My Father Came Home to Us After 306 Days in the Hospital入院306天，父亲回家了

尼基·伍尔夫 译/张爽

“He’s gone，” the doctors told us， gently.

Geoff Woolf—my dad—had been taken by ambulance to Whittington Hospital in north London with COVID-19 in March， at the beginning of the very first wave of the disease in the United Kingdom. He was placed on a ventilator a couple of days later. By the time the neurologists called us in to “discuss next steps”—their euphemism for switching off life support—Dad’s oxygen levels had finally stabilized after 67 brutal days of mechanical ventilation.

But two weeks after sedation was lifted， he had not returned to consciousness from the coma they had induced so that he wouldn’t reject the ventilation tube shoved down his windpipe. His doctors believed he now never would.

I remembered a song my dad had used to sing me to sleep at night. He had terrible pitch， really， but imbued the words with such meaning. “There was a boy， a very strange， enchanted boy …” I sang that song back to him， through tears that threatened to break into sobs， standing there with my two brothers， saying goodbye. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love， and be loved in return.”

Then， miraculously， though with agonizing slowness， he started to wake up. Eventually， 306 days after he was first admitted to the hospital， he came back home.

On March 21， when Dad first said he didn’t feel well， it was still easy to think of the pandemic as something that was happening elsewhere， to other people.

Like many others， I went out to the pub the night before lockdown came into force. Although experts and hospitals were sounding the alarm， warning that they might soon be overwhelmed， that the danger was clear and present， I had a feeling of invincibility with which it is now impossible to empathize. That pub trip will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The next day， Dad woke up exhausted， and complaining of stomach trouble. He didn’t have a fever， though， and his symptoms didn’t seem like those that people on TV were describing. He spent most of the day in bed， and the rest on the toilet. The following morning， I found him facedown at the breakfast table. Seeing him there， I felt the first spike of real fear—a fear that would stay with me for months.

I remember obsessing， when the ambulance came， about the need to pack his “useful bag.” Dad never goes anywhere without his useful bag. I put a clementine and a pack of blueberries in it， and rushed around in a panic because I couldn’t find his phone charger. The paramedics were kind. “He’ll be fine，” one of them said. Then they lifted Dad into the ambulance and closed the door. It sat there， doors closed， for about 10 more minutes. I stress-smoked a cigarette. Then， at 11 p.m. on the dot， they drove away.

When Dad first caught COVID-19， his chance of survival was statistically decent—somewhere between 90 and 99 percent， from what I could figure out during the hours I spent in the dark， obsessively reading research papers. When he was admitted to the hospital， those odds roughly dropped by a third. When he was placed on oxygen support， they halved again. By the time he was rushed into the ICU in acute respiratory distress and intubated for mechanical ventilation， his odds of surviving dropped below 10 percent. The longer he was ventilated， the further they decreased.

I was locked down， alone， in Dad’s now-empty house. At some point each day， the hospital call would come， and I would relay it to my family on Whats- App. I was going through this alone， but I was hardly alone in that. My family’s experience of this pandemic has been， I guess， starker than many others’， but， to some degree or another， everyone （anti-lockdown trolls and conspiracy theorists notwithstanding） has gone through the same rude transition from innocence to experience. Everywhere， as governments fumbled with lockdowns， people’s worlds shrank to their four walls. Time became meaningless for all of us.

For a few stiflingly hot weeks at Whittington in the height of summer， before Dad was transferred to a special neurological hospital with stricter rules on visitation， we were able to go in and see him. He was still unable to speak， so I drew conversation boxes on scrap paper. “I want to know about： hospital stuff; family stuff; the world.”

To us， Dad’s return to life seemed miraculous. To him， it seemed like a curse. As far as he was concerned， he had gone to sleep healthy—recently retired， a regular at the gym， studying for an art-history degree， a sociable lover of travel—and woken up profoundly disabled. He would come home， after 306 days in the hospital， in a wheelchair. The brain damage caused by the coronavirus has paralyzed his right side and left him with aphasia， which restricts his ability to speak， a particularly cruel outcome for a man whose love of language and literature is so core to his being.

The most bizarre part has been explaining everything that happened during the year he missed—not just to him， but to all of us. He woke up changed， and will have to get used to a different life. But he woke up in a changed world， too.

The mental-health effects of mass loneliness and isolation are yet to be uncovered. The scale of this catastrophe is yet to be fully understood.

What will this shared trauma do to all of us？ Can we ever go back to hugging and shaking hands？ Will we ever truly be comfortable again in large crowds， or in packed rooms？ I’m not sure I will.

Dad did not “beat” COVID-19. It devastated him， as it has devastated all of us. He will never be the same， and neither will we. But we know how lucky we are. We have him back. Or at least， as he himself put it in a melancholic moment at the hospital earlier in his recovery， “halfway back.”

Of course， things won’t go back to the way they were. But once all this is done， and the dust has settled， we can begin to think about how to go forward. There is， perhaps， hope in that.

