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一直以來，是否主动放弃那些医学上被判无望的生命，始终是个尖锐的话题。其实，对生命的感悟永远是因人而异的。作者的母亲在两度中风后难有康复希望，然而就在陪伺至亲的看似绝望的日子里，作者不仅被母亲的坚强乐观所鼓舞，也在亲情与爱的光辉中心灵受洗，对生命的意义有了更多的思索。
I was holding her hand and singing softly to her when the man in the white coat came in. I guessed from his coldness that he was not bearing good news. Sometimes， when I was surrounded by doctors who had given up on Mama’s life， I felt besieged by a death squad.1 When she was alert， her warm， brown， reassuring eyes could make me move mountains， certainly strengthen me to ward off2 the doctors’ negativity. But when she was in a medicated sleep， I was on my own and more vulnerable. Now here was the ominous pulmonologist.3 He beckoned4 me to the window， held up both sets of X-rays， and said： Her lungs were filling up with fluid. This meant that immediately I would need to consult with specialists， and stop whatever was encroaching5 in my mother’s lungs immediately. However， this doctor seemed to have another plan.
I discovered what that was two hours later， when another man appeared in her room， this one clad6 in a dark suit instead of a white jacket. Dark-suit had been sent by White-jacket to speak to me about“the question of life.” I asked what his specialty was， doubting that he was a philosopher. “Ethics7” he said.
In the hall outside my mother’s room， our conversation was surprisingly short， and not nearly as philosophical as I had anticipated. He gave me a list of my mother’s disabilities and then concluded that they added up to the end of her life. I had heard the phrase “We can make her comfortable” too many times. Now I was more disappointed than devastated when doctors wanted to kill my mother.
My mother had recovered from her first stroke8. Through the tireless work of specialists and her own determination， she had regained virtually all of her capacities. Then， a year later， the second stroke cruelly hit the functioning side of her brain. She couldn’t walk， talk， or swallow any more. But she could still paint and she was an artist： Her right arm was spared， still mobile and very strong. She could communicate effectively， writing when she needed， but what she mainly communicated， through her eyes， was love.
I periodically asked her if her immobility was too hard on her， and did she understand the question. No， she shook her head， it was not too hard on her. I confess I was surprised by her determination， her fortitude9， her courage. I sang love songs to her， thankfully， with the help of Plácido Domingo’s10 recordings. She used her good arm， first to hug me whenever I entered her room， and then to conduct while Plácido and I sang our hearts out.11
I was holding her hand and singing softly to her when the man in the white coat came in. I guessed from his coldness that he was not bearing good news. Sometimes， when I was surrounded by doctors who had given up on Mama’s life， I felt besieged by a death squad.1 When she was alert， her warm， brown， reassuring eyes could make me move mountains， certainly strengthen me to ward off2 the doctors’ negativity. But when she was in a medicated sleep， I was on my own and more vulnerable. Now here was the ominous pulmonologist.3 He beckoned4 me to the window， held up both sets of X-rays， and said： Her lungs were filling up with fluid. This meant that immediately I would need to consult with specialists， and stop whatever was encroaching5 in my mother’s lungs immediately. However， this doctor seemed to have another plan.
I discovered what that was two hours later， when another man appeared in her room， this one clad6 in a dark suit instead of a white jacket. Dark-suit had been sent by White-jacket to speak to me about“the question of life.” I asked what his specialty was， doubting that he was a philosopher. “Ethics7” he said.
In the hall outside my mother’s room， our conversation was surprisingly short， and not nearly as philosophical as I had anticipated. He gave me a list of my mother’s disabilities and then concluded that they added up to the end of her life. I had heard the phrase “We can make her comfortable” too many times. Now I was more disappointed than devastated when doctors wanted to kill my mother.
My mother had recovered from her first stroke8. Through the tireless work of specialists and her own determination， she had regained virtually all of her capacities. Then， a year later， the second stroke cruelly hit the functioning side of her brain. She couldn’t walk， talk， or swallow any more. But she could still paint and she was an artist： Her right arm was spared， still mobile and very strong. She could communicate effectively， writing when she needed， but what she mainly communicated， through her eyes， was love.
I periodically asked her if her immobility was too hard on her， and did she understand the question. No， she shook her head， it was not too hard on her. I confess I was surprised by her determination， her fortitude9， her courage. I sang love songs to her， thankfully， with the help of Plácido Domingo’s10 recordings. She used her good arm， first to hug me whenever I entered her room， and then to conduct while Plácido and I sang our hearts out.11