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To be frank, it was the best time as well as the worst time. 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.
My perserving andstaunch mother had always struggled for a decade,but none of the surgeries or treatments had prove effective. Still, she never forget 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 fortnight 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 putting 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.
“Mum—Mum—listen. The baby is coming! You’re going to have a new grandchild. Do you understand?”
“Yes!”
What a marvellous 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 with a smiling countenance, her oxygen tubes removed.
“Mum, its a boy! You have a new grandson!”
“Yes! Yes! I know!”
Four words. Four beautiful words.
By the time I brought Jacob home, Mum was sitting in her chair, dressed and ready to welcome it. Tears of joy blocked my vision as I laid my son in her arms and she clucked at him. They stared at each other.
I knew 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 sons birth will always be bittersweet for me, but it was at this time that I learned an important truth about life. For while both joy and sorrow are interim, and often intertwined, love has the power to overcome both. And love can last forever.
坦率地说，那段日子是最美好也是最糟糕的。当时，我满心欢喜地期待着第一个孩子出生，与此同时，我那一度精力充沛、风趣热情的母亲与脑瘤的斗争也最后失败了。
十年来，我忍耐而又刚强的母亲一直在与病魔做斗争，但是，无论是外科手术还是其他治疗手段，都没有成功。尽管如此，她仍然能面带微笑。但在55岁的时候，她终于完全丧失了独立生活的能力——不能说话，不能走路，不能自己吃饭和穿衣。
在她离死亡越来越近的时候，我孩子的预产期也越来越近了。我最担心的是他们可能连相逢的机会都没有。我不仅为即将失去母亲而伤心，我还为她和我的孩子可能无缘相识而难过。
我的担心并不是没有理由的。在我的预产期到来的两星期前，母亲慢慢陷入了深度昏迷。医生已经不抱任何希望了——干脆告诉我们她的生命即将结束。他们甚至说，给她插喂食导管已经没有用处了，她永远都不会醒了。
我们把母亲接回家，让她睡在自己的床上，我们坚持把她照料得舒舒服服。只要一有空，我就坐在床边，对她说孩子在我腹内蠕动的情况。虽然她不省人事，但我还是希望她能够知道。
1989年2月3日那天，差不多就是在我开始分娩的同一时刻，母亲睁开了眼睛。当他们在医院告诉我这件事时，我打电话回家，请他们把话筒放在妈妈耳边。
“妈妈……妈妈……听着。孩子就要出生了!你马上就要有一个新外孙了。你明白吗?”
“明白！”
这是多么美妙的字眼啊！这是几个月来她能够清楚说出的第一个词!
一小时后，我又打电话回家，在家里看护她的护士告诉我一件不可思议的事：妈妈居然坐起来了，氧气管也拔了。她仍在微笑。
“妈妈，是个男孩!你有一个新外孙子了!”
“好!好!知道!”
四个字——四个美丽的字眼。
当我带雅各布回家的时候，妈妈正盛装坐在椅子里等着迎接他呢。我把儿子放进她怀中，看着她咯咯咯地逗他，喜悦的泪水模糊了我的视线。他们正互相打量着对方。
我知道他们相识了。
在接下来的两个星期里，母亲抱着雅各布，咯咯咯地逗他，满面春风。在那两个星期里，她对我父亲、她的儿孙们说的都是完整的句子。在那奇迹般的两周里，她给我们带来了喜悦。
然后，在所有孩子都来看过她之后，她静静地陷入昏迷中，终于脱离了身体上的痛苦和束缚，安详地走了……
对我来说，关于儿子出生的记忆总是苦乐参半的，但是，正是在这个时候，我明白了人生最重要的一个事实。喜悦和悲痛都是短暂的，它们会不定期地来纠缠你，唯有爱才有战胜悲与喜的力量。爱是永恒的！★
My perserving andstaunch mother had always struggled for a decade,but none of the surgeries or treatments had prove effective. Still, she never forget 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 fortnight 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 putting 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.
“Mum—Mum—listen. The baby is coming! You’re going to have a new grandchild. Do you understand?”
“Yes!”
What a marvellous 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 with a smiling countenance, her oxygen tubes removed.
“Mum, its a boy! You have a new grandson!”
“Yes! Yes! I know!”
Four words. Four beautiful words.
By the time I brought Jacob home, Mum was sitting in her chair, dressed and ready to welcome it. Tears of joy blocked my vision as I laid my son in her arms and she clucked at him. They stared at each other.
I knew 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 sons birth will always be bittersweet for me, but it was at this time that I learned an important truth about life. For while both joy and sorrow are interim, and often intertwined, love has the power to overcome both. And love can last forever.
坦率地说，那段日子是最美好也是最糟糕的。当时，我满心欢喜地期待着第一个孩子出生，与此同时，我那一度精力充沛、风趣热情的母亲与脑瘤的斗争也最后失败了。
十年来，我忍耐而又刚强的母亲一直在与病魔做斗争，但是，无论是外科手术还是其他治疗手段，都没有成功。尽管如此，她仍然能面带微笑。但在55岁的时候，她终于完全丧失了独立生活的能力——不能说话，不能走路，不能自己吃饭和穿衣。
在她离死亡越来越近的时候，我孩子的预产期也越来越近了。我最担心的是他们可能连相逢的机会都没有。我不仅为即将失去母亲而伤心，我还为她和我的孩子可能无缘相识而难过。
我的担心并不是没有理由的。在我的预产期到来的两星期前，母亲慢慢陷入了深度昏迷。医生已经不抱任何希望了——干脆告诉我们她的生命即将结束。他们甚至说，给她插喂食导管已经没有用处了，她永远都不会醒了。
我们把母亲接回家，让她睡在自己的床上，我们坚持把她照料得舒舒服服。只要一有空，我就坐在床边，对她说孩子在我腹内蠕动的情况。虽然她不省人事，但我还是希望她能够知道。
1989年2月3日那天，差不多就是在我开始分娩的同一时刻，母亲睁开了眼睛。当他们在医院告诉我这件事时，我打电话回家，请他们把话筒放在妈妈耳边。
“妈妈……妈妈……听着。孩子就要出生了!你马上就要有一个新外孙了。你明白吗?”
“明白！”
这是多么美妙的字眼啊！这是几个月来她能够清楚说出的第一个词!
一小时后，我又打电话回家，在家里看护她的护士告诉我一件不可思议的事：妈妈居然坐起来了，氧气管也拔了。她仍在微笑。
“妈妈，是个男孩!你有一个新外孙子了!”
“好!好!知道!”
四个字——四个美丽的字眼。
当我带雅各布回家的时候，妈妈正盛装坐在椅子里等着迎接他呢。我把儿子放进她怀中，看着她咯咯咯地逗他，喜悦的泪水模糊了我的视线。他们正互相打量着对方。
我知道他们相识了。
在接下来的两个星期里，母亲抱着雅各布，咯咯咯地逗他，满面春风。在那两个星期里，她对我父亲、她的儿孙们说的都是完整的句子。在那奇迹般的两周里，她给我们带来了喜悦。
然后，在所有孩子都来看过她之后，她静静地陷入昏迷中，终于脱离了身体上的痛苦和束缚，安详地走了……
对我来说，关于儿子出生的记忆总是苦乐参半的，但是，正是在这个时候，我明白了人生最重要的一个事实。喜悦和悲痛都是短暂的，它们会不定期地来纠缠你，唯有爱才有战胜悲与喜的力量。爱是永恒的！★