I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.

At 25, I’m young to be on chemo, but I guess that’s just life. It can be tough, but there’s never a point in feeling sorry for yourself – at 25, I’m lucky enough that the rest of me is fit enough to cope with the treatment, unlike many I see on my regular hospital trips.

The most difficult bit, for me, is what comes after treatments. Right now, I’m neutrapenic – this is when, a few weeks after treatment, your immune system just goes ‘Nope’ and a minor sniffle can become a major chest infection. Then there’s the night sweats, the insomnia, nausea, etc.

But never fear. As I lie in bed, right next to an open window, in Britain, in January, to keep the temperature down, I have something to keep me company: Ghost Adventures.

I know, right?

So here’s the thing. I have a big confession to make: I believe in ghosts. Goodness me, that was harder than coming out. But it’s true, I believe.

I wasn’t always a believer, then something happened which my sceptical mind could not debunk in any way. Then more things happened, on an increasingly regular basis. I genuinely thought if I told anyone, I’d be locked in a loony bin. A friend, who is also a believer, told me to watch Ghost Adventures. And I’m addicted. As I watch, my inner sceptic tries to debunk it as an entertainment show. But the work of Zak, Nick and Aaron is less entertainment, and more proof that – if they aren’t real – I’m not the only crazy person.

So what’s the connection between chemo and Ghost Adventures? Well, I started watching when I was on treatment. Going through this kind of thing inevitably makes you question your mortality etc, and your faith. I’ve never been a church-goer, but freely admit to at least hoping for a deity, mainly because the idea of such gives me comfort through harder times.

Again, what about Ghost Adventures?

Well, knowing that maybe, somehow, there is something after, it makes me not scared. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t going nowhere for a loooonnngg time, but it’s good to know that there’s a possibility of something else.

Maybe that’s a selfish thing. Maybe the hope that I can stick around to haunt my friends and drive them nuts tell them they are loved is just a selfish idea that the world couldn’t get by without my consciousness in it. But then, I can be a pretty selfish person – as can everyone.

The more I watch, the more convinced I am. Conversations with the dead through spirit boxes may seem like paranormal guff, but it lends hope.

And above all of that, it makes me know that my experiences with shadows, feelings, goosebumps, even conversations are not (always) the result of insanity. Unless all of Ghost Adventures is faked. In which case, please inform the loony bin of my arrival.

Christ, leave me alone

I had a very interesting moment recently. I was walking home, avec une tres jollie belle, after a rather successful date. (I say after. We were clearly mid-date, but that’s not for telling here…oh, alright. We had a really hot, steamy…mug of chocolate before I wished her farewell and moseyed to bed on my own). I have to walk past my local church in order to get to my street, and we were wandering past just as an evening ‘session’ had finished at the church. (Not being of institutionalised faith, not sure what this should be called. Mass? Prayer time? Show?).

Now, I wear a very small crucifix around my neck because while I am not of institutionalised faith, I hold hope for a deity and identify most with this shape of talisman. It could be a Wiccan pentagram, an all seeing eye, whatever – it is what comforts me to have as my touchstone and that is my own belief to be held to myself.

I do not expect to be questioned – nay, reprimanded – by members of the church as I walk by. When I say this is a small crucifix, it is precisely that – no more than 4cm tall. You have to look hard for it. An elderly woman and not-so-elderly man were leaving the church, and saw my date and I holding hands.

“Disgusting.” Said she.

We continued on, ignoring the ones who wish not to change with the times (and yet were quite ready to jump into their 4×4, but oh no, technology doesn’t count as ‘changing times’).

“Excuse me, deary. Excuse me.” I was being tugged on the sleeve. I looked down to see the old lady had followed me. “Are you a Christian?” She jabbed at my necklace.

I hate this question, especially from religious types, because it’s a difficult answer to give.

“I don’t believe in organised religion but I hope there is something guarding and guiding me to the be the best person I can be.”

She tutted. She actually tutted.

“You are a disgrace to all things holy.” This was said with accompanying finger-wag.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“No need to apologise to me, you should get inside that church and apologise to God for being such an abomination with this piece of skirt.”

At this point, I could have done one of a few things:

1. Hit her over the head with my handbag, the old lady equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet.

2. Smiled politely, and walked away. (Which is, by the way, the wimp option. Of which I am not).

3. Told her to mind her own business.

What I probably should not have done is this.

I should probably not have launched into a rant about gay marriage, to a woman who clearly could not even comprehend that I would want to even hold hands with another girl in public.

About halfway through, when I was on the point of ‘it’s all about the semantics, really’, the elderly woman starting moaning. As in, actually moaning, like I was tormenting her. Her male companion, who was probably with her as her escort from whatever place of mental peace she usually resided, stepped in.

“Her husband was a vicar.”

“Why does that – ”

“Her son left home not long ago.”

“Again, how – ”

“To be with Pedro.”


Turning to the woman, I tried my best I’m-really-sorry-for-you face.  I could have been gracious, understanding. I could have delved into whatever guiding deity I claimed to believe in to find the right words.

But no.

Before I knew it, this came spewing forth:

“Ha. Gutted.”

My hand flew to my mouth, while my date just giggled. (This, dear reader, is why the only hot steamy action was hot chocolate-related. I hate myself for my response which, while entertaining now, was completely wrong and incredibly rude, and was not said to impress or entertain her in any way. Lady, if you’re reading, feel free to call me…in a few years).

I tried to backtrack, to apologise, but it wasn’t working. So I bowed (actually bowed), backed away and left this poor, judgemental and confused old woman to be led away by her sniggering companion. (He too, found this hilarious).

If I see her again (likely, she’s a regular), I’ll be sure to apologise. But it did make me think a lot about the whole gay marriage argument. I realised that my view might not fit entirely with others of my persuasion – because I actually understand the Church’s protection of the sanctity of marriage based on the traditional use of the term.

What I do NOT agree with, is how it currently stands – hetero couples have marriage, same sex couples have civil partnerships, but neither can have the other. I understand the tradition and semantics behind marriage within religion – and consequently the difficulty in having a religious ceremony when (most) religions believe that homosexuality is a sin.

Why not give straight people the option for civil partnerships? Give us ALL some equality by recognising that marriage no longer has to be within a religious context in order to be recognised by the state. I do not believe in organised religion, and one of these reasons is very much because I could not reconcile my orientation with holy scripture; I realise that in order to follow (most) organised faiths I would need to deny much of what is in my very nature. I tried being straight, for a long time, but I have absolutely no interest in men. To deny myself would be denying the essence of being on this earth – to live, to enjoy life and to be free.

At the end of the argument, what it all boils down to is semantics. Marriage is associated with religion – fine, they can keep it. But at least give hetero couples the opportunity to not be locked into a religious contract if they do not wish to do so, and provide us some equality at the same time by making civil partnerships universal. (It should be noted, particularly to non-UK readers, that we DO have ‘civil ceremonies’ for hetero couples, which are non-religious, but as I understand it, the union thereafter is still referred to as a marriage; civil partnerships are not, for the sake of definition by the state).  There is deliberate segregation of hetero and same sex couples by the state by this simple wordplay, and it needs to be resolved.

Otherwise how else am I going to explain to the old lady why Pedro and her son are still living in the States?