Love Can Last Forever
I can honestly say it was the best of times and the worst of times. I was joyfully expecting my first child at the same time that my once-energetic, zestful mother was losing her battle with a brain tumor.
For ten years, my fiercely independent and courageous mother had fought, but none of the surgeries or treatments had been successful. Still, she never lost her ability to smile. But now, finally, at only fifty-five, she became totally disabled -- unable to speak, walk, eat or dress on her own.
As she grew closer and closer to death, my baby grew closer and closer to life inside me. My biggest fear was that their lives would never connect. I grieved not only for the upcoming loss of my mother, but also that she and my baby would never know each other.
My fear seemed well-founded. A few weeks before my due date, Mother lapsed into a deep coma. Her doctors did not hold any hope; they told us her time was up. It was useless to put in a feeding tube, they said; she would never awaken.
We brought Mother home to her own bed in her own house, and we insisted on care to keep her comfortable. As often as I could, I sat beside her and talked to her about the baby moving inside me. I hoped that somehow deep inside, she knew.
On February 3, 1989, at about the same time my labor started, Mother opened her eyes. When they told me this at the hospital, I called her home and asked for the phone to be put to Mom's ear.
"Mom -- Mom -- listen. The baby is coming! You're going to have a new grandchild. Do you understand?"
"Yes!"
What a wonderful word! The first clear word she'd spoken in months!
When I called again an hour later, the nurse at her house told me the impossible: Mom was sitting up, her oxygen tubes removed. She was smiling.
"Mom, it's a boy! You have a new grandson!"
"Yes! Yes! I know!"
Four words. Four beautiful words.
By the time I brought Jacob home, Mom was sitting in her chair, dressed and ready to welcome him. Tears of joy blocked my vision as I laid my son in her arms and she clucked at him. They stared at each other.
They knew.
For two more weeks, Mother clucked, smiled and held Jacob. For two weeks she spoke to my father, her children and grandchildren in complete sentences. For two miracle weeks, she gave us joy.
Then she quietly slipped back into a coma and, after visits from all her children, was finally free of the pain and confines of a body that no longer did her will.
Memories of my son's birth will always be bittersweet for me, but it was at this time that I learned an important truth about living. For while both joy and sorrow are fleeting, and often intertwined, love has the power to overcome both. And love can last forever.
永恒的愛
我真的只能說那是最精彩的一刻同時(shí)又是最傷感的一刻。在我滿心歡喜的期待著我的第一個(gè)孩子出世的同時(shí)我那曾經(jīng)充滿活力和熱情的母親被腦瘤這個(gè)惡疾擊倒。
母親非常獨(dú)立勇敢的和病魔斗爭了10年，但是任何手術(shù)和治療都沒能奏效。盡管如此，她始終可以微笑。但是現(xiàn)在，僅僅才55歲的她終于全部癱瘓——不能說話，不能獨(dú)立行走，吃飯,穿衣。
她離死神越來越近的同時(shí)，我腹內(nèi)的嬰兒離出生越來越近。最讓我擔(dān)心的是她們的生命永不會相遇。我不單單是只為了即將失去母親而傷心，同時(shí)也為她和我的孩子不能相見而難過。
我的擔(dān)心不是多余的。在我預(yù)產(chǎn)期的幾個(gè)星期前，母親陷入了深度昏迷。醫(yī)生們已不抱任何希望,告訴我們說她的大限已到。他們說插入進(jìn)食管已經(jīng)沒有用，她再也不會醒過來了。
我們把母親接回了家把她安置在她房間自己的床上，同時(shí)我們堅(jiān)持照料她讓她舒適一些。我盡可能多地坐在她的床前告訴她我腹中蠕動的嬰兒的情況。我希望無論如何在意識深處她能明白我講的一切。
1989年2月3日，幾乎是在我分娩的同時(shí)，母親睜開了眼睛。當(dāng)他們在醫(yī)院里告訴我這個(gè)消息時(shí)，我把電話打回了家并要求將電話放在母親的耳邊。
"媽媽--媽媽--聽我告訴你。孩子快要出世了。你就要有一個(gè)新的外孫了。你明白了嗎？”
“明白！”
多么讓人吃驚的一句話呀！這是她幾個(gè)月來第一次清楚的講話。
我在一個(gè)小時(shí)后再次打電話給她的時(shí)候，她房里的護(hù)士告訴了我一件不可思議的事情：媽媽坐起來了，她的氧氣管已經(jīng)拿掉。她在微笑。
“媽媽，是個(gè)男孩兒！你有一個(gè)新孫子了！”
“是！是！我知道了！”
四句話。美麗的四句話。
到我?guī)е趴瞬蓟丶业臅r(shí)候，媽媽收拾一新，坐在椅子上準(zhǔn)備迎接他的到來。我把兒子放到媽媽懷里她逗弄著他.他們互相對視著。
他們好象早已相識。
有兩個(gè)多星期，媽媽微笑，抱著雅克布，逗弄他。在這兩個(gè)星期里她用完整的句子和我父親，她的兒孫們講話。在這奇跡般的兩個(gè)星期里，她帶給了我們歡樂。
接下來在所有的孩子們看望過她以后，她便又安靜地，逐漸地陷入昏迷，直到最后從疼痛中解脫出來，她的肉體不再聽命于她的靈魂…
兒子出生的記憶將總是喜憂參半的，但正是在這個(gè)時(shí)候我認(rèn)識到了生活中的一個(gè)重要的真理。那就是快樂和悲傷都是短暫的，并且常常是糾纏在一起的，愛則有力量超越這兩者。且愛可以永恒！
I can honestly say it was the best of times and the worst of times. I was joyfully expecting my first child at the same time that my once-energetic, zestful mother was losing her battle with a brain tumor.
For ten years, my fiercely independent and courageous mother had fought, but none of the surgeries or treatments had been successful. Still, she never lost her ability to smile. But now, finally, at only fifty-five, she became totally disabled -- unable to speak, walk, eat or dress on her own.
As she grew closer and closer to death, my baby grew closer and closer to life inside me. My biggest fear was that their lives would never connect. I grieved not only for the upcoming loss of my mother, but also that she and my baby would never know each other.
My fear seemed well-founded. A few weeks before my due date, Mother lapsed into a deep coma. Her doctors did not hold any hope; they told us her time was up. It was useless to put in a feeding tube, they said; she would never awaken.
We brought Mother home to her own bed in her own house, and we insisted on care to keep her comfortable. As often as I could, I sat beside her and talked to her about the baby moving inside me. I hoped that somehow deep inside, she knew.
On February 3, 1989, at about the same time my labor started, Mother opened her eyes. When they told me this at the hospital, I called her home and asked for the phone to be put to Mom's ear.
"Mom -- Mom -- listen. The baby is coming! You're going to have a new grandchild. Do you understand?"
"Yes!"
What a wonderful word! The first clear word she'd spoken in months!
When I called again an hour later, the nurse at her house told me the impossible: Mom was sitting up, her oxygen tubes removed. She was smiling.
"Mom, it's a boy! You have a new grandson!"
"Yes! Yes! I know!"
Four words. Four beautiful words.
By the time I brought Jacob home, Mom was sitting in her chair, dressed and ready to welcome him. Tears of joy blocked my vision as I laid my son in her arms and she clucked at him. They stared at each other.
They knew.
For two more weeks, Mother clucked, smiled and held Jacob. For two weeks she spoke to my father, her children and grandchildren in complete sentences. For two miracle weeks, she gave us joy.
Then she quietly slipped back into a coma and, after visits from all her children, was finally free of the pain and confines of a body that no longer did her will.
Memories of my son's birth will always be bittersweet for me, but it was at this time that I learned an important truth about living. For while both joy and sorrow are fleeting, and often intertwined, love has the power to overcome both. And love can last forever.
永恒的愛
我真的只能說那是最精彩的一刻同時(shí)又是最傷感的一刻。在我滿心歡喜的期待著我的第一個(gè)孩子出世的同時(shí)我那曾經(jīng)充滿活力和熱情的母親被腦瘤這個(gè)惡疾擊倒。
母親非常獨(dú)立勇敢的和病魔斗爭了10年，但是任何手術(shù)和治療都沒能奏效。盡管如此，她始終可以微笑。但是現(xiàn)在，僅僅才55歲的她終于全部癱瘓——不能說話，不能獨(dú)立行走，吃飯,穿衣。
她離死神越來越近的同時(shí)，我腹內(nèi)的嬰兒離出生越來越近。最讓我擔(dān)心的是她們的生命永不會相遇。我不單單是只為了即將失去母親而傷心，同時(shí)也為她和我的孩子不能相見而難過。
我的擔(dān)心不是多余的。在我預(yù)產(chǎn)期的幾個(gè)星期前，母親陷入了深度昏迷。醫(yī)生們已不抱任何希望,告訴我們說她的大限已到。他們說插入進(jìn)食管已經(jīng)沒有用，她再也不會醒過來了。
我們把母親接回了家把她安置在她房間自己的床上，同時(shí)我們堅(jiān)持照料她讓她舒適一些。我盡可能多地坐在她的床前告訴她我腹中蠕動的嬰兒的情況。我希望無論如何在意識深處她能明白我講的一切。
1989年2月3日，幾乎是在我分娩的同時(shí)，母親睜開了眼睛。當(dāng)他們在醫(yī)院里告訴我這個(gè)消息時(shí)，我把電話打回了家并要求將電話放在母親的耳邊。
"媽媽--媽媽--聽我告訴你。孩子快要出世了。你就要有一個(gè)新的外孫了。你明白了嗎？”
“明白！”
多么讓人吃驚的一句話呀！這是她幾個(gè)月來第一次清楚的講話。
我在一個(gè)小時(shí)后再次打電話給她的時(shí)候，她房里的護(hù)士告訴了我一件不可思議的事情：媽媽坐起來了，她的氧氣管已經(jīng)拿掉。她在微笑。
“媽媽，是個(gè)男孩兒！你有一個(gè)新孫子了！”
“是！是！我知道了！”
四句話。美麗的四句話。
到我?guī)е趴瞬蓟丶业臅r(shí)候，媽媽收拾一新，坐在椅子上準(zhǔn)備迎接他的到來。我把兒子放到媽媽懷里她逗弄著他.他們互相對視著。
他們好象早已相識。
有兩個(gè)多星期，媽媽微笑，抱著雅克布，逗弄他。在這兩個(gè)星期里她用完整的句子和我父親，她的兒孫們講話。在這奇跡般的兩個(gè)星期里，她帶給了我們歡樂。
接下來在所有的孩子們看望過她以后，她便又安靜地，逐漸地陷入昏迷，直到最后從疼痛中解脫出來，她的肉體不再聽命于她的靈魂…
兒子出生的記憶將總是喜憂參半的，但正是在這個(gè)時(shí)候我認(rèn)識到了生活中的一個(gè)重要的真理。那就是快樂和悲傷都是短暫的，并且常常是糾纏在一起的，愛則有力量超越這兩者。且愛可以永恒！