雙語·當呼吸化為空氣 這到底是勝利 還是落敗

這到底是勝利，還是落?。?br>Was this a victory or a defeat?

我開始期盼和艾瑪見面。在她的診室里，能有種找回自我的感覺，至少是某一個自我。走出她的診室，我就又不知道自己是誰了。我沒有工作，過去的那一個自己，那個神經(jīng)外科醫(yī)生，那個科學家，那個相對來說眼前有一片光明坦途的年輕人，仿佛迷失在了某個地方。在家里，我虛弱疲憊，也不是露西的好丈夫。如果我的人生是由很多句子組成的，那我已經(jīng)從每個句子的主語，變成了直接的賓語。十四世紀的哲學專著中，“病人（patient）”這個詞的意思就是“一個動作的對象”，這就是我現(xiàn)在的感覺。作為醫(yī)生的時候，我是動作的發(fā)出者，動作的原因，但作為病人，我僅僅是某個事件發(fā)生的對象。然而，一進艾瑪?shù)脑\室，露西和我就能輕松自在地開玩笑，你一言我一語地說著醫(yī)學術(shù)語，敞開聊我們的希望與夢想，試著制訂下一步的計劃。已經(jīng)兩個月了，對于我生命還剩多久的預言，艾瑪仍然語焉不詳。而且我無論說起什么相關(guān)的數(shù)據(jù)，她都斷然制止，提醒我好好注重自己的價值。盡管我對此略有不滿，但至少在她這兒，我感覺自己是個人，活生生的人，不僅僅是一個“熱力學第二定律”（一切的熱量都是要衰落，減退……之類的）的例子。
I began to look forward to my meetings with Emma. In her office, I felt like myself, like a self. Outside her office, I no longer knew who I was. Because I wasn’t working, I didn’t feel like myself, a neurosurgeon, a scientist—a young man, relatively speaking, with a bright future spread before him. Debilitated, at home, I feared I wasn’t much of a husband for Lucy. I had passed from the subject to the direct object of every sentence of my life. In fourteenthcentury philosophy, the word patient simply meant “the object of an action,” and I felt like one. As a doctor, I was an agent, a cause; as a patient, I was merely something to which things happened. But in Emma’s office, Lucy and I could joke, trade doctor lingo, talk freely about our hopes and dreams, try to assemble a plan to move forward. Two months in, Emma remained vague about any prognostication, and every statistic I cited she rebuffed with a reminder to focus on my values. Though I felt dissatisfied, at least I felt like somebody, a person, rather than a thing exemplifying the second law of thermodynamics (all order tends toward entropy, decay, etc.).

面對死亡，很多決定都顯得迫在眉睫，沒有退路，容不得一點優(yōu)柔寡斷。對于露西和我來說，所有決定中最緊迫的是：我們該不該要個孩子？就算我的住院醫(yī)生生涯快結(jié)束時我倆的婚姻關(guān)系有點緊張，但我們彼此一直是非常相愛的。我們的關(guān)系仍然非常深厚，我們分享生命中最重要的東西，也攜手成長。如果人與人之間的關(guān)聯(lián)性是人生意義的基石，那么生兒育女就為這個意義增添了新的維度。要孩子是我們一直渴望的事情，而現(xiàn)在我們?nèi)匀槐贿@種本能驅(qū)使著，想為家中的餐桌再添一把椅子。
Flush in the face of mortality, many decisions became compressed, urgent and unreceding. Foremost among them for us: Should Lucy and I have a child? Even if our marriage had been strained toward the end of my residency, we had always remained very much in love. Our relationship was still deep in meaning, a shared and evolving vocabulary about what mattered. If human relationality formed the bedrock of meaning, it seemed to us that rearing children added another dimension to that meaning. It had been something we’d always wanted, and we were both impelled by the instinct to do it still, to add another chair to our family’s table.

我們倆都渴望為人父母，同時又極力為對方著想。露西當然希望我還能多活幾年，但也很理解我預后的情況，覺得應該由我來選擇余生是否想當爸爸。
Both of us yearning to be parents, we each thought of the other. Lucy hoped I had years left, but understanding my prognosis, she felt that the choice—whether to spend my remaining time as a father—should be mine.

“你最害怕，或者最傷心的是什么？”一天晚上，我們躺在床上，她問我。
“What are you most afraid or sad about?” she asked me one night as we were lying in bed.

“離開你?！蔽腋嬖V她。
“Leaving you,” I told her.

我知道，一個孩子能給整個家?guī)須g聲笑語。我根本不忍心去想，等我撒手人寰后，露西既無丈夫又無孩子陪伴的樣子。但我堅持，最終的決定必須由她來做：畢竟，她很有可能需要獨自撫養(yǎng)這個孩子；隨著我病情的惡化，她可能還要同時照顧我們倆。
I knew a child would bring joy to the whole family, and I couldn’t bear to picture Lucy husbandless and childless after I died, but I was adamant that the decision ultimately be hers: she would likely have to raise the child on her own after all, and to care for both of us as my illness progressed.

“生了孩子，會不會影響我們在一起的時光？”她問，“你不覺得，向自己的孩子告別，會死得更痛苦？”
“Will having a newborn distract from the time we have together?” she asked. “Don’t you think saying goodbye to your child will make your death more painful?”

“如果真的是這樣，那不是很好嗎？”我說。露西和我都覺得，生活絕不是要一味地躲避痛苦。
“Wouldn’t it be great if it did?” I said. Lucy and I both felt that life wasn’t about avoiding suffering.