无语的日子

That morning， I got the train as always. I was a publishing director and was looking forward to reading my newspaper， as usual. I would always turn to the cryptic crossword， but that day it didnt make any sense. Id been doing it for 30-old years， but trying to read this one was like treading through treacle： incredibly slow and hard. I thought I must be tired.

At the office， I sat down， turned on my computer and found I couldnt read the message on the screen. I said to my assistant， “This is strange， I cant make my computer work”， and she started laughing. Although I had no idea at the time， I was speaking gibberish.

Eventually， worried colleagues contacted my wife， Beth， and she drove me straight to hospital. There， confirmation came that Id had a stroke in the part of my brain that deals with communication. I was now suffering from aphasia， a condition that means its difficult or impossible to receive and produce language. When Beth asked the consultant how long it would take for me to get better， he replied， “How long is a piece of string？”

Over that first day， I got progressively worse. I couldnt understand what people were saying； I couldnt speak intelligibly； I couldnt read or write. A couple of nights later， I had to go to the loo and realised I couldnt read the signs on the doors. That was the first time I thought， “Christ， this is serious.”It was the only time I cried.

I was back at home a week later， and my goal was to get better and return to work in a couple of months. I started seeing a speech therapist three times a week， and was given homework to help rebuild my vocabulary and grammar. Id look at simple pictures and try to describe them as my mind wandered round and round in the darkness， looking for words.

Apart from being incredibly tired， and sleeping for hours and hours， I felt healthy. But I was deeply confused. Sitting around the table with my wife and children， all I could hear was a babble of noise. I couldnt separate sounds， be it a dog barking outside， music in the background or my wife talking to me. It was hugely frustrating. After a month， my own speech became functional—“Could you pass the salt？” “Shall we go for a walk？”—but I couldnt have a conversation. I couldnt read the newspaper. When I sat down to my favourite television programme， The Sopranos， I couldnt understand a thing. I felt so isolated.

People at work were fantastically supportive， but as the months passed it became clear I wasnt going to be able to go back to my old job. I still couldnt read properly， or have a phone conversation. The phrase that kept going through my mind was： damaged goods. For 25 years， I had defined myself as a publisher. I was used to a busy day of meetings， and bringing three manuscripts home with me each night. I enjoyed talking to my colleagues， I enjoyed working with writers and the status Id had. I loved reading books and the sustenance new ideas provided. I didnt feel ready to say goodbye to my old self. There were times when I felt incredibly angry.

In the darkest months， I devoted myself to trying. I would spend hours writing a description of something simple like a pencil， which would run over two pages. I couldnt manage novels or newspapers， so I tried reading poetry， and found the shorter lines less overwhelming. My speech came back， and I learned how to read again， albeit much more slowly. I also learned patience， and the ability to zone out of conversations when I couldnt keep up. I spent more time outside， looking after our garden， and eventually got a job a couple of days a week at a nursery. I allowed myself to slow down， and started to enjoy it.

Gradually， I sloughed off my old skin. I grieved the past， its passing and its absence， and started to come to terms with it. Now， 10 years later， I look after my grandson a day a week， and my relationship with my family is deeper than ever. We have learned to be very patient with each other. If youd asked me 15 years ago to rank the importance of the things in my life I might have said family， but in truth my all-consuming job was up there as well. Im no longer a high-achieving publisher or someone who reads 10 books a week. Im a family man and gardener with aphasia， and if I read 10 books a year， thats pretty good.

那天早上，我一如既往地去搭火车。我是一名出版总监，像往常一样，正期待着阅读我的报纸。我总是会玩纵横填字游戏，但那天的情况一点也不合乎常理。填字游戏我已经玩了三十多年，但尝试解开眼下的这一个就像踏着糖浆走路似的：难以置信的缓慢和艰难。我想我一定是累了。

到办公室之后，我坐下，打开电脑，发现自己无法阅读屏幕上的信息。我对我的助理说：“奇怪，我无法让我的电脑工作”，然后她就开始笑了。当时我没意识到，其实自己正在胡言乱语。

最终，担心我的同事联系了我妻子贝丝，她直接开车把我送去医院。在那里，证实了我大脑中负责语言沟通的那一部分中风了。如今我患了失语症，这种情况意味着我会难以或者几乎无法接收或说出任何语言。当贝丝问会诊医生我需要多久才会有所好转时，他回答道：“一根绳子有多长？”

第一天之后，我的病情日益恶化。我听不懂别人在说什么；我不能清楚地表达自己；我也无法读、写。之后有好几个晚上，我不得不去洗手间时，却发现自己无法辨识门上的标志。那是我第一次想：“天啊！这真可怕。”那是我仅有的一次哭泣。

一周后我回了家，我的目标是几个月内康复，然后回去工作。我开始每周看三次语言治疗师，治疗师还布置作业帮我重建词汇和语法。我会看些简单的图片，然后当我的思维在昏暗中迷迷糊糊地徘徊着找寻字眼的时候，试着去描述它们。

除了变得极其疲倦，能连续睡上好几个小时之外，我觉得自己很健康。但是我非常困惑。当我和妻儿坐在餐桌旁，我能听到的只是喋喋不休的噪音。我无法分辨声音，分不清外面的犬吠，背后的音乐声或者妻子跟我讲话的声音。这令人万分沮丧。一个月之后，我能说些实用的语句了——“能帮我递下盐吗？”“我们去散步好吗？”——但我还是不能进行会话。我无法阅读报纸。当我坐下来观看我最喜欢的电视节目《黑道家族》时，我一丁点儿都看不懂。我觉得很孤独。

同事们给予我很多帮助，但是数月过后，我明显已经无法再回到原来的工作岗位上了。我仍然无法正确阅读，或进行电话交谈。那个不断地闪过我脑海的短语是：残缺不全。25年以来，我定义自己为出版商。我习惯了一天繁忙的会议，然后每晚带三份手稿回家。我喜爱和同事们交谈，与作家共事以及拥有如今的地位都让我很享受。我喜欢阅读书籍和吸收新点子。我觉得我并未准备好告别从前的自己。时不时我便感觉自己怒火中烧。

在最黑暗的那几个月里，我倾尽全力要改变现状。我会花几个小时去写一些关于简单物品的描述，比如铅笔，一写便会超过两页。我无法阅读小说或者报纸，所以我尝试阅读诗歌，发现那些短句不是那么难以应付。我的语言恢复了，我又再次学会了阅读，虽然慢了很多。我还学会了耐心，学会了在跟不上别人的谈话时，浑然不觉地把自己带离话题的本领。我花更多的时间在户外，照料我的花园，最终找了份在苗圃的工作，一周只上两三天班。我让自己放慢脚步，开始享受生活。

逐渐地，我抛掉了以前的自己。我缅怀过去、其流逝、其缺席，然后开始妥协接受一切。十年之后的现在，我每周要照看我的孙子一天，我与家人的关系比以往任何时候都亲密。我们学会了耐心对待彼此。如果十五年前你让我将生命中重要的事情排序，也许我会说家庭是第一位，但事实上，我全身心投入的工作也是同等重要。如今，我不再是一名出色的出版商或某个每周阅书十卷的人。我是一个居家男人，一个患了失语症的园丁，而且如果我能每年阅书十卷，也还不赖。