This morning, I answered the phone:

“Hello?”

“Hi, Terri, it’s Saaahr…  Y’ohl-roight luv?”   (my sad attempt at her English accent, that.)

“Hi!  I’m great, just taking a picture of some smashed chalk in the garage.”

(pause)

(sigh)

“…Like you do…”

I am lucky to have good friends who understand me, pretend to understand me, or better yet–make me feel misunderstood, which they know I appreciate the best.

And now we present the much-anticipated finale of the glorious saga, The Great Ring Removal:

…I braced myself.

I knew this was it. It was my finger or the ring (at least one of them)–the decision had been made. Crumpet stood up, secured my arm under hers, and turned her back to me. The lavendar ribbon was looped under the engagement ring. I felt her tugging on the ribbon, circling the ring and pulling it toward my finger tip. It was less than 1/8th of the way up my pathetically swollen phalange when it started to really hurt.

I took a sip of my Pumpkin Spice Latte. Maybe this was a bad idea, I thought, imagining an emergency room amputation. Go to a jeweler, I heard my midwife’s voice echo in my head, Don’t you dare let your friend try to get that off.

Around and around went the ribbon, fraction-of-a-millimeter by fraction-of-a-millimeter went the ring. Every oxygen-deprived cell of my finger screamed for relief. I was picturing a breadstick-sized purple finger when La joked, nervously, “Well, it has turned black.” I later learned that at that point, it had turned a deep purple, as it was filled with deoxygenated blood with no way out. It would soon turn white, I am told by my dear helpful friends.

I said some colorful words, I believe. I have given drug-free vaginal birth to three children. I am quite capable of dealing with pain, thank you very much. But this was rather intense, for just a measly little finger. “I think you’re hurting her,” pleaded La. She slowly stepped away from Crumpet, visions of a malpractice suit, perhaps, dancing in her head. I grabbed the cloth napkin from under my coffee cup, and bit down hard. I wonder if it is still in one piece. La probably would’ve done better to look at the ugly finger than at my ugly face.

I could tell that the ring had progressed farther than I had been able to move it. It was almost to my big fat knuckle! I wrestled with feelings of fear (it will get stuck here for sure) and admiration (she’s actually going to do it!). Crupmet spoke in a shaky voice: “Nearly there now…”

And suddenly, it was off! It was off! It was whole! My finger was still there! She had done it!!! She had done it!

I was so happy to see that little golden circle and beautiful diamond intact, I was so extremely proud of Crumpet, and I wanted to jump up and down and hug her and thank her and celebrate. But then, the blood began again to flow in and out of my finger, and that didn’t actually feel so nice. At the same time, Crumpet collapsed into a chair, tears in her eyes. “I can’t ever do anything like that again,” she breathed. “I can’t believe I caused someone I love so much pain.”

That is what made me cry. The tears were there already–pain will do that to a person, but to see the anguish on her face was unbearable. Confident, bull-headed Crumpet, reduced to a traumatized mess (did I say bull-headed?), instead of the smug, proud, told-you-so smarty-pants I had expected. And dangit, that meant she wouldn’t do the second ring.

La gave me an ice pack for my wounded finger which had, by the way, one less ring on it. We talked about the size of the diamond. We relived the event, play-by-play. And at last, we began to laugh about our little experience, as those with PTSD often do.

The traumatized finger, looking much better than the traumatized makeshift-surgeon, later that afternoon: