Love Can Last Forever （英汉对照）

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.

永恒的爱

我真的只能说那是最精彩的一刻同时又是最伤感的一刻。在我满心欢喜的期待着我的第一个孩子出世的同时我那曾经充满活力和热情的母亲被脑瘤这个恶疾击倒。

母亲非常独立勇敢的和病魔斗争了10年，但是任何手术和治疗都没能奏效。尽管如此，她始终可以微笑。但是现在，仅仅才55岁的她终于全部瘫痪――不能说话，不能独立行走，吃饭,穿衣。

她离死神越来越近的同时，我腹内的婴儿离出生越来越近。最让我担心的是她们的生命永不会相遇。我不单单是只为了即将失去母亲而伤心，同时也为她和我的孩子不能相见而难过。

我的担心不是多余的。在我预产期的几个星期前，母亲陷入了深度昏迷。医生们已不抱任何希望,告诉我们说她的大限已到。他们说插入进食管已经没有用，她再也不会醒过来了。

我们把母亲接回了家把她安置在她房间自己的床上，同时我们坚持照料她让她舒适一些。我尽可能多地坐在她的床前告诉她我腹中蠕动的婴儿的情况。我希望无论如何在意识深处她能明白我讲的一切。

1989年2月3日，几乎是在我分娩的同时，母亲睁开了眼睛。当他们在医院里告诉我这个消息时，我把电话打回了家并要求将电话放在母亲的耳边。

“妈妈–妈妈–听我告诉你。孩子快要出世了。你就要有一个新的外孙了。你明白了吗？”

“明白！”

多么让人吃惊的一句话呀！这是她几个月来第一次清楚的讲话。

我在一个小时后再次打电话给她的时候，她房里的护士告诉了我一件不可思议的事情：妈妈坐起来了，她的氧气管已经拿掉。她在微笑。

“妈妈，是个男孩儿！你有一个新孙子了！”

“是！是！我知道了！”

四句话。美丽的四句话。

到我带着雅克布回家的时候，妈妈收拾一新，坐在椅子上准备迎接他的到来。我把儿子放到妈妈怀里她逗弄着他.他们互相对视着。

他们好象早已相识。

有两个多星期，妈妈微笑，抱着雅克布，逗弄他。在这两个星期里她用完整的句子和我父亲，她的儿孙们讲话。在这奇迹般的两个星期里，她带给了我们欢乐。

接下来在所有的孩子们看望过她以后，她便又安静地，逐渐地陷入昏迷，直到最后从疼痛中解脱出来，她的肉体不再听命于她的灵魂…

儿子出生的记忆将总是喜忧参半的，但正是在这个时候我认识到了生活中的一个重要的真理。那就是快乐和悲伤都是短暂的，并且常常是纠缠在一起的，爱则有力量超越这两者。且爱可以永恒！