A Long Time Marriage: A Happy Burial of Sorts

 

A post by writer Doreen Frick: 

Today I took my wedding band and buried it. It was cold and snow showers were threatening, but I wasn’t cold or sad or threatened when I took the ring out of my coat pocket and put it under the soil where my husband’s great-grandparents rest.

Yes, it was symbolic, and yes, the next day I almost went back to the cemetery to retrieve it. Yet a week later, as I write this, the ring remains where I laid it, safe and sound and with the ones I think would understand. I need to let go and move on with my life.

Initially I took the wedding band off in the morning after a night of weeping. In the spirit of hopelessness (if there is such a spirit), I wanted to run away from my problem (and in my sleeplessness I came up with a Plan A, a Plan B and was working on a C when I fell asleep), but when I woke none of my plans seemed to matter. What was important was that I awoke happy. Confident. Whole. My problems had not been solved, nothing had been accomplished, and yet I had a new vision. A trust. Not so much in us, but in me, and in him, and therefore in us.

Still I kept the ring off, and when he noticed, I told him the truth. I want a new ring for a new beginning. Yes, after 43 years, we (and I mean we) need a new start. He never asked where the ring has gone, and I’ll probably never tell him. I applied for a job that day (most of our fight was about money), and then I led a seminar on writing your story to a group of women and young people who’d answered my ad in the newspaper. In preparation for the day out, I cut my own hair, colored and moussed it, and put on foundation and a new outfit. Turns out Mom was right after all. Sometimes when you’re feeling down you need to go shopping.

Spend money when you’re fighting about it. Fix your hair when you feel low about yourself. Reach out to others when you want to pull in and stay in bed. I had no intention of running away after I buried my ring; I was fine with staying put. All notions of solving this with my nighttime planning dissolved.

Having options (no matter how flimsy) helped me come out of my quagmire much more quickly. As crazy as it sounds, it was as if having choices helped me make the more sound one. Stay. Get strong. Eat a good breakfast. Fix your hair. Voice your opinion and wait. Remember Who is watching over you. That night I got a text from my granddaughter in Michigan. I texted back and asked how she was doing. Her reply was pure magic:

“I’m doing good most of the time, but I have my moments.”

Seventeen-year-old honesty, and instantly we bonded. She’s mine, oh yes, she’s mine because I, too, have my moments. But I’m good too.

In the freedom of waiting, I looked back over the past week when the problem surfaced. Of course it’s been below the surface for over twenty years, but that’s my way of dealing with things. Hide. But on this day, while eating lunch in the car, I railed against him, and began the unloading of assault.

In the middle of it, I looked over and saw his hand tremble, and his pulse racing in the vein in his hand. His demeanor belied the worry beneath, and I had a thought that maybe I can back off for now, and revisit this problem later. Of course I picked the middle of the night to let it all out.

Or maybe it picked me, but the real miracle is the thought that maybe he’s wounded too. Maybe the man has to hold it in and figure out how to solve it, but just for him to listen to my pain means he has to be mighty courageous. Nobody can take somebody’s pain away. But they can be brave enough to hear it.

And that’s where we’re at. I bought a cheap $5 ring at the thrift store to hold me over until we can afford the one I want. I put the picture of the gem-encrusted ring front and center in my pen jar to remind me there is nothing but beauty when one looks for it. In the acknowledging we have an unsolvable problem, I was given the confidence that took me out of myself. Tackling the next phase of life, where things do not revolve around how I feel, but who I am. A beloved child. A strong woman. A listener. A healer. Wounded, but for a purpose. I can’t ask for anything more than to have purpose. For me, everything has to have a purpose.

The snow skiffed by and the temperature dropped, but the sun came out again and when the night fell I slept like a brick. Did I get the job? I don’t know yet.

Will I ever fight with him about money again? I can’t promise.

Am I glad I didn’t buy a plane ticket to Florida? Yes.

Have I ruled out the little house next door to my daughter? Not yet. I’m half-plugging for that in our future.

In one of the many meltdowns, I mentioned if I should ever lose my memory and forget him, I will never lose the memory of the cologne he used to wear when we were dating.

That afternoon while I was out burying a ring, he came home with Brut in his shopping bag.

About the Ring: This is Doreen’s dream ring, which she spotted in a cowboy magazine. It’s sold in a shop in Santa Fe, and the middle diamond is, in her words, “massive!”

Doreen Frick is a 61-year-old writer from Philadelphia who has lived in Washington State, New Mexico, and finally she’s half-settled in Ord, Nebraska where her husband’s people homesteaded over one hundred years ago. She first began to write when she journaled in a tablet her days raising four children, some dairy cows, and a horse, chickens and the welcome stray cats that found their way to her place.