Wherever you are in the world and wherever you are in grief, I'm glad you're here. This is All there Is season three.
Gloria Vanderbilt
00:00:09
Your father once said to me, I don't think we will live to be very old. I didn't know what he was talking about. When he died at 50, then I understood.
My mom, Gloria Vanderbilt, made this audio recording of a letter she sent me several years before she died in 2019.
Gloria Vanderbilt
00:00:29
He had his first heart attack in 1976. Then the next year, he had another. He was placed in intensive care when a patient was very ill. The hospital relaxed its rules and allowed children in to visit. We made plans to spend Christmas Day with him and brought a tape recorder to create a memory of our conversation. But on Christmas Eve, he had another heart attack and was moved into a unit with dying patients. I was permitted to be by his side only briefly. Much of the time he was unaware I was there. As he gasped for breath, one day he seemed to suddenly focus on me and said this was not part of my plan. But you're not going to die, I shouted back. He looked startled as if I knew something he didn't. I'm not? He asked. No, you're not. And I believed it. The next night, January 5th, I followed as they wheeled him down the hall on a gurney to surgery. He appeared as a man taken from a crucifixion. His body limp, stuck with needles, face unrecognizable, covered with breathing equipment. I walked by his side, leaning and close, telling him I loved him. He didn't know me. I waited in a small private room. Angel, the nurse on the floor put her head in the doorway as she departed her shift. Be brave, she said. Hours later, we heard footsteps coming down the dark, empty, silent hall. It was nearly midnight. We did the best we could. I went home to wake you and Carter. Dad is dead, I said.
Last season of the podcast, I came to realize just how much my dad's death when I was ten and my inability to grieve completely altered the course of my life. His death forever changed the lives of my brother and my mom as well.
Gloria Vanderbilt
00:02:38
There are times, even now, when dark thoughts take over, wishing it had been me who died instead of your father. How much better he would have been at guiding you and Carter. Far better than I could ever be.
Carter, my brother was 12 when my dad died. He, too, was slapped into silence by the heartbreak and terror and rage we both felt. We never talked about my dad. We never really talked about anything. Carter killed himself ten years later. He did it in front of my mom. I buried my grief over his death, too.
Gloria Vanderbilt
00:03:14
'Carter died at 23. If your father had been there, it would not have happened. He understood your every mood and would have had the power to get you both through anything that was happening in your young lives. When your father and I went together to parent-teacher meetings at your school, I would look around at the other mothers and marvel at how much better equipped they were to be mothers than I could ever be. How much more suited to be wives to my beloved husband? These were thoughts I never voiced, but they were there, hidden, so painful, I tried to block them, believe that everything was going to turn out all right. But it didn't. It was your father who died when it should have been me. In my deepest heart, I know this to be true. And I will know it till the day I die. A life long sentence with no reprieve.
The last year has been perhaps the most difficult of my life. The grief I've tried to keep buried for so long has finally risen. It's banging on my door, but I don't yet know how to face it.
Hello, my name is John Hood. My father took his life. When I was 16. I'm 62 now. But the unresolved grief, rage, anger is still with me.
I've spent months listening to the more than 3000 voicemails we received at the end of last season.
When I was 16, my mom had a stroke and went and gave her CPR, but she died.
I'm struck by how many of you have tried to bury your grief as well.
I stifled and stuffed all that grief.
So where we couldn't share our grief, we had to hide it. We had to stop it. It's a very debilitating life.
But I have tried to avoid face my whole life. That grief, weight, all these feelings came up that I never knew existed. But it will be dealt with at some point.
Like an extinct volcano that erupted violently out of nowhere.
I spent so many years being angry. I haven't been able to grieve.
I just continue always to keep moving forward and being strong and saying, I'll be fine.
A few months ago, I admitted to myself that I wasn't fine and I couldn't just keep moving forward and being what I thought was strong. I decided to reach out for help. And it's been one of the best decisions I ever made. We'll be right back with my guest, actor Andrew Garfield, whose mom, Lynn, died in 2019.
'Welcome back to All There is. My guest today is Andrew Garfield. He's probably best known for his roles in The Social Network and The Amazing Spider-Man. He was also nominated for an Academy Award in 2017 for his performance in Hacksaw Ridge. His latest film, We Live In Time, comes out this week. It's a love story, and it's also about loss and grief. In 2019, Andrew's mom, Lynn Garfield, died after a struggle with pancreatic cancer. Have you had much experience with grief before your mom died?
