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.