Dearest Rachel –
I’m not sure what you’re likely to make of this letter; the topic isn’t exactly one of the most interesting to discuss (although it’s certainly one that might come up from time to time between a married couple, I suppose, just like any major expenditure). I’ll try to make it reasonably engaging, but consider yourself warned. Don’t blame me if you start nodding off while reading about it.
With that out of the way, let me start by telling you that it wouldn’t have occurred to me to consider on my own. When I’m ‘working’ at the ‘office’ (and you’ve probably noticed by now that I almost always put both those words in quotes whenever I use them. I don’t consider much of what I do at the folks’ place to be work, as such; even the data entry stuff I do for camp, which is about as close to the real work I used to do back in the day, doesn’t feel like anything I’m compelled to do as part of an employment contract, and so I can’t take any of it seriously as ‘work.’ And likewise, if I’m not doing work, it doesn’t quite feel like I’m ‘at the office,’ either. So, while it’s the best way to describe it to someone else, to give them a rough idea of what I do all day, to actually call what I do and where I go ‘working’ at an ‘office’ doesn’t – and likely never will – feel right for me to say), Mom and Dad will occasionally come downstairs for one or another thing. Hey, it’s their house; they have stuff to do and pick up from down there, after all.
In particular, Mom will pass by my desk on her way to and from the pantry, and will occasionally stop and chat with me, as to what and how I’m doing. Fairly ordinary stuff, you can imagine. But I guess she saw me fiddling with your ring; after over two years of going without, I’m still not used to wearing one, especially on my dominant hand. I also don’t want it to get stuck on my finger, as I don’t wish to sleep wearing it or get my hand too wet (I promise, I will make an exception for when I take your ashes to Lake Erie; swirling your diamond in the water while the rest of you is released into the waters of Schoolhouse Bay will fulfill your request, at least in a symbolic fashion) while wearing it, so I feel the need to ensure that I can remove it with a minimal amount of pain or effort. Thus, the occasional twisting of it on my finger, which got her attention. But the topic she brought up, while not precisely out of nowhere, was not something I expected.
“Have you considered insuring your ring?”
Huh.
Well, as you can probably guess, the short answer to that is “no.” I hadn’t so much as thought about the concept. Which then begs the question… should I?
And this is where I can’t quite answer the question. Considering what I paid for it, and the fact that it is made of precious metal and stones, there is a certain value to it, which could be made up for in monetary recompense, were it to be lost or stolen. So the idea of doing so does make a fair amount of sense.
But the point of insurance, from my perspective, is to make up (at least financially) for whatever has been lost (which, by taking out the policy, is what you’re betting on happening; or at least, hedging against the possibility). Auto insurance is to cover whatever it takes to repair or replace one’s car; likewise with home insurance. Those, to me, make sense, even if they’re (hopefully) unlikely occurrences. Life insurance gets a little more murky, as there’s no doubt you’ll claim on it – everyone eventually dies, after all. The trick is to get out more than you paid in – and since life insurance companies exist (suggesting that they’re making a profit, because who would go into such a business when you’re guaranteed to lose?), the odds of that happening aren’t particularly good. You managed to make yours pay off, but everyone acknowledges that what happened to you was freakish.
And while money may be better than no money, something like life insurance doesn’t really do what I think of it being meant to do. I can get a new car or house, but I can’t get you back; it’s part of why I didn’t bother to make a claim against the camp after the accident. What would be the point? I couldn’t get you back, or replace you (okay, some would say that, with enough money, I could find someone to take your place. Personally, I think there’s a term for women who could be bought with money, and I wouldn’t marry one of them, that’s for sure).
So, what does that have to do with the ring? It’s just metal and a few gemstones, right? It can be replaced. Well… yes and no. For now, yes, I could still have it recreated, as I still have your ashes, and could sent them to the lab again (or another one; I will confess to not having shopped around for such places when I did this). But after May 2025, when you’re finally cast adrift, there will be no replacing you, or what was left of you. It’s not the stone that’s important, but what it’s made out of – even if it is “only carbon,” it was your carbon. Could I get that back? I don’t think so.
I could tell you how much it cost to turn you into a diamond, how much the ring and setting cost, and take out a policy on it for that replacement value. But once it becomes irreplaceable, what does that value really mean? All the money in the world won’t bring back the stone made of your ashes, etched with a microscopic message meant merely for me:
Since I can’t attach a value to any of that, I don’t know if insuring it is worthwhile. As always, I would ask your advice, but if I could actually get it, none of this would exist or be necessary in the first place.
So for now, I’m just telling you about it all, while asking you to continue to keep an eye on me. Oh, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 