I had a certain amount of experience. Nothing like this absurd, surreal event of the person that gave me life is no longer here.
It's bizarre. Doesn't make any sense. It's crazy. Yeah. But before that, I had lost friends. Yes. Grandparents. Yes. Mentors. Some Mike Nichols, Heath Ledger. I think about Philip Seymour Hoffman.
Tell me about your mom. Her name was Lynn.
Lynn, yeah Linda Diane Garfield. She was a whole person. And that is still a mystery to me in certain ways, even though I am a part of her and she is a part of me. She was a person that felt most herself when she was able to heal, can nourish and contain others in a in a gentle way. On her hospice bed, she was more concerned with the nurses than she was with her own pain and discomfort.
It was she who encouraged you to look into acting?
Yeah, so I was in a bit of a lost place. And she had the trust in me or the trust in my my as yet undiscovered soul that it would emerge if given the right space and the right encouragement. She was a very creative person herself, but it was always applied to things that were practical. So you're an amazing cook. She was a drafts person for an architecture firm. She was a lampshade maker for my dad's lampshade company. But I imagine if she was given free rein of her own creativity, she could have made masterpieces. She was desperate for me to to find something that I could connect to. Maybe there was a part of her that was speaking that had been unlived that she was saying, maybe give this to Andrew. Maybe Andrew could take some of what we didn't get to experience. And I tried art, I tried painting, sculpture, you name it, music. And then I did the last resort, which was join the circus and do it outside of school drama class when I was 15.
Not literally join the circus.
No, not literally. But ultimately, that's kind of what's happened.
Stranger than the actual circus perhaps.
Yeah more grotesque. And and basically I did my first drama class and I loved it and I felt accepted. I felt like I belonged. And it was really the beginning of of the rest of all of this. I'm reminded of a moment the night before the Oscars when I was nominated for a film called Hacksaw Ridge. And I took my parents to this night before party at the Fox Lot. And my mom had a glass and a half of wine, which is a rare occurrence for her. And she got loose and she got bold and we were all dancing and we were with Jack Black, the wonderful Jack Black. And he's dancing with my mother. And he says, You, well, you must be so proud. You must be so proud of him. What is it? Is it nature or is it nurture? And my mum, my mum.
I love that he's saying this on the dance floor, just shouted at the top of his lungs.
Exactly. And my mum gets right up, goes right up to him and grabs him by the lapels and she says It was me, it was all me. And in those very rare flashes of of like expressed, this is who I am. Like she would never do that without without some alcohol in her system which was very, very rare. And yeah I think I do I do owe her her unmet dreams, her the sacrifices she's made, her longing, you know, I think like it probably emanated from her own deep, deep longing to it to encourage me in that way.
She died in 2019 of pancreatic cancer.
How long had she been ill for?
About a year and a half. So she. She hung in my like, I was about to say, she fought it. It's like, I don't like that language. I don't like the idea of defeating cancer. It doesn't feel fair to me that that language is used because my mum fought until she couldn't fight anymore and it doesn't make her not a success story. I reject the idea that she was defeated in any kind of way by any kind of thing. She fought it for a long time. We treated it in lots of different ways. She suffered. That's the thing that I still am struggling with when I really think about it, that I can't reconcile with the concept of a higher power or the concept of of God or some universal cosmic design.
The suffering like the pain she felt.
Yeah, like the physical agony. There was no way of avoiding it. We did everything we could to avoid it, to circumnavigate it, to heal it, to treat it. She went through 2 or 3 rounds of chemo, radiotherapy and experimental drugs. Her nausea was so unbelievably brutal every day that, you know, she had to go through lots of different cycles of deciding whether she was going to continue to try to stay alive.
You were able to be with her at the end?
Yeah. I was able to do that with my mom. And it is among the most extraordinary experiences of certainly of my life.
Yeah. Same. And I'm so happy that you had the privilege of, of that and I think the fact that she died at the end of 2019 was a small blessing or a big blessing because if it had been a few months later, my family may not have been able to have our skin touching hers and read her poetry that she loved or rub her feet or be the ones to be putting the ice around her mouth. And to hear her cry out when she was in pain. Like the idea of not being there for that. Fills me with. A kind of a borrowed grief from those people that have lost. The closest people and have not been able to be with them. I can't imagine anything more more horrific. I had the best possible version of a goodbye with my mother without the ending that I had. I'm not sure where I'd be. I'm not sure if I'd be able to eloquently talk about it, to be honest.
