Between Worlds: Dancing with Grief, Medicine, and Ancestral Wisdom

Mum & all 5 of her children. thanks Nana for the best Christmas ever

# Between Worlds: Dancing with Grief, Medicine, and Ancestral Wisdom

There's a peculiar beauty in how death weaves itself into the fabric of our lives - not always as the dark force we're taught to fear, but sometimes as a gentle transition guided by those who've gone before us. This was the case with my mother's passing last year, a journey that challenged everything I thought I knew about grief, spirituality, and the thin veil between worlds.

## The Final Dance

My mother's approach to her terminal diagnosis was anything but conventional. As a regular microdoser and a person who was always deeply connected to her spirituality, she received her two-year prognosis with a remarkable serenity. Rather than fear, she exhibited acceptance, methodically arranging her affairs and sharing her farewells. The universe, however, had its own timeline - she would only have four months with us on this plan.

Two months into the illness she changed her mind about accepting her fate and asked for treatment, but there was no treatment that would prolong her life as she had known it. Three months into her journey with cancer, something extraordinary occurred. My mother had a vivid dream that would prove prophetic. In it, she saw herself sitting in the hospital, dressed and prepared for departure, surrounded by suited officials. Then, unexpectedly, her deceased sister, Rose, appeared. Mom told the officials to gather her belongings, ready to leave with her big sister. But Aunty Rose had a different message: "Not yet, but don't worry. I'll return to guide you across personally."

When she shared this dream with us, we instinctively knew: we had about four weeks left with her. She passed away three and a half weeks later, just as the dream had foretold.

Mum advising my cousin Bra Joe. He is always the MC and my mum was always the advisor

Death is so strange, mum prepared, said what she wanted to say, put her affairs in order and waited. She wished for an easy end, without too much pain. she hoped to go like her own mother, died in her sleep. Mum had worked with old people before and hated the idea of a long drawn out illness full of pain. she did not want to be a burden. she did not want the indignity. I only helped her toilet twice and I would have done it a hundred times I hope, because it was an honour to help the woman who had loved me so so much during my life. In her final weeks I slept in reclining chair in her room so i could get up quickly if she needed pain relif. She'd managed on cannabis oil for a long time but in the final weeks a bottle that had lasted her a month lasted a week and I finally had to administer Morphine till she could sleep.

when she was taken into hospital the last time, we knew we were close to the end. It was Thursday and I selfishly hoped she would last till monday. The hospital were unusually nice as we made arrangements for her to return home to die in her own bed. I had an event the next day, so was helping my sister cook while fielding calls from event participants. I wanted her home so I could get on with what needed to be done in the sure knowledge that mum was down stairs. It was my first African Spiritual Practices Event where mum had not cut all the onions and garlic we would need. mum's eyes never watered when cutting onions.

mum 1973 with her brother Alfred, they were just 3 years apart and best friends, Uncle Fred still lives

We all left the hospital to prepare for her arrival back home. She wasnt speaking. she would look at us, only half here. we hovered round her bed, so many off us. I felt sorry for her 83 year old brother Alfred, They had been together all their lives. Her god daughter Pauline. I had been at the last moments of Pauline's mum's time on earth. Her god daughter and niece Abigail, a nurse, still talking to hospital staff and giving us updates about the ambulance. Then we all went home; in weird sad but satisfied mood.

I was home for about 4 hours when the final call came in. I thought it was to say the ambulance was on its way, but it was to say that mum had passed on. She had finally done it. oposit of being born. she had departed.

We rushed to the hospital to her warm, but lifeless body. I kinda cried, but it was stuck, because I was happy for her and sad for us. She was most likely with her sister and maybe even seeing and holding her mother for the first time in 50 years. Maybe she was meeting her father, a man she who died when mum was 3. she could be surrounded by all 6 of her siblings who had died over the last 30 years. Mum had to be more happy than sad about leaving us, because she hadn't really left us.

