堅(jiān)守希望：一名急救電話接線員的自白

夏輝

Ive listened to a lot of people die， and take it from me1）， people dont slip away quietly like they do on screen， with one last longing look and a soft sigh of disappointed resignation2）. There are， of course， some quiet deaths—dying in ones sleep is something many of us hope for. But the body is built to fight， and even in the most exhausted of frames， it can kick up a racket3） on its way out. Its not polite. It doesnt ask permission. It rattles and gasps and wheezes like an accordion being run over by a tractor-trailer4）. It fights with the bouncer5） and hurls6） epithets7） over its shoulder as its carried out.

Ive worked 911 for seventeen years as the first of the first responders. Im the person who tells you how to do CPR8） when you see a guy drop in front of Starbucks， when no one else wants to help， when you cant remember one single thing you learned in that class you took before you had your first kid.

Ive heard so many people die that sometimes I can tell the person is dying before the caller does. That fish-gasp-snore sound （called agonal breathing） is the reason CPR is sometimes started too late to help.

“Maam，” I say， “Hes not getting enough oxygen. Im going to tell you how to do CPR.”

“Oh， I cant do that. Hes still breathing. Cant you hear that snoring？ Just get here！”

But I can tell by the sound that hes not snoring， hes actually dying， and without immediate intervention he wont make it. Its up to me and only me to convince the eighty-year-old woman that shes strong enough to pull her husband off the bed in order to get him on a flat surface （You cant do compressions on a bed. Pull the sheet hes lying on. Dont worry about the fall is what I say. You cant hurt a dead man is what I dont say）. Its up to me to convince the seventeen-year-old girl to give mouth-to-mouth to a friend whos overdosed， even when the caller is high as hell and doesnt want to get anywhere near the stuff coming out of her friends mouth. Its up to me to tell the mother how to cut down her son whos hung himself with a rope made from his stepfathers ties in case theres still oxygen lingering in his blood. Speed. Now. The faster， the better. The more convincing I can be， the better chance the person has of being revived.

You answer the phone. You talk two hikers through giving CPR to a stranger on a hillside. Tell one how to pull the latitude and longitude off their iPhone because the call came in on the wrong line while coaching the other hiker not to stop compressions. Get the helicopter ordered， help it land safely in the right place.

Finish your slice of pizza long gone cold. Fiddle9） with the crossword puzzle from the day before. Answer the next phone call. Dont ask about the endings. HIPAA10） laws make it clear that unless you have a need to know， you have no right to know anyone elses medical information. It can be frustrating to never know the endings. Unless you make the endings up yourself.

I started writing them down， fictional plots based on nothing but the conglomerate11） of grief I stored in the back of my mind—the endings I wrote to all my novels were hopeful， because hope was what I heard every day on the phones. The hope that I—that someone—could help before it was too late.

The novel， The Ones Who Matter Most， was the result of listening to hundreds of women over the years entering miscarriage12）. “No， no， no， no. Not this， no.” The liturgy13） these women chant is millennia old. Dont sit on the toilet， I tell them. Dont cross your legs. They cling to my words， hoping that if they do what I say， they can change the ending.

Hope. I hold out14） hope.

Because without hope， we dont go on. Hope is the only thing that lets us say goodbye to our loved ones in the mornings—the hope well come back together later， safely.

Hope is the thing our brains hold without us having to try. Our bodies， even at the edge of death， still hope for oxygen， still try to grab at it. Hope is extravagant15） and senseless and often just plain ridiculous， and yet still it rises.

Once I took a call for a 103-year-old woman who stopped breathing while at a family birthday party. Her great-grandson did perfect CPR—I could hear the sound her chest made as he did compressions in exactly the right rhythm. All the while， he panted and muttered， “Come on， Grandma， you can make it. Come on， Grandma. You can do this.” Behind him， the whole family cheered them both on. I was listening to a house full of hope. A home full of love.

Ive just left the day job. Its not like its a spur-of-the-moment thing. Ive been working both 911 and writing， ninety hours a week， for ten years. Ive published three literary novels， ten feminist romances， and one memoir， and this is what Ive been working toward. Im as ready for this leap as Ill ever be.

Its been almost two months of complete self-employment and Im still twitching from adrenaline16） withdrawal， but not having to wear a pager17） to go to the bathroom is great. Actually sleeping at night—every night—is even better. So even though my hopeful dispatch18） manager has put me on the part-time roster19） just in case I feel like picking up some shifts， I think Ive made the right choice in taking off my headset for good20）.

