My Father Came Home to Us After 306 Days in the Hospital入院306天，父親回家了

尼基·伍爾夫 譯/張爽

“He’s gone，” the doctors told us， gently.

Geoff Woolf—my dad—had been taken by ambulance to Whittington Hospital in north London with COVID-19 in March， at the beginning of the very first wave of the disease in the United Kingdom. He was placed on a ventilator a couple of days later. By the time the neurologists called us in to “discuss next steps”—their euphemism for switching off life support—Dad’s oxygen levels had finally stabilized after 67 brutal days of mechanical ventilation.

But two weeks after sedation was lifted， he had not returned to consciousness from the coma they had induced so that he wouldn’t reject the ventilation tube shoved down his windpipe. His doctors believed he now never would.

I remembered a song my dad had used to sing me to sleep at night. He had terrible pitch， really， but imbued the words with such meaning. “There was a boy， a very strange， enchanted boy …” I sang that song back to him， through tears that threatened to break into sobs， standing there with my two brothers， saying goodbye. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love， and be loved in return.”

Then， miraculously， though with agonizing slowness， he started to wake up. Eventually， 306 days after he was first admitted to the hospital， he came back home.

On March 21， when Dad first said he didn’t feel well， it was still easy to think of the pandemic as something that was happening elsewhere， to other people.

Like many others， I went out to the pub the night before lockdown came into force. Although experts and hospitals were sounding the alarm， warning that they might soon be overwhelmed， that the danger was clear and present， I had a feeling of invincibility with which it is now impossible to empathize. That pub trip will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The next day， Dad woke up exhausted， and complaining of stomach trouble. He didn’t have a fever， though， and his symptoms didn’t seem like those that people on TV were describing. He spent most of the day in bed， and the rest on the toilet. The following morning， I found him facedown at the breakfast table. Seeing him there， I felt the first spike of real fear—a fear that would stay with me for months.

I remember obsessing， when the ambulance came， about the need to pack his “useful bag.” Dad never goes anywhere without his useful bag. I put a clementine and a pack of blueberries in it， and rushed around in a panic because I couldn’t find his phone charger. The paramedics were kind. “He’ll be fine，” one of them said. Then they lifted Dad into the ambulance and closed the door. It sat there， doors closed， for about 10 more minutes. I stress-smoked a cigarette. Then， at 11 p.m. on the dot， they drove away.

When Dad first caught COVID-19， his chance of survival was statistically decent—somewhere between 90 and 99 percent， from what I could figure out during the hours I spent in the dark， obsessively reading research papers. When he was admitted to the hospital， those odds roughly dropped by a third. When he was placed on oxygen support， they halved again. By the time he was rushed into the ICU in acute respiratory distress and intubated for mechanical ventilation， his odds of surviving dropped below 10 percent. The longer he was ventilated， the further they decreased.

I was locked down， alone， in Dad’s now-empty house. At some point each day， the hospital call would come， and I would relay it to my family on Whats- App. I was going through this alone， but I was hardly alone in that. My family’s experience of this pandemic has been， I guess， starker than many others’， but， to some degree or another， everyone （anti-lockdown trolls and conspiracy theorists notwithstanding） has gone through the same rude transition from innocence to experience. Everywhere， as governments fumbled with lockdowns， people’s worlds shrank to their four walls. Time became meaningless for all of us.

For a few stiflingly hot weeks at Whittington in the height of summer， before Dad was transferred to a special neurological hospital with stricter rules on visitation， we were able to go in and see him. He was still unable to speak， so I drew conversation boxes on scrap paper. “I want to know about： hospital stuff; family stuff; the world.”

To us， Dad’s return to life seemed miraculous. To him， it seemed like a curse. As far as he was concerned， he had gone to sleep healthy—recently retired， a regular at the gym， studying for an art-history degree， a sociable lover of travel—and woken up profoundly disabled. He would come home， after 306 days in the hospital， in a wheelchair. The brain damage caused by the coronavirus has paralyzed his right side and left him with aphasia， which restricts his ability to speak， a particularly cruel outcome for a man whose love of language and literature is so core to his being.

The most bizarre part has been explaining everything that happened during the year he missed—not just to him， but to all of us. He woke up changed， and will have to get used to a different life. But he woke up in a changed world， too.

The mental-health effects of mass loneliness and isolation are yet to be uncovered. The scale of this catastrophe is yet to be fully understood.

What will this shared trauma do to all of us？ Can we ever go back to hugging and shaking hands？ Will we ever truly be comfortable again in large crowds， or in packed rooms？ I’m not sure I will.

Dad did not “beat” COVID-19. It devastated him， as it has devastated all of us. He will never be the same， and neither will we. But we know how lucky we are. We have him back. Or at least， as he himself put it in a melancholic moment at the hospital earlier in his recovery， “halfway back.”

Of course， things won’t go back to the way they were. But once all this is done， and the dust has settled， we can begin to think about how to go forward. There is， perhaps， hope in that.

