Darling, Anderson.

My mom wrote and recorded this message to me for years before she died.

In every life you have moments of blinding beauty and happiness. And then your land in a dark cave. And there is no color, no sky. Then the rainbow returns. Sometimes only briefly. We are not meant always to be happy. And who would want to be? Happiness would become meaningless if it were a constant state. If you accept that and you will not be surprised when something bad occurs, you will not gnash your teeth and ask why me? Why is this happened to me? It has happened to you because that is the nature of things. No one escapes. Nothing is meant to last forever. We are told. The fable ends with a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But does it? I have no answer except to say, I know the rainbow comes and goes. And really, isn't that enough? Your adoring mom.

I really miss hearing her voice. And, it's funny because all the things that used to frustrate or stress me out about her, that's all gone. Hearing her voice now I just hear her almost childlike enthusiasm, her optimism, and her humor. And most of all, I hear the love that she had for me and the trust that she had in me. I mentioned recently that I've felt stuck in my grief. But listening to my mom, I realize now for the first time that the grief I feel for her is very different than the grief I feel over my dad and brother's deaths and my nanny May. I had a life time with my mom. She died at 95, and while I miss her, I don't feel robbed. There's no horror or rage at her passing. It is. I see very clearly right now the grief of an adult. And I see very clearly how the grief I feel over my brother and father and May is the grief. A child feels a mixture of horror and heartbreak, fear and rage. Maybe I have made some progress after all. Whatever progress means. At least now I can allow myself to look at the many layers of my grief and feel them long enough to analyze their dimensions and origin. It's no longer just one huge, ever expanding black hole of oblivion that I'm running from. And I have many of you who are listening. To thank for that. I've been playing your voicemails this past week. I've received more than 2200 of them so far, and the number 19177276818. We'll be working for several more weeks if you want to call. Hearing your voices and your stories the names of your loved ones. I couldn't stop crying. Well, I normally try to shut that down pretty quickly. I didn't this past week, and I'm glad. In this episode, I'm going to play some of your calls. I want you to hear what I heard in your messages, because it's so confirmed to me that I. You. None of us is alone in our sadness and in our struggles. And I know it feels like we are. I've felt alone for so long. But what Frances Weller said in the first episode of this season is really true.

Grief when we're really in it. We are in the commons of the soul. Any time you walk down the street. Any pair of eyes you look into, they will know loss. No one's been excluded from that club. One of the most, if not the most common human experience is one of loss. The one you're in a grief phobic culture. That language. Those comments don't get to be visited.

For the next half hour or so, I want you to visit the commons of the soul with me.

My name is Mary Lahikainen and calling because I want you to know my son's name. Ian. Sorry, Ian. Alexander Lahikainen is my only child. Is 25. When diagnosed with brain cancer. The worst glioblastoma. We were told from the beginning it would take his life away. So it went on for a number of years. But he was left with daily seizures. His longtime girlfriend left too much for her. He planned to marry her. It was just the three of us mom, dad and Ian. The time was full of love and laughter, but also terrifying MRI to see if the other shoe, as they put it, finally dropped. October of 2019. They offered to try to just keep him alive. No more talk of a cure. This meant constantly as the hospital. Ian wanted to stop. I didn't want to lose him. I talked to them for three weeks. And finally on Halloween, I asked him to tell me what he really wanted. I want to stay home, mum. I want to live, not just survive, he said. Even if you know it could happen, I ask. Yes. He said. I said. Okay, I'll tell everyone to stop calling. No more appointments, no less. No in their eyes. My heart was breaking. Ian looked at me with a huge smile. Oh man, I'm so happy. On February 29th, 2020, I held in in my arms. I could feel his heart pounding in my chest. I said, it's all right and I got you. I love you. And I felt his heart stop. I was the first to hold in when he was born, and I was the last thing he has to see, smiled and told me I was his best friend. What a gift that was. All throughout his life, we were goofy pals. You knew that he was my favorite human. I can't offer much because I'm so lost without him.

