Hospice/Honeymoon临终关怀/蜜月

“Hospice.”

“临终关怀。”

Once the word is uttered aloud， there is a seismic shift. You will feel it.

这词一旦大声念出来，天崩地裂般的变化便接踵而至。你自会察觉。

Like a （very short） thread through the eye of a needle， swiftly in and swiftly out.

就好似一根（极短的）线穿过针眼，倏然而过。

The air itself becomes thin， steely.

空气本身变得稀薄冷硬。

At the periphery of your vision， an immediate dimming. The penumbra begins to shrink. In time， it will become a tunnel. Ever diminishing. Until the remaining light is small enough to be cupped in two hands. And then it will be extinguished.

刹那间，视野边缘晦黯模糊。半影渐渐缩小。最终，它会变为一条隧道。愈缩愈小。直至余光小到能被双手拢住。之后光就会消逝殆尽。

For when “hospice” is spoken， the fact is at last acknowledged： There is no hope.

因为一说“临终关怀”，就意味着承认这个事实：没有希望了。

No hope. These words are obscene， unspeakable. To be without hope is to be without a future.

没有希望。这污秽可鄙、难以言说的字眼。没了希望就没了未来。

Worse， by acknowledging that you are without a future， you have “given up.”

更糟的是，承认没有未来，无异于就此“放弃”。

And so when the word “hospice” is first spoken—carefully， cautiously， by a （female） palliative-care physician—neither of you hears it. Or， if you hear it， you don’t register that you have heard.

因此，第一次听到“临终关怀”这词从一位（女）姑息治疗医师口中小心翼翼讲出时，大家往往都充耳不闻。或者，即便听见了，也不会说自己听见了。

A low-grade buzzing in the ears， a ringing， as of a distant alarm， an alarm in a shuttered room. That is all.

耳中不过是一阵低沉的嗡鸣、一阵铃声，像是远处的警报声、封闭屋内的警报声。仅此而已。

For if you don’t hear， perhaps it has not （yet） been uttered.

因为只要你没听到，或许就没人说过。

For if neither of you hears， perhaps it will not （ever） be uttered.

因为只要大家都没听到，或许就不会有人提起。

Yet somehow it happens： “hospice” comes to be more frequently spoken as the days pass.

但不知怎的，事情就变成了这样：随着日子一天天过去，“临终关怀”一词说得越来越多。

And somehow it happens that your husband， surprising himself， begins to speak of his “final days.” As in， “I think these might be my final days.”

又不知怎的，丈夫开始提及自己“最后的日子”，连他自己也对此颇感惊奇。比如他会说：“我想这可能是我最后的日子了。”

As if shyly. On the phone very early one morning， when he calls， as he has been calling， immediately after the oncologist making rounds in the hospital has examined him.

似乎羞于启齿。是某个凌晨打电话说的，在查房的肿瘤专家给他检查后，他马上打来电话，像平时那样。

On the phone， so that he is spared seeing your face. And you， his.

打电话，他就不必直面你。你也不必直面他。

A new shyness like the first， initial shyness. Finding some way to say I love you.

这种少有的羞怯，与恋爱伊始时的那种羞怯颇为相像。不知如何开口说“我爱你”。

For some， an impossible statement—I love you.

于某些人而言，“我爱你”这话，根本说不出口。

But your husband managed it， and you managed it， somehow： I love you.

但不知怎的，你丈夫说出口了，你也说出口了：“我爱你。”

And now， years later， it is “I think these might be my final days.”

可多年之后，这句话变成了“我想这可能是我最后的日子了”。

These words you hear over the phone distinctly， irrevocably， yet （you would claim） you have not heard them. No！

虽然电话里的一字一句清清楚楚、覆水难收，但（你偏要说）你没听见。没听见！

But， yes， you’ve heard. Must have heard. For the walls of the room reel giddily around you， blood rushes out of your head， leaving you faint， sinking to your knees like a terrified child， stammering， “What？ What are you saying？ That’s ridiculous. Don’t say such things！ What on earth do you mean— ‘final days’？”

但其实，你听见了。肯定听见了。因为房间里的你自觉天旋地转、血冲颅顶、力松劲泄，像个惊恐的孩子跪在地上，结结巴巴地回道：“什么？你在说什么？这不可能。不准你这样讲！‘最后的日子’——到底什么意思？”

Your voice rises wildly. You want to fling the cell phone from you.

你歇斯底里地拔高嗓门。你想把手机扔了。

For you can’t bear it. You don’t think so. Not knowing， at this time， the vast Sahara that lies ahead with all that you cannot bear， that nonetheless will be borne， and by you.

