The worst moment is watching someone who knows the answers realize he may not have one.
He reached toward the ultrasound printer.
The machine began to spit out images with a dry mechanical whisper.
One page.
Then another.
Then another.
The tech gathered them too quickly.
His hands shook just enough for me to notice.
My mother swallowed hard.
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“Please,” she said. “Just tell me if I’m dying.”
The doctor’s face changed again.
Something softened there.
But he still did not answer directly.
Instead, he picked up the wall phone and asked for a second physician to come to ultrasound immediately.
Immediately.
That word made my knees feel loose.
I looked at the screen again.
The shapes meant nothing to me.
