I found a book that belonged to my mom called The Loss That Is Forever. It was published back in 1995 and written by a psychologist named Maxine Harris. It's about the impact of a parent's death on a child. My mom underlined this passage, "when a child loses a parent, a father or mother. That child grows up feeling different and alone. A story is written in a secret place in that child's mind, a story of loss and pain and the triumph over that pain. Because there's no place to share that story. It remains intensely private, hidden, sometimes even from the child." My mom experienced a lot of early loss as a child and wrote a story about it in which she later called her secret heart. I did the same thing when it happened to me. Different and alone is how both of us felt most of our lives. It's only in the last two years that through this podcast that the story I wrote and the ripple effects of it have begun to reveal themselves to me. This is All There Is, the final episode, season three.

'In the past year, I've listened to about 6,000 voicemail messages you've left for me after season two, and most of the one sent in so far this season. The voicemail box will be open for another two weeks. If there's something you've learned in your grief that would help others, you can call (404) 692-0452. When I listen to your messages, it's like I'm listening to the stories you've written in your secret hearts, hearing your voices, the names of your loved ones, what you've learned. It makes me feel less different and alone. I hope it does the same for you. You can watch a video version of this podcast and see the faces of those speaking. It's available at CNN.com/allthereisonline and on CNN's YouTube channel.

My name is Casandra, grief's deep and real, and it has brought me to my knees. But it's not a death. It's a divorce. My husband of nearly a decade and the father of my beautiful young daughters stepped out of our marriage and then decided to leave us last here. My grief feels every bit as disorienting and illogical and undeserved as many who've lost loved ones to death. When the sharp and overwhelming ache, I feel tender and soothed to think of the words of the philosopher scorned Kirkegaard. He said the most painful state of being is remembering the future, especially the one we'll never have. Grief takes many forms, and I'm so honored and grateful when my friends and I share in our grief and we can sit together with grief, serve it as a guest, and not let it eat us alive. We can recognize the separateness, who we are and the grief we set with.

The most painful state of being is remembering the future, especially the one we'll never have. Many of you listening know that pain.

Hi Anderson, my name's Samantha. I'm 34 years old, with stage four breast cancer, also known as metastatic breast cancer. On December 30th of 2020, a little over a year after the birth of my oldest son, Benjamin. For the first two and a half years I lived very well with the disease. So well actually that we chose to welcome our second child, viaa surrogate, in July of 2023. Zachary. Everything was going well until of October. I couldn't breath. My lungs had collapsed, and shortly after my cancer had spread to numerous areas of my body. After coming close pretty close to death myself and having thought like how to get back home to my family, I learned in December that the cancer had spread to my brain and cerebrospinal fluid. It was a devastating blow, to say the least. Like most cancer patients who grieve, the left will not get to grieve the life that you thought you would have with your family. You also grieve for the people that will grieve for you. You grieve how your kids will feel for when their mother won't be around to share the highs and lows of their day, or help them with life's big next steps. You grieve for how your husband feels about having his partner with him to share a life with you grieve for how your parents will feel having lost a child in grief, or how your sister will feel having lost her best friend. You grieve for yourself. You end up grieving so much more for the grief others will feel. How will your loss impact them? How can you help them with their own grief? How can you worsen the pain for them? The truth is you can. You can provide them with the best memories. But videos of all the good times, I still can. It's amazing how much you feel and talking about your grief or your expectations of death. Talking helps. It helps a lot.

Samantha left that message at the end of last season. A year ago, there were so many messages to go through that I only heard it recently. I called the number. She left, but there was no answer. We found her obituary a couple of days ago. Dr. Samantha Shoobs died May 31st, 2024. She was just 34 years old. She was a child psychologist and she's survived by her husband, Robert, her two boys, Benjamin and Zachary, her sister Catherine, her parents, Jean and Jerome, and many, many family and friends who loved her.