I heard something you say. There was a moment before your mom's death where you were walking along the beach. Do you remember this moment?
Yeah. So I've had some profound moments with nature. And this one was one of the most. I think it was before she passed. It was really sick, and it was unsure what the future would be like. I could feel in my body this stuck nurse in my chair, like my solar plexus area. And, you know, it's like, there's something there. And I can't cry. I can't like, there's no release here right now. I'm just anxious and I am stuck somewhere and I can't relax and I'm fidgety and I'm maybe having like a low level panic attack. So I go for a walk on the beach and it's not a very pleasant day. It's kind of cold early autumn, and the waves are pretty wild and gray and choppy. And without thinking, I strip down and I find myself submerged in in the ocean. And it just kind of happened like a flash. It was like a download of information. I get a bunch of information or a bunch of knowledge, and then I'm able to put it into some kind of words. It's a bizarre thing that happens.
The quote that I read from your own, which is why I bring this up and it was this particular part which I found just so fascinating. You said as soon as my full body and head were submerged, it was like I got the medicine and my chest released and I let it all go. My interpretation of that moment was that it was the wisdom of nature, the wisdom of the earth, the wisdom of the ocean, letting me know, hey, yeah, it's hard. It's horrible. I'm not taking away this unique pain you're feeling. But just so you know, us out here, us water molecules, we've been seeing this for millennia. And actually, this is the best case scenario for you to lose her rather than for her to lose you. This is a much better situation. And again, my ego was holding on. My ego thought I knew better. My ego said, no, this doesn't make sense. No, no, no. It should be this way. It should be that way. But actually, it took the ocean, the greater opponent, to just hold me under and say it's really horrible. And sons have been. And sons have been losing their mothers for thousands and thousands of years. And they will continue to. And you've just been initiated into that awareness and into that reality. Some illusion has been lifted. You're in a realer version of the world now, and it's painful.
Well, thank you for connecting with it with your heart. And I know. I know that it's. I know that it's true because. Those aren't my words, You know what I mean? Like, that's not. I take no credit.
You said those but those aren't your words.
No, no, I had I guess my ears were open enough to hear all my body was open and I maybe it was her. Maybe the pain in my chest was like a depth of longing to understand and to want. It was like. It was like I was asking for comfort. Like I had to. We have to ask to be helped in these moments. Otherwise, we don't we don't get any medicine. We don't get the help. We have to be in enough pain and enough longing to say, help me. And only with that, with collaborating in that way, with approaching the mystery. And in that way of with all that vulnerability and with all that confusion and with all that looseness, do we get any kind of answer? I think and I think the answer is relative to the question and the willingness to ask the question and the willingness to not know the answer. So I think the only thing I can take credit for in terms of receiving the information was I allowed myself to feel broken. I just allow myself to be in pain. And I allowed my I didn't run away from it. I ran towards it and I said, help me. And the ocean had a great answer, really tremendous answer. And I say opponent there about the ocean. But for me it's more like it's a mentor. It's like a grandfather or a grandmother.
That idea. Sons have been losing their mothers for thousands and thousands of years, and they will continue to. And you've just been initiated into that awareness and into that reality. I find that so extraordinary. And that idea is something which I had never put into words like that. But there's something comforting about. And grief feels so lonely. And yet. This is a road that has been well traveled. We live in apartments that belong to other people before us, and we don't know anything about their lives. And we're living in their rooms. And we think that what is happening to us is so unique and so tragic and so horrible, and yet it has happened to our fathers and to their fathers and to their fathers before them.
That's beautiful. And I as you're speaking, I get I some images came up for me of indigenous people who we're just playing catch up here, you know what I mean? Like we modern descendants of colonizing Western Descartesian kind of values cut off from the concept of death and integrated connection to death. What you just described so poetically is something that all indigenous cultures know and practice and keep close to themselves. And the tragedy of the culture that we've been born into. One of the main tragedies is this dislocation from that reality and the humility that it brings, the humility that an awareness of death and an awareness of fragility brings.
