第3章 情暖今生

The Gift

茹涅·吉尔/Junie Girl

我是纽约医院的老病号了。午夜早已过去，我站在九楼病房的窗前，身上裹着暖和的羊毛大衣，默默地凝视着窗外的第59街大桥。它如同圣诞树般闪烁着美丽光芒。对我而言，纽约城永远都是那么特别，有百老汇大剧院、音乐以及形形色色、不同档次的餐馆。“这个城市本就应该是这样。”我想着，早晨的到来和其伴随的未知状况使我惊恐不安。然而早晨终究来临，那天是3月17日，上午九点，我被推进手术室。等我再次被推回疗养室时，已经过去11个小时45分钟了。没过几个小时，我就被送回自己的病房。我发现自己居然可以站起来，并可以在家人和医疗器械的帮助下行走。遵医嘱，我要在医院的长廊里走上一个往返。

那是我第一次见到他。由于药物和疼痛的影响，我看着他，感觉一切模糊而毫无真实感。他站在一间病房门口。我虚弱如一个垂垂暮年的老人，在我蒙眬的视线中，他更像一个神灵而不是一个实实在在的人。然而，不知何故，我还是从这个身影的肢体语言中感受到了他对我的同情和鼓励。

接下来的三周，在走廊里行走成为我每日的例行功课。我的力气稍微恢复后，每次在一两个家人的帮助下穿过走廊时，他都会站在那里，微笑着向我点头。第四周时，我可以独立在走廊中走了。当我走过他的房间时，我看到那位忠实的朋友就站在门口。他肤色较暗，身材瘦削。我停下来与他攀谈起来。他向我介绍了他的妻儿，他的儿子正虚弱地躺在病床上。次日，我照常做练习，他走出病房，陪我走到我房间。他解释说，他和妻子带着年轻的孩子从伊朗充满希望地来到这家医院。他们依然充满希望，但情况并未好转。他告诉我，在我手术后的那个难熬的夜晚，我努力行走的情形，深深地鼓舞了他，他也在默默地支持我。之后的三周里，我们常常聊天，相互关心鼓励。他说看到我的家人都在关心支持我，感到很开心。而每当我想到他们这个小家庭远离家乡的孤独时，总会悲伤不已。

难以置信的是，有一天，医生对我说，明天就可以出院了。晚上我把这个消息告诉了我的朋友。次日早晨，他来到我的房间。其实，那天我起得很早，并换好了衣服。鲜亮的黄色衣服给了我希望，看起来总算有了人样。我们聊了一会儿。我告诉他我会为他的儿子祈祷。他谢过我，却满是绝望地耸了耸肩。我们都明白永远不会再见到对方了。悲伤的他也为我感到开心。我感受到了他的这份关爱。他握着我的手说：“你就像是我的妹妹。”我回答说：“你就像是我的哥哥。”之后，他转身离开了。

家人来接我时，医生和护士们都向我道别并反复叮嘱出院后的注意事项。一切都很顺利。七个半星期前，我惶恐不安地走进了医院的病房，而如今，我终于离开了这里。

沿着走廊向电梯走去时，我的“哥哥”就站在病房门口，微笑着向我点点头，传达着他的祝福。

14年前的今天，也就是1990年3月17日，我走进了手术室。而自从我和我的哥哥最后一次见面后，世界发生了翻天覆地的变化。但我依然常常想起他，我相信我一直在他心里，而他也永远在我的心中。我仍记得他那充满热情的深褐色眼睛，以及我们曾许下要成为兄妹的诺言。那一瞬间，我深信圣灵就徘徊在我们身边，微笑着点头，将祝福赐予我们，因为他明白我们不分彼此。