Mary, I've listened to your message dozens of times, and I've said your son's name, Ian Alexander Lahikainen allowed into the universe over and over. And I hope people listening will say his name out loud as well.

My name is Linda. My dear friend knew exactly what to say when I called her to tell her our son Matthew had died by suicide at age 24. She said, I will say his name and I will remember and talk about Matthew forever to everyone I know. The worst thing that could ever have happened to us. Our only child was gone. We feared he would be forgotten. My friends let me know with those sweet words that Matthew would continue to be talked about and remembered beyond our memories of him. It was the most beautiful, generous gift and I will never forget her perfect words.

Many of you who called spoke about that feeling of being lost, the pain of it. And many of you have learned that talking about it is the only way through.

My name is Sarah. I live just outside of Chicago. My husband and I lost our first baby. At about six months ago. Six months pregnant. One of the things that I have come to understand is that my grief is useful to other people who are in grief, and their grief is useful to me. Sort of like driving in a whiteout snowstorm. If you see that there are headlights in front of you. It helps you feel like there's a path that you are on and there is space to move forward.

I love that description of headlights in a blazer that help you feel that you're not alone, and that there is a path ahead.

Hi, Anderson. I lost my second child some years back to a really rare genetic condition, and it was completely devastating, as you can imagine. He was an infant and I was able to test for it with subsequent children and lost two other pregnancies, and also had two more living children after that. So I have three loving children right now and I learned a lot from it. I absolutely believe that he was meant to be here. I was meant to be his mother. There's so much love around that. And I'm so glad that I was, you know, able to hold him as he died. I think that being a witness to the death of someone that you love is it's amazing. It's an honor. But he's he's not something that's a taboo subject. If he comes up in conversation, if I'm talking to somebody, if they ask how many kids I have and it feels appropriate, I mention it. I feel like making the loss of a loved one where you don't talk about the person. I actually think that that can make working with it more difficult, and I feel grateful that my son, Jordan, has been incorporated into our family as just a part of our lives. He he was my kids' brother. He was my husband's child.

So many of you called in to emphasize the importance of talking, and also to mention specific things that people have said to you that that have been helpful.

My name is Sarah, and my first daughter, Clara was born and died unexpectedly at birth, on December 28th of 2015. I have another daughter as well, and so people ask, how many children do you have, is this your only one? and I made a decision right then and there whether or not I'm going to share about Clara. And often I do, because she is part of our family. And while I'm often met with silence, as though the person who asked that question didn't even hear me when I say, well, actually I have two, but my first daughter died at birth. Even though I am often met with with that reaction, I continue to share, because one of the things that I have found is that the more I share, the more people open up to me and they tell me their stories. There's a lot of connection that can be made, and I have met some of the kindest of people through my sharing, and that has helped me and hopefully helps others.

Hi, my name is Mariana Yamadi and I just wanted to share one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me in my grief. My father passed away in 2017, my mother passed away in 2018, and I befriended a small group of older women. And one day I just started weeping and one of the older women gently asked me, what was she like? What was your mother like? And to be honest, I didn't even know how to answer that. I had realized that all the questions that I've been asked in the last two years with my parents passing were what happened to them? When did they die? How did they die? And here this woman was asking me about my mom as a person. And so every time that I find out that someone has lost someone, I really try to ask something personal. Like, what was their name? What was your favorite memory?

Mariana. I've taken that advice and I've seen the difference that it makes.

My name is Grayson Williams Krebs. My mom died at a young age, and I feel like when people found out this fact, it was like, mental note never bring up moms in front of Grayson. It was isolating and it was uncomfortable. I realized that not talking about my mom was not only keeping me from telling other people about the life she lived, but also to not talk about my mom. It's not recognize my strength and who I am today. So I wanted to change this. I started bringing cheesecake, her favorite dessert, to work, on her birthday. I had tulips around the house more her favorite flowers, and I started wearing her clothes more and telling me like a badge of honor. These are hers. Then that's when things changed. On the anniversary of her passing, which we need to have a better word for that day, what are we calling it these days? My friends are sending me tulips. At restaurants they ordered cheesecake, and then I was able to tell them stories about my mom. It's like I gave them this invitation to talk about her. And then in doing so, I didn't have to carry the weight of grief alone. I got to share it with friends, and grief weirdly turned into this really beautiful thing. Grief does not have to be scary when we can do it together.