We'll be back with more of my conversation with Andrew Garfield. You said that you allow yourself to be broken and that you ask for help. I've just really in the last year been struggling a lot, and I came to the realization that I had never actually grieved that I buried all of that was a little boy and propelled myself forward. And it is only within the last year that I woke up to that going through the boxes, my things that belonged to my mom, my dad and my brother, which had never been gone through. A year ago I opened up the first box and it turned out to be a box of my dad's papers. He was a writer, and the first file I opened up was an essay he wrote called The Importance of Grieving. And he wrote about what happens to children who don't allow themselves to grieve when they're kids.
I mean, I'm not a big believer in things like that, but it's made me.
I know. And I know. And I realize that's exactly what I've done. And so for me, the last year, I've been trying to understand how to turn toward that grief that's been buried.
'That's a really that I mean, that strikes me in such a profound way. And in terms of, I guess. Like I -- Sorry, I'm just caught. I'm so cool on finding this essay on top of this blogs and like, what made you go for that book?
I know literally the first file I opened up and it's I've read most of my dad's writings. I'd never seen this essay before.
Remarkable. Yeah, it feels I don't know. It helps support the theory of divine plan and our interconnectedness.
There's a poem by Rilke, and it sort of relates to stuff that I'm thinking about a lot. It wrote, it's possible I am pushing through solid rock and flint like layers as the or lies alone. I'm such a long way in and I see no way through and no space. Everything is close to my face and everything close to my face is stone. I don't have much knowledge yet in grief, so this mass of darkness makes me small. You be the master. Make yourself fierce. Break in. Then your great transforming will happen to me. And my great grief cry will happen to you.
I love that poem. And I love Rilke. And I haven't heard that poem in a while. Why is that speaking to you, particularly right now?
I mean, I'm trying to learn how to grieve, basically. And what I've come to realize is the little boy that I was who buried that grief, that little boy is so still very much present in me and comes to the surface more and more in a way that I've never experienced before. And I've realized that the voice inside my head is this voice that I have been using to protect that little boy my entire life and keep everything safe and at bay. And by doing that, I've not allowed myself to experience great sadness, but also not allowed myself to experience great joy, because I don't think you can have one without the other. I to so this idea that I do feel small in front of this massive darkness that I feel lies ahead of me. For a lot of people. I think the first time they learn perhaps of your mom's death was when you were on Stephen Colbert Show in 2021. I just want to play the question that Stephen asked you and some of your response.
I know that you yourself have suffered great grief just recently with the loss of your mother. And I'm sorry for your family's loss.
And I'm wondering how doing this show or any show, how art itself helps you deal with grief?
Yeah. I love talking about it, by the way. So if I cry, it's only like, it's only a beautiful thing. This is all the unexpressed love, right? The grief that will remain with us, you know, until we pass. Because we didn't. We never get enough time with each other, right? No matter if someone lives till 60, 15 or, you know, 99. So I hope this grief stays with me because it's all the unexpressed love that I didn't get to tell. And I told her every day, we all we all told her every day she was the best of us.
Has that grief stayed with you?
Yeah. And it's the only route to feeling her close again. That's a crazy thing. It's like. Again, it's. It's the. It's the longing. It's the. It's the. It's the admission of the pain. It's the crying out. I need you. What are you. I miss you so much. And only in the absence. Only in really inhabiting that absence. Being that little boy at the bottom of the empty cave in vast darkness and just kind of crying out. That's the only moment that she that she comes by business like it's a necessity and. It's so weird. It's like the longing and the grief fully inhabiting it and feeling it is. The only way I can is the only way I can really feel close to her again. The grief and the loss is the only route to the vitality of being alive. The wound is the only route to the gift. I really am grateful for you sharing what you've shared about. Yourself as a little boy and a little boy that continues to live in you in the the melancholy that seems to have followed you. And I don't know, I. It's it's a it is a tragedy that we aren't educated earlier. It's a tragedy that we are encouraged earlier and I think no one is exempt for that from that to a degree. I think it's cultural. It's a taboo. Even though your dad was writing about it, it's so wild. Or maybe this is part of the grand design as well. And you were meant. Maybe you needed to run away so that you could be here to then reveal it.
There's a writer, Francis Weller, who I've interviewed on the podcast, but he talks about developing a companionship with grief. And I do think to your point, it is the only time I, I feel so close to my dad and to my brother. And and what I have found just in the small steps that I've begun to take to turn toward the grief and sort of touch it and then come back and touch it again, I'm actually able to feel them in a way that I have not allowed myself to for a long time. And it's yeah, it's it's lovely.
