With this ring…

21,083…and….

The tradition and symbolism of wearing a wedding ring on the ring finger of the left hand can be traced back to ancient times. According to legend, it was believed the ring finger had a vein that connected directly to the heart, so lovers' hearts would be connected by their rings. The early Romans called this the Vena Amoris, or vein of love. So, to solidify a union founded in love, a ring was placed on that specific finger to signify the romance that the newly wedded couple shared, essentially connecting their two hearts.

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The summer following mom’s death (on March 8, 2016) was a poignant one for Dad—as anyone would imagine. I remember taking an extended bereavement leave from my principalship in Everett to stay in the house with dad. Then, when school let out, I remember making many trips to Moxee to spend time with Dad who was living alone for the very first time in his life (I try not to live with regrets but if I had one, and my brothers share this perspective with me, it would be having Dad be by himself following mom’s death). We were nervous about that—but SO wishing he would be okay. Turns out, even though Clary and Trevor would visit often and be only a phone call away, Dad wasn’t okay. THAT was when his own end-of-life journey began.

Because, Dad changed.

Well, that’s not quite true—it wasn’t so much that he changed; in fact, I know this to be true. He didn’t change—certainly, the circumstances surrounding him did; but he simply came out from under mom’s shadow because she was no longer there to cast one. And we finally saw HIM for the first time—like truly, the first time ever. We saw his true humanity, his true spirit, his soul; in all its totality and raw emotionality.

He couldn’t help it.

He could no longer hide.

That time was profoundly lonely for Dad; being so absolutely, abruptly, and permanently (physically) separated after 52 years of marriage will do that if one’s sole world revolved around one, and only one, other person (with no one, and nothing else meaningful, to pass the days with when hops and kids were no longer to be raised)—and yet, ironically, as I mentioned, mom’s death also opened up some never-before-witnessed, incredible gifts, from Dad, for his family.

But more on that later.

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I want to share a vivid memory from that time; one that I will never forget, and one shared by just my Dad and me. It was so heart-breaking, and heart-warming, I journaled about it that night so I wouldn’t forget some of the detail. It IS one of my most precious memories of my Dad.

When I was visiting him, it became our morning ritual to wake up early—like, FARMER early! Four am was not an unusual “get up” time. The first one up would start the Mr. Coffee—which, if we remembered, we had prepped the night before with water and grounds—we’d typically make two pots so that there was coffee when Trevor stopped by later in the morning. If Kristin was with me there, she was free to sleep in (Kristin, after all was a West Seattle girl—not a farmer!).

The house would be very quiet with the lights dimmed inside, the radio on but very softly and only providing background company instead of demanding attention—if the Yakima Herald, the local newspaper, was delivered, one of us brought it in. I don’t think Dad had any interest in reading it—he just kept up his subscription. But that was likely because he didn’t know how to cancel it.

By that time, and on that particular morning, I had picked up a cue, a “tell,” from Dad of when he had something on his mind that he wanted to share. He’d become a bundle of nervous energy—pacing or staring off into space, or sitting with his hands massaging his forehead or chin as he, in his mind, organized the words he wanted to say aloud. That morning he paced; walked into his office then back out to the kitchen area where I was fake-reading the Herald keeping him in my line of sight but out of the corner of my eye. His unsipped coffee growing cold on the coffee table next to his recliner that he hadn’t yet sat in. I knew something was coming—but didn’t know what. I just waited for his right time. And what came was unexpected.

He stopped pacing when he got next to me—he was twirling his wedding ring. “Kert?” he said quietly, in a broken-voiced whisper to match the feeling in the dim, pre-dawn home.

What Dad?

A pause…. He was trying to give voice through a sad grief and a tightened throat.

“When do I take this off?” and he lifted his left hand to me with his right fingers twirling the wedding ring that was still on his left ring finger.

