Well, it’s happened again. I’ve lost another diamond. Okay, so I have a habit of losing things — earrings, socks, pens, chocolate (really), even a pair of running shoes (which I did find the next day 60 miles from home). But a diamond? Maybe others don’t find this so unusual, but I don’t know any other women who have lost the diamond out of their engagement ring….twice.
The first time this happened was about 25 years ago. It was a dark and stormy night, and we’d just arrived at our cabin in Port Clinton. With the girls tucked into their beds, Fred and I went back to unload the rest of the car. As I slammed the trunk of the car shut, my ring caught on the lock. No big deal, right? Wrong. We stumbled back through the rain and gravel into the cabin, where I discovered my ring intact on my finger, the prongs on the setting looking as though someone had pried them apart with pliers. No diamond.
Eight sleepless hours later, we began the search through the gravel parking area. Ever try to find a diamond in what seemed like a field of stones? Not even Lindsay –who at age 3 1/2 had the uncanny ability to find everything I’d ever hidden from her — was unable to spot it. We finally gave up, somewhat reassured by the reminder that our insurance would cover it. Three days later, we returned home, pulled out the insurance policy. No coverage. Technically, our insurance expert had failed to add the rider.
Disgusted, I turned down Fred’s offer to buy a new diamond. At that stage in life, I didn’t think it would be the same. Instead, I suggested we change insurance agents.
Over the years, we eyed rings in jewelry stores but always walked away with the thought that the money could be put to a better use. Then about eight years later, we both agreed it was time to get a new ring, so we spent time looking at options. In the end, we picked out one that was identical to the original — a simple solitaire. It was perfect.
About five years ago, we had the stone reset in a wider, comfort band with a better fit.
All was well…until a few days ago. The ring seemed to be scratching me, but I was busy and didn’t bother looking at it. Midday, walking through a parking lot, I happened to look down and thought something looked strange. I held my ring finger up to my face. I squinted, wondering if my eyes had gotten worse again. I touched my finger to the top of the prongs. Dang. No diamond. Gone again. I thought back to all the places I’d been that day — it could be anywhere, back home on the floor, in my office on campus, in my off-campus office in Findlay…in the middle of any of the parking lots I’d been in.
It wasn’t in the car. That I’m sure of. I remember sitting there, stunned, wondering how this could happen twice in 31 years. How is it my mom still has her original diamond ring, probably her original iron and toaster, and I’ve been through two diamonds and a zillion irons. But I digress.
This time, though, our insurance provider had us covered. In fact, today I received a call that a check would be in the mail.
Despite that, I’m not sure I want another diamond. Maybe another stone would stick around longer.
Ask me in five years.