I spent seventeen years listening to what can go wrong， hearing stories of predictable losses and freak accidents. I had the two best jobs in the world： giving immediate， life-saving assistance， and then making up stories about what happened next. I knew that sometimes， while on 911， I helped someone save a life.

And then a couple of readers wrote to me， saying Id saved their lives. Thats exactly as untrue as it would be if I took credit for actually restarting someones heart over the phone. In not one single case did I put my hands on a chest and push. There was always someone else following my directions—they did the life-saving. In the same way， I dont believe my writing can actually save someone.

But in both those jobs， I played the same role： to be the holder of hope. On the phone， I was the placeholder， the voice the caller clutched21） while waiting for an actual hand. In my books， Im also just a voice， something to cling to while a readers world slips sideways. And Im hoping like hell I get it right. From now on Im wearing no headset and leaving behind only black marks on a white page， holding the space for hope and the shaky breath that follows it.

我是希望的堅(jiān)守者。在電話的一頭，我代替著希望而存在，撥打電話的人依靠這個(gè)聲音的力量，等候著真正援手的到來(lái)。

我在急救電話里聽(tīng)過(guò)很多人死去，所以相信我，人們并不會(huì)像屏幕上演的那樣安靜地離開(kāi)，帶著最后一個(gè)渴望的神情，再輕嘆一口氣，滿是失望的無(wú)奈。當(dāng)然，有些死亡確實(shí)發(fā)生得悄無(wú)聲息——在睡夢(mèng)中死去是我們?cè)S多人都希望獲得的一種解脫。但人的身體天生就是不到最后一刻決不放棄，即便是最疲憊不堪的身軀，也能在離世之際弄出好大動(dòng)靜。它毫不客氣。它也不會(huì)經(jīng)誰(shuí)允許。它喉嚨里咯咯作響，張大嘴呼吸急促，胸部發(fā)出喘鳴聲，像是個(gè)重載拖車(chē)碾過(guò)的手風(fēng)琴。它敢于與彪悍的保安干仗，而當(dāng)它被帶走時(shí)，還會(huì)一路扭頭叫罵。

我已經(jīng)在急救電話中心工作17年了，是最早的一批接線員之一。當(dāng)你看到有人倒在星巴克門(mén)口，卻沒(méi)人愿意伸出援手，而你雖然在第一個(gè)孩子出生前上過(guò)一些有關(guān)急救的課，但課上教的內(nèi)容已完全記不起來(lái)的時(shí)候，我就是那個(gè)會(huì)告訴你怎么給旁人做心肺復(fù)蘇術(shù)的人。

我聽(tīng)過(guò)人死去的次數(shù)太多了，有時(shí)候打電話過(guò)來(lái)的人還沒(méi)意識(shí)到那個(gè)人正在死去，而我已經(jīng)意識(shí)到了。那種像魚(yú)離開(kāi)水大口喘氣又像是打鼾的聲音（這就是所謂的瀕死呼吸）正是心肺復(fù)蘇術(shù)用得太遲而回天無(wú)力的原因。

“女士，”我會(huì)說(shuō)，“他現(xiàn)在供氧不足。我現(xiàn)在要教你如何做心肺復(fù)蘇術(shù)?！?/p>

“噢，我不會(huì)做那個(gè)。他還有呼吸啊，你聽(tīng)不見(jiàn)他發(fā)出的呼嚕聲嗎？趕緊派人來(lái)！”

但是我憑聲音就聽(tīng)得出他不是在打呼嚕，而是在死去，如果不立刻采取措施，他一定活不下來(lái)。這個(gè)時(shí)候，就要靠我，而且只能靠我，來(lái)說(shuō)服那個(gè)80歲的老太太，讓她相信自己有足夠的力氣把她丈夫從床上拖下來(lái)，好讓他躺在平地上（在床上不能做胸部按壓。用力拽他身子下的床單。我會(huì)告訴對(duì)方，別擔(dān)心從床上摔下來(lái)那一下。我不會(huì)告訴對(duì)方的是，摔一下也比死了強(qiáng)。）我還要去說(shuō)服那個(gè)17歲的小姑娘，去給她毒品吸食過(guò)量的朋友做人工呼吸，雖然這個(gè)姑娘自己也處于吸食毒品后極度興奮的狀態(tài)，而且完全不想靠近她朋友嘴里流出的污穢物。我還要去告訴那個(gè)媽媽，如何把她兒子從用他繼父的領(lǐng)帶做成的繩結(jié)中給解救下來(lái)，因?yàn)樗难褐姓f(shuō)不定還有些氧氣。趕緊?，F(xiàn)在就做，越快越好。我的說(shuō)服力越強(qiáng)，那個(gè)人被救活的可能性就越大。