We'll be right back with more of your calls.

Welcome back. There are so many different kinds of grief and so many layers to it. Sally received a cancer diagnosis that changed her life forever.

My name is Sally Wolfe. I live in Manhattan. I am 47, and for the past four and a half years, it has been a stage four incurable breast cancer. And one of the things that I focused on a lot is the loss of the image I had of my future self, which is just as important to grieve as the loss of loved ones, and at the same time finds the strength to see what gifts that loss may coexist beside. So, for example, I was considering becoming a mother on my own, which was a lifelong dream of mine to have children, and I put a hold on that plan, possibly forever. On the heels of three consecutive cancer diagnoses. And yet at the same time, I am an empty to three amazing little humans who are almost nine, almost seven, and almost five. And I honestly never knew it could be this magical to be an anti. So while I grieve the loss of motherhood as I envisioned it. I also welcome the gifts that I have found in the incredible relationships I have with my nephew and nieces.

So many of you are grieving as a result of cancer.

Hi, my name is Kristen. My son's a brain cancer survivor. And, there's, the child that he was going to be when he was born. And then the same thing happened to him, and it forever altered him. He was two and a half when he was diagnosed, and then he was three and a half when he relapsed. But, you know, 30 sessions of radiation takes a toll on the brain, and it altered him, and he'll be forever altered from it. And there's the grief of who he was going to be before that happened.

While often we think of grief, his sadness for the passing of someone we loved and will miss. There can be so many dimensions to it.

'I have never said anything like this before, but my dad was extremely emotionally abusive to me pretty much every day of my life, and there were times I hoped for him to be dead because I knew I deserved to be free. But he was also a very beloved and well-respected doctor in our small community. And when he died, there were hundreds of people at his funeral coming up to me and my mom, my sister, telling us what a wonderful person he was. So there is the difficulty and all the complexities that's wrapped up in mourning someone who you also need to be free from.

Lisa called in about the death of her father, who was an alcoholic.

It is perfectly okay to love them, to honor and be grateful for the good things they brought into your life. And the key part for me that I have never heard from anyone in 36 years, is acknowledge that your life is easier without them in it. I love my father and my life is easier without him in us and it's been 36 years since he passed, and I've never heard anyone say that. And it's been my truth all along, and I hope that it's helpful for someone.

My name is Sarah and I am from Arkansas. I lost my dad to lung cancer in 2006. I was 32. He was a musician and an artist. He was an alcoholic and I grieved him little by little in my life. I'd miss him because he'd be playing a gig or unfortunately, on a bender at a bar. We got closer, closer to his death when I was 32, and he always told me, Sarah, you have so much moxie. I'm now almost 50 this July, and my husband Patrick and I have a daughter. Her name is Moxie. Because it is the memory I have of what he would endearingly called me. And he would have loved Moxie. There's so much alike, their wit, their sense of humor, their love of music. And she is ten years old. All these years later, there's still a little bit of grief, but I see so much of him in Moxie. So it is a constant reminder of the good things.

And Sarah, I'm so glad that you and your dad were able to get closer toward the end of his life. And I love the name moxie. One of the things we've talked about over the last two seasons are anniversaries and birthdays, and how hard they can be. These next few listeners have found ways to celebrate their loved ones and feel less alone in their sadness.

My brother's death day is in about a week, and one thing that I do is I celebrate the day instead of, acknowledging the pain of it solely because I know I'm going to have those feelings. He loves thrills. He loves, rollercoasters in amusement park. So I, I go to roller coaster parks and I ride roller coasters and, it helps me. It's cathartic to scream on roller coasters. And instead of a looming sad day on the calendar, I have a fun day at amusement park mixed with grief, which is sort of my existence.