My name is Marika. I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. About two years ago, I lost my mom. I was 25 and she also died from metastatic breast cancer. It turns out that we have a genetic malformation. My grandmother also had it, although she lived to be in her 80s. We all had mastectomies at fairly young ages, when my mom was on hospice care. At the end, she had a grief counselor and she said, one thing that has always stuck with me, that was people losing somebody like our mother. We are grieving for the one person and it can be a terrible grief. But the dying person, knowing that she's going to die, knows that she's going to lose everybody in her life that she's ever loved. And I understand even more now as I'm facing the same thing, possibly not for a couple of years yet, but I know I won't get to see my granddaughter get married. I mean, to lose her. She's 13 now, and I'm just getting to know her well. My two grandsons, the littlest one is three. I know I won't be able to see him graduate high school. My husband, who I was lucky enough to find just seven years ago. It's devastating, losing and knowing in advance about it. And that's all there is for me. In the meantime, I'm going to do my very best to love them all as hard as I can.

I spoke to Marika O'Meara, and she is remarkable. She talked to me about gratitude for the life she has and the friends and family around her. She made me think of a line by the poet Philip Larkin. What will survive of us is love, Larkin wrote. And I do believe that in the end, that is all there is.

My name is Sue Sullivan. I have a 16 year old son, Dermott, who has a neurodegenerative condition. So for the last six years, we've watched our son slowly disappear in front of our eyes. He can no longer eat or talk. He need 24 hour care from us and any caregiver that is qualified. My husband and I have lived with constant grief since the day he was born. Having to grieve what you thought he would be and the life I thought I would have. And what wakes up in the morning as a love for our son. But also the hope that sometimes it will end. Now, I know that's not the best thing a mother can say, but watching my son go through medical procedures and seizures and feeding tubes and operations, it makes me think that he might be better off not being alive. And it took me six years to be able to say that out loud.

We may be all on the same long, often lonely road of grief, but no one's journey is the same.

My name is Maria Rodriguez. I'm a psychotherapist who's worked with grief for many years, and I lost my mom two weeks ago, and I was not prepared for how broken I would feel. My grief is still very raw and new, but I seen firsthand how solitary a journey grief is. I'm one of four children, and there were many, many people who loved my mother. But I'm grieving a different person than any of them were because our relationship was known to us alone. And who she was to me was different than who she was to anyone else. Grief really cannot be compared. That is what I would share with anyone, which is just to honor the uniqueness of your loss because it belongs to you truly and to you alone. He has French. One of the most helpful things that ever was said to me was when I moved home to take care of my mom when she was dying at home. One of my best friends also did that for her mom. Her mom died a week before mine and later she said, I have no idea what you've been through and I've literally been through what you'd come through. And it's just so comforting because grief is a shared experience, but there is so much nuance and uniqueness to it. And I think when we project, we kind of embrace our individual experiences that are so important and just help us remember who those people were.

I have no idea what you've been through and I've literally been through what you've gone through. I've never heard it expressed that way. And I think it's so true.

Hi, my name is Stephanie Thomas. I lost my husband, John six years ago in a work related accident. And I've had some wonderful things happen. I've had two grandchildren born in those six years. I've also walked both my daughters down the aisle in a place where their dad should be here. And I'm just this year really struggling again. I think that people don't want to hear that you're still struggling. They don't want you to be honest, that it's a continuous journey and that gets really tiresome. I'm finding myself being angry. They ask how you are. They ask if you're dating and they want you to say what they want you to say. It's just such a strange journey and I'm trying to find my footing in it. But I keep getting angry all over again. He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to get old with me. And I'm mad about it. I know what I need to do, but I can't get there. So it really does help to know that I'm not alone with all these feelings because there's very few people in my life that know what this kind of loss is.

I recently mentioned a lullaby I sing to my son that I realized was the same lullaby my dad sang to me. Many of you have stories about patterns you've noticed. Cycles of life and death repeated across time and generations.

