Well, there's a story

About five months after Tim died, I took my ring to the jeweler to be cleaned and polished.  This is the same jeweler where Tim purchased the ring in 2010. The associate, who had begun helping me at the counter, commented on how beautiful it was. I told her it will be the first time I take it off my hand since my wedding.  She asked enthusiastically, “when did you get married?” And I replied, “Well, there’s a story. Would you like to hear it?” And with a big smile, she replied, “yes!”

So, once upon a time...  

One of the things Tim and I discussed and agreed on in the get-to-know-you phase of dating was that neither of us was interested in, nor seeking a formal, traditional marriage. Tim had been married previously. And, as I like to say, I was born without the marriage gene.  I didn’t dream of my wedding as a little girl. I never planned a wedding in my head in those exciting early stages of finding someone special. I simply never saw a wedding in my future.

We did, however, want to be in a committed, long-term relationship. And so, eventually we were. We lived together, built a home together and ultimately revised our wills. We were all in, without the wedding. Without the marriage certificate.

We did have a few phases over the years when we thought, maybe we should get married. We could have a fun party, an outdoor ceremony, something that would prove to others that we were fully on board with a future together. We also were getting a lot of pressure from Leyla, Tim’s daughter, in her early teen years. We gave serious consideration to marrying on 10/10/2010. But then we just decided that taking a trip to Europe was so much more interesting and less stressful.  

The following year, we even looked at the possibility of marrying at a trailhead in Sedona. We toured a few resorts where we would house our guests and decided on the perfect location for a ceremony.  But truly, each time we started planning, even a little bit, we eventually backed off, questioning, “who are we doing this for?” and soon we lost interest.

So, why did I have a ring?  It wasn’t my idea. In fact, I had nothing to do with it. My Dad passed away on October 30, 2010. One month later, Tim selected and purchased a ring for me.  He chose a large, yellow diamond with a platinum band.  The yellow was for me because it was my favorite color. The big and the platinum were for Tim, because he never did anything on a small scale.  

A few weeks after the purchase, I was packing for a week-long business trip to Phoenix. Tim pulled me aside, sat me down in a chair and handed me a ring box.  Sadly, the exact details of the moment are a blur, but there are a few things I remember.

Me: What does this mean? You want to get married?

Tim: Yes, if you want to.

Me: I don’t think that I do. I just don’t need it.

Tim: That’s okay with me. But after your dad died, I started thinking I want to be sure that other people know and see that you have someone in your life who will take care of you.

Yes, that was pretty old-fashioned for a renaissance man. And probably one of the sweetest thoughts he ever shared with me. So that was that. I left the next day for a business trip with this ring on my finger which felt so big in size and in meaning. I knew it was going to be the first thing that everyone would notice when they saw me. Tim had actually admitted that he gave me the ring before that trip as I would be seeing a lot of friends and colleagues that knew me well, cared about me, and would want to see that ring!  And they certainly did.

And, so, as the story goes, as I was now sharing with the woman at the jewelry counter, we never did carry through a plan for a wedding until eight and a half years after the ring– at Tim’s deathbed. And we did it in earnest. He asked me to marry him, for real, this time. And so, I said, yes.  

The young woman stood and listened intently to everything I had shared. She cried. She reached out and cupped my hand in her own. She thanked me when I finished, for sharing something so personal, and said it really made an impact on her.  As it turns out, she was heading out to dinner that evening with her boyfriend and his parents as they began to plan their own wedding and this, our story, was a reminder to her of what the most important thing was. Not the venue (ours was hospice). Not the dress (mine was jeans and flip flops). Not the food (ours was pizza). Not the ring. Though I was walking out of the store with my beautiful ring shining and glistening, I would have gladly left it behind to have Tim back in this world.

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