有趣灵魂说

也许你曾为逝去的爱伤痛，但你可曾想过 ，有些灵魂从未真正离开？

本期的《纽约时报》专栏Modern Love带来一个关于爱与坚守的动人故事 。当作者玛拉在失去孩子后彻底失去了对生活的信念
，她的初恋男友桑迪——一个已故多年的灵魂，却意外地回到她的生活中
。而她的丈夫亚当 ，用最特别的方式守护着她破碎的心。这不是一个鬼故事，而是一个关于如何在失去后重拾希望
，如何在爱人迷失时成为他们的锚点的真实经历 。在这里，你将看到爱情最深刻的样子：不仅是向前走 ，更是当对方无法坚守时
，替他/她记得最初的美好。

译文为原创，仅供个人学习使用

The New York Times | Modern Love

纽约时报 | 摩登情爱

My First Love Ghosted Me. It’s Not What You Think.

我的初恋对我魂牵梦绕

不过事情并非你所想

I had lost faith in the universe — until an apparition of my smiling, 16-year-old late ex-boyfriend appeared.

我曾对宇宙失去了信心—— 直到我那 16 岁时笑容满面的已故前男友的幻影出现
。

By Mara Chadnick

Brian Rea

当我提起我的初恋的鬼魂来到我们婚床上探望我时 ，我的丈夫并不以为意。

"哦
，是吗？"亚当说，"桑迪怎么样？"

"你一点也不惊讶吗？"我说 。我的高中恋人桑迪在前一年29岁时意外去世了
。这是他的鬼魂第一次来探望我。

"不怎么惊讶 ，"他说 。

"为什么？"我说
。

"因为你就是你
，"他说。

那时的我，是那种会根据行星绕太阳轨道来做决定的女孩 。亚当则教会了我列利弊清单、买旅行保险 ，以及跳进冰湖里的那种镇静感官刺激
。

我则教会了他
，在人行道上找到一毛钱是来自天堂某人的讯息，以及在水星逆行期间要避免签署重要文件（对我这个律师的工作来说 ，这很难做到）。

多年以后，我不再观星象 、画梦境
，或者仅仅通过相信它们会发生，就试图显化我生活中想要的东西 。

我是在多伦多我和亚当拥有的第一栋房子的地下室里 ，一个破旧
、废弃的桑拿房中
，停止信任这个宇宙的
。当时我躲在那里，写一封信想说服亚当离开我。那周早些时候 ，在一次常规的孕期超声检查中
，技师突然离开了房间 。

我内心的乐观主义者以为机器坏了。很快，一位放射科医生站在我涂满超声耦合剂的肚子上方 ，说了一些难以理解的医学术语
，最后终于说出了一个我能理解的词："死产"
。

我没有哭，主要是因为我并不相信他。因为医院很忙 ，我们被打发回家了
，分娩一个五个半月的死产儿不被认为是紧急情况 。在家里，我照常进行我的孕期例行事务：服用维生素 ，避免吃熟食肉类，抱着我的大枕头睡觉
。毕竟
，我仍然怀着孕。我没有告诉亲密的朋友或家人，因为我知道我们的宝宝会没事 ，不想让任何人担心 。我等着医生打电话来
，为这个巨大的错误道歉
。

即使五天后我们回到医院时，我仍然相信一切都会好起来。我是那个相信幸福结局的女孩 ，即使我看不到如何实现 。我们被带到一个远离常规产房的昏暗房间
。我穿上病号服
，躺在床上，医护人员开始给我连接各种机器。

当麻醉师向我展示如何按按钮获得止痛药时 ，我很困惑 。我不是应该打硬膜外麻醉吗？麻醉师解释说
，当你生下一个死婴时，你可以使用常规麻醉剂 ，因为不再需要担心伤害胎儿了
。我很长时间都没有按那个按钮
，甚至在宫缩的疼痛开始之后也没有。但是后来，后来我还是按了 。