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He’d been thinking about that for a long time. Wondering if there was some protocol, or tradition, or rule, or whatever that dictated when a widower had to remove the wedding ring that was the symbolic bond with a wife of 52 years. My Dad NEVER would do things the wrong way; and he would never want to be perceived, EVER, of doing anything wrong or inappropriate. Let alone be caught wearing a wedding ring of a partner he no longer had if he wasn’t supposed to be doing so.

“When do I take this off?” he asked.

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Me: “Oh, Dad. Wow. That’s been heavy on your mind, hasn’t it. You know what? You don’t have to take it off any time soon. When that time comes, if that time comes, I just think you’ll know. Just trust that you will know when the time is right for you. In fact, you know Dad, you don’t ever need to take it off. Some people never take their wedding rings off. Some wear it on a different finger or on a necklace. If you feel better keeping it on, then keep it on. If that helps you remember mom, then let it stay on your finger.”

Dad: “Okay. Thank you.”

And that was that.

We’ve never talked about it again.

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Dad, to this day, is still wearing his wedding ring.

He’s never taken it off.

Wally Lenseigne and Ann Mitzel Cronkhite—we believe shortly after they first met.

Mr. And Mrs. Wallace and Ann Lenseigne—November 21, 1964: day one of wearing his wedding ring…

…August 12, 2022: day 21,083

 

… to solidify a union founded in love, a ring was placed on that specific finger to signify the romance that the newly wedded couple shared, essentially connecting their two hearts.

For some, apparently for eternity.

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Eldering 101:

Elders allow for the full range of emotion to surface without necessarily having a plan for how to use it; that would be inauthentic and manipulating—the polar opposites of wise and loving Eldering. This is the place where courage and vulnerability, seemingly opposites in and of themselves, show us they are always a joined pair. We need to learn, from our Elders, how to be courageous without being foolish by taking unskillful risks; and we need to learn how to be vulnerable to recognize just how much we need and are connected to each other. Elders show us, with grace and heart, that it is okay to not know all the answers (vulnerability); but that one can trust our innate and innocent authenticity to, in the end, know exactly what is called for in the moment, and then to allow it to happen (courage).

One of the two lead quotes I chose to serve as the foundation for this blog states: “All we are really doing is walking each other home.” (~ Ram Dass.) THAT is Eldering. In that moment, by asking me that question, Dad invited me onto his path—maybe for one of the first times ever. In doing so, he allowed me to join him to help him “walk home.” Yet, inside Dad, in his heart, he knew. He really never had to ask the question. He simply needed to trust, through his vulnerability, that his heart always had the answer he was needing.

He never had to take off his ring.

Because Love never leads us wrong.

Dad, in many ways, is still learning how to live with the love mom left behind. And he’s doing it perfectly.

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An original: (and maybe more of Dad’s Eldering example within, though it wasn’t written specifically with him in mind; rather, it was for all who’ve experienced grief as I have tried to come to understand it—note: a “sister” post to this one is coming soon):

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

we don’t mourn the person we knew

we don’t mourn the person we knew,
they still exist
in our hearts and
in our minds
through the eternal and changing
memories 
we get to carry with us
and hold on to
as if all life depends upon it

(their’s does). 

when they were alive
and yet distant,
this was all we ever had
anyway,

memories

of a first...
of the last...

of that time when that wave
knocked you over in the surf 
and you got up
laughing with seaweed hair 

or of the time Huck died in our arms
and we cried while holding him
as gently as the first day we got him

or the time long ago when you were still up
when I got home way too late
and you weren’t happy
and neither then was I.

shared pasts always remain,
recalled as if they were 
“just like yesterday”
so vivid
and so lovely.

this is where they live,
just as always.

no, we don’t mourn the person we knew;

grief is for the
infinite unlived futures
of touches never to be felt,
laughs never to be shared,
glances never to be given,
hurts never to be healed,
arguments never to be raised and then resolved...

loves never to be loved.

we mourn the person we hadn’t yet experienced
but thought we would;

we mourn the person who had yet to be:

“me, 

with you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

❤️

21,083 days… and counting.