I took my wedding ring off. Once.

 

I took my wedding ring off. Once.

26 April 2024

I’m rather fond of My Grantie. In fact, I absolutely adore him.

 

In addition, I’m also partial to the institution of marriage and all that it represents. Maybe because I’m in a very happy marriage. Funny that! I love being one half of a partnership and being married to my best friend. I love the symbolism attached to marriage and as such I’ve never taken my wedding ring off. My Grantie put it on my finger at our beautiful wedding on the 6^th of April 1996, in my grandparents’ garden, in front of all of our gathered friends and family. And it’s a day that is forever immortalized in my mind as being absolutely golden. Every single thing was perfect! It’s no surprise then that I’ve never taken my ring off.

 

But perhaps, that’s not 100% true. Cause I did in fact take it off. Just once. And I didn’t really want to do it then either. I don’t remember the details too clearly, but I do remember crying a lot when I was forced to do just that.

 

I had always wanted a big family. And am so happy that I got to have at least three beautiful kids. In a perfect world, I’d love to have more. But alas, My Grantie was never keen and that ship has clearly sailed by now. My eggs are no doubt hard boiled and way past their sell by date. Which is a pity. If I thought that there was any chance of possibly sneaking another one past him, I’d give it my very best shot. Believe you me!

 

Not long after Luke was born, I was already eagerly looking forward to having another baby. But I had thought that 3 years would probably be a good age gap, so I was willing to work round about that schedule. Very patient on my part if you ask me.

 

And we were over the moon when I fell pregnant, right on schedule and our 2^nd baby was due on the 28^th of February 2001. I remember being so excited to announce our happy news. Wanting to shout it from the rooftop. Telling everyone that I could in person and phoning those that I couldn’t see to tell them too. Such an awesome time in one’s life.

 

Until it’s not. And you go for a regular scan and the doctor says that the baby is looking a bit small and they then spend a disproportionate amount of time looking around on the sonar screen. Being ominously quiet while they’re doing just that. Finally announcing that a follow-up appointment was needed just two weeks later. So I was a bit worried, but it would be fine. It would all work out. I was convinced of that.

 

But alas, the follow-up scan was not the joyous occasion that I had eagerly anticipated in advance. Sadly there was no heartbeat and I remember the doctor telling us this. And this awful, heavy, dreadful silence filling the room. For a seemingly very long time. Complete and utter disbelief. I simply could not comprehend that it was possible. Please say it wasn’t so.

 

Unfortunately it definitely was and a few days later I was scheduled to go in for a D & C at our local hospital. Not a nice experience at all. It wasn’t that it was physically painful. I don’t recall that at all. But emotionally I was completely and utterly distraught. Remember shortly before going into surgery, when the nurses came around and asked me to remove my wedding ring. I was gutted. I begged them to let me keep it on, as it meant that My Grantie would still be with me. But they wouldn’t budge. Protocol, policies, procedure and such was quoted. Which I do understand. They’re merely covering themselves, but it was symbolic to me too.

 

And so I took my wedding ring off once. But never again.

 

When I was wheeled out of surgery, it just so happened that my house doctor was also in the pre and post recovery room. He is a very, very dear friend, whom I love very much. And just seeing his familiar face meant the world to me. But it also opened the flood gates. Somehow think it was the first proper ugly cry I had had since my Dad had passed away two years previously. He assured me that all would be fine in the end, that we would have another baby and that he was very sorry for our loss. And I’ll always remember his empathetic kindness.

 

Of course, he was right. A few months afterwards, I fell pregnant again. And Amber was born with a mere 3 year and 10 month age gap between her and Luke.

 

One of the strangest things that I can recall with vivid clarity from that day, is that before and after my surgery, I was in the maternity ward at the hospital. I suppose it could also be called the gynaecological ward. And though I do know that it is not intentional, I thought that it was a bit cruel. Before and after my surgery I could hear babies crying. Lots of happy new fathers and siblings in the hallway outside of my room. New grandparents too. It was such a happy and wonderful place for them. And it struck me that there was clearly a lapse in compassion in the medical system.

 

Anyway, things obviously worked out the way they were meant to all along. Maybe it made me appreciate my kids all that more.

 

I still think about that baby every so often. Especially close to his or her due date. But the ache is no longer as harsh or as fresh as it had been. I still have some of the early scans pics and a few clothing items that we had bought. But time mellows things. And I did end up fortunate enough to have two more babies thereafter.

 

In hindsight I’ve thought it’s also uniquely symbolic that I did something so unique for that baby. Something that I didn’t do for any of my others. I took my wedding ring off. And for a small slice of time, it was just the two of us.

 

Now as for my Grantie, he’s never taken his ring off either. Because he can’t. His wedding band consists of two rings that are linked together. And they’ve become so tight that there is no way he could get it off again. Which suits me just fine…