Giving Up the Ghost
Ghosting is a new term, but not a new concept.
To give up the ghost means to expire or die, or in the case of a mechanical object, to stop working. The phrase give up the ghost may be traced back to the King James Bible, printed in the early 1600s. The term is used in several places in the Bible, including Mark 15:37: “And Jesus cried with a loud voice, and gave up the ghost.” The phrase is usually translated in these times as giving up one’s spirit, rather than ghost.
Ghosting, on the other hand, is a relatively new colloquial term that refers to abruptly cutting off contact with someone without giving that person any warning or explanation for doing so. It’s called ghosting because it involves someone essentially “vanishing” into thin air as if they were a ghost.
Ghosting is often seen as an immature or passive-aggressive way to end a relationship. The person doing the ghosting often wants to avoid confrontation or dealing with someone else’s hurt feelings, so they simply cease all communication and hope the hint is delivered.
Ghosting offers no explanation for why the relationship ended. For the person who has been ghosted, it can lead to significant feelings of rejection, guilt, grief, and shame. The “ghostee” may be left wondering what this says about them, but ghosting says more about the person who cuts off contact than the person who is ghosted.
A long-time friend of Mother’s was the master of ghosting, way before there was a term for it. For decades, we watched as she fostered, cared, fed, shared, and then — nothing. Nada. Done. Cut. Cut. Cut. And never, not once, did she look back. We were amazed at her resolve. We loved her and understood why she approached life this way, but the level of stubbornness required was truly impressive. And then, one day, she ghosted Mother. Just like that, a 40-year friendship came to an end, without any explanation.
The grieving lasted ten years.
In my adult lifetime, I’ve been ghosted four times. The first two just… disappeared. I managed to figure out what I had done, and to this day, wish I could apologize and explain. I also wish they felt they could discuss it with me, that the friendship was strong enough and valuable enough to work through it.
The other two were alcoholics, and basically ripped me apart before departing, and to this day, I have no idea where the attack came from or why. Though I felt just as gut-punched, I feel confident that I am the one who deserves an apology.
And I still care for all four. Today, the first and I speak when we encounter each other, the second moved and faded away except for the occasional mention. The third has completely fallen off the face of the earth, and the fourth has been sober a year and will soon finish her doctorate degree. I stalk them on social media when they come to mind, to see how they are doing. It’s stupid really, because it still makes my heart hurt, and still fills me with regret.
Ten years after “The Great Ghosting of Mother,” (during which two former BFFs living five blocks apart did not speak or see each other), by some fluke of the universe, the two strong-willed and stubborn (but now bent and wobbly) women ended up with their weekly standing hair appointments scheduled one after the other.
And soon enough, they faced each other on the front porch of the salon. One with her cape and cane, the other seated and smoking with her new knees crossed. I remember when they had matching beehives, one blonde, and one black. Today, they sport more practical styles, all white.
“Do I know you?” Mother asked.
“I don’t know,” the other replied. “Do you know me?”
And after a ten-year hiatus, their lifetime conversation began again, with no mention of the decade-long interruption. For the first time in history, Mother’s friend “gave up the ghost,” and reconnected with the previously deleted. I told Mother she deserved a medal. Never, ever, ever did we expect a reprieve.
I’m pleased. It wasn’t like it was before, but I too am happy to be around someone who was Mother’s friend when I was a child, but became my friend too as I grew into an adult. Not many of Mother’s friends remain who remember my father, knew me as a child, know the whole family history. There’s a reason that new friends are silver, and old friends are gold.
And, it gives me faith that someday, I too can find myself sitting on a porch, swapping recipes, memories, and updates with ghosts.