'You dented my soul in the intro to the podcast where you described your father changing words to the lullaby and then hearing the sweet recording of you doing the same with your son. My husband did that too, when our kids were little. We lost my husband, Bill, to glioblastoma in May of 2022. My kids were 12 and 14 at the time. So what you said about recognizing the cycles of life and families really resonated. My daughter is graduating high school this year and is so much like her father. And my son just turned 15 and he's over six feet tall and has my father's eyes and stature that carry their grief. And I wonder what their grief journey will be as they grow into adulthood and have families of their own. I hope they remember the way Billy's assisting to them. I know they remember. He used to read to them every night, right up until he couldn't. I know they missed that. I had 60 years with my dad, and my children had a fraction of that time with their father. Like you said, this is the cycle of life and families and it is amazing. And it really can be comforting if you let it be. My name is Michelle Walker. My husband Tyler, and I lost our beautiful son, Ben, to suicide. Benjamin Timmons. Walker was born on February 16th, 2008, and died on January 17th, 2024. Ben was 15 years old. He loved music, playing basketball, hanging out with his friends, cuddling with his cats and laughing with his younger brother, Charlie. There is so much love in our family, but we had no idea that Ben was suffering in darkness that was untouchable. It was a bitterly cold day when Ben died. For the weeks that followed, our family and friends filled our house, making phone calls, arranging flowers and bringing food. And every night at 6:00, they would say their goodbyes. So Tyler, Charlie and I would climb into our bed, bundle in blankets and watch something mundane on Netflix. This feeling felt familiar, and I started to realize it was very much like Ben's birth. He was our first child, born during a cold snap in February. I had a C-section, so we were in the hospital for a few nights. Family and friends filled our hospital room during the day, but by nighttime it was just Tyler. Ben and I in blankets. The three of us were cocooning as a family. A new, exciting, scary, wonderful start to our life together. And after Ben's death, the three of us were cocooning as well, trying to figure out what this next chapter will be and how to keep Ben with us. Tyler found then and a few weeks ago reiterated how my heart aches for him having to carry the image of finding Ben. Tyler said, Michelle, you were there at the beginning, a hard pregnancy and all the pain, and I was there at the end. It was my turn. Seeing the patterns that weave themselves through birth and life and death gives me some peace. Not a blind acceptance that everything's going to be okay. But any sense of knowing that the rhythms in my life will hold even through the unthinkable tragedies? Ben was so kind and gentle and funny and full of love. And all of this is woven into how we will continue to live our lives. So what I hope for all the listeners is that you find a rhythm that sustains you and your loved ones.

Michelle talked about seeing the patterns that weave themselves through birth and life and death. They are there, aren't they? And they make me feel connected to those I've lost and those who come after me.

My name is Jessica and my daughter, Isabel. Josephine just turned to the year my daughter was born was the year that I learned my father, Joe, was dying of cancer. So all of my daughter's firsts were contrasted with all of my dad's loss. She was learning to walk as he was turning to need help getting out of bed. And she was trying her first foods as he was losing his appetite. It just feels like a very particular and strange remote grief to the parents where you're becoming one for the first time. All of these scenes playing out with my daughter in my life right now, they look so much like scenes from my own childhood. So one day, hopefully, I can feel this sense of connection to him as a parent without it being painful. Something probably covers something. Cheryl Strayed wrote to commemorate her mother's death. How lucky I am to have been her daughter, to feel her swimming in my bones. And I hold on to that idea that my dad still swims with me and with my daughter.

I love that phrase to feel her swimming in my bones. Do you feel your loved ones who are gone swimming in your bones? I do. And I'm grateful. We're going to take a short break. More in just a moment.

Welcome back to All There Is.

This is Kim Kennedy calling from Virginia. It's been 1020 days since my 22 year old son died from an aggressive form of cancer. Between his diagnosis and his passing, there were only 110 days left. We were able to share with him. We are all still in shock. Before this all happened, I had the very naive attitude that my children were in some sort of safe bubble. I thought I could always protect them from everything. And so what have I learned from losing my youngest son? That no matter how much I loved him, I'm not invincible. I'm still vulnerable as a human being. Being vulnerable doesn't mean we're weak, being vulnerable. It's just the opposite. It means we're strong. No matter what anyone has said, how painful it is to lose someone unexpectedly, especially your child. I will always believe there's more strength in love than there could ever be. Never having worked at all.

