Don't tell me I don't understand.

"Nobody understands, unless they've been through it," he said. He still wore the look of devastation at times. But he smiled now and laughed and talked about the new woman in his life.

"That's right," I said. "No one does understand exactly what you've been through."

"But Rosey does. She understands completely," he said.

"I'm sure she does," I said, guardedly, remembering what he had told me about her - that her husband took three years to die of Leukemia.

After the conversation I felt more alone with all my losses, all my grief. He hadn't a clue how hard they had all been for me, especially after Gary died. My sister and mother had come and spent the night. Dan, my sis and my mother had attended the funeral. I spent three weeks with Mom.

Although I had only known Gary two and a half years, my devastation was complete. Sure, I hadn't lived with him for nearly fifty years, but I had had two failed marriages, a history of relationships and life in general not working out. I had no children on purpose. I've always felt that people who don't want children are doing them a disservice if they have them. My friends rarely called after Gary's death - it was like they were afraid death was catching. Mom knew I was in agony, like she had been after Dad died. One friend was available if I needed to call. She almost never called me. I needed her to call every day.

It was after I almost walked myself into the fast moving water of the Clackamas River three months after Gary died, that I decided I had to force myself to get more help - even though at the time I was seeing a counselor. I found a grief support class. There, I met people who knew what it was like. Maryanna, 52, had lost her mother - the one person she could depend on in her life. Michelle, 31, had lost her teenage sister - to suicide. We befriended each other. One man had lost his baby - his wife was busy with the new twins, so he felt alone with his loss of the toddler who suddenly died of SIDS. There were a dozen others with their own unique stories. We shared our stories and cried together. Each of our losses was different, yet the same.

So when Dan said, "No one understands . . . But Rosey does," I knew it was his ignorance speaking.

No one can know the depth of anyone else's loss. No one can know, no matter what kind of relationship has been lost, how it affects another. It's almost like sometimes people need to think that what they are experiencing is far worse than someone else's loss, to justify their feelings of isolation. Feelings of isolation are a natural part of the grieving process. And although I forgive him for not understanding my losses, my needs, I feel less close to him now. To me that's sad. To talk it out with him would be counterproductive.

So please don't say or imply to anyone, ever, that they don't understand. That's like the statement of a teenagers who thinks their parents have never been young. I may not know what it feels like exactly for you in your circumstances. But I know loss - the kind that strips away all hope. That's why I write my stories - to help others, who reach the bottom, know that there is a way out of the pit. You can learn to be happy again. As you sit alone in your grief, I want you to know that I care.