“Lying is done with words, and also with silence.”

I pretend like everything is OK - because it's what I want to believe.  And most days it is.

But then there are moments, like today, during the ultrasound at Children's Hospital watching splotchy images of my daughter's liver pulse on the screen in the darkened room --- and it's not -- it's really not OK. I listen to her laugh at the technician's jokes as he runs the wand over  and over her taut beautiful belly capturing our future into digital format - tea leaves in a cup.

And suddenly as I feign delight, along with her real joy, at Sponge Bob's antics on the screen above the gurney - I want weep.

It feels so familiar to be in the ultrasound room with it's Nemo decals, soft lighting, and the incredibly kind staff who minister not just to the sick kids but also to the frightened parents. It feels so different to be alone in those overwhelming moments of the not 'knowing' if our borrowed time has finally expired.  If this is the scan where the alarms will shrilly erupt.

I smiled down at my golden child, to realize she had already forgotten that her question about why her dad was not with us - went unanswered.  I remembered how, before the "disappearance"during these scans, behind brave smiles the two of us used to surreptitiously squeeze each other's hands like a superstitious childhood 'pinkie promise' against our fears.

Today, I found myself silently wringing my hands as if to find a memory of that comfort between my own cold fingers to realize my silence was ending.