I talked with Kim the other day. She told me that shortly before her son, Teddy Kinkaid died, family and friends and even the whole town came together to give him and his fiancee what they both had dreamed of. A beautiful wedding down by the river. Teddy died four days later. We will always be thankful, his mom told me, that we could give him his final wish and surround him with love before he started his next journey. Just as Kim came to see vulnerability as strength, grief has led so many of you to understand words and concepts in new ways.

Hey, Anderson. My name's Chris Keevil. My wife died from alcohol and my son more recently died by suicide. And I think I've learned the idea of acceptance. Before all this loss, I thought that acceptance was how to accept the fact that they're gone. But in the loss of my son, most recently, I've come to realize that for me, at least, acceptance is the realization that he's not gone, the acceptance that he's here, the acceptance that Jo is with me today and was with me yesterday, and he'll be with me tomorrow in my heart and in my memories. And that it's okay to accept him in that way. It isn't denial and it isn't avoidance. And it's a good thing. It's comforting. It's helpful. It helps me. And it makes me all the love that I have for him and the love that I had for his mother. And it all helps that that idea that there's still here in my heart, in my in my memories.

Listening to these messages, it really strikes me how it's impossible to speak of grief without speaking of love. And that's true for nearly everyone who called.

Hi, Anderson. My name is Bridget. I'm 40 years old. My son died unexpectedly about eight weeks ago. He was four years old. And I have two older daughters who are seven and nine. I have learned that I can be brave and courageous and strong and not as it pertains to getting through this quote unquote, but having the courage and bravery to suffer and to experience the raw sorrow and sadness and emotion that grief is. There been so many people in the last eight weeks that are, quote unquote, impressed with how strong I am. And I don't think I'm I'm strong. I'm allowing grief to be a part of me now. It is part of my bones, as is my son, Tommy. And he will always be.

So many of you feel and know that your loved ones are still a part of you.

My name is Cindy. Fine. I am a person who just stuffed my grief down as deep as I could go. I'm the mother of a severely disabled daughter. She's 29 now, and she needs my direct and constant care. When my father died, I was in the middle of taking care of my daughter. I couldn't go. And I started down so deep. The other day I had a little car accident and I felt so foolish. And after my windshield had shattered, I heard my father's voice saying, Don't worry, don't worry. As long as my little girl is okay, that's all that matters. And I realized that my father is still there with me all the time.

My name is Kate Drew. I have three daughters. My little daughter Ellen, was stillborn five years ago. And I want to share a concern that helps me in my grieving process. I want to share with any other mothers who lost a baby or a child at any age. It's called, it's got a long scientific name of fetal micro tumors. And it means that it's been scientifically proven that cells begin to pass from the baby to the mother around 4 to 6 weeks of pregnancy and continue for the whole duration. And the mother then carries those cells with her for her lifetime. This feeling that mothers have, that our children are always with us is not just a feeling. They are part of us at a cellular level. They need assistance and comfort in the relationship that defies boundaries or laundry. The fact that a mother and child are forever connected. I carried this with me in the five years since I've lost her, and I hope that I will help her grandmother. I'm so.

Candace left a message about how she's redefined or reimagined the grief she carries.

This is Candace. I'm learning that grief is not only in the memory of family. It's not only in my heartache. Wishing they were still here or my regrets. But I'm learning that grief is the weight of their love now because there's nothing obstructing their love. There's no obstacles to how much my family loves me now. There's not resentment or hurt or wounding or dysfunction or generational trauma. All the earthly human obstacles to love are gone. The obstacles stayed with them. So the weight of grief is how much my family loves me. And so when I feel the pressure in my chest, the heavy heaviness of sorrow, I just imagine that it's my family pressing the weight of their love for me into my heart from behind. Because all the obstacles to love between us are gone now.

Grief is so complex and there are so many different kinds of it. Many of you responded to some of our guests who had expressed relief when a member of their family died.