分娩过程大体如我所想。我握着亚当的手 ，深呼吸，然后用力
。但当我的女婴出生时
，房间里一片寂静。一名护士把她一动不动的身体用毯子包起来，问我们是否想抱抱她 。

我说"想" ，而亚当说"不"
。

我把她抱在怀里
，给她唱连我自己都没意识到会记得的摇篮曲。她很重，很结实 。毯子里包着的是一个婴儿
。她闻起来就像婴儿的味道。我记住了她完美的小脸 ，轻轻握着她的小手指 。感觉一切都对
。我是她的母亲。直到45分钟后护士回来
，把她从我怀中抱走，我才接受了不会有奇迹、不会有幸福结局的事实 。

那天 ，我把我的宝宝和曾经的自己留在了医院
。我不再看星座运势。我用详尽的清单和备用计划取代了我的显化愿望和塔罗牌 。而桑迪的鬼魂也不再来访。

当我再次怀孕时
，我做好了最坏的打算
。我没有构思过宝宝的名字，也没有买过任何一件新生儿用品。

当我的儿子和女儿还是婴儿时 ，我每天都带着问题和担忧给儿科医生打电话 。当他们开始吃固体食物时
，我痴迷于学习心肺复苏和窒息急救程序
。我总有侵入性的想法：儿子从婴儿床上摔下来，女儿的手被门夹住 ，丈夫在冰上滑倒。

然而，我却从这些想法中找到了慰藉 。我相信这是我的心智保护我的方式
。当然
，我失去了看见世间魔法的能力，但如果我能预见到每一个可能发生的可怕场景 ，我就能永远做好准备。

然后
，在一个普通的星期天，大约在我们失去第一个孩子的五年后 ，亚当和我带着我们的孩子开车穿越佛罗里达大沼泽地 。一如既往
，亚当事先阅读了关于这个地区的资料，正在给我们上历史课 ，但我没有听
。我正专注于那辆锈红色的皮卡车
，它即将在旁边的车道超过我们。

我以骇人的细节想象着那辆卡车撞上我们的车 。破碎的玻璃
。安全气囊。鲜血 。直到有什么东西把我从想象中拉了出来。不是什么东西，是某个人
。

桑迪。桑迪的鬼魂回来了 。一个笑容灿烂 、蓝眼睛、16岁的桑迪坐在我旁边 ，样子就像我们第一次在高中舞衣寄存处见面时一样
。还没等我反应过来
，亚当就随意地低声说了句"嗨，桑迪" ，然后继续他的沼泽地演讲。桑迪只和我们待了几分钟，那时我们正行驶在无边无际的绿色隧道中 。

"真不敢相信你也感觉到他了
，"桑迪离开后我说
。

"我没有，"他说。"我只是知道你感觉到了 。"

"你怎么知道的？"我问
。

"因为你就是你 ，"他说。

当我们年轻时
，爱感觉是向前推进的，着眼于未来 。但在某个时刻 ，它转变了
，不是吗？在某个时刻，坚守也变成了爱的一部分
。对亚当来说 ，我仍然是那个相信鬼魂的女孩。他一直在坚守着她 。他一直在坚守着我。

在伽威·金内尔的诗《圣方济各与母猪》中写道：

有时有必要

重新教会一个事物它的可爱

有趣灵魂注：

这就是亚当和桑迪在大沼泽地为我所做的 。他们教会我，在内心深处某个地方 ，仍然住着那个可爱
、无畏、相信鬼魂的我
。也许
，在某种程度上，这也是我为桑迪所做的事。

当桑迪的鬼魂来到我身边时 ，我看到的是他全部的美好 。那个高中橄榄球明星
。那个充满激情的环保主义者。那个深情 、敏感的男孩，他给了我初吻 。我坚守着他的全部
。甚至包括他在生命尽头自己再也看不到的那些部分——那时他屈服于他曾勇敢抗争的心理健康问题
，那天也恰好是亚当和我订婚的日子。

也许，最伟大的爱的行为就是简单的坚守 。坚守你所爱之人的完整 ，即使当他们自己无法做到时
，即使当他们感觉自己已经失去了某些本质的部分时
。

我坐在车里，被无边无际
、翠绿的大沼泽地所吞没。我看着亚当 ，考虑着说声谢谢 。谢谢你在我无法坚守时坚守着我。但这感觉不够
，而且对我们来说也太煽情了
。相反，我提起了我曾对他做过的最糟糕的一件事 ，那件事发生在医院打电话询问我们想如何处理我们宝宝的遗体之后。

