My brother also came back from the dead to comfort me
How brave of nononsense former City superwoman Nicola Horlick to reveal that her daughter Georgie, who died from leukaemia aged 12, returned as ‘a palpable presence’ to help her grieving sister.
And that Georgie told her little sister it was time to stop thinking of her as a sickly, bald child in a hospital bed and remember her as the wild red-haired big sister she had frolicked with. Nicola’s story struck a chord with huge numbers of Mail readers — as well as with me.
My big brother Michael died of cancer nearly three decades ago.
Towards the end, he was a shadow of the boisterous, sporty, fun-loving bloke I’d grown up with, and confined to a hospital chair with an oxygen tank by his side.
The day before he died, he mustered the strength to visit me at our parents’ house, his legs swathed in bandages, wearing the blue shirt I’d bought him for Christmas knowing he would not wear it for long.
Asking him why he’d come when he was so poorly, he said he wanted me to have happy memories of the family all together. ‘Please don’t remember me like this,’ he said.
For years all my memories were blinded by grief. I was haunted by images of him so desperately frail.
And yet, when I was very ill and feeling down a few years ago, Michael came to see me long after he died. He sat on my bed and held out his hand and told me it would all be oK and that he was watching over me.
Just like he had been in life — whether it was chasing off an unwanted suitor or driving miles to collect me from a party, he was always there for me before he died.
And when Michael comes to me now, as he still does, he isn’t the sick brother dying of cancer, but the Michael I grew up with — strong and healthy with a wicked smile, teasing me by saying: ‘Get a grip Mandy, it’s not the end of the world.’
It isn’t a dream. I’m wide awake. Michael sits there, as large and real as life, taking my hand and reassuring me. It is a feeling of comfort beyond imagining.
That’s why I believe those who love us visit us from beyond the grave.
As does Paul McCartney, who wrote Let It Be after his mother Mary came to him years on from her death when he was a teenager, I take solace in those words. when I find myself in times of trouble, in my hours of darkness, my brother Michael comes to me, whispering words of wisdom, let it be.