My name is Hope. In 2018, my brother passed away and my brother was my abuser. And it was really interesting because I was listening to your podcast and somebody said that it's okay for them to no longer be in your life because your life is better. And that absolutely struck a chord for me and it really triggered something that I had never thought about. My mother said to me after the loss of her oldest child, my brother, when we spoke one day, I said, How are you feeling now that she's gone? And she said, You know, I'm really relieved that he's gone because he frightened me, something she's never shared with me. I don't think she ever shared with my father. But it was interesting that he was so rattled in his life with hate and anger that everybody was affected, even those that loved him the most. So I give myself permission to be better off without him. And I give my mother and my father permission to be better off without him because he was a terrible person.

My name is Sally and I have an extremely contentious relationship with my mother. In one of your episodes, your guest said that the first feeling they had when their mother passed away was relief. And it resonated with me right away. And I feel terrible that I will feel that way. I love her, but my life is difficult because of her mental illness that she refuses to accept or take medication for. And I'm not really sure what to do with that. Knowing my life will be easier when she's gone. I don't know that that helps anybody. It doesn't help me, except a little bit to at least to say it out loud.

I was struck by what Sally said in her last sentence. It doesn't help me, except a little bit to at least say it out loud. There is real power in saying these feelings out loud, isn't there? Saying your loved ones names as well.

My name is Donna Morin. We actually share a significant date. January 1st as my birthday. And I know it's the date your dad passed. And it's the date that my son Nathan drove to the local gun shop, purchased a handgun, and he shot himself in the chest. He was 21 years old. He wasn't suffering from a long standing mental illness. He didn't abuse drugs or alcohol. And he was literally the most chill person I ever met. He had everything going for him. His suicide was a shock to everyone. For me, it was like I was living alive my entire life. I thought I was a good mom. I thought everything was fine. It was like that moment. You come out of the matinee and the light would be so blinding that son would be shining in your face and kind of squint. And it kind of gave you a little bit of a headache. And you are the movie over that magic. Hollywood is gone. And now I have to get back to this horrible daytime sun in my eyes. That's how I felt. The magic of my life was gone. The moment this happened, the loss is just really heavy. All the time there's guilt or sadness. It's just this constant absence that just makes me feel kind of broken. The what I do to get through is I try to keep my name alive as much as possible. I just want people to know that Nathan not just existed, but he was amazing. I just want to say his name one more time. Nathan Morin And the world was a better place with him in it.

Nathan Morin. I wish I had space and time to say all the names of your loved ones in this podcast. When I listen to your messages, I do say their names out loud.

My name is Ashley White, and on November 29th, 2021, we lost our girls prematurely at 26 weeks when I developed an infection in my uterus. I just wanted to say their names so that somebody else could know them. Even though they were only here and only lived inside of me for a very brief period of time, always in my heart and in my husband's heart. Their names are Mia Isabella White. Lila Rose. They will be forever loved.

My name's Fred Gabriel, and I'm just calling because I want to put my husband's name out there into the universe. His name was Michael W Tebow. He died November 13th, 2019. And he left me and our four children together. When my husband died, we were having an argument. I wasn't even speaking to a model so angry at him. I was driving him to the hospital and he dropped dead. Suddenly, I often find myself in the early days, thinking of nine minutes that I had. As we're making our way out of the hospital and I have been so focused regret about that because both sides used that time very differently. Of course, I remind myself I didn't know he was going to die. I didn't know that my last words were not particularly tight. Somehow that argument obliterated the 27 years that we had together. Literally just the memories I had of building our family together at a time when gay men were not even allowed to adopt much. Let's get married. I've learned that you really have to be patient with yourself through grieving. And for me, a big lesson in forgiving myself.

You do have to be patient with yourself and forgiving. So many of you called in with stories of regret, yours or others.

This is Brian. My story happened yesterday. I went to get coffee. There was an elderly gentleman sitting there, and when I walked in, he perked up and he said, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry to bother you, but you just look so much like my son. You look so much like him. And he was such a good boy. My first thought, of course, I thought, "get out of here." But instead, I said, Tell me more about your son. And he proceeded to say that he was not a good father to him. He was not around a lot. And God, what he would give for just one more moment. And he proceeded to get emotional in front of me, the complete stranger. I lean down and I put my hand on his shoulder and I said, "you're a good man, that you're a good man." And he reached up, grabbed my hand, put his hand over his mouth to try to staple back his tears. And it occurred to me that there are these people out there and we have to let each other off the hook. We have to assume that people have these needs that can be fulfilled by others. They really can. We are all these people. So allow yourself to be that conduit, to be that light in the dark, even if it's scary.

