Ghosts and grieving

There's nothing to be afraid of (science says so)

They were my friends. This little boy and girl, around my age, who would run - gleefully - up and down the stairs of our cottage. I liked their presence. Yet, when I mentioned them to my mum and dad, one morning over breakfast, my parents looked at me strangely. There were no other children in the house. 

In 1932, two children were swept away in Roslin Glen. Take a walk in the woods and, look below, and you can see the frothy, violent current battering its way through the trees. Nature is ruthless. Their joint grave can be found, covered in moss, at the back of the church. Those children, I’m told, lived in the cottage I grew up in, until the age of five when we moved to Edinburgh.

They were my friends.

When I worked in a pub in Edinburgh, there was said to be a mischievous ghost who would move the mop bucket, playing tricks on whoever’s job it was to mop the basement bar. Similarly, down the stairs, and deep under street level, in the store room of a shop I worked at, there was an old fax machine. It would splutter on and off randomly, an uncommon chill in the air whenever it did so. 

I like ghost stories. I like the thrill of feeling a little bit scared, searching for signs within the shadows. But what if I woke up at midnight, with a jolt, and saw the ghost of my mum - silvery and ethereal - standing at the edge of my bed? I wouldn’t like that. Not at all.

The problem with ghosts, it’s said, is that they have unfinished business. They’re unhappy spirits who haven’t found their way. I’ve spoken before about how I believe in the afterlife, that I think it’s cruel - no matter what you believe - to tell someone bereaved they’re naive for putting faith in life after death. So, if mum were here, rattling about, it would mean that she was unhappy, desperately looking for something that I couldn’t offer her. I like to think that she takes breaks from exploring all of these other worlds, and visits me - a little holiday to her past life - just to check I’m doing OK. (I am.) 

But, saying that, I have created my own personal ghost - remnants of my mum that linger, following me wherever I go. And, it turns out that - whatever you believe - this is something (backed by science) that can help with the grieving process. 

I’ve spent the last few weeks speaking to a range of scientists, doctors and psychologists - all of whom have made it their life’s work to study bereavement, its impact and find scientifically-proven techniques that can help us live with our grief in a healthy way. This sort of research has been going on for decades and there are new findings all the time. 

It’s incredibly unhelpful, frustrating and offensive to hear, when grieving, “it’s time to move on now” or “you need to live your life and try to forget about them” but this messaging is rooted in early bereavement research. It’s pervasive in our society; a common view of what grieving should look like that says if you still hold onto their things, wear their clothing, visit their grave, even talk to them, then you’ve not “moved on.” You’re stuck and its unhealthy.

It began with Freud and it’s slowly being unpicked as not at all true. Researchers in the 20th century stuck by his standpoint that any energy invested in remembering a deceased person was detracting from energy that could be placed in our living, breathing friends, family and perhaps future romantic relationships. But, most people who have lost someone, can’t imagine a world where they could forget the person they loved existed. Pretend that they didn’t have a monumental impact on their lives. 

Even when I couldn’t remember her, I strived to keep my mum close by. I insist - no matter how stumbling drunk my friends are - that we sing Auld Lang Syne, the fireworks still raining down on us just after midnight, every Hogmanay. I hang ornamental eggs on a budding branch at Easter. These are things she did. 

I wear her clothes, her long baggy jumper as a dress, knotting it at the waist or tie her scarves onto loops on my jeans. Some days I cover myself in her perfume, inhaling its powdery scent. My best friend wore that same scent on her wedding day, I spritzed it on her just before she walked down the aisle. 

These are rituals I adopted as I found they made me feel better. I love keeping her alive, as a powerful element in my life, however I can. I’ve crafted my very own ghost. Scientifically, it turns out, I am onto something. A study by Michael Norton and Francesca Gino (and pointed out to me by resilience researcher Dr Lucy Hone, who also runs courses in how to handle grief’s rollercoasters) discovered that maintaining rituals returns a feeling of control to the bereaved, and people who do so experience lower levels of grief. 

The rituals don’t have to be religious - it can be something as simple as carrying on with a hobby or activity that person liked, or, wearing a piece of jewellery. Once a year I’ll sit down and read about my mum’s life and (now that I can, for a long time this was impossible) look at photos of her. It’s all about (which is backed up by even more research) carrying on that bond with her, even though her physical presence is no longer here (I spoke about this a lot with Mary-Frances O Connor who is an expert on what happens in our brains during grief, you can read our conversation here) 

If I was doing this constantly or cancelling real-world plans to pore over photos, chatting away to her and neglecting the others in my life, then I’d be inclined to agree with Freud. Some behaviours in grief aren’t healthy, particularly if you’re ruminating and feel stuck or obligated doing things that hold you back. 

When I sprayed that perfume on Verity’s neck, I wished mum was there. I would love for mum to witness our friendship. And when I hang the eggs on the Easter tree, I miss her deeply. But I also feel an intense amount of joy, I’m so proud of her and what she can still bring to my life. The droplets of her ghost are felt in a spritz of Oscar De La Renta, slivers of her soul are inside the hollows of those ornamental eggs. Her presence is felt… but it’s not haunting in the slightest.

What rituals do you have in place that help you remember your person?