你接起電話。你向兩個(gè)徒步旅行的人講解如何在山坡上給陌生人做心肺復(fù)蘇術(shù)。你告訴其中一人怎樣從他們的iPhone里獲取經(jīng)緯度，因?yàn)樗蛭疫@個(gè)急救電話是查不到地理方位的，同時(shí)還要教另外一個(gè)人不要停止胸部按壓。然后聯(lián)系直升機(jī)，幫助它在正確的地點(diǎn)安全降落。

然后你吃完那塊早就放冷了的比薩。做了做前一天的填字游戲。接起下一個(gè)電話。不要問(wèn)事情有了什么樣的結(jié)局。《健康保險(xiǎn)攜帶和責(zé)任法案》有明確規(guī)定，除非你有知悉結(jié)果的需要，否則你無(wú)權(quán)過(guò)問(wèn)其他任何人的醫(yī)療信息。從來(lái)不知道后來(lái)發(fā)生了什么是一件令人沮喪的事情。除非你自己編寫(xiě)出一個(gè)結(jié)局來(lái)。

我開(kāi)始把它們都寫(xiě)下來(lái)，那些虛構(gòu)的情節(jié)全都來(lái)自于我腦海深處聚集的悲傷——我為我的小說(shuō)所寫(xiě)的結(jié)局都充滿了希望，因?yàn)槲颐刻煸陔娫捓锫?tīng)到的都是希望。每個(gè)打電話的人都希望我——或是其他人——能夠在事情變得無(wú)可挽回之前施以援手。

《最要緊的那些人》這部小說(shuō)就源自于我多年來(lái)所聽(tīng)到的數(shù)以百計(jì)的正經(jīng)歷流產(chǎn)的女性們。“不，不，不，不。不要發(fā)生這種事，不要?！边@些女性們反復(fù)呻吟的祈禱詞千百年來(lái)都一樣。不要坐在馬桶上，我告訴她們。雙腿不要交疊。她們對(duì)我的話言聽(tīng)計(jì)從，希望著如果按照我的話做了，她們能夠讓結(jié)局變得不一樣。

希望。我在電話里送出的是希望。

因?yàn)槿绻麤](méi)有希望，我們就不會(huì)再堅(jiān)持下去。希望是唯一能夠讓我們?cè)谠绯康臅r(shí)候和我們所愛(ài)的人說(shuō)再見(jiàn)的原因——因?yàn)槲覀兿Ｍ痪弥缶湍茉倩貋?lái)團(tuán)聚，平安無(wú)恙。

希望是無(wú)需我們刻意努力，我們的頭腦就能夠保有的東西。我們的身體，即便是在死亡的邊緣，依然希望獲得氧氣，依然竭力拼命呼吸。希望是需索過(guò)度的，不講道理的，而且經(jīng)常顯得荒唐無(wú)比，然而它從不息止。

有一次我接了一個(gè)電話，一位103歲的老太太在家庭生日宴會(huì)上停止了呼吸。她的曾孫做了無(wú)可挑剔的心肺復(fù)蘇術(shù)——我能夠聽(tīng)見(jiàn)她的胸腔隨著他節(jié)奏完全正確的按壓而發(fā)出的聲響。在整個(gè)過(guò)程中，他一邊喘著粗氣，一邊低聲念叨：“堅(jiān)持住啊，太奶奶，你一定可以。堅(jiān)持住啊，太奶奶，你一定能做到?！痹谒砗螅胰硕紴閮蓚€(gè)人加油鼓勁兒。我聽(tīng)到的是充滿希望的屋子。一個(gè)充滿愛(ài)的家。

我剛剛把白天的工作辭掉。這并非是我一時(shí)沖動(dòng)所做的決定。我一直一邊在急救電話中心工作，一邊寫(xiě)作，每周工作90個(gè)小時(shí)，連續(xù)干了十年。我出版了三本文學(xué)類小說(shuō)、十本女性浪漫小說(shuō)和一本回憶錄，而所有這一切都是為了能夠做出這個(gè)決定。對(duì)于這個(gè)生活中的大跨步，我現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)做好了最充分的準(zhǔn)備了。