Yeah. And does it feel like you. Is it like small doses?
Yeah. Because it still feels overwhelming. But I do think I can envision a day where, for the first time, I think it won't be this ginormous black abyss, which I feel like this little boy is standing on the edge of. It'll be something which I can carry with me and have space for and live with.
Right. Right. Visit. Yeah. And know that you. You'll be back in a moment. Yeah. You can hang out for as long as you want. Or even. I mean, the ultimate feels like to be able to travel with it constantly. As a companion, as a keychain, as a talisman.
Were you surprised when you said that on Colbert? Yeah. You got a huge amount of response. And and I done an interview with Stephen several weeks after my mom died, and I'd ask him a question. And that had also gotten a similarly huge response at the time. And and it really struck me as I just think there's such a dearth of people talking about this thing which all of us go through and which all I mean, every single person goes through this. It is wild to me that we're not talking about this all the time and that people aren't like on the bus, like who you are. I mean, like, it just feels like this enormous thing which we're all just ignoring.
Yeah. No, Yeah, I. Yeah, absolutely. Why? Why is that? Why? Why is it not why is it a not a supported topic? Why is it why is it a threat? Why have we exiled the conversation? I'm genuinely curious about that. I feel like death is seen as this weakness as this shameful thing. So, yeah, I'm really, really curious about our our fear of it, our avoidance of it.
Your new film, We Live In Time. It is a lot about grief.
Yeah, it feels like every scene's about grief. You know, it follows just a couple of ordinary people who love each other and want as much time together as possible and want to create a life together. And there's a burgeoning awareness of that time being short and conditional. And therefore, every single moment feels very sacred. Tiny little moments, big expansive moments. It's like a meditation on the shortness and sacredness of sacredness of life. And yeah, it's a beautiful film and it feels very wise and it feels full of rage as well, raging against the dying of the light. You know, it's yeah, it was a beautiful thing to inhabit.
Do you feel rage? Do you feel anger?
I have. Absolutely have, Yeah. Not as strongly as I expected to. Or. Sorry that. Yeah, the suffering. As I said before, it's the suffering where I can become job on the mountaintop. And because this doesn't make sense, because she was a pure spirit and would never hurt a fly. So you, you, you explain this shit to me and there is no explanation. Again, it's like it's a it's a mystery why she had to have that ending. I don't know. I'm never going to know.
Do you find it hard to live in a world where there isn't a way in moments?
Yeah, absolutely. And then you bang your head against that brick wall enough to where you're braindead, exhausted and dizzy and bruised. And then you go, okay, you win. Like mystery wins. The ocean wins. You know, the history wins. It would be egotistical for me to. To demand more answers. It would be. And I just there's something beautiful about finding out the limits of comprehension. I think I again, it's humbling. I'm perpetually longing to be humbled in the face of the greater opponent. So, like, yes, I think that helps temper any rage or anger I have. I have so much memory to hold onto. I have so much. I have you know, I know her smell still. I know her voice. I know all the different phases of our relationship.
Do you have recordings of her?
Yes, I have recordings of her and lots of photographs. And I have a perfume bottle of hers. And she was a craftsperson. She would make things. I have a large crocheted blanket that she made. A papier maché dog that she made that was covered in lines of her favorite poem by Mary Oliver Wild Geese. I know the journey. It was the journey. The poem, The trailer. I love Mary Oliver, too. I would mostly read her Mary Oliver when she was in hospice. And she was so polite and so considerate. She would never tell me to shut up. She would never ask for what she needed. So after every single poem, I would say to her again, another or quiet, and I would give a three options and she would say again. So I saw I would read Wild Wild Geese to her again and back again another rock or some quiet. And she like, maybe some quiet darling. Like I had to force I had to force her to ask for what she wanted.
There's a line in the Mary Oliver poem Wild Geese.
Tell me about despair. Yours and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the the wild geese. Something. Something, something. I think we should pull it up very closely because it is exactly what we're talking about. Should I just read the whole thing?
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair. Yours and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on. Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile, the wild geese high in the clean blue air are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese. Harsh and exciting. Over and over, announcing your place in the family of things.
I heard you say something a while ago that after your mom, though, you felt like your psyche had been rearranged, that things tasted different. Can you explain?