“他要走了。”医生委婉地告诉我们。

2020年3月，我的父亲杰夫·伍尔夫因感染新冠病毒被救护车送往伦敦北部的惠廷顿医院，当时英国的第一波疫情刚刚开始。几天后，他戴上了呼吸机。等到神经科医生叫我们去“讨论后续措施”——关闭生命支持系统的委婉说法——父亲已经历了67天残酷的机械通气，血氧量终于稳定下来了。

但是，镇静剂解除两周后，他还没有恢复意识，医生之前让他保持昏迷，是防止他排斥气管的插管。医生认为他现在再也不会排斥了。

我记起父亲过去经常在晚上唱给我听的一首催眠曲。他唱歌其实音调不准，却让歌词充满意义。“有一个男孩，一个奇特的、欢乐的男孩……”我现在把这首歌唱给他听，眼泪在眼眶里打转，两位兄弟站在身边，向他说再见，“你学到的最棒的事就是去爱，同时收获爱。”

后来，父亲奇迹般地开始苏醒，虽然过程缓慢而痛苦。终于，在住院306天后，他回了家。

3月21日那天，父亲第一次说他感觉不舒服，那时我们仍然简单地认为这场疫情只发生在其他地方、其他人身上。

和许多人一样，我在封禁的前一天晚上去了酒吧。尽管专家和医院都发出了警告，说他们应付不了多久，危险迫在眉睫，但当时的我却有一种不可战胜的感觉，现在的我完全体会不到了。那次酒吧之旅使我终生难忘。

第二天，父亲筋疲力尽地醒来，抱怨胃部不适。但他没有发烧，症状也不像电视上说的那样。他一天的大部分时间都在床上度过，其余时间都在洗手间里。第三天早上，我发现他脸朝下趴在早餐桌上。看到他那个样子，我第一次感到了真正的恐惧——这恐惧几个月都挥之不去。

记得救护车来的时候，我一心想着带上他的“万用包”。 父亲走到哪里都带着他这只包。我在里面放了一个小柑橘和一包蓝莓，接着便慌乱地四处翻找他的手机充电器，怎么也找不到。医务人员很好。“他会好起来的。”其中一位说。然后他们把父亲抬上救护车，关上门。救护车在那里停了大约10分钟，车门紧闭。我紧张地抽了根烟。然后，晚上11点整，救护车离开了。

父亲刚感染新冠病毒时，在统计学上的存活率是很高的——约在90%到99%之间，这是我在夜晚疯狂阅读文献得出的结果。在他入院时，存活率下降了几乎三分之一。到他接受氧气支持时，存活率又降低了一半。而到他因急性呼吸窘迫综合征被紧急送进重症监护室并接受气管插管进行机械通气时，他的生存几率已降至10%以下。插管通气时间越长，存活率越低。

我一個人隔离在父亲住院后空出来的房子里。医院每天会在某一时刻打来电话，我则会在WhatsApp上把消息传递给家人。我独自经历着这些，但不只是我这样。我想，面对这场疫情，我的家人比许多人经历了更严峻的考验，但在某种程度上，每个人（尽管有反封锁人士和阴谋论者）都经历了从一无所知到亲身体会的急剧变化。各国政府在摸索中实施封锁的同时，人们的世界缩小到了四壁一屋。时间对所有人来说都变得毫无意义。

盛夏的时候，惠廷顿有几个星期闷热难耐，我们可以去探望他。他仍然不能说话，所以我在便条上画了对话框。“我想知道：医院的事、家里的事、世界上的事。”那几个星期过后，父亲被转到一家探视规定更严格的神经专科医院。

对我们来说，父亲的生还是奇迹般的。对他来说，这却像是一种诅咒。对他而言，他昏迷前很健康——刚刚退休，是健身房的常客，正在攻读艺术史学位，是个爱交际的旅友——醒来却成了重度失能。在医院住了306天后，他只能坐着轮椅回家。冠状病毒造成的脑损伤使他右侧身体瘫痪并患上了失语症，这影响了他的语言能力，对于一个挚爱语言与文学的人来说，这个结果相当残酷。

最怪异的莫过于如何解释他错过的那一年里发生的一切——不仅仅是对他，也是对我们所有人。他醒来后变得不一样了，不得不去适应一种不同的生活。而他醒来后，世界也全然不同了。

群体的孤独与隔绝对心理健康的影响尚不明确。这场灾难会达到怎样的规模尚不完全清楚。

这种共同的创伤会对我们所有人造成什么影响？我们还能再拥抱和握手吗？在大群人中、在拥挤的房间里，我们还能感到真正的惬意吗？我不确定自己能。

父亲没有“战胜”新冠病毒。病毒摧毁了他，也摧毁了我们所有人。他再也回不到从前的样子了，我们也一样。但我们知道自己有多幸运。他回到了我们身边。或者至少，像康复初期在医院他自己一时悲伤所说的，“回来了一半”。

当然，事情不会回到原来的样子。但当一切结束，尘埃落定，我们就可以开始思考如何继续向前。也许，希望还在。

（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者;单位：南京大学外国语学院）