"阿德
，我躲在桑拿房那天写给你的那封信，你还留着吗？"我问 。

"嗯
。和 B 的东西放在一起 ，"他说。B 是我们对我们失去的宝宝的称呼 。

"什么东西？"

亚当为 B 留了一个盒子
。五年来
，我完全不知道我那坚忍而冷静的丈夫为我们失去的小女孩保留了一个鞋盒，里面有三件物品。

盒子里有一只毛绒狗 ，是亚当在我怀孕时我们去嘉年华赢来的，一本企鹅书（我甚至不知道他买了这本书）
，以及我写给他的那封信 。那封信是一封道歉信——不是为 B 的去世道歉，而是为我在她去世那天变成了一个不同的人道歉 ，为我以为我们已经失去的那个"我"而道歉
。

亚当保留了我的信。他坚守住了我失去的那些部分 。但是
，亚当从未抱过 B
。

我那勇敢、坚强 、永远稳健的丈夫当时做不到。在我们的婚姻中，我不是唯一一个失去了部分自我的人 。我可以为他而坚守。当他准备好的时候 ，我会重新教会他他的可爱
。

Mara Chadnick is an international trade expert and lawyer in Delray Beach, Fla.

玛拉·查德尼克是佛罗里达州德拉海滩的一位国际贸易专家和律师。

My husband was unbothered when I mentioned that my first love’s ghost came to visit me in our conjugal bed.

“Oh yeah?” Adam said. “How’s Sandy? ”

“You aren’t surprised?
” I said. My high school sweetheart, Sandy, had died unexpectedly the year before at 29. This was the first time his ghost visited me.

“Not really,” he said.

“Why? ” I said.

“Because you’re you,” he said.

Back then, I was the kind of girl who made decisions based on a planet’s orbit around the sun. Adam had introduced me to pro and con lists, traveler’s insurance and the calming sensation of jumping into a freezing lake.

I had taught him that finding a dime on the sidewalk is a message from someone in heaven and to avoid signing important documents when Mercury is in retrograde (difficult with my work as a lawyer).

Years later, I no longer read the stars or paint my dreams or try to manifest the things I want in life by simply believing they will happen.

I stopped trusting in the universe in a dingy, defunct sauna in the basement of the first home Adam and I owned in Toronto. I was hiding, writing a letter to convince Adam to leave me. Earlier that week, during a routine pregnancy ultrasound, the technician abruptly left the room.

The optimist in me figured the machine was broken. Soon, a radiologist stood above my ultrasound-gelled belly, speaking indiscernible medical terms before finally saying a word I

understood: “stillborn.
”

I didn’t cry, mostly because I didn’t believe him. We were sent home as the hospital was busy, and delivering a five-and-a-halfmonth still born was not considered an emergency. At home, I followed my pregnancy routines: I took my vitamins, avoided deli meats and slept with my giant pillow. After all, I was still pregnant. I didn’t tell close friends or family because I didn’t want to worry anyone when I knew that our baby would be OK. I waited for a call from the doctor apologizing for the massive mistake.

Even when we returned to the hospital five days later, I trusted that all would be well. I was the girl who believed in happy endings, even if I couldn’t see how. We were escorted to a dark room away from the regular delivery ward. I put on a hospital gown and lay on the bed, where the medical staff began hooking me up to machines.

When the anesthesiologist showed me how to press the button to get pain medication, I was confused. Shouldn’t I be getting an epidural? When you give birth to a still baby, the anesthesiologist explained, you can take regular narcotics because there’s no longer any worry about harming the fetus. I didn’t press that button for a long time, even after the pain from contractions began. But then, then I did.

Giving birth was mostly as I had imagined. I held Adam’s hand, took deep breaths and I pushed. But when my baby girl was born, the room was silent. A nurse wrapped her motionless body in a blanket and asked if we wanted to hold her.

I said yes as Adam said no.

