The Ring

Author’s Note: This essay was written in June 2023, three months after the passing of my husband Clark. It is the first essay in a collection of stories about moving forward after losing my spouse. It was originally submitted to The New York Times’ Modern Love column.

I looked down at my finger. The ring occupied space on my left hand for 29 years and two months. My hands have aged. They have done a lot. Planted flowers. Held a paintbrush. Wiped away tears. Typed on the computer. Prepared meals. Held many a wine glass.

My left hand. My dominant hand. The hand that carried the load. The hand that identifies me— left-handed. An oddity. Navigating my awkwardness in a right-handed world. But it suits me. I am unique. I think differently. See the world differently, blending analytical and creative qualities. Out of the nine children my parents raised, I am the only one who is left-handed.

In my 20s, the meaning attributed to my left hand changed. The expectations. Societal pressure. Fitting in and doing what was expected. Marriage. Kids. Taking care of everyone and everything. I felt that pressure and wondered if I would ever meet someone. For a while, it would seem the answer was ‘no.’ That lonely and frightening post-college world, navigating the volatile workplace, running a household, paying bills, and establishing a new social order now that most of my college friends had moved away.

It was a surprise when I met Clark. He was nothing like my expectations. Clark was six years older and ending a long-term relationship. He grew up in a small town, just as I did (he Missouri and me in Ohio), but his outlook on the world was vastly different. He had inexhaustible energy and much to accomplish.

We were work colleagues. Then friends. I introduced him to running. He introduced me to new thoughts and ideas. I made him laugh, and he challenged me to be more than what was expected in my female-dominated family.

And we fell in love. It wasn’t supposed to work like this. He didn’t check off any of my boxes, and I was not yet the sophisticated, accomplished woman he was typically drawn to. But the heart wants what the heart wants. Slowly, we worked through our issues. Turns out we had more in common than I thought. We were both left-handed; we were career oriented, and we loved learning. I pursued my MBA and Clark was learning the ropes running a historical foundation, working with donors and meeting fundraising goals.

We enjoyed life through shared experiences, such as attending symphony performances and the theater, as well as watching my beloved Ohio State Buckeyes play on Saturdays. It was hard work, but I converted Clark to a Buckeye. When we first started dating, he always rooted for the other team, which made me angry. But over time, he became the bigger fan.

So the vacant spot on my third finger of her left hand waited, now four years into this relationship. I was ready for that spot to be filled, looking at my bare hand and visualizing the ring there.

But the wait. Oh, the wait. Why was it taking so long? Would he ever overcome his hangups about marriage to propose? When should I cut bait and move on, hoping to find someone that wanted the same things? But he was my person. I would give him more time — the one-year ultimatum.

And finally, it happened. Once he understood I was serious about ending the relationship if we did not get married, the ring was procured, the proposal made, and the wedding commenced. My ring finger was no longer vacant. When he proposed, he described the cut and grade, explaining how the diamond, though beautiful, had several flaws, just like us. We were not perfect, but we helped to smooth out each other’s rough edges. I would frequently reach over with my thumb to feel the band and stare at the shiny diamond. How it sparkled. I was happy.

As the years rolled by, I stopped noticing the ring. It simply became a part of me, an extension of my left hand. It symbolized all we had accomplished together, the hardships and the love between us. We built a life together,
developing our love for entertaining, collecting art and vintage furniture, and starting a business together.

We took our company from just the two of us, a cat and a basement home office to an international data analytics company that has employed dozens of team members, contractors and service providers over the years.

And yes, perhaps I took the ring for granted. The physical ring became less important as our lives became intrinsically woven together. Our business had succeeded beyond our expectations. Our bank account grew, and our tastes became more refined. It was a labor of love putting years of hard work into the business. We logged a lot of air miles, stayed at many hotels, and pulled all-nighters putting out fires, preparing for client meetings and writing sales proposals.

Clark and I lived by the motto, “Do hard things,” and there were some bizarre projects over the years. We collected surveys at shopping malls, car washes, grocery stores and libraries. We developed a marketing plan for one of the largest public social service agencies in the

country. Our company was hired to promote senior rafting tours on the Little Miami River in Ohio, and we led a rebranding effort for an Ohio non-profit curbing gun violence through

art. Ultimately, we developed a software-as-a-service (SaaS) to help public libraries use data to understand customer behavior and serve their communities.

That is the power of what we could do together. Other than a string of orange cats we rescued over the years, our family was just the two of us. We shared our work and personal lives, and we talked about everything over morning coffee, in the office, and during the evening cocktail

hour. Nothing was off limits, and the hours would melt away. It was how we dealt with the challenges of running a business and working through the uncertainties of things like recessions, COVID, the political climate and international crises.

But life can change quickly. Things we had no control over. Things like cancer. Nothing could have prepared us for the diagnosis last summer on his 63rd birthday. And so, my wedding ring became an access card I used in my new role as caregiver. Access to records, conversations with his care team, and attending appointments and treatments. So many appointments. It was my turn to lead, forging a path in a world that was as foreign to us as another planet. A world we didn’t understand. A place we didn’t want to be.

He held on for as long as he could. We hoped that his cancer might be treatable, though probably not curable, as it was advanced upon discovery. He changed, becoming more introspective and less talkative. When pressed, he said that he would rather listen than talk. Despite our shared hopefulness, deep down I suspect he knew his situation was worsening. And then it was time for him to go. I wasn’t ready, but he was. He was so tired. He simply closed his eyes to get the rest his body and mind ached for. What felt like a fairy-tale marriage ended. Clark, always the realist, constantly reminded me that there are no happy endings, and he was right.

My world is different now. I am grateful to leave the foreign land called cancer we navigated for many months, but this new place without him is just as unfamiliar. Some of it is recognizable, but much is new. I am scared, feeling small in a big world that I no longer fit neatly into. I am developing the operating requirements to carve out a new space for myself that no longer includes him.

Married no more, the ring has lost its purpose. It won’t bring him back. Wearing it would keep me buried in the past. So I took it off. No fanfare, ritual or ceremony, as when it was originally placed on my finger. I think about Clark multiple times a day, so I do not need a physical reminder of our life together.

My ring is safely tucked away with his, and my finger is now vacant, but it is permanently changed. The ring has left an indent. The physical ring is gone, but its mark remains. It is invisible to everyone else, but I can see it. I still reach over with my thumb to feel the band, but it is not there. That feels strange, but it feels right. In a world where much uncertainty remains, of this I am sure. I continue to move forward, tucking away all my memories of our life together in a safe place, with easy access when I need to revisit them.

I was 29 when I got married, and we were in our 29th year of marriage when Clark passed. Now I start the next chapter, hopefully with at least 29 years left on this Earth. Each day my footing in this unfamiliar terrain gets a little steadier.