musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

Rings and things and fine array


I realize I might be at the wrong end of life to be curious about this; I recognize that even the very existence of my inquisitiveness may attract the attention of those prying ears which are constantly on the prowl for gossip, but I can assure any who have stopped to listen that they are bound for disappointment. My questions arose from a pair of eyes that attached themselves to my fingers at a Food Court.

I wasn’t doing anything with them for which I wish to issue an apology; there was no mea culpa required and indeed no blushing denial ensued, just an embarrassed cessation of stroking my fingers which often results from inner thoughts I may seem to be withholding from any company I am with. At the time, however, the company was myself, and I was waiting for the usual Wednesday morning coffee group which seemed to have adjourned before I  arrived. Or maybe they had cancelled the meeting, and I, firmly wedded to the Wednesday ritual, had arrived anyway.

At any rate, it is in situations like that when I stroke my fingers; it is a habit like that which occasionally attracts unwarranted attention from those elderly women who, for want of a more gentle explanation, are looking for replacements -patches for the hole worn through in their lives. Not everybody repairs the damage in the same way; I chose to ignore the gap, others seek to cover it for whatever time remains, I suppose. Life unravels differently for each of us.

Perhaps I, too, had been seeking to repair my gap with memories, because when I became aware of the eyes studiously examining my fingers, I realized that it was my left hand I was caressing, and in fact, it was my ring finger that was the center of my unwitting attention. I have not worn a wedding ring, or for that matter any other ornamentation, for over a decade now, so there was no residual dermatitis, no chafing allergy claiming my attention at least.

But the woman’s seeming fascination with the ring finger of my left hand reminded me of something I hadn’t thought of for years: the ring finger was called the Vena Amoris (the Vein of Love) because the ancients apparently thought it had a direct connection to the heart, and therefore was endowed with magical properties. In fact, Egyptians are thought to have used hemp braided into a circle on that finger as early as 3000 years BCE in commitment ceremonies[i]. The Romans continued that custom, albeit with a bit of a twist: the ring was often given by the groom to the father of the bride, and served as a symbol of bride purchase. Perhaps I’d given the ring to the wrong person, but I never considered it a purchase, merely a mutual allegiance.

Were I young enough to consider it again, I think I would opt for a different ring, though -a Gimmel ring perhaps. Although puzzle rings were apparently popular in early East Asian weddings as a seal for a legal contract, the original rings were said to be designed with many different pieces, and difficult to put on. They fell apart when removed, and therefore the husband would know if the wife ever took it off in his absence. I have no desire for one of these -marriage is more of a communion than an irrevocable commitment, it seems to me.

No, although the Gimmel ring I have in mind was also a puzzle ring it had a different purpose. It was thought to have originated in Renaissance France and consisted of two interlocking bands—one for the bride, and one for the groom. The two halves would be connected at the wedding, and then the wife would wear it thereafter.[ii]

It’s amazing the thoughts that course through my head in a Food Court when I can feel eyes focussed on me. In fact, I felt embarrassed at the woman’s stare; she was elderly but quite stylish and wore the clothes of a much younger woman. I began to wonder if she was reading my mind. I can’t say it was a violation or anything even approaching that, but I have to admit I was curiously flattered by the attention, and before I could stop myself, I smiled at her.

I’m not sure if she had expected an acknowledgement, but she immediately picked up her now empty plate and her cup of tea and wandered over to my table.

“I’m sorry,” she said, although she seemed more intrigued than sorry. “I didn’t mean to stare; it’s just that you reminded me of the habit my husband used to have of rubbing his ring finger when he was anxious.” She sighed, obviously uncertain of how I might interpret her confession.

I invited her to sit; quite frankly, I was glad of the company.

“We never were never married -well, in the church at least- but we still believed in wedding rings; I wore mine all the time…”

I risked a glance at her wrinkled boney hand and noticed a thin gold ring on the usual finger, but she hadn’t made an effort to show it to me; I don’t think that was the purpose of her visit. Some memories are more powerful than others and I think I had inadvertently triggered an important one for her.

“Oscar worked with machinery,” she explained when she saw the puzzled expression I had been trying unsuccessfully to keep from my face. “He always came home with bits of grease on his face and hands that he’d missed and I had to clean it off.” She looked at me for a second and then at the ring on her finger. “He’d usually put his ring on as soon as he came home, of course… but sometimes he’d forget -especially if he’d had a hard day at work.” She tried to disguise a sigh, but with such a thin body and clothes that hung loosely from her shoulders, the movement was obvious.

“We were together for 43 years,” she continued, “Every once in a while in the lunch room, new workers apparently took turns teasing him about why he wasn’t wearing a ring, but even though he told him it was a safety thing, I think it still bothered him…”

“And does…” I started to ask, but her eyes stopped my question and the words froze in my mouth.

“He died shortly after he retired…” She paused to think about it for a moment. “But even after he stopped working, he still took the ring off before he went to bed, forgetting that he wouldn’t have to go anywhere when he got up.”

“I… I’m sorry…” I began to say.

“My name is Gladys,” she interrupted, and then smiled at me. “Thank you,” she added as she reached over the table and touched my hand before she gathered up her dishes and stood. “Noticing your fingers was a nice memory for me.”

It was a nice memory for me as well, although I didn’t have time to tell her that, or even my name, before she turned and hobbled away, intent on clearing away her breakfast dishes as she no doubt had done for years. Some things stay with us, I think.

[i] https://www.ancient-origins.net/history-ancient-traditions/why-do-couples-exchange-rings-vows-elusive-ancient-origins-wedding-rings-020559

[ii] Ibid.

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