因为你承受不住。你觉得自己承受不住。此刻你还不知道，接下来会有多少你无法承受但终将亲自承受的痛苦。

For always， each step of the way， you resist.

因为这一路上的每一步，你都一如既往地抗拒。

It is a steep uphill. It is natural to resist. Or， if you accept the steep climb， console yourself with the thought that it is only temporary. The plateau， the flatland to which you’ve been accustomed， awaits you， both of you. You will return there. Soon.

这是一条陡峭的上坡路。你自然心生抗拒。或许，你可以接受攀登陡坡，安慰自己，这不过是一时之苦。那片安稳的高地——你们待惯的一马平川，在等着你、等着你二人。你会回到那里。很快。

Until a day， an hour—always there is a day， an hour—when you began to speak of hospice yourself.

直到某一天、某一刻——总会有那一天、那一刻——你自己也开始说起临终关怀。

At first， you， too， are shy， faltering. Your throat feels lacerated as if by metal filings.

起先，你也会羞于启齿，支支吾吾。喉头仿佛被金属屑划伤。

Gradually， you learn to utter the two syllables clearly， bravely—hos-pice.

渐渐，你学会一个字一个字清晰、勇敢地说出——“临—终—关—怀”。

Soon after that， you begin to say these distinct， deliberate words： “our hospice.”

不久，你就开始字正腔圆、沉着镇定地说出“我们的临终关怀”。

Soon， you draw up your vows. Quaintly state to yourself， as if to God， a formal decree.

很快，你便拟出自己的誓言。离奇古怪地向自己——又像是对上帝——郑重其事发下誓言。

It is my hope： I will make of our hospice a honeymoon.

“我希望：像度蜜月般度过我们的临终关怀期。

My vow is to make my husband as comfortable as humanly possible.

我发誓：让我丈夫尽可能安度这段时光。

To make him happy. To make us both happy.

我发誓：让他开心。让我们两人都开心。

To fulfill whatever he wishes that is within the range of possibility.

我发誓：尽可能满足他的一切愿望。

First： a new setting for him. NOT the Cancer Center. Our hospice will be in our home， which he loves.

首先：给他换个环境。离开肿瘤医院。我们的临终关怀期要在家——他深爱的家——度过。

The atrium flooded with morning light.

这里有晨曦漫溢的中庭。

The foreshortened horizon—for the house is surrounded by trees.

有逼仄的地平线——只因房前屋后树木环绕。

The flotillas of sculpted clouds.

还有层层叠叠、形状各异的云朵。

My husband can lie on a sofa， staring at the tree line and at the sky. Comfortable on the sofa with pillows behind him and feet （in warm socks） elevated.

我丈夫可以躺在沙发上，眺望绿荫，仰观苍穹。身后垫上枕头，（穿着暖袜的）双脚垫高——在沙发上也可以躺得很舒服。

Or， more likely， he can lie on a （rented） hospital bed， positioned in such a way that he can easily gaze out the window. And I can lie beside him， as I have done in the hospital.

但很可能，他会躺在一张（租来的）医院病床上。床放的位置能让他毫不费力地看到窗外之景。而我会躺在他身侧，就像在医院里一样。

Holding hands. Of course， we will hold hands. His hands are still warm—strong. His fingers， when squeezed， never fail to squeeze in return.

十指相扣。我们肯定会十指相扣。他的双手依旧温暖——有力。每当我捏他手指，他总会回捏。

As his lips， when kissed， never fail to kiss in return.

就像每当我吻上他双唇，他也总会回吻。

I will sleep beside my husband holding him in my arms， not strong arms， in fact， rather weak arms， which nonetheless can be made to behave as if they were strong.

我会与丈夫共枕而眠，拥他入怀——用我那并不强壮、其实还很羸弱的双臂，虽然羸弱，但它们可以显得十分强壮。

I will scatter seed on the redwood deck outside the window. Not ordinary seed but the more expensive “wild bird seed2” my husband purchases.

我会往窗外的红杉平台上撒些鸟食。不是普通鸟食，而是我丈夫买的更贵的“野生鸟食”。

Thrilling to watch the birds. Taking the time， undistracted， really watching， for once...

观鸟令人兴奋。花时间心无旁骛、真真正正地观一次鸟……

And my husband loves music！ I will bathe him in the most beautiful music through his waking hours. So long as it is not uncomfortable for him， I will lie on the bed beside him， holding him， listening with him to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy，” Rachmaninoff’s “Vespers3.”

