Out of the blue, the year my father turned 81, I inexplicably fell into depression. I cried every night, and lost 20 pounds, grieving for what seemed to be no reason at all. After two weeks of this, my mother told me that my Dad, who long had entertained perfect health, would stay overnight in the hospital for his yearly exam. We went to church on the way to pick him up. During Mass, I sobbed so loudly people seated in our pew moved away, disgusted by my lack of decorum. Later, at the hospital, as we prepared to go home, my father died. Would you call my grieving coincidental?
One morning before school, my college room-mate Gloria told me of her disturbing dream. “Last night,” she said, “I dreamed that in spite of all I could do to help, grandma couldn’t climb stairs because of a pain in her leg. She wanted to get to a bed at the end of the hall upstairs, but died before we could reach it.” Gloria went off to classes shaking her head, for she had never dreamed of her beloved grandmother before. Later that morning came the news that