作為一個(gè)完全的自由職業(yè)者已經(jīng)快兩個(gè)月了，雖然腎上腺素分泌的減少還讓我有些不適應(yīng)，但是不用帶著傳呼機(jī)去上廁所真是棒極了。事實(shí)上，晚上能好好睡覺(jué)——每天晚上都能好好睡覺(jué)——這感覺(jué)更棒。因此，雖然我那還有所幻想的派遣經(jīng)理把我放進(jìn)了兼職的執(zhí)勤人員表里，以防我想要回來(lái)值些班，但我想我永久性地摘下耳機(jī)是個(gè)正確的決定。

我花了17年的時(shí)間接聽(tīng)那些情況可能會(huì)變?cè)愕碾娫?，?tīng)那些能夠預(yù)見(jiàn)到傷亡和千奇百怪意外情況的故事。我曾擁有世界上最好的兩份工作：給予即刻的、事關(guān)生死的協(xié)助，以及為后續(xù)的發(fā)展撰寫(xiě)出一個(gè)結(jié)局。我知道有時(shí)候，在急救電話中，我曾幫人救回一條命。

后來(lái)有一些讀者會(huì)寫(xiě)信給我，說(shuō)我曾救了他們的命。這其實(shí)不能算是事實(shí)，就像我覺(jué)得幫電話那頭的人復(fù)蘇了心跳的功勞不應(yīng)該算在我頭上一樣。我從未在任何一個(gè)情況中將自己的手放在病患的胸口上做按壓?？倳?huì)有其他的人聽(tīng)從我的指導(dǎo)——是這些人救了別人一命。同樣的道理，我也不認(rèn)為我寫(xiě)的東西能夠真的拯救別人。

但是在這兩份工作中，我扮演的角色是一樣的：我是希望的堅(jiān)守者。在電話的一頭，我代替著希望而存在，撥打電話的人依靠這個(gè)聲音的力量，等候著真正援手的到來(lái)。而在我的書(shū)中，我同樣也僅僅是一個(gè)聲音，當(dāng)讀者的世界發(fā)生變故時(shí)，這種聲音是他們緊緊依賴的東西。而我滿心希望自己發(fā)出的是正確的聲音。從今往后，我不再頭戴耳機(jī)，而只是把黑色的符號(hào)留在白色的紙上，替希望，還有追隨希望而來(lái)的顫抖的呼吸聲，占個(gè)位置。

1.take it from me：請(qǐng)相信我，我向你保證

2.resignation [?rez?ɡ?ne??（?）n] n. 屈從；順從；逆來(lái)順受

3.kick up a racket：制造喧鬧，惹出亂子

4.tractor-trailer：重載拖車(chē)，牽引式掛車(chē)

5.bouncer [?ba?ns?（r）] n. （夜總會(huì)、舞會(huì)等雇用的）保鏢

6.hurl [h??（r）l] vt. 謾罵，辱罵，責(zé)罵

7.epithet [?ep?θet] n. 綽號(hào)；帶侮辱性的稱謂

8.CPR：心肺復(fù)蘇術(shù)（cardiopulmonary resuscitation）

9.fiddle [?f?d（?）l] vi. 擺弄

10.HIPAA：《健康保險(xiǎn)攜帶和責(zé)任法案》（Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act），美國(guó)于1996年通過(guò)的一項(xiàng)法案，內(nèi)容主要包含兩方面：一是保障失業(yè)人員和重新?lián)駱I(yè)人員享受醫(yī)療保險(xiǎn)；二是簡(jiǎn)化管理?xiàng)l款，建立醫(yī)療電子數(shù)據(jù)交換、安全以及所有醫(yī)療保健相關(guān)數(shù)據(jù)保密性的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)化機(jī)制。

11.conglomerate [k?n?ɡl?m?r?t] n. 聚集物，混合體

12.miscarriage [?m?sk?r?d?] n. [醫(yī)]流產(chǎn)

13.liturgy [?l?t?（r）d?i] n. 祈禱

14.hold out：提供，提出

15.extravagant [?k?str?v?ɡ?nt] adj. 過(guò)度的，過(guò)高的

16.adrenaline [??dren?l?n] n. 腎上腺素

17.pager [?pe?d??（r）] n. 傳呼機(jī)

18.dispatch [d??sp?t?] n. 派遣；調(diào)遣

19.roster [?r?st?（r）] n. 值勤人員表

20.for good：永久地

21.clutch [kl?t?] vt. 緊握，緊抓