We are all these people and we can be that light in the dark for someone else, just as we wish someone would be the light in the dark for us.

Hey, Anderson, my name is Heather Harris, about ten years ago my mom died of suicide, but five years ago, I lost my 23 year marriage. And 18 months ago, my dad died of cancer. One of the things that I have learned is sneaking into the stories of their loved friends. There's been so many unexpected stories that have come my way from people that loved my parents. My mom's kindergarten best friend calls me every year on my birthday and shares a story about the song Sweet Caroline and the fact that she and my mom spent a summer when they were 16 next to a lake in Iowa listening to that song over and over and over again. And that's not a memory that I had of my mom, but the fact that she shared the story created a new image of my mom that was really precious to me, especially considering the way she passed. I knew that my parents are special to me. I just think I didn't realize how precious they were to other people. So those stories become so valuable and delicate. I would encourage people to continue to connect with people that love a person because they may have stories that you just don't have. And those stories can make a huge difference.

I love that. And I think it's such good advice. In the last ten years, I've reached out to friends, to my dad, and learned incredible stories about him I never knew. I'm starting to do the same with my brother. It helps in a lot of different ways. So does writing down memories and dreams as well.

My name's Brady. My mom's name was Gloria. I recently lost her in June. I had the privilege of holding her hand while she died. And I find myself really missing her because I've been needing her to hold my hand through this grief. I miss hearing her say things like, hi my son. I'm proud of you and I love you with all my heart. Since she died, I've never felt more alone. I have quite a few dreams about my mom. I call them visits from her. As soon as I wake up, I keep the paper by my bed stand. Or use my phone and write them down. So that's my advice for others. If you have a eream about your loved one, write it down because those thoughts quickly leave your head. And those visits are too precious to forget.

My name is Heather Tucker. And I lost my husband in 2008. Sounds like a long time ago, but it's still so present for me. He died when our daughters were in kindergarten in third grade. He was it was a hit and run accident. My daughters and I were at my older daughter's softball game waiting for daddy to come. Being a young mom with two young kids, I so desperately wanted to feel better. And I tried to read the books and I tried to talk about Daddy as much as possible and do everything the right way. And when I didn't deal with grief, I didn't get through it. And you talking about that? Well, of emotions. That's right. On the surface is always there for me as well. And I am very happy I'm remarried. I live a very full life. But I think what I would say to others would be to live that grief fully. And don't bother with up and don't work so hard to get past it because you'll never get past it. And we really don't want to get past it, do we?

I used to think that I wanted to get past it and could, but I know now that's not how grief works. And I'm glad.

Hi, my name is Kelly Eiler and my husband's name is Jason and he was 47 years old. And we lost him. He had strep throat and he died 12 hours later from toxic shock. And I have three boys. And they were ten, 12 and 14 at the time. And when I think about death sometimes is that it is absurd. Especially early death. Unexpected death. And it's just sometimes so hard to wrap your head around the extinguishing of a life just gone like that. And sometimes, actually, the absurdity can make me chuckle. And that can feel very good. And I have to say, the first time it was probably well, it was about eight months after he died. My sons and I were doing our annual Christmas ornaments shopping before Christmas where every kid gets an ornament. And we wanted to pick out one for Jason and my oldest son. So an ornament of it was like a sleeping bag. And I said, it looks like a coffin. And he looked at me and he said, Well, that's kind of appropriate. And we both smiled. And it was the first time we have been able to make a slight reference in maybe a humorous way to something so incredibly absurd and awful. So sometimes, even though it might sound ridiculous, it it's good to breathe through the laughter of death.

