車站保安走到我身邊:“先生,您不能躺在這兒?!?br>A security guard approached. “Sir, you can’t lie down here.”
“抱歉,”我上氣不接下氣地吐出幾個(gè)字,“后……背……抽……痛?!?br>“I’m sorry,” I said, gasping out the words. “Bad. . . back. . . spasms.”
“你還是不能躺在這兒?!?br>“You still can’t lie down here.”
真的很抱歉,但我得了癌癥,要死了。
I’m sorry, but I’m dying from cancer.
這些話都到嘴邊了,但萬一我沒得呢?也許那些經(jīng)常背痛的人就是會(huì)有這樣的遭遇。我算是很了解背痛了:解剖學(xué)原理、生理學(xué)原理,還有病人們用來描述不同痛感的不同詞匯。但我從不知道背痛的感覺,也許就是這樣的,也許。又或許,我不想給自己添霉運(yùn),也許我就是不想把“癌癥”這兩個(gè)字說出口。
The words lingered on my tongue—but what if I wasn’t? Maybe this was just what people with back pain live with. I knew a lot about back pain—its anatomy, its physiology, the different words patients used to describe different kinds of pain—but I didn’t know what it felt like. Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe. Or maybe I didn’t want the jinx. Maybe I just didn’t want to say the word cancer out loud.
我努力站起來,蹣跚著走向月臺(tái)。
I pulled myself up and hobbled to the platform.