One gesture leads to a new way of thinking

It’s about how something snapped in my brain several months ago — a synapse fired or misfired — and led me to give my Grandma Lucy’s ring to my sister Trudie, and how that changed not how I thought, but what I do with those thoughts.

I’d worn the ring since Grandma died in 1987. My mom and I drove from Palominas (a tiny community between Bisbee and Sierra Vista) to San Diego after hearing the terrible news.

As fast as I drove, we never had a chance. By the time we got there, my aunt had gone through Grandma’s lovely little home — my aunt lived blocks away — and taken anything my mom would have cherished. We’re not talking diamonds and gold here, but family photos and such.

Auntie (we never called her that; I am substituting that word for what I would really like to call her) ended up with Grandma’s old sewing machine. God, my mom wanted it. When Auntie, who lived near Atlanta, died this year, her husband — knowing my mom wanted it — got rid of that sewing machine at a yard sale. My mother cried.

Back to the ring. Before the funeral, Mom and I were sitting on Grandma’s bed looking through a jewelry box, weeping and remembering her. Tucked in a nook was a little silver oval with three tiny inset diamonds. It turned out to be white gold. I had it sized to fit my freakishly small finger and wore it for the past 27 years.

I sported it on my right hand middle finger (that finger being one of my grandma’s favorites), and once had to have a jeweler cut it off. I had gone bowling and, of course, pretty much carried the ball around with my middle finger. It swelled overnight to what looked like a dangerous level. The jeweler calmly applied a spinning metal blade to the ring, then soldered (or whatever) it back together.

I also gave it to a boyfriend for good luck when he went overseas. I was crazy for that boy. But while he was gone, a man came along and, as young women are wont to do, I ditched the boy for the man.

When the boy came back from Korea (hey, this wasn’t war. He was working as a civilian engineer in the late 1980s), I got the ring back.

When I finally settled down by myself in a Tucson apartment — Oh, glory! Freedom! — I would take the ring off in my sleep and it would end up on the ground. I’d wake up without it and search till I found it under the bed or on top of a stuffed animal.

All those years, my middle sister (I’m the youngest of three) coveted that ring. My mom did end up with plenty of other knickknacks and the magical box full of costume jewelry my sisters and I played with growing up.

But the ring was special because we’d never seen it before. And, naturally, Princess (that would be me) got it.

Last summer my parents, middle sister and I drove from Tucson to Minnesota for the funeral of Aunt Ruby, the last of my dad’s six aunts and uncles. To say the trip was a little emotional would be like saying Attila the Hun was kind of a bad guy. My sister and I held on to each other like life rafts.

When we finally got back to Tucson and my sister was preparing to return to her home so damned far away in North Dakota, I did something I’d wanted to do for years. I gave her that ring. We promised we would share it.

I get it back in 27 years.

What’s odd is, I don’t miss it. I don’t even notice it’s gone. Maybe that’s because it’s where it should be.

And I realized that even though it was hard letting it go, it was a relief and a joy to listen to my heart (Dad, don’t gag) and do what I knew was right.

This, inexplicably, led to another revelation.

I now ask for help, and am not embarrassed about doing so. As a result, my husband and family help me every single day to not drink. They use truth, guilt, threats, anger and love as necessary to keep me on the right track. Middle sister is bribing me: $1 a day for every day I don’t drink. Recently she said if I hit a certain number of days without imbibing she’ll double it. As I write this, I am 13 days from that goal.

I also ask strangers for help. I have to wear a heavy orthopedic boot since I broke my ankle in October. A few weeks ago, I stopped at a convenience store for a gallon of milk on my way home from work. I asked a guy to carry it to the counter. At another place buying tea on the way to work Friday, I asked a man for his arm so I could step off the tall curb safely.

I no longer put things off. I got a new desk, which my husband had to assemble. I shopped and shopped online and found one made of real wood for about $300, with free shipping. With all the medical bills from my ankle surgery, could we afford this? No. But I did it anyway.

I no longer pay full price for non-necessities. But I didn’t chintz on Christmas when it came to my mom. This woman has made afghans for virtually every one of my friends. Get sick, you get an afghan. Get pregnant, your baby gets an afghan.

So I found an awesome but pricey purse for her and bought it online. Then when I was able to actually walk without a walker, I went to the store and happened to find a wristlet that matched the purse. Got that and gave it to her right away. She’s in her mid-70s. I’ll be 50 in August. What was I going to do — save it for next Christmas?

I am drawing again. I’ve always drawn cartoons and flowers but I didn’t have terrific tools. An inferior pencil is more trouble than it is worth. So I found a set of good pencils and bought them — half price, of course — for a whopping 20 bucks.

I don’t lie in bed thinking of things I want to write, or worry that what I write is too personal. I rise before the sun is up, and get these words out of my system.

My aim is to not regret what I did not do.

In the words of Hillel the Elder, if not now, when?