雙語·當(dāng)呼吸化為空氣 我還是一如既往地愛他

我本以為，保羅去世后，我只會覺得空虛和心碎，卻從未想過即使一個人去了，你還是能夠一如既往地愛他；從未想過我會在強(qiáng)烈的悲傷之余，一直感受到濃烈的愛意與感恩。有時悲傷很沉重，壓得我渾身顫抖，呻吟嗚咽。保羅走了，而我?guī)缀趺繒r每刻都在強(qiáng)烈地思念他。但不知怎么，我還是感覺仍然在過著兩人一起創(chuàng)造的人生。“喪親之痛并不能阻斷婚姻之愛，”C.S.劉易斯曾經(jīng)寫道，“這只是婚姻中必經(jīng)的階段——就像蜜月。這個階段的婚姻，也要誠心誠意，好好經(jīng)營?！蔽覔狃B(yǎng)我們的女兒，與家人培養(yǎng)感情，出版這本書，追求有意義的工作。去保羅墓前看他，為他悲痛，也為他驕傲，堅強(qiáng)地活下去……我對他的愛沒有停歇，仍然鮮活，這是我萬萬沒有料到的。
I expected to feel only empty and heartbroken after Paul died. It never occurred to me that you could love someone the same way after he was gone, that I would continue to feel such love and gratitude alongside the terrible sorrow, the grief so heavy that at times I shiver and moan under the weight of it. Paul is gone, and I miss him acutely nearly every moment, but I somehow feel I’m still taking part in the life we created together. “Bereavement is not the truncation of married love,” C. S. Lewis wrote, “but one of its regular phases—like the honeymoon. What we want is to live our marriage well and faithfully through that phase too.” Caring for our daughter, nurturing relationships with family, publishing this book, pursuing meaningful work, visiting Paul’s grave, grieving and honoring him, persisting. . . my love goes on—lives on—in a way I’d never expected.

每次看見保羅曾經(jīng)作為醫(yī)生和病人工作、生活和去世的那家醫(yī)院，我都會想，如果他活下來了，一定會在神經(jīng)外科和神經(jīng)系統(tǒng)科學(xué)領(lǐng)域做出杰出的貢獻(xiàn)。他可能會幫助無數(shù)的病人與家屬度過他們一生中最艱難的時刻，這本來也是他投身神經(jīng)外科的初衷。他曾經(jīng)是，也會繼續(xù)做一個好人，一個深刻的思考者。如今他雖死去，這本書卻成為幫助別人的新渠道，也只有他能做出這樣的貢獻(xiàn)。這當(dāng)然沒有減輕我們失去他的痛苦。但在奮筆疾書的過程中，他找到了人生的意義。他在書中第115頁（英文版）寫道：“你永遠(yuǎn)無法到達(dá)完美的境地，但通過不懈的努力奮斗和追求，你能看見那無限接近完美的漸進(jìn)曲線?！睂懽鬟@本書對那時的他來說，實在是很艱巨、很辛苦的工作，但他從未有一絲一毫的懈怠。上天賜予他這樣的生命，他就用這樣的生命創(chuàng)造出豐碩的成果?！懂?dāng)呼吸化為空氣》是一部非常完整的作品。
When I see the hospital where Paul lived and died as a physician and a patient, I understand that had he lived, he would have made great contributions as a neurosurgeon and neuroscientist. He would have helped countless patients and their families through some of the most challenging moments of their lives, the task that drew him to neurosurgery in the first place. He was, and would have continued to be, a good person and a deep thinker. Instead, this book is a new way for him to help others, a contribution only he could make. This doesn’t make his death, our loss, any less painful. But he found meaning in the striving. On page 115 of this book, he wrote, “You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.” It was arduous, bruising work, and he never faltered. This was the life he was given, and this is what he made of it. When Breath Becomes Air is complete, just as it is.