Yeah, probably not. But that's true. And it still is. I'm still. I'm still adjusting to a new reality. Like.
Do you feel like a different person?
No, I feel like the same person. I just feel deeper in the same person, more expanded, more cracked open. It's like the heart breaks and breaks and breaks and lives by breaking in times of great loss. And you expand. Hopefully you become bigger, the heart becomes bigger, you become more confused and less certain of anything. And for me, what I want to be is more curious about what we're what we're all doing here. Rather than narrow and driven and certain. I want it to break me open. I want to be I want to be lost. It feels healthier than to feel like you know where you are heading and.
Yeah. Yeah, it is. And and real. It's like the rest is illusion. Like the idea that we have any jurisdiction over where we're going or control. It's. It's a fabrication. I really relate related to what you said about that drive to, to create a life to to build something to run towards achievement and success. When my mom passed, I think two thirds of my ambition died with her. Or let me say differently, two thirds of my previous ambition or the style or the type or the feeling of that ambition died. It's unequivocal. Now, I know for a fact that this is a short life, and the things that mattered before don't matter anymore. And I think when I say things taste differently, I think I think things can taste much more sweet now because of the sorrow that I felt. And they can taste much more bitter. Like a friend of mine, Spike Jones, talked about it so beautifully to me when he was going through something similar, and he would say. It's like the landscape gets rearranged. It's like where there was once a hill that you knew really well, there's now like a waterfall. And in the place where the river once was, now there's just desert. And behind you, where your house was. There's a swamp. It's like the world is being re revealed to you or revealed in a deeper way.
Is there something you've learned in your grief that would help others who are listening?
I remember when when mom died, I had I have a really incredible group of friends. And they were very, very they were ingenious in how they handled it emotionally. Very genius. And I feel very grateful for them. They would send me messages. And it would literally just be. I'm here. I've got you. It was like. Who? Sorry. It was like this web. It was like this net. Of. Love and care that a handful, 2 or 3 handfuls of friends assemble underneath me where my mother's net used to be. It was like they all kind of joined hands and created a. A container for me. To feel safe in the loss. And I wasn't orphaned. You know, I was to a degree. But the love that held me and it was profound in its simplicity. It wasn't complicated and it wasn't fixing. None of these people tried to fix it. They didn't try to run away from it either. But basically they were saying, if you need us to sit with you while you cry, we can do that. So maybe that feels more for people with other people who are going through grief, because I know that that was a profound life saving thing for me and allowed me to continue to stay in that process with myself and with the spirit of my mom and with my family, because I knew I was I was held by a larger web and I include the ocean in that group of friends. I include the redwoods in that group of friends, and I include my mother spirit in that group of friends and ancestors and art and artists and writers and poets and filmmakers and theater makers and actors like, you know, I was held by great, generous, vulnerable artists who also said, I need help with this and made me feel less alone.
Andrew Garfield, thank you so much.
Thanks, Anderson. This is wonderful. Thank you. And it's a service. That's what you're doing here. It's like the beginning of a cultural shift for people and welcoming of this this topic, this experience that we're all heading towards, whether we like it or not. So thank you for all you do here, and.
Thank you for letting us know about your mom.
There's a couple of new things we're doing with All There is that I want to tell you about. You can now watch the video episodes of All There Is on CNN's YouTube page. We're also starting an online grief community. If you go there, you can hear for yourself some of the thousands of voicemails I've received from podcast listeners. I think hearing others talk about their experiences with grief is so powerful. It certainly has been for me. You can also leave comments of your own. They won't post right away because the comments are going to be reviewed. We want this to be a supportive place for everyone. You can check out the online grief community at CNN.com. Forward slash. All there is online that CNN.com forward slash all there is online. It's a work in progress, but I hope you find it helpful. Next week, whoopi Goldberg is my guest. Her mom died in 2010 and her brother died five years later.
Grief comes when it comes. It comes in very strange ways. People would come up to me and say, I'm really sorry about your mom. And I'd say, okay, thank you. And I'd get mad because I'd want them to stop asking or saying, Are you okay? No, I'm not okay.
That's next week on All There Is. 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. Kerry Rubin. Kerry Pricher, Shimrit Sheetrit, Ronald Bettis, Alex Manesseri, Robert Mathers, John Dionora. Leni Steinhart. Jamus Andrest, Nicole Pesaru, and Lisa Namerow. Special thanks to Wendy Brundige.