“他要走了?！贬t(yī)生委婉地告訴我們。

2020年3月，我的父親杰夫·伍爾夫因感染新冠病毒被救護車送往倫敦北部的惠廷頓醫(yī)院，當時英國的第一波疫情剛剛開始。幾天后，他戴上了呼吸機。等到神經(jīng)科醫(yī)生叫我們?nèi)ァ坝懻摵罄m(xù)措施”——關閉生命支持系統(tǒng)的委婉說法——父親已經(jīng)歷了67天殘酷的機械通氣，血氧量終于穩(wěn)定下來了。

但是，鎮(zhèn)靜劑解除兩周后，他還沒有恢復意識，醫(yī)生之前讓他保持昏迷，是防止他排斥氣管的插管。醫(yī)生認為他現(xiàn)在再也不會排斥了。

我記起父親過去經(jīng)常在晚上唱給我聽的一首催眠曲。他唱歌其實音調(diào)不準，卻讓歌詞充滿意義?！坝幸粋€男孩，一個奇特的、歡樂的男孩……”我現(xiàn)在把這首歌唱給他聽，眼淚在眼眶里打轉，兩位兄弟站在身邊，向他說再見，“你學到的最棒的事就是去愛，同時收獲愛?！?/p>

后來，父親奇跡般地開始蘇醒，雖然過程緩慢而痛苦。終于，在住院306天后，他回了家。

3月21日那天，父親第一次說他感覺不舒服，那時我們?nèi)匀缓唵蔚卣J為這場疫情只發(fā)生在其他地方、其他人身上。

和許多人一樣，我在封禁的前一天晚上去了酒吧。盡管專家和醫(yī)院都發(fā)出了警告，說他們應付不了多久，危險迫在眉睫，但當時的我卻有一種不可戰(zhàn)勝的感覺，現(xiàn)在的我完全體會不到了。那次酒吧之旅使我終生難忘。

第二天，父親筋疲力盡地醒來，抱怨胃部不適。但他沒有發(fā)燒，癥狀也不像電視上說的那樣。他一天的大部分時間都在床上度過，其余時間都在洗手間里。第三天早上，我發(fā)現(xiàn)他臉朝下趴在早餐桌上。看到他那個樣子，我第一次感到了真正的恐懼——這恐懼幾個月都揮之不去。

記得救護車來的時候，我一心想著帶上他的“萬用包”。 父親走到哪里都帶著他這只包。我在里面放了一個小柑橘和一包藍莓，接著便慌亂地四處翻找他的手機充電器，怎么也找不到。醫(yī)務人員很好?！八麜闷饋淼??！逼渲幸晃徽f。然后他們把父親抬上救護車，關上門。救護車在那里停了大約10分鐘，車門緊閉。我緊張地抽了根煙。然后，晚上11點整，救護車離開了。

父親剛感染新冠病毒時，在統(tǒng)計學上的存活率是很高的——約在90%到99%之間，這是我在夜晚瘋狂閱讀文獻得出的結果。在他入院時，存活率下降了幾乎三分之一。到他接受氧氣支持時，存活率又降低了一半。而到他因急性呼吸窘迫綜合征被緊急送進重癥監(jiān)護室并接受氣管插管進行機械通氣時，他的生存幾率已降至10%以下。插管通氣時間越長，存活率越低。

我一個人隔離在父親住院后空出來的房子里。醫(yī)院每天會在某一時刻打來電話，我則會在WhatsApp上把消息傳遞給家人。我獨自經(jīng)歷著這些，但不只是我這樣。我想，面對這場疫情，我的家人比許多人經(jīng)歷了更嚴峻的考驗，但在某種程度上，每個人（盡管有反封鎖人士和陰謀論者）都經(jīng)歷了從一無所知到親身體會的急劇變化。各國政府在摸索中實施封鎖的同時，人們的世界縮小到了四壁一屋。時間對所有人來說都變得毫無意義。

盛夏的時候，惠廷頓有幾個星期悶熱難耐，我們可以去探望他。他仍然不能說話，所以我在便條上畫了對話框。“我想知道：醫(yī)院的事、家里的事、世界上的事?！蹦菐讉€星期過后，父親被轉到一家探視規(guī)定更嚴格的神經(jīng)?？漆t(yī)院。

對我們來說，父親的生還是奇跡般的。對他來說，這卻像是一種詛咒。對他而言，他昏迷前很健康——剛剛退休，是健身房的常客，正在攻讀藝術史學位，是個愛交際的旅友——醒來卻成了重度失能。在醫(yī)院住了306天后，他只能坐著輪椅回家。冠狀病毒造成的腦損傷使他右側身體癱瘓并患上了失語癥，這影響了他的語言能力，對于一個摯愛語言與文學的人來說，這個結果相當殘酷。

最怪異的莫過于如何解釋他錯過的那一年里發(fā)生的一切——不僅僅是對他，也是對我們所有人。他醒來后變得不一樣了，不得不去適應一種不同的生活。而他醒來后，世界也全然不同了。

群體的孤獨與隔絕對心理健康的影響尚不明確。這場災難會達到怎樣的規(guī)模尚不完全清楚。

這種共同的創(chuàng)傷會對我們所有人造成什么影響？我們還能再擁抱和握手嗎？在大群人中、在擁擠的房間里，我們還能感到真正的愜意嗎？我不確定自己能。

父親沒有“戰(zhàn)勝”新冠病毒。病毒摧毀了他，也摧毀了我們所有人。他再也回不到從前的樣子了，我們也一樣。但我們知道自己有多幸運。他回到了我們身邊?；蛘咧辽伲窨祻统跗谠卺t(yī)院他自己一時悲傷所說的，“回來了一半”。

當然，事情不會回到原來的樣子。但當一切結束，塵埃落定，我們就可以開始思考如何繼續(xù)向前。也許，希望還在。

（譯者為“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽獲獎者;單位：南京大學外國語學院）