My dad passed away over 25 years ago and it was such an ache, such a void. The man loved a good parking place. He love he kind of stop signs. It just seemed like my dad was the patron saint of parking. And we called him that. And after he passed away, it was the darndest thing. It was such a heartache and a void. But over the years, every time we get a good parking place, we all say, thanks, dad. And it really is. We have a giggle. It's a real force of remembering and a moment of of being back in our lives. And what started as an ache and ended up becoming a family, sort of ongoing love and in humor.

That I love that the patron saint of parking.

My name is Reverend Rachel Hollander. I have an area in my house that started out as what I call the Guardian Wall, which is, I put pictures up of those who I have, who have left, and I let them, you know, keep an eye on me. And so now there's, like, a shelf of tokens and souvenirs and items, and then all the photographs of everyone. And included in those souvenirs and tokens and items are parts of my life that have that have fallen away. And it it helps me feel loved. And it reminds me that I'm never alone, that they are always just a breath away and. And don't tell anybody but sometimes I do talk to them and they talk back.

I used to talk to my mom. When I was driving. We always lived far apart from each other. And so when I would hop in the car, I would give for her call. He hadn't come. It was hard when she died. Because I didn't have to talk to in the car anymore. But the other day I was driving. And it just suddenly occurred to me to talk to her anyway, so that's what I did. You know. I've done it a couple of times now and it feels great. That huge empty hole where I used to talk to her. Now it's filled with conversations about things that you know are happening in my life. Things like that. May sound silly to be just talking to the air, but it's really helped. Which probably can't tell since I'm crying, but it really has.

Well, these past few months I've found myself talking to my dad and brother and May and. And yeah, while he sounds silly to some, it doesn't sound silly to me. And yeah, it does help. It's hard for anyone whose grief isn't recognized. And I've heard from a number of you who've lost beloved animals. And it's not just the pain of the loss that you spoke of, but the way it's been treated by some people around you.

Hi, Anderson. I'm snuggling with my sweet. Dog tonight, knowing that tomorrow I'm going to have to say goodbye. He's been my only constant. Since I was 25 years old. She sawe me grow up. And. I just know that there's never going to be a kind of love like this ever again. I just want to let other people know who we're going through the loss a beloved animal that it's okay. It's okay to grieve. Don't worry what other people think. Animals are the only thing capable of unconditional love. And I'm going to try so hard just to remember all the lessons my sweet, Nelly girl taught me,.

For many people, the loss of a pet is the loneliest kind of grief. They're the witnesses to our lives. Sometimes the only witness there's a reason to come home. They can be the only tether to the world for some people. And they represent the end of an era of our lives. So the grief can be incredibly lonely and isolating, as it's rarely taken as seriously as human loss. So what I've learned is to seek out others who understand the depth of that loss, and don't worry about those who don't. Because your grief is real and as legitimate as any other grief. Rest in peace.

While I still haven't made much progress the last several weeks, going through any of the boxes of things belonging to my mom and dad and brother, they're still in my basement, just waiting. Shannon left this message about it.

When we are holding on to these things like Anderson has been doing with his mom. Think that's how my mom partners children are with his belongings I think that's not them. And when we weight ourselves down that these things then we can slow the transformation process and we can't become who we are meant to become without that person. Because I don't believe that we are meant to be with our beloved every minute of our lifetime.

I find that notion of grief as a process of transformation really interesting. Becoming who were meant to become without the loved one who's died, and the idea that we're not meant to be with our beloveds all our life. I don't know, maybe it sounds obvious to you, but I keep thinking about it, and I find it comforting in a way. With grief, so much changes over time. And I want you to hear from some listeners who are in different places in their grief.

My name is Erin and I'm from Michigan. My parents died in March of 2021. My mom had dementia. My dad was overwhelmed with fear and pain and watching her decline. My dad took my mom's life and then took his own. I didn't know how to even begin to understand what had happened. I felt overwhelmed with grief. I received some advice from a friend who had recently lost her husband. She told me to simply begin by choosing the next thing that I could do. Small things like getting a drink of water or making something to eat or going for a walk. In the initial days of grief, I found this advice to be a helpful way to help me move through a day that I didn't even know how to get through. Now, over a year and a half later, there are still moments when I just need to decide what's the next thing that I can do to take care of myself.