My name is Lyz Best. My great journey began with the loss of my husband, Jeremy Glick. He was a passenger on Flight 93 on September 11th. Jeremy was not just my high school sweetheart, Anthony, but he was also the father of our three month old daughter, Amie. His final moments spent on a 31 minute phone call with me as the horrible events were unfolding that day were filled with love for me and me and a plan for the passengers to take control of the plane. Killing has been an ongoing process, and I spent time volunteering in peer support with other widows, and that played a crucial role in my healing. Teaching Emma about her father that she never remembered has become my most significant life mission as well in sharing her happiness and acknowledging her grief. I've welcomed grief, anxiety and PTSD as its companions. Recognizing the unity and connection they bring to our human experience. Compassion for others has flourished from this acceptance. 22 years later, I can say that I have found joy and happiness. And I'm reminded by a quote I wanted to share with you by Rumi that resonates deeply with me today. I said grief, drinking a cup of sorrow and called out for taste. Sweet, does it not? It took me years to realize that I regarded grief as an enemy. I'd be blinded to the many deaths it has left me in sharing my story with you. I hope to convey the transformative power of confronting grief.

Lyz told me she met Jeremy when they were 14 years old in a high school biology class years after he died on 911. A teacher at the school sent her a poem that Jeremy had written as a senior when he was 17. The teacher had saved it all these years. It's called Redemption of Sky. Soaring through the clouds, arm spread, wind whisking on the back, unaffected by the laws of gravity, one symbol of soul and freedom, disrupting the peace with the crack like thunder led whistled through the air piercing pain arms gold in the graceful glide metamorphosis into a chaotic dive. The life meets the ground and movement is no more. But once again free. Well, he said to me, this gift of his writing gave me a sense of peace, almost as if Jeremy was where he was meant to be on September 11th on Flight 93.

This is Jackie. When my dad was in hospice, I didn't leave. I stayed all night and could have the chair up next to his bed and held his hand so he knew that someone was there. I was privileged to do that, and it was a beautiful time that we shared together, and I'm so grateful. He was a poet and he loved poetry. One of his favorite poems was Crossing the Bar. I also read Lord Tennyson three days before he died. The last words he said, aside from an obvious, which is what he used to call me, I heard him mumbling. I heard him start to recite that poem and I recorded it. I have it on my phone too. It starts to break up. Because he knows. He knew he was dying. But the words of the poem are so powerful that an evening star and one clear call for me. There be no warning of the time when I put out. See? So he was saying, Yeah, don't worry. Okay? I know I'm leaving you. I love you, but I'll be okay. He wants to give us this reassurance. I'm so grateful my dad had a love of poetry passed on to me. It's amazing what the words poems can convey. There are the words themselves and the underlying meaning.

Tennyson wrote Crossing The Bar not long before he died. The bar is a sandbar, separating calm water from the deep ocean beyond. But in the poem, it's also a metaphor for the barrier between life and death. This is the full poem. Sunset and Evening Star and one clear call for me and made there be no moaning of the bar when I put out to sea. But such a tide is moving. Seems asleep too full for sound and foam. When that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home, twilight and evening bell. And after that the dark and made there be no sadness of farewell when I embark. For though from out are born of time and place The flood may bear me far. I hope to see my pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar.

I'm calling from Glasgow, Scotland, and my name is Patricia O'Neill. Although my friends call me Trish. During the pandemic, two of my wonderful, healthy, successful cousins died from suicide. My parents died a couple of months later, only seven weeks apart. It was all so overwhelming. My husband had a cancer diagnosis and died last year. I really fell apart. I sometimes feel like I'm a wee rowing boat tossed about on the Wales North Sea off the coast of Scotland. That's battling the storm. Then sometimes there's calm days when I feel surrounded by darkness. But, but I'm beginning to see the stars in the sky. I know they'll be better days. And there is a purpose in my suffering. I know that often what helps me is to go to the places I can hear the echoes of my loved ones voices, the wee coffee shop and I read aloud from my dad's three pocket buttons, poetry book and the pray the rosary, which my mum taught me when I was a child. I'm learning to lean in to my grief. So sometimes when I feel the storm reaching inside me. I think that I will surely drown this time. And I lay out a candle and I tell my husband, my parents and my cousins that I know that they're alive and heaven. And I will see them again one day. So it's day by day. One day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time. I'm also curious to know more about your nanny May, of course, me being a Scottish woman. I was also wondering if your nanny of her sang you the wee Glasgow song. Skinny Malinky Long Legs. I just thought it was so beautiful. But even when her mind was so sick with Alzheimer's that her love for you stayed. I love that story. So beautiful. When I think about her, it's like a taste of heaven that even when our minds no longer work and our bodies no longer work but love endures. And I think to the line that there are three things left and the greatest of theses love. So true.