保羅去世后兩天，我寫了一篇名為“致卡迪”的日記：“一個人死去時，大家都會說好話贊頌他。那你要記住，人們現(xiàn)在所說的關(guān)于你爸爸的好話，都千真萬確。他真的那么好，那么勇敢。”回想他人生的意義，我腦海里總會浮現(xiàn)出那首衍生于《朝圣者的行進(jìn)》的贊美詩：“誰是真正的勇士／請他來到近前……／一切虛妄過眼／他不會在意他人所言／他會晝夜不停勞作／成為朝圣者不斷向前?！北Ａ_決定正視死亡，不僅體現(xiàn)了他在生命最后時光的精神，更說明了他一直以來的為人。保羅的大半生都在對死亡進(jìn)行探索和思考，并拷問自己是否能坦然誠實地面對死亡。最后，他給出了肯定的答案。
Two days after Paul died, I wrote a journal entry addressed to Cady:“When someone dies, people tend to say great things about him. Please know that all the wonderful things people are saying now about your dad are true. He really was that good and that brave.”Reflecting on his purpose, I often think of lyrics from the hymn derived from “Pilgrim’s Progress”: “Who would true valour see, / Let him come hither. . . / fancies fly away, / He’ll fear not what men say,/ He’ll labour night and day / To be a pilgrim.” Paul’s decision to look death in the eye was a testament not just to who he was in the final hours of his life but who he had always been. For much of his life, Paul wondered about death—and whether he could face it with integrity. In the end, the answer was yes.

我是他的妻子，也是見證人。
I was his wife and a witness.

致謝
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

露西·卡拉尼什
Lucy Kalanithi

感謝多里安·卡馬爾，保羅在威廉·莫里斯奮進(jìn)公司的代理人，你的積極支持和鼓勵，讓保羅充滿信心，完成這本很重要的書。感謝安迪·沃德，保羅在蘭登書屋的編輯，其決心、智慧和編輯才華讓保羅迫切地與他合作，而其幽默與同情心又讓保羅想與之成為朋友。保羅的遺愿，是請家人在他死后務(wù)必出版這本書，我能給他肯定的承諾，就是因為我們都對多里安和安迪充滿信心。那時，這些還都只是他電腦上的一個文件，但因為兩位非凡的才能和投入的態(tài)度，我相信，保羅去世時，也是滿懷希望，知道這些字字句句能夠為世人所知，也知道我們的女兒通過這本書能了解自己的爸爸。謝謝亞伯拉罕·維基斯提筆作序，保羅要是讀到你的文字，一定會很受觸動。（我唯一提出的異議，是維基斯醫(yī)生說保羅留著“先知一樣的絡(luò)腮胡”，其實只是因為沒時間刮胡子罷了?。┪液芨屑ぐ悺だ?，感謝她愿意在我悲痛之時來見我，并輔導(dǎo)我寫完后記，像保羅一樣教導(dǎo)我，怎么做一個作家，該寫些什么東西。感謝所有支持過我們一家的人，包括這本書的讀者。最后，感謝那些為了提高人們對肺癌的重視程度以及促進(jìn)相關(guān)研究不懈努力的倡導(dǎo)者、臨床醫(yī)生和科學(xué)家，他們?nèi)耐度?，立志要讓那些晚期惡性肺癌患者生存下來?br>Thank you to Dorian Karchmar, Paul’s agent at William Morris Endeavor, whose fierce support and nurturing gave Paul the confidence that he could write an important book. And to Andy Ward, Paul’s editor at Random House, whose determination, wisdom, and editorial talent made Paul eager to work with him, and whose humor and compassion made Paul want to befriend him. When Paul asked his family—literally his dying wish—to shepherd this book to publication posthumously, I was able to promise him that we would, because of our shared confidence in Dorian and Andy. At that time, the manuscript was just an open file on his computer, but thanks to their talent and dedication, I believe Paul died knowing that these words would make their way into the world and that, through them, our daughter would come to know him. Thank you to Abraham Verghese for a foreword that would have thrilled Paul (my only objection being that what Dr. Verghese judged to be a “prophet’s beard”was really an “I-don’t-have-time-to-shave” beard!). I am grateful to Emily Rapp for her willingness to meet me in my grief and coach me through the epilogue, teaching me, as Paul did, what a writer is and why writers write. Thank you to all who have supported our family, including the readers of this book. Finally, thank you to the advocates, clinicians, and scientists working tirelessly to advance lung cancer awareness and research, aiming to turn even advanced lung cancer into a survivable disease.

