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Warm， friendly， attractive， gifted. That described Julie， one of my all-time favorite students from human development courses I taught at the University of Nebraska. She was a delightful person and an ideal student.
I remember Julie coming to the front of the classroom after class one autumn day in September 1976. While most of the other students hurriedly left to enjoy the 1）balmy weather or to relax at the student union， Julie remained to ask questions about the next week’s exam. She had obviously already done some serious studying. Several other students overheard her questions and joined our conversation. Julie’s 2）winsome personality drew people to her.
Julie never made it to the exam. The day after our conversation， she was tragically struck by a large concrete truck as she biked through an intersection near campus. I was stunned to hear that Julie lay unconscious and motionless in a hospital across town from the campus where only hours before she was talking with friends， laughing， making plans for the future.
Only minutes before the accident， Julie and her mother had enjoyed one of their 3）customary daily telephone conversations. Her mother recalls their last conversation. “Julie was so 4）bubbly. At a store near the campus， she had seen an 5）outfit she wanted to wear on a special date the next day. I told her to go ahead and buy it. She didn’t take her car because she would lose her parking place on campus. Instead， she jumped on her bike to go buy the new outfit. The accident happened just a short distance from the 6）sorority house where she lived.” My thoughts cried out to Julie—You cannot die， Julie！ You’re every professor’s dream—and every parent’s. You have so much to offer， so much to live for.
Nurses silently came and went from Julie’s room. Her parents stood nearby in quiet desperation. Then the attending physician entered the room， cleared his throat， and said to Julie’s parents and two brothers， “Your Julie has only a few hours to live.”He felt the freedom to ask，“Would you consider donating some of Julie’s organs？”
At that same hour in a neighboring state， Mary leaned forward， struggling to see better in her small， cluttered living room. Her eyes followed every movement of her lively two-year-old. This devoted mother was storing up memories to 7）savor when she could no longer see her child. Mary was going blind.
Several states away， John had almost finished six hours on the dialysis machine. This young father was reading to his two sons while his immobilized body was connected to a life-giving “artificial kidney.”Doctors had given him a grim 8）prognosis of only weeks to live. His only hope was a kidney transplant. At the same time in the Lincoln， Nebraska， hospital， Julie’s grief-stricken parents 9）pondered the finality of the physician’s question. Their pretty 10）brunette， brown-eyed daughter had once said she wanted to be an organ donor in the event of her death. The two parents looked at each other briefly， the 11）anguish in their hearts reflected in their eyes. Then they turned to the physician and responded， “Yes. Julie always gave to others while she was alive. She would want to give in death.”
Within twenty-four hours， Mary was notified that she would receive one of Julie’s eyes， and John was told to start preparing for a kidney transplant. Julie’s other organs would give life and sight to other waiting recipients.
“Julie died right after her twentieth birthday—twenty-four years ago. She left us with very happy memories，” says Julie’s mother， now in her seventies.“Nothing—absolutely nothing—could possibly be as heartbreaking as the death of your child，” she emphasizes， “for your heart breaks again and again. At each birthday. At each holiday. At each milestone： when she would’ve graduated； when she might’ve married； when she might’ve been having children.”Taking a slow and deliberate breath， Julie’s mother says， “But Julie’s life was a gift to us. Knowing that in her death， she gave the gift of life and sight to others is comforting to us， and remembering that we carried out her wishes has helped us cope with her death more than anything else.”
Her voice softening， Julie’s mother says， “You and Julie’s other friends and teachers were an important part of her life. Your teaching influenced her life tremendously， and you remind us that our love for Julie and Julie’s love for others are alive today.”
As one of Julie’s professors， I hold dear the thought that I may have had a small part in teaching Julie how to live. But she—and her family—are still teaching me an even greater lesson. How to die.
