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There it was again. That damn ring. I need to do something about that. I continued digging past it through my jewelry chest looking for a necklace. That ring was a gold band bejeweled with three tiny marquise-cut rubies and two diamond chips. I had given it to my mother as a birthday gift shortly before her declining physical and mental health forced my brother and me to sell the Florida house she had lived in for sixteen years and move her to a Washington-area assisted-living home. She had lived alone since Dad died, but she needed to be closer to us as she aged. Enjoying jewelry was one of the few characteristics we had in common, although her tastes were usually satisfied with costume pieces. I had wanted to please her by giving her some “real” jewelry, even if modest in size. The gold is 14 karat and, though small, the rubies and diamonds are genuine. The ring is mine now since Mother passed away in 1996. Drifting in the jewelry drawer mangled and tortured, it mocked me. Its warped condition shaped the perfect symbol for my years of frustration. Every time I looked at it the old feelings of disappointment and hurt welled up and formed a rock in my chest. I was certain a size 6 would fit her ring finger just as it would fit mine; we’d shared rings before. I’d even asked if she wanted the gift resized, but she had said no. Why did she do that to it? The last years of my mother's life were for me the embodiment of powerlessness. Her dementia had continued to progress after she was relocated. Despite her inability to manage her own life, she resisted most of my attempts to assist her and seemed to confound any systems I tried to put in place. It didn’t matter how old I got, to her I was just a child who had no business meddling in her affairs. It didn't matter much what the offer was, the answer was usually no or her life-long personal euphemism for no— “We'll see.” One day during a regular visit to the retirement home I found her decked out in a startling array of cheap rings garishly adorning each finger of both hands when I noticed it: the ruby and diamond ring smashed out of shape on her pinky finger. “What happened here?” I asked, lifting her right hand and pointing to the ring. “Oh, nothing. I just made it fit.” The delicate band had been twisted and bent with a pair of pliers to prevent it from slipping off her little finger. “I don’t even know where it came from,” she added casually. “I gave it to you as a birthday gift, Mom. I can have it fixed and resized for you.” “No. It’s fine as it is,” she said, withdrawing her hand and turning away from me. I need to do something about that. I could eliminate this constant reminder of my impotence if I just remembered to repair the ring. I slipped it into a small envelop and stored in my handbag, promising myself I would finally correct the damage at the first jeweler I ran into.  “Fast Fix” read the sign in the mall, catching my eye at the end of a busy shopping trip. From my handbag I whipped out the ruby and diamond wreck and unnecessarily explained to the jeweler that it was out of round. The jeweler’s eyebrows raised slightly as he picked up the ring and inspected it. “Come back in a half hour,” he estimated. Musing through the thirty minutes over a piece of greasy white pizza, I thought, “Amazing, I’m actually feeling a sense of resolution already.” That small ring, like an ant, had carried a hundred times its weight in emotional baggage. Mother challenged me. I’ve often reflected on what I should have learned from my experiences with her. It’s been almost five years since she died, and I’m just now beginning to unravel and accept some of the lessons. During her life, I struggled to do the right thing, receive her approval, and make her happy. Her dementia seemed to block those goals and defeat my intentions. From my new perspective, after having been washed downstream by a flash flood of life, a new message started to drift though my mind: Go with the flow, go with the flow. The smooth and newly round gold circle gleamed against the black velvet display square awaiting my approval as I scrutinized the repair. It was a size 6 and would fit me perfectly as it was. I looked up from the ring to the jeweler and asked, “Could you cut this down to fit my pinky finger?” © S. Isakson 2001, All Rights Reserved |