这些年来，多少次，我都在深思，为什么人在最脆弱时所认识的朋友总是最亲密的，或是会与对方有如此紧密的联系。我想那是因为当我们面临失业、危及生命的疾病或无论多大的灾祸时，都会放弃所有的自负，向身边的人敞开心扉，接受他人的关爱和善意——就像孩子般无忧无虑，并满怀感激地接受爱。这种爱无种族、肤色、信仰之分，因为它，那双深褐色的眼睛与这双蓝色的眼睛相遇，并许下了永远相互关爱的诺言。

It was well after mid-night， wrapped in my warm fleecy robe， I stood silently staring out the ninth floor window of the daunting New York hospital. I was staring at the 59th Street Bridge. It was as sparkling and beautiful as a Christmas tree. New York city has always been special to me； the Broadway theatre， the music， the restaurants—from the deli's to the Tavern-On-the-Green. "This is what the city is supposed to be about，" I thought， dreading the morning to come and all the uncertainty it held. But the morning did come and at nine a.m. on that March 17th， I was wheeled into an operating room. Eleven hours and forty-five minutes later I was wheeled into a recovery room， and a very few hours after being returned to my own hospital room， I found myself actually on my feet， half walking， half propelled by medical equipment and members of my family. The orders were to walk the length and back of the long hospital corridor.

It was then that I first saw him. I saw him through a haze of drugs， pain and the dreamy unreality that could be happening to me. He was standing in the doorway of a hospital room. In my twilight， unfocused state I saw him almost as a spirit shape rather than a full blown person. Yet the body language of this shape was somehow sending out sympathy and encouragement to me.

This became my daily routine for the next three weeks. As I gained a little more strength the man would be standing in the doorway， smiling and nodding as I would pass with one or more members of my family. On the fourth week I was allowed to solo up the corridor. As I passed his room， there was my faithful friend in the doorway. He was a slender dark complexioned man. I stopped a minute to chat. He introduced me to his wife， and his son who was lying listlessly in a hospital bed. The next day as I made my scheduled walk， he came out and walked with me to my room. He explained that he and his wife had brought their teenage son to this hospital of hope from Iran. They were still hoping， but things were not going well. He told me of how I had encouraged him on that first dreadful night's walking tour and how he was rooting for me. For three more weeks we continued our conversations—each giving the other the gift of caring and friendship. He told me of how he enjoyed seeing my family as they rallied around me and I was saddened by the loneliness of that small family so far from home.

Miraculously， there did come a day when the doctor told me I would be discharged the following morning. That night I told my friend. The next morning he came to my room. I had been up and dressed since dawn. My bright yellow dress gave me hope and I almost looked human. We talked a bit. I told him I would pray for his son. He thanked me but shrugged his shoulders， indicating the hopelessness. We knew we would never see each other again， in this world. This man in his sorrow was so happy for me. I felt his love. He took my hand and said， "You are my sister." I answered back and said， "You are my brother." He turned and left the room.

My family came to retrieve me. Doctors and nurses， to say their goodbyes and give orders. All business had been taken care of. After seven and a half weeks I was leaving the hospital room I had walked into with so much trepidation.

As I turned to walk down the corridor to the elevator， my brother stood in the doorway， smiling， nodding and giving his blessing.

It was 14 years ago today on March 17th 1990 that I entered that operating room and much has happened to the world since my brother and I said our last farewell. Yet I think of him often and he is always in my heart as I feel I am in his. I remember his intense， dark brown eyes as we pledged ourselves as brother and sister. At that moment， I knew without a doubt that the Spirit of God hovered over us smiling， nodding and blessing us with the knowledge that we are all one.

Many times I have pondered over the years why we humans meet our dearest friends or bond so deeply with another person when we are most vulnerable. I think it is because when we face a life threatening illness， job loss， whatever the catastrophe may be； we are left completely without any pretension and our hearts and souls are open to those around us and we are able to accept the love and kindnesses of others—almost as freely and thankfully as children accept love. This kind of love is blind to race， color and creed and leads to a pair of dark brown eyes seeking a pair of very blue eyes and pledging a love that will last through time.