My fat finger was telling me to ditch the ring. But at what cost?

I was in Fitzroy, admiring some fashionable handcrafted jewellery, when my youngest child pounced. “Do you like that stuff, Mum? I think you do! Would you maybe like it for Mother’s Day?” In fact, there was a particularly pretty silver necklace there, which I did like. But instead of just saying that, and making life easy for everyone, I shuffled the kids along, distracting them with offers of junk food for lunch.

My children find Mother’s Day a particularly frustrating time of year, because when they ask me what I’d like, I always reply “Oh, I already have everything I need!” Which may be true, but is not much help to the aspiring present-buyer. Still, I can’t seem to help being a present Grinch. Marie Kondo urges us to get rid of possessions that fail to spark joy, but I have taken this advice a step further, in that I try very hard to prevent all the non-sparking stuff from coming into my life in the first place.

In part, I’ve adopted this frugal attitude because I’m sick of all the waste. And even though I liked the necklace, I knew I’d probably wear it once before consigning it to the bottom of my jewellery drawer, with all the other lovely yet untouched baubles. Because the truth is, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become much more utilitarian with my fashion. And I’ve completely lost the desire to accessorise. Even the piercings in my ears have closed up, through lack of use.

Yet there is one piece of jewellery I clung to, and that’s my wedding ring. It’s a simple band of white gold that I first slipped on more than a decade ago. It’s been such a constant in my life that it feels like a part of me; quite literally, since recently, it threatened to actually affix itself to my person permanently.

At first, I noticed that my ring finger had started swelling, just below the joint. Initially, I suspected a touch of arthritis, and reasoned that it would probably settle down in time. Instead, the finger just got thicker, until it looked like it was being strangled by that ring. So, I decided I’d better take the ring off. And, much to my alarm, discovered that I couldn’t.

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My first response was to book an appointment with Dr Google, who suggested holding my hand above my head. I tried this one evening, while watching telly, me sitting on the sofa looking like the class swot, desperately eager to answer all the teacher’s questions. The experience gave me new respect for swots, since holding your hand above your head for a protracted period turns out to be very hard indeed, but it had no impact on the chubbiness of my finger.

By now, the ring was digging into my swollen flesh in a way that alarmed my neurotic husband, who suggested that I get it cut off, immediately. Secretly, I started to worry too. What if my finger lost circulation? Could a septic finger be fatal? That would be embarrassing, particularly if my tragic demise made the cover of that’s life! magazine. “She wouldn’t take off her wedding ring for anything. And then it killed her.”

Still, I stalled. I’ve always resisted the heavy-handed symbolism and inflated sense of importance that goes with marriage. My life partner and I have an official certificate, but I don’t think that makes my relationship any more serious than those of the many happy unmarried couples I know. Still, the idea of cutting this ring, which represented our union, seemed laden with peril, both superstitious and symbolic.