My name is Casey. I lost my brother Ron on September 9th, 2020. He was driving his motorcycle to work and a woman was not paying attention and struck and killed him. And you learn quickly that although your world has stopped the real world keeps going. And somehow now we are entering our almost fourth year without him. Things change. You figure out how to carry it differently. It's not always right in front of your face. It's kind of tucked away in an envelope, and you're able to peek into it and see if it's something you can deal with today or not. But then you're driving and someone runs a red light right in front of you, and you think. My brother didn't get that lucky.

My name's Christina, and I lost my wonderful husband, Eric, two years and seven months ago to suicide. Losing my husband to suicide was the second most painful thing I've ever been through. The first, most painful thing I've ever been through is watching my then eight year old and five year old grieve their father. Walking your children through pain and grief and sadness is basically human torture. But I would really encourage anybody out there that is going through something similar to give yourself space to grieve, to allow your children to openly grieve. To keep their memory alive every day in your household. Keep the memory alive for your children, in your heart and in their heart.

I think this is so important. And I say this as someone who did not openly grieve as a child or for most of my life. My brother and I never spoke about my dad after his death. It was just too painful.

My husband passed away several years ago after a 13 year battle with cancer. So I have two boys. And those 13 years were the whole of their childhood. They were 16 and 18 when their dad died. We sort of retreated to our separate corners as we grieved and raised over all that. We have no control. But this awful experience was actually the thing that pulled us together. My boys and I were able to forge an unshakable relationship that laid the foundation for us to remain connected. So it is this deep bond with my boys, formed in the midst of trauma and heartache that I am most deeply grateful for.

Gail, I'm so glad you were able to do that. My brother and I did retreat into our separate corners and we never emerged from them. It's one of the biggest regrets of my life.

My name is Kristen Payne. My husband Ed died nine years ago. Coming up on the ninth anniversary, the single most helpful thing for me and for my son, who's now 15 and was six when he died. Just talking about him and talking about. The death in his illness before he died to my son, and then talking about him all the time. And there's a poem. I don't know if it's really a poem, but it's a statement that was given to me a month or two after my husband died, and it was just beautiful. Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room.

When I heard Kristen start to read this, I began weeping. It triggered a memory. I had long buried. It was July 1988. A day or two after my brother's suicide. Someone handed me a Xerox copy of this poem on a slip of paper. I still have it pressed between the pages of an old journal I'd completely forgotten about. These words may not be new to you. But they were to me back then. And they help me get through those first terror filled days after my brother died. Death is nothing at all. I've only slipped away to the next room. I am I. And you are you. Whatever we were to each other that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Where no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play. Smile. Think of me. Pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effect. Without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same that it ever was. There is absolute, unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind? Because I am out of sight. I am but waiting for you for an interval. Somewhere very near. Just around the corner. All is well.

'So that's all there is for now. There'll be more episodes down the road. If you'd like to leave a voicemail, feel free. I still have a lot of your calls to listen to, and I will. But I'm happy to hear more. The number is (917) 727-6818. That's (917) 727-6818. It'll be open for another two weeks or so. I hope these podcasts have been and continue to be of some help, wherever you are in the world and in your grief. I hope you know you're not alone. Take care.

All there is is a production of CNN audio. The show is produced by Grace Walker and Dan Bloom. Our senior producers are Haley Thomas and Felicia Patinkin. Dan Dzula is our technical director, and Steve Lickteig is the executive producer of CNN audio. Support from Charlie Moore, Kerry Rubin, Shimrit Sheetrit, Ronnie Bettis, Alex Manasseri, Robert Mathers, John Dionora, Leni Steinhart, Jamus Andrest, Nicole Pesaru, and Lisa Namerow. Special thanks to Katie Hinman.