I am sitting at a table or desk, poring over an album of Mary's photos, when I burst into agonized, painful and sorrow-filled sobbing. My grief is so intense that I lose consciousness. When I come to, there are other people in the room trying to comfort me. I don't recognize any of them except one person -- my daughter, Maria. They are telling me that it's OK to cry, and they're urging me to tell them what is troubling me, although they all know I am grieving for Mary. I am angry. While I don't recall the exact words of my angry outburst, the basic content of my diatribe is: "I have to lose consciousness from my grief over losing Mary before anyone pays any attention to me and my suffering." I believe they protest and try to assure me that they are always there, that they had always been available to listen to me and comfort me. I don't think I believe any of them.