为人热心、待人亲切、富有魅力、天资聪颖—这说的就是朱莉。她是我在内布拉斯加大学教授人类发展学多年来最喜欢的学生之一。她是个非常讨人喜欢的人，也是一个理想的学生。
我记得，在1976年9月的一个秋日，下课后，朱莉走到了教室的前面。其他大多数的学生都匆匆离开，赶去享受外面温和舒适的天气，又或者去学生活动中心放松一番，但朱莉却留了下来，询问关于下周测验的问题。她显然作了一番认真的复习。其他几个学生无意中听到了她的问题，也加入了我们的对话。朱莉那迷人的个性让人情不自禁地想要亲近她。
朱莉没能参加那场考试—永远也不能参加了。那天，在我们对话过后，当她骑车经过学校附近的一个十字路口时，她被一辆大型混凝土运送车无情地撞倒了。当我得知朱莉正躺在远离校园的镇外的一家医院里，陷入昏迷，无法动弹时，我整个人惊呆了。就在几个小时前，她还在学校里与朋友们聊天说笑，畅想未来。
就在意外发生的几分钟前，朱莉还和她母亲进行了一次例行日常通话。她母亲回忆起她们的最后一次对话：“朱莉当时是那么的快乐。她在学校附近的一间商店看中了一套衣服，想着第二天要穿上赴一个特别的约会。我让她去买回来。她没有开车去，因为那样她在学校的停车位就会被别人占去。所以，她骑上单车去买那套新衣服。那场意外就发生在她所住的女生联谊会所的不远处。”我在脑子里向朱莉大喊—你不能死，朱莉！你是每位教授的梦想—也是每个家长的梦想。你有着无限的潜能，还有这么多的东西等着你活着去尝试。 护士们沉默不语地在朱莉的病房进进出出。她的父母绝望地站在一旁，一语不发。接着，主治医师走进了房里，清了清嗓子，对朱莉的父母以及两个兄弟说道：“你们的朱莉的生命只剩下几个小时了。”他随口一问：“你们要不要考虑捐赠出朱莉的一部分器官？”
与此同时，在邻近的一个州，玛丽向前倾着身子，努力让自己在她那狭小、拥挤的客厅里看得更加清楚。她的眼睛紧紧盯着她那活泼的两岁孩子的一举一动。这位无私的母亲正在存储记忆，留待将来再也不能看到她的孩子时细细回味。玛丽快要失明了。
在相隔几个州远的地方，约翰快要做满六个小时的透析了。这位年轻爸爸的身体连着一台维持生命的“人工肾”，无法动弹，他正在给他的两个儿子念书。医生告诉了他一个残忍的病情预后—他只剩几周可活了。他唯一的希望就是肾移植。
同时，在内布拉斯加州林肯市的一家医院里，朱莉那悲恸欲绝的双亲正在考虑对那个医生的问题的最终答复。他们那个褐发褐眼的漂亮女儿曾经说过，假如她死了，她想要成为一个器官捐赠者。他们短暂地看了彼此一眼，他们的眼睛反映出了他们内心的痛苦。然后他们转向医生，回答道：“捐。朱莉在世时就一直乐于给予，她离世了也会乐于这么做。”
在24个小时内，玛丽收到通知—她将会获得朱莉的一只眼睛，而约翰则被告知要开始为肾移植手术做准备。朱莉的其他器官将会为其他正在等待获得捐助的人带来生命与光明。
“朱莉在满二十岁生日后不久就去世了—在二十四年前。她给我们留下了许多美好的回忆，”朱莉的母亲说道，她如今已经七十多岁了。“没有任何事情—绝对没有—能像你孩子的死亡那样让人心碎”，她强调道，“因为你会经历一次又一次的心碎，在每个生日，在每个节日，在每个重要的人生阶段：她本该毕业的时候；她本可能结婚的时候；她本可能生儿育女的时候。” 朱莉的母亲慢慢地、深深地吸了一口气，说道：“但是朱莉的生命对我们来说是个礼物。知道她的死亡给他人带来了生命与光明，我们感到有所慰藉。我们实现了她的心愿，没有什么比记住这一点更能让我们对她的死亡感到释怀。”
朱莉的母亲说话的声音变得轻柔和缓起来，她说：“你与朱莉的其他朋友和老师都是她生命中重要的一部分。你的教导对她的人生产生了深远的影响，你提醒着我们，我们对朱莉的爱，以及朱莉对他人的爱，时至今日，依然存在。”
身为朱莉的其中一名教授，我可能在教导朱莉该如何过活这方面曾起到小小的作用，我对此珍而重之。但是她—以及她的家人—却依然在教导着我更重要的一课：如何死去。
I remember Julie coming to the front of the classroom after class one autumn day in September 1976. While most of the other students hurriedly left to enjoy the 1）balmy weather or to relax at the student union， Julie remained to ask questions about the next week’s exam. She had obviously already done some serious studying. Several other students overheard her questions and joined our conversation. Julie’s 2）winsome personality drew people to her.
