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We usually think of the dead as haunting the living, that our loved ones keep returning, reminding us that they are not gone that perhaps they have outwitted death. But in time, I have come to see, that it’s not the dead that haunt the living, but, it is we, the living, who haunt the dead. We, the ones left behind, are the ghosts.
As therapists we encounter patients, every day, gutted by personal loss and grief. This paper of personal loss, of being a Ghostmother, offers a perspective from the other side of heartbreak. Offering hope you will see beyond the pain of loss and glean ideas for recovery and resilience in your patient’s and possibly, your own lives.
The day of my daughter’s funeral was one of those sunny and clear August days. I could hear them call my name but from a place so far away
“Kerry?”
I turned my head slowly and found my family staring at me. I tried to meet my sisters’ eyes, to focus on what they were asking. They were discussing how to get to the cemetery. Who would drive with whom? In which car? In what order? My husband, Alan, had gone with our sons to pick up his parents. They were all asking me for directions. I was the only one who knew the way there.
My words seemed to speak themselves. “We should caravan.” I said. “I’ll drive at the front of the line. You all follow behind … It’s okay, I’m fine.”
We somehow arranged ourselves into cars and minivans. I was aware of my younger daughter, Anna, in the passenger’s seat next to me and tried to compose myself so she wouldn’t worry about me.
Pulling out of our street, I took a right and then a left. After driving a block or two I realized I was going the wrong way. I hit the brakes and took a sharp U-turn. The cars following, mimicked my awkward move, as they struggled to cross the oncoming traffic.
Then my mind flipped again.
I was supposed to be on that other road. What was I doing?