保羅·卡拉尼什曾經(jīng)是一位神經(jīng)外科醫(yī)生，也是一名作家。他成長在亞利桑那州的金曼，取得了斯坦福大學(xué)英語文學(xué)學(xué)士和碩士學(xué)位，以及人體生物學(xué)學(xué)士學(xué)位。其后于劍橋大學(xué)取得了科學(xué)醫(yī)藥歷史與哲學(xué)研究碩士學(xué)位。還以優(yōu)異成績從耶魯醫(yī)學(xué)院畢業(yè)，并在那里加入了“Alpha Omega Alpha國家醫(yī)學(xué)榮譽(yù)協(xié)會”。他回到斯坦福，完成神經(jīng)外科住院醫(yī)生培訓(xùn)，并進(jìn)行神經(jīng)科學(xué)的博士后研究項目，其間獲得了美國神經(jīng)外科學(xué)會研究領(lǐng)域的最高獎。2015年3月，保羅不幸去世。但他的生命在那個充滿愛的大家庭中得以延續(xù)，其中包括他的妻子露西和女兒伊麗莎白·阿卡迪亞。
Paul Kalanithi was a neurosurgeon and writer. He grew up in Kingman, Arizona, and graduated from Stanford University with a BA and MA in English literature and a BA in human biology. He earned an MPhil in history and philosophy of science and medicine from the University of Cambridge and graduated cum laude from the Yale School of Medicine, where he was inducted into the Alpha Omega Alpha national medical honor society. He returned to Stanford to complete his residency training in neurological surgery and a postdoctoral fellowship in neuroscience, during which he received the American Academy of Neurological Surgery’s highest award for research. He died in March 2015. He is survived by his large, loving family, including his wife, Lucy, and their daughter, Elizabeth Acadia.

溫暖的夕陽從病房西北向的窗戶斜斜地照進(jìn)來。保羅的呼吸變得越來越安靜?？ǖ系乃X時間快到了，她舉著胖胖的小拳頭揉揉眼睛。一個朋友到醫(yī)院來把她送回家。我把她的臉頰湊到保羅的臉頰前。父女倆有著一模一樣的深色頭發(fā)，都是這里一簇那里一簇地歪斜著。保羅的面龐平靜安詳，卡迪有些古怪地做著鬼臉，但也很平靜。他所深愛的寶貝完全想不到，這一刻就是永別。我輕輕唱起卡迪的安眠曲，不僅是對女兒，也是對保羅。接著我松手把卡迪交給朋友。
Warm rays of evening light began to slant through the northwestfacing window of the room as Paul’s breaths grew more quiet. Cady rubbed her eyes with chubby fists as her bedtime approached, and a family friend arrived to take her home. I held her cheek to Paul’s, tufts of their matching dark hair similarly askew, his face serene, hers quizzical but calm, his beloved baby never suspecting that this moment was a farewell. Softly I sang Cady’s bedtime song, to her, to both of them, and then released her.

因為，幾個星期后，情緒上的大起大落就逐漸消散了。我發(fā)現(xiàn)，跟非醫(yī)學(xué)生聊天，講有關(guān)尸體的事情時，我會強(qiáng)調(diào)這事有多怪異，多可怕，多荒謬可笑，好像要明白無誤地告訴他們：看，雖然我每周六個小時都在切割尸體，但我是正常人。有時候我會跟他們講，有一次上課，我回過身，看到一個平時用的馬克杯上都會有大團(tuán)大團(tuán)彩漆的女同學(xué)，正開開心心地用錘子和鑿子鑿進(jìn)一具女尸的脊椎骨，碎片在空中四處飛濺。我講這個故事，就是想和這樣的人劃清界限。但我身在其中，無處可逃。畢竟，我剛剛不是還很急切地拿一對斷線鉗拆解了一個男人的胸腔嗎？就算切的是死人，臉也蒙上了，也不知道他們的名字，你還是會感覺他們身為人的特性撲面而來。我打開尸體的胃，發(fā)現(xiàn)兩片還未消化的嗎啡，這說明他是在痛苦中死去的。也許當(dāng)時正孤身一人，手忙腳亂地抓著藥瓶。
Because after a few weeks, the drama dissipated. In conversations with non–medical students, telling cadaver stories, I found myself highlighting the grotesque, macabre, and absurd, as if to reassure them that I was normal, even though I was spending six hours a week carving up a corpse. Sometimes I told of the moment when I turned around and saw a classmate, the sort of woman who had a mug decorated with puffy paint, tip-toeing on a stool, cheerfully hammering a chisel into a woman’s backbone, splinters flying through the air. I told this story as if to distance myself from it, but my kinship was undeniable. After all, hadn’t I just as eagerly disassembled a man’s rib cage with a pair of bolt cutters? Even working on the dead, with their faces covered, their names a mystery, you find that their humanity pops up at you—in opening my cadaver’s stomach, I found two undigested morphine pills, meaning that he had died in pain, perhaps alone and fumbling with the cap of a pill bottle.