'Trish asked about MayMcLindon, my nanny, and she did used to sing that song and she used to call me Skinny Malinky, which always made me laugh. I call my kids that sometimes too. I talked about me during the first season of the podcast. Mae was my nanny from the time I was born till I was about 15. But she was much more than that. She was a mom to me, as important to me as my mom and my dad. And she still is. Even though she died after a ten year struggle with dementia in 2014. May was from Scotland, near Glasgow. She didn't suffer fools gladly, but she was funny and loving, and our bond was extraordinary. My mom was hurt by the closeness of my relationship with Mae, and one day she fired her without any warning. I came home in May, was packing her things, trying not to cry in front of me. It was awful. Me and May remained extremely close for the next 32 years of her life. When she was around 80, they started mentioning occasionally that she was taking care of a baby. Then a couple of weeks went by and I couldn't reach her on the phone. I got in touch with the local minister and asked him to check on her. He called me back and told me that May had been found wandering on the street, disoriented. She was clutching a small ceramic dog wrapped in a blanket. Turns out that was the child she'd been telling me about, the one she said she'd been caring for. The dog was a present I'd given her for her birthday when I was maybe 12 years old. There's one more thing. The minister told me. The dog she was holding, the one she thought was a child. She thought it was you. Watching her decline, watching all the dreams I'd had of giving her a house or having her live with me when I had kids one day, watching all that disappear was. Like nothing I'd ever experienced. I've got her placde in a really nice nursing home. When I visit, she. She still knew who I was, but she'd open her mouth and the only sound that came out was a single note, like she was singing. Eventually that stopped as well. I got to see her shortly before she died. I sat with her, holding her, and I thanked her as I had a thousand times over the years. And I told her again what I told her every night before I went to bed. And every time I talked to her on the phone. I told her I loved her. May McLinden died February 6th, 2014, at the age of 92. Her death didn't make headlines. The world kept spinning. But for me, on that day, it stopped. Of all the people in my family who I've lost, I continue to talk with May the most. When I hold my sons, when I dress them, when I put them in their cribs and it gives them goodnight, it's her hands holding them. It's her eyes. I see them through and I can feel her beaming with joy. May McLinden came into my life and showed me what love is. And that is what she has become in me. And that is All There Is for this season. There'll be another season later this year. I need to take a break for a while. This episode and all the episodes this season have been recorded on video as well, and you can watch them on CNN's channel on YouTube and also at our online Greif community page, CNN.com/allthereis in the coming months, we'll be working on that page and hoping to do some special live interviews and events there. Again, it's CNN.com, forward slash all there is online. The voicemail box will be open for another two weeks. If there's something you've learned in your grief that might be helpful for others, or if you just want to leave a story about your loved ones, the number to call is (404) 692-0452. That's (404) 692-0452. The messages are three minutes long, but you can always call back and leave another wherever you are in your grief. I'm glad you're with us and I hope you know you're not alone. All there is is a production of CNN Audio. The show is produced by Grace Walker and Dan Bloom. Our senior producer is Haley Thomas. Dan Dzula is our technical director and Steve Lickteig is our executive producer. Support from Nick Godsell, Ben Evans, Chuck Hadad, Charlie Moore, Carrie Rubin, Carrie Pritchard, Shimrit Sheetrit, Ronald Bettis, Alex Manesseri, Robert Mathers. John Dionar, Leni Steinhart, james Andrest. Nicole Pesaru and Lisa Namerow. Special thanks to Wendy Brundage.