我丈夫还喜欢音乐呢！只要他醒着，我就会让他沐浴在美妙绝伦的音乐中。只要他不难受，我便与他同榻而卧、拥他入怀，一起聆听贝多芬的《欢乐颂》，一起欣赏拉赫玛尼诺夫的《晚祷》。

Falling asleep with him. Even during the day. Even with wan sunshine slanting through the window onto our faces. Head on the pillow beside his head.

与他同坠梦乡。就算在白天。就算惨淡的阳光透过窗户斜照在我们脸上，与他共枕而眠。

From the bookcases in the house， I will select art books， his favorite artists， books from his photography shelves—Bruce Davidson， Edward Weston， Diane Arbus， Eliot Porter. I will turn the pages slowly， marvel with him.

我会从家中书柜选些艺术书籍——从他的摄影书架里选，都是他最爱的摄影家：布鲁斯·戴维森、爱德华·威思顿、黛安·阿勃斯、艾略特·波特。我会慢慢翻页，与他一起欣赏赞叹。

Old albums， family photographs dating back to the early nineteen-hundreds. His family， great-grandparents who emigrated from the Pale. In which he has only recently shown an interest.

还有一本本旧相册，家庭照片的历史可以追溯到20世纪初。他的家族是自曾祖那一代从帕莱地区移民至此的。直到最近，他才对此有些兴趣。

His favorite foods… Well， I will try！

至于他最爱的吃食……没问题，我会试着做！

When he is at home， possibly his appetite will return. When I am the one to prepare his food， his appetite will return， I am sure.

回了家，他的胃口可能会恢复。我敢肯定，只要是我给他做饭，他的胃口就会恢复。

Of course， family will come to visit. Adult children， grandchildren. Relatives， friends. Colleagues from the university. Neighbors. Old friends from grammar school he hasn’t seen in fifty years. Some surprises for him—I will negotiate with the imagination of a theatre director.

家人们当然都会来探望。成年子女、孙子孙女。还有亲戚朋友、大学同事、左邻右舍，乃至他50年没见的初中老友。给他准备一些惊喜——我会发挥戏剧导演的想象力努力达成。

Not merely hospice but our hospice. Not sad but joyous， a honeymoon.

这不是一般的临终关怀，而是我们自己的临终关怀。没有哀伤，只有喜悦，如蜜月一般。

We will be happy there， in our own home. Both of us.

在自己家中，我们会怡然自得。我俩都是如此。

For both of us， the “final days” will be a honeymoon. I vow.

对我俩来说，‘最后的日子’将如蜜月一般。我发誓。”

In fact， nothing remotely like this will happen. How could you have imagined it would！

其实，这样的情形绝不会出现。你怎能奢望会如你所愿？

Hospice， yes. Honeymoon， no.

这是临终关怀。这不是蜜月。

（译者为“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛获奖者）

1（1938— ），美国小说家、散文家、诗人，被誉为“女福克纳”。奥茨素以揭露美国社会的暴力行径和罪恶现象而闻名，其作品在整体上构成了一幅当代美国社会的全景图，不仅生动反映了美国社会各个阶层特别是中下层阶级和劳动阶层的生活状态，而且触及到美国社会生活的多个领域，如学术界、法律界、宗教界、政坛，乃至拳击、足球等体育运动。从表现形式上看，美国文化传统对奥茨的影响显而易见，在继承马克·吐温、德莱塞、斯坦贝克等作家的批判现实主义传统的同时，她尤其擅长使用心理现实主义手法，注重用多样化的艺术形式刻画人物内心世界。尽管她的某些作品尝试运用了心理分析、内心独白、意识流、象征主义、神秘主义等现代主义表现手法，但评论界普遍认为其创作思想根基主要还是现实主义，因此她惯常被称为“具有巴尔扎克式雄心”的现实主义女作家。近几年一个比较引人注目的现象是，奥茨将她敏锐的现实主义触角伸向了犹太题材。

2在美国商店中，野生鸟食包装袋上常标有PREMIUM（高级）字样，以将其与普通鸟食区分开。相比于普通鸟食，野生鸟食的质量要高很多，据《华盛顿邮报》报道，普通鸟食中满足鸟类食用标准的种子含量仅27%，而野生鸟食中可食用种子不仅能接近100%，而且更加新鲜，其价格也因而较高。 3《晚祷》又名《彻夜祈祷曲》（All-Night Vigil），俄罗斯作曲家拉赫玛尼诺夫创作的一首无伴奏合唱作品，首演于1915年。唱词由俄罗斯东正教“彻夜祈祷仪式”的一系列文本组成。该作品被誉为拉赫玛尼诺夫最杰出的成就、俄罗斯东正教会最伟大的音乐成就。