Julie never made it to the exam. The day after our conversation， she was tragically struck by a large concrete truck as she biked through an intersection near campus. I was stunned to hear that Julie lay unconscious and motionless in a hospital across town from the campus where only hours before she was talking with friends， laughing， making plans for the future.
Only minutes before the accident， Julie and her mother had enjoyed one of their 3）customary daily telephone conversations. Her mother recalls their last conversation. “Julie was so 4）bubbly. At a store near the campus， she had seen an 5）outfit she wanted to wear on a special date the next day. I told her to go ahead and buy it. She didn’t take her car because she would lose her parking place on campus. Instead， she jumped on her bike to go buy the new outfit. The accident happened just a short distance from the 6）sorority house where she lived.” My thoughts cried out to Julie—You cannot die， Julie！ You’re every professor’s dream—and every parent’s. You have so much to offer， so much to live for.
Nurses silently came and went from Julie’s room. Her parents stood nearby in quiet desperation. Then the attending physician entered the room， cleared his throat， and said to Julie’s parents and two brothers， “Your Julie has only a few hours to live.”He felt the freedom to ask，“Would you consider donating some of Julie’s organs？”
At that same hour in a neighboring state， Mary leaned forward， struggling to see better in her small， cluttered living room. Her eyes followed every movement of her lively two-year-old. This devoted mother was storing up memories to 7）savor when she could no longer see her child. Mary was going blind.
Several states away， John had almost finished six hours on the dialysis machine. This young father was reading to his two sons while his immobilized body was connected to a life-giving “artificial kidney.”Doctors had given him a grim 8）prognosis of only weeks to live. His only hope was a kidney transplant. At the same time in the Lincoln， Nebraska， hospital， Julie’s grief-stricken parents 9）pondered the finality of the physician’s question. Their pretty 10）brunette， brown-eyed daughter had once said she wanted to be an organ donor in the event of her death. The two parents looked at each other briefly， the 11）anguish in their hearts reflected in their eyes. Then they turned to the physician and responded， “Yes. Julie always gave to others while she was alive. She would want to give in death.”
Within twenty-four hours， Mary was notified that she would receive one of Julie’s eyes， and John was told to start preparing for a kidney transplant. Julie’s other organs would give life and sight to other waiting recipients.
“Julie died right after her twentieth birthday—twenty-four years ago. She left us with very happy memories，” says Julie’s mother， now in her seventies.“Nothing—absolutely nothing—could possibly be as heartbreaking as the death of your child，” she emphasizes， “for your heart breaks again and again. At each birthday. At each holiday. At each milestone： when she would’ve graduated； when she might’ve married； when she might’ve been having children.”Taking a slow and deliberate breath， Julie’s mother says， “But Julie’s life was a gift to us. Knowing that in her death， she gave the gift of life and sight to others is comforting to us， and remembering that we carried out her wishes has helped us cope with her death more than anything else.”
Her voice softening， Julie’s mother says， “You and Julie’s other friends and teachers were an important part of her life. Your teaching influenced her life tremendously， and you remind us that our love for Julie and Julie’s love for others are alive today.”
As one of Julie’s professors， I hold dear the thought that I may have had a small part in teaching Julie how to live. But she—and her family—are still teaching me an even greater lesson. How to die.
