I'd like to explain something to the woman I saw at the pool this summer as I was needing my son's attention but he was across the pool. I snapped my fingers repeatedly. When he didn't turn, I whistled our family whistle. His head immediately swiveled and he ran toward me.

The woman looked shocked that this was how I communicate with my kids.

What she doesn't know is that it was all part of survival in the Summer of Silence.

I lost my voice a few months ago. Now, this is awkward for anyone. Add being the mother of three, being someone notoriously known for talking and being loud, doing public relations for a living, for goodness' sake, and, oh yeah, being a singer - you get the picture.

I lost my pipes because I was doing too much, work, hobbies, raising kids, and having the time of my life singing in "Annie", and doing it all with pneumonia. When all was done, so was my voice. I downed more lozenges than you can shake a stick at and survived "Annie" by gargling off-stage before I sang.

When the musical was done, I found out I have nodes on my vocal chords. (A singer's worst nightmare). So then I was given 60 days of "vocal rest" - basically nothing but quiet, soft occasional talking, and keep that to a minimum. No raised voice. No chatting at loud parties. And yes, no singing.

When I first got the diagnosis I sent an e-mail far and wide, telling people I was going into the "Cone of Silence." I received many emails back from people who thought this could be a "Zen" experience and that a lifelong extrovert could see things differently, enjoy introspection, learn a bit.

I kept waiting for that to happen.

My kids were very understanding about it. They learned about our "secret whistle". They repeatedly sssshhhh-ed each other so I didn't have to. They carried messages back and forth. They didn't yell for me across the house. They've even cut down on the fights, it seemed.

Everyone was great, rescheduling meetings, translating for me in large groups, and letting me become a "close talker" at parties when I snuck in a social life.

I deeply missed singing and making music. My daughter was in a musical at ArtsWest and I couldn't help, couldn't teach her the songs, or teach her harmony. I couldn't sing Happy Birthday at a party, even when it was horrifyingly in need of someone to steer. I couldn't sing in the car, dropped out of all my groups, and didn't even know if I would be able to sing in the future.

But as sad as losing my singing voice was, the saddest part for me was losing those moments of connection with my children. I didn't like whistling to get my son's attention at the pool. I didn't feel Zen. I didn't feel reflective. I didn't feel happy about it at all. I just missed talking.

And my son Will? We have always had a tradition of lying in his bed together at bedtime, and having him look in my eyes as I sing "I Will" to him. During my summer of silence, I tried to sing just a few croaky notes to him. He said, "It's okay, Mommy. You don't need to sing me my song anymore. I don't want to hurt your voice."

Yes, fate can be a cruel customer. My voice is what I do. It's what I do for work, for my singing, for my community, for my friends, and for singing "I Will" at night.

I would like to say it was a Zen experience. I would like to say I learned to view things differently, to enjoy silences, to learn from others, and to be more peaceful.

But I have found this during my silence. I am big, boisterous and loud. I love parties, my work, and long phone conversations. I love music. And I love tucking my little boy in at night. If that's what you are, where's the fun in silence?

Lauri Hennessey runs her own public relations firm and is the mother of three. Since she wrote this column six weeks ago, she has been slowly regaining her voice. However, once she has her voice back, she promises to sing in less groups, yell less, and say no once in a while. You can reach her at lauri@hennesseypr.com