doesn't get caught on sweaters as I pull my arm through the sleeve, or so I don't cut myself while washing my hands. But it's no longer there.

This morning in my kitchen as I looked at my engagement ring nestled inside Rick's wedding band on my countertop, I said out loud, "It's okay, Arielle, because if you decide you want it back, all you have to do is put it back on. You can always put it back on."

Rick flickered the light in my bedroom for me this morning before work. I had already taken off my ring. I think he was letting me know it was okay. 

Just Another Day

Today I went to the dentist for my 6 month check-up and all I could think of as I laid in the chair was, "The last time I was here, Rick was still alive." Music played over the sound system - the same easy listening stuff that usually plays there - and I willed myself not to cry as emotional songs came on. It was kind of like a weird form of torture, to have to lie there motionless with instruments in my mouth while listening to sad songs I've purposely avoided for the last 6 months.

Tomorrow it will be 6 months that Rick's been dead. I touched my wedding rings with my other hand as I laid in the dentist's chair, marveling at how something as mundane as going to the dentist can evoke such emotion.

When it was over, I stood at the reception desk with my calendar open, ready to schedule my next appointment 6 months down the road. The receptionist flipped 6 months ahead. "How about May 18th?" she asked. I shuddered involuntarily.

"Any day but that day," I said quietly. The one year anniversary of Rick's death. Who knows how I'll be memorializing. Who knows what I'll be doing that day. But I definitely don't want to be at the dentist.

Already experiencing a weird 6 month journey in my mind while in the dentist chair, only to hear someone say the words "May 18th" and catapult me into next year felt really odd.

Sometimes I feel like the words "May 18th" are my words. Like no one else should say them. The worst day of my life. But to most people, it's just another day.