I cradled her in my arms and sang her lullabies that I didn’t even realize I knew. She was heavy, solid. There was a baby in those blankets. She smelled like a baby. I memorized her perfect face and gently held her little fingers. It felt right. I was her mother. It wasn’t until the nurse came back 45 minutes later and took her out of my arms that I accepted there would be no miracle, no happy ending.

I left my baby and my former self at the hospital that day. I stopped reading my horoscope. I replaced my manifestations and tarot cards for detailed lists and backup plans. And Sandy’s ghost stopped visiting.

When I got pregnant again, I prepared for the worst. I didn’t brainstorm baby names or buy a single newborn item.

When my son and daughter were infants, I called the pediatrician daily with questions and concerns. And when they started eating solid foods, I became obsessed with CPR and choking protocols. I had intrusive thoughts: my son falling out of his crib, my daughter slamming a door on her hand, my husband slipping on ice.

And yet, I found solace in these thoughts. I believe they were my mind’s way of protecting me. Sure, I had lost my ability to see the magic in the world, but if I could anticipate every possible horrific scenario, I would always be ready.

And then, one regular Sunday, about five years after we lost our first baby, Adam and I took our children on a drive through the Florida Everglades. True to form, Adam had read up on the area and was giving us a history lesson, but I wasn’t listening. I was focused on the rusty red pickup truck that was about to pass us in the next lane.

In gruesome detail, I imagined the truck crashing into our car. Shattered glass. Airbags. Blood. Until something snapped me out of it. Not something, someone.

Sandy. Sandy’s ghost was back. A smiling, blue-eyed, 16-year-old Sandy sat beside me, appearing just as he had when we first met at the coat check booth at our high school dance. Before I could even react, Adam casually whispered, “Hi Sandy,” and then continued with his swampland sermon. Sandy only stayed with us for a few minutes as we drove through the endless tunnel of green.

“I can’t believe you felt him, too, ” I said when Sandy had left.

“I didn’t,
” he said. “I just knew you did.”

“How? ” I asked.

“Because you’re you,
” he said.

When we’re young, love feels forward moving, future focused. But at some point it shifts, doesn’t it? At some point, holding on becomes part of love, too. To Adam, I was still the girl who believes in ghosts. He had been holding on to her. He had been holding on to me.

In the poem “Saint Francis and the Sow,” Galway Kinnell writes:

sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness

This is what Adam and Sandy did for me in the Everglades. They taught me that somewhere, deep inside, still lived that lovely, fearless, ghost-believing version of me. Perhaps, in a way, this is also what I’ve done for Sandy.

When Sandy’s ghost comes to me, I see him in all of his loveliness. The high-school football star. The passionate environmentalist. The soulful, sensitive boy who gave me my first kiss. I hold on to all of him. Even the parts of himself that he no longer saw toward the end, when he succumbed to the mental health struggles he’d courageously battled, which also happened to be the day Adam and I got engaged.

Maybe the greatest act of love is simply holding on. Holding on to the fullness of the person you love, even when they can’t, even when they feel like they have lost some elemental part of themselves.

I sat in the car, engulfed by the endless, emerald Everglades. I looked at Adam and considered saying thank you. Thank you for holding on to me when I couldn’t. But that felt inadequate and way too sappy for us. Instead, I brought up the worst thing I had ever done to him, which happened after the hospital called and asked what we wanted to do with our baby’s remains.

“Ad, do you still have that letter I wrote you the day I hid in the sauna? ” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s with the rest of B’s stuff,
” he said. B is what we call our lost baby.

“What stuff?”

Adam had kept a box for B. For five years, I had no idea that my stoic and unemotional husband had kept a shoe box of three items for the little girl we lost.

Inside were a stuffed dog Adam won from a carnival we went to while I was pregnant, a penguin book that I didn’t even know he had bought, and my letter to him. The letter was an apology — not for B having died, but for me having become a different person the day she died, an apology for the “me ” I thought we had lost.

Adam had held on to my letter. He had held on to the parts of me that I lost. But, Adam never held B.

My valiant, strong, ever-steady husband couldn’t do it. I am not the only one in our marriage who has lost parts of myself. I can hold on, for him. When he is ready, I will reteach him his loveliness.