为人热心、待人亲切、富有魅力、天资聪颖—这说的就是朱莉。她是我在内布拉斯加大学教授人类发展学多年来最喜欢的学生之一。她是个非常讨人喜欢的人，也是一个理想的学生。
我记得，在1976年9月的一个秋日，下课后，朱莉走到了教室的前面。其他大多数的学生都匆匆离开，赶去享受外面温和舒适的天气，又或者去学生活动中心放松一番，但朱莉却留了下来，询问关于下周测验的问题。她显然作了一番认真的复习。其他几个学生无意中听到了她的问题，也加入了我们的对话。朱莉那迷人的个性让人情不自禁地想要亲近她。
朱莉没能参加那场考试—永远也不能参加了。那天，在我们对话过后，当她骑车经过学校附近的一个十字路口时，她被一辆大型混凝土运送车无情地撞倒了。当我得知朱莉正躺在远离校园的镇外的一家医院里，陷入昏迷，无法动弹时，我整个人惊呆了。就在几个小时前，她还在学校里与朋友们聊天说笑，畅想未来。
就在意外发生的几分钟前，朱莉还和她母亲进行了一次例行日常通话。她母亲回忆起她们的最后一次对话：“朱莉当时是那么的快乐。她在学校附近的一间商店看中了一套衣服，想着第二天要穿上赴一个特别的约会。我让她去买回来。她没有开车去，因为那样她在学校的停车位就会被别人占去。所以，她骑上单车去买那套新衣服。那场意外就发生在她所住的女生联谊会所的不远处。”我在脑子里向朱莉大喊—你不能死，朱莉！你是每位教授的梦想—也是每个家长的梦想。你有着无限的潜能，还有这么多的东西等着你活着去尝试。 护士们沉默不语地在朱莉的病房进进出出。她的父母绝望地站在一旁，一语不发。接着，主治医师走进了房里，清了清嗓子，对朱莉的父母以及两个兄弟说道：“你们的朱莉的生命只剩下几个小时了。”他随口一问：“你们要不要考虑捐赠出朱莉的一部分器官？”
与此同时，在邻近的一个州，玛丽向前倾着身子，努力让自己在她那狭小、拥挤的客厅里看得更加清楚。她的眼睛紧紧盯着她那活泼的两岁孩子的一举一动。这位无私的母亲正在存储记忆，留待将来再也不能看到她的孩子时细细回味。玛丽快要失明了。
在相隔几个州远的地方，约翰快要做满六个小时的透析了。这位年轻爸爸的身体连着一台维持生命的“人工肾”，无法动弹，他正在给他的两个儿子念书。医生告诉了他一个残忍的病情预后—他只剩几周可活了。他唯一的希望就是肾移植。
同时，在内布拉斯加州林肯市的一家医院里，朱莉那悲恸欲绝的双亲正在考虑对那个医生的问题的最终答复。他们那个褐发褐眼的漂亮女儿曾经说过，假如她死了，她想要成为一个器官捐赠者。他们短暂地看了彼此一眼，他们的眼睛反映出了他们内心的痛苦。然后他们转向医生，回答道：“捐。朱莉在世时就一直乐于给予，她离世了也会乐于这么做。”
在24个小时内，玛丽收到通知—她将会获得朱莉的一只眼睛，而约翰则被告知要开始为肾移植手术做准备。朱莉的其他器官将会为其他正在等待获得捐助的人带来生命与光明。
“朱莉在满二十岁生日后不久就去世了—在二十四年前。她给我们留下了许多美好的回忆，”朱莉的母亲说道，她如今已经七十多岁了。“没有任何事情—绝对没有—能像你孩子的死亡那样让人心碎”，她强调道，“因为你会经历一次又一次的心碎，在每个生日，在每个节日，在每个重要的人生阶段：她本该毕业的时候；她本可能结婚的时候；她本可能生儿育女的时候。” 朱莉的母亲慢慢地、深深地吸了一口气，说道：“但是朱莉的生命对我们来说是个礼物。知道她的死亡给他人带来了生命与光明，我们感到有所慰藉。我们实现了她的心愿，没有什么比记住这一点更能让我们对她的死亡感到释怀。”
朱莉的母亲说话的声音变得轻柔和缓起来，她说：“你与朱莉的其他朋友和老师都是她生命中重要的一部分。你的教导对她的人生产生了深远的影响，你提醒着我们，我们对朱莉的爱，以及朱莉对他人的爱，时至今日，依然存在。”
身为朱莉的其中一名教授，我可能在教导朱莉该如何过活这方面曾起到小小的作用，我对此珍而重之。但是她—以及她的家人—却依然在教导着我更重要的一课：如何死去。