The following was written in my personal blog  just a few days ago, so those of you who may follow my writing over there, may have already read this. Really wanted to post a shorter version here too, though – because I know that so many of you can relate to the devastation and feelings that this brings up. Nothing has changed. Nothing has been found yet. I keep hoping ….. 

I am in a silent state of panic.
I am staying at my parent’s house in Massachusetts,
for about 10 days, over the Christmas break.
While here, something awful happened.
Something so sad and so horrible and so awful,
only other widowed people could possibly understand,
just how awful it is.

I have been walking around like a zombie,
in a silent state of panic,
not telling anyone of the horrible thing,
that happened.
Because maybe,
just maybe,
if I refrain from saying it out loud,
than maybe it didnt actually happen at all.
Right?

I cannot find my wedding ring.
My husband is dead, and gone forever,
and I cannot find my wedding ring.
My hands are shaking as I type this.
My fingers feel like someone else’s fingers,
without my ring on.
My skin is so naked and wrong,
without my ring on.
I have nothing to latch onto,
nothing to cling to desperately,
in the unbearable moments of missing him,
without my ring on.

It fell off my finger.
It must have fallen off,
because I never take it off.
Never.
I have looked all over the place.
Like a detective,
or an investigator,
I have searched every crevice,
and nook,
and corner,
of this house.
My ring is gone.
Just like my husband.
There.
Then gone.

I feel like I cannot breathe,
yet I am holding it inside,
silently wailing,
and screaming,
and begging.
Please just let me have my ring back.
Please, universe.
Please …

When your husband is dead,
the way that my husband is dead,
you cling to things
that symbolize other things
like your life together
your marriage
your vows
your world
your time
your heart.
You cling to them,
because the person,
the physical being,
is no longer here,
to kiss or to smell,
to hold or to talk.
So instead,
in the still of the night,
you stare into space,
and you run your thumbnail,
again and again,
over your wedding ring,
petting it,
feeding yourself with love,
comfort,
something,
ANYTHING,
that feels like proof
of the life you had.
Some sort of evidence,
that we really happened.

 

I feel scared,
panicked,
invalid,
like I somehow failed him,
for losing the very thing,
that sat on my hand,
and said: “We were love.
We ARE love.”

I already knew
that I was no longer married,
when he died.
But I could pretend.
I could keep my ring on,
and pretend,
inside my universe,
I am still married.

I needed to pretend.
I still need to pretend.
I am nowhere near finished pretending.
But I cannot pretend,
because the ring that let me do so,
is now replaced by nothing.
And if I cannot pretend,
in my own little corner,
the world around me feels
Impossible.

Losing this ring,
is like losing my voice
my being
my lifeline.
It comes with such a deep sadness,
that I cannot even cry.
Instead,
I sit,
waiting,
waiting for something to happen
or not happen,
and I roll my thumb,
again and again,
over the nothingness,
where my marriage used to be. 

(Pictured: the ring, on our wedding day in 2006. It is not worth more than a couple hundred dollars, as we were broke and I still am, but emotionally, it is worth everything to me. )