My little sister holding my mums hand, hours before mum died. I wanted to take a picture when I held her hand, but couldnt. I'm so happy Nana took this picture. It's so precious. They had the same delicate beautiful hands

## The Veil Thins

The day after her passing was my event African Spiritual Practices in East London. Throughout the weekend, I felt her presence physically - her hands supporting me by my shoulder blades, holding me up. My tears were so close, but never fell. Mum was so close to me, I could almost smell her.

As we organized the funeral, signs of her continued presence multiplied. Being Asante, we honor our dead thoroughly - six commemorations across two countries, with an anniversary celebration in planning for next year.

Mum with 2 out of her 14 grandchildren. it makes me wish I had more children. These 2 have many of their grandma's scraves and jumpers that they sometimes sleep in. Their parents still deal with the boys grief

She remained active in death as she had been in life, visiting my sisters in dreams, chiding them about funeral arrangements. Those with second sight in our community confirmed what we already felt - she was present, and she was content.

## Dancing Between Worlds

As someone who works with visionary plant medicines and embraces a belief system that acknowledges ancestors, I find myself in an unusual relationship with grief. Sometimes I wonder if my grief is stuck, but then I question - is it really stuck, or is it simply different?

The reality I've come to know is complex: she's gone, yet not gone. My intuition has expanded, seemingly nourished by a combination of plant medicine wisdom and my mother's ancestral presence. I feel connected not just to her, but to other ancestors, to plants, to elements - especially water. Being human feels expanded and complicated. I don't have enough words to properly explain, but I still wish for some wholely 3D human tears would come.

I think this picture was one of the last of mum with her last 2 remaining brothers. Big Uncle on the right was was 102 and uncle Alfred was 83. Mum was 79 and months from leaving us. As per usual they talked about their past, their parents and friends. My uncle Alfred spent £100s on herbal medicines. Mum took a few. I took the rest after she died.

## The Eternal Queue

Sometimes I wonder if I'm delusional for finding this grief journey less burdensome than expected. But then, as someone who works with medicines and plants, I've found myself experiencing more excitement and peaceful anticipation than sorrow.

It reminds me of standing in a queue outside a club in the late 1980s - you know you'll get in, you're buzzing with excitement, and while you can't quite tell what's happening inside, you're absolutely certain it's going to be magnificent.

This space between knowing and not knowing, between grief and joy, between the physical and spiritual - perhaps this is where the real dance happens. Maybe grief isn't always the heavy burden we're taught to expect. Sometimes maybe it's a doorway to something greater, an invitation to dance between worlds with those we love, whether they're physically present or not.

In loving memory of my mother, who taught me that the greatest adventures often begin where our conventional understanding ends.

I made this gold lace outfit for mum.

After mum died, came my full transit from dressmaker to medicine guide. It would never have happened had I not decided to spend 5 months in Ghana preparing for and arranging mums Ghana funeral.

This decision gave me time to visit the farm that grew the Iboga I took 8 years ago, and I discovered that they also grow the Caapi Vine and Chacruna leaves, which together make Ayahuasca. Ayahuasca is legal in Ghana, so I've moved back to Ghana. I feel mum in all my wise decisions. It's like I have obsorbed the best of her.

Almost 9 years ago, I left Ghana to look after Mum in the UK. While in the UK, I gave up my shops and business in Ghana. While in the UK, I never made enough money to even consider moving back to Ghana. Then Mum died, and everything changed and she's never left my side.

Thank you to the best mum through all realms.

Mum's last family party. Talking Okai, her 1st grandchild from my sister Nana. She had already told everyone that she had terminal cancer, but we really did think we had 2 full years with her. She really loved leopard skin & I never asked her why...

Mum and her brother Alfred about 3 years ago

mum and her big sister 90 year old Maame Akua

Mu

mum with a niece Sarah and nephew Akwesi. She loved all her siblings children