坚守希望：一名急救电话接线员的自白

夏辉

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.

我是希望的坚守者。在电话的一头，我代替着希望而存在，拨打电话的人依靠这个声音的力量，等候着真正援手的到来。

我在急救电话里听过很多人死去，所以相信我，人们并不会像屏幕上演的那样安静地离开，带着最后一个渴望的神情，再轻叹一口气，满是失望的无奈。当然，有些死亡确实发生得悄无声息——在睡梦中死去是我们许多人都希望获得的一种解脱。但人的身体天生就是不到最后一刻决不放弃，即便是最疲惫不堪的身躯，也能在离世之际弄出好大动静。它毫不客气。它也不会经谁允许。它喉咙里咯咯作响，张大嘴呼吸急促，胸部发出喘鸣声，像是个重载拖车碾过的手风琴。它敢于与彪悍的保安干仗，而当它被带走时，还会一路扭头叫骂。

我已经在急救电话中心工作17年了，是最早的一批接线员之一。当你看到有人倒在星巴克门口，却没人愿意伸出援手，而你虽然在第一个孩子出生前上过一些有关急救的课，但课上教的内容已完全记不起来的时候，我就是那个会告诉你怎么给旁人做心肺复苏术的人。

我听过人死去的次数太多了，有时候打电话过来的人还没意识到那个人正在死去，而我已经意识到了。那种像鱼离开水大口喘气又像是打鼾的声音（这就是所谓的濒死呼吸）正是心肺复苏术用得太迟而回天无力的原因。

“女士，”我会说，“他现在供氧不足。我现在要教你如何做心肺复苏术。”

“噢，我不会做那个。他还有呼吸啊，你听不见他发出的呼噜声吗？赶紧派人来！”

但是我凭声音就听得出他不是在打呼噜，而是在死去，如果不立刻采取措施，他一定活不下来。这个时候，就要靠我，而且只能靠我，来说服那个80岁的老太太，让她相信自己有足够的力气把她丈夫从床上拖下来，好让他躺在平地上（在床上不能做胸部按压。用力拽他身子下的床单。我会告诉对方，别担心从床上摔下来那一下。我不会告诉对方的是，摔一下也比死了强。）我还要去说服那个17岁的小姑娘，去给她毒品吸食过量的朋友做人工呼吸，虽然这个姑娘自己也处于吸食毒品后极度兴奋的状态，而且完全不想靠近她朋友嘴里流出的污秽物。我还要去告诉那个妈妈，如何把她儿子从用他继父的领带做成的绳结中给解救下来，因为他的血液中说不定还有些氧气。赶紧。现在就做，越快越好。我的说服力越强，那个人被救活的可能性就越大。

你接起电话。你向两个徒步旅行的人讲解如何在山坡上给陌生人做心肺复苏术。你告诉其中一人怎样从他们的iPhone里获取经纬度，因为他打我这个急救电话是查不到地理方位的，同时还要教另外一个人不要停止胸部按压。然后联系直升机，帮助它在正确的地点安全降落。

然后你吃完那块早就放冷了的比萨。做了做前一天的填字游戏。接起下一个电话。不要问事情有了什么样的结局。《健康保险携带和责任法案》有明确规定，除非你有知悉结果的需要，否则你无权过问其他任何人的医疗信息。从来不知道后来发生了什么是一件令人沮丧的事情。除非你自己编写出一个结局来。

我开始把它们都写下来，那些虚构的情节全都来自于我脑海深处聚集的悲伤——我为我的小说所写的结局都充满了希望，因为我每天在电话里听到的都是希望。每个打电话的人都希望我——或是其他人——能够在事情变得无可挽回之前施以援手。

《最要紧的那些人》这部小说就源自于我多年来所听到的数以百计的正经历流产的女性们。“不，不，不，不。不要发生这种事，不要。”这些女性们反复呻吟的祈祷词千百年来都一样。不要坐在马桶上，我告诉她们。双腿不要交叠。她们对我的话言听计从，希望着如果按照我的话做了，她们能够让结局变得不一样。

希望。我在电话里送出的是希望。

因为如果没有希望，我们就不会再坚持下去。希望是唯一能够让我们在早晨的时候和我们所爱的人说再见的原因——因为我们希望不久之后就能再回来团聚，平安无恙。

希望是无需我们刻意努力，我们的头脑就能够保有的东西。我们的身体，即便是在死亡的边缘，依然希望获得氧气，依然竭力拼命呼吸。希望是需索过度的，不讲道理的，而且经常显得荒唐无比，然而它从不息止。

有一次我接了一个电话，一位103岁的老太太在家庭生日宴会上停止了呼吸。她的曾孙做了无可挑剔的心肺复苏术——我能够听见她的胸腔随着他节奏完全正确的按压而发出的声响。在整个过程中，他一边喘着粗气，一边低声念叨：“坚持住啊，太奶奶，你一定可以。坚持住啊，太奶奶，你一定能做到。”在他身后，全家人都为两个人加油鼓劲儿。我听到的是充满希望的屋子。一个充满爱的家。

我刚刚把白天的工作辞掉。这并非是我一时冲动所做的决定。我一直一边在急救电话中心工作，一边写作，每周工作90个小时，连续干了十年。我出版了三本文学类小说、十本女性浪漫小说和一本回忆录，而所有这一切都是为了能够做出这个决定。对于这个生活中的大跨步，我现在已经做好了最充分的准备了。

作为一个完全的自由职业者已经快两个月了，虽然肾上腺素分泌的减少还让我有些不适应，但是不用带着传呼机去上厕所真是棒极了。事实上，晚上能好好睡觉——每天晚上都能好好睡觉——这感觉更棒。因此，虽然我那还有所幻想的派遣经理把我放进了兼职的执勤人员表里，以防我想要回来值些班，但我想我永久性地摘下耳机是个正确的决定。

我花了17年的时间接听那些情况可能会变糟的电话，听那些能够预见到伤亡和千奇百怪意外情况的故事。我曾拥有世界上最好的两份工作：给予即刻的、事关生死的协助，以及为后续的发展撰写出一个结局。我知道有时候，在急救电话中，我曾帮人救回一条命。

后来有一些读者会写信给我，说我曾救了他们的命。这其实不能算是事实，就像我觉得帮电话那头的人复苏了心跳的功劳不应该算在我头上一样。我从未在任何一个情况中将自己的手放在病患的胸口上做按压。总会有其他的人听从我的指导——是这些人救了别人一命。同样的道理，我也不认为我写的东西能够真的拯救别人。

但是在这两份工作中，我扮演的角色是一样的：我是希望的坚守者。在电话的一头，我代替着希望而存在，拨打电话的人依靠这个声音的力量，等候着真正援手的到来。而在我的书中，我同样也仅仅是一个声音，当读者的世界发生变故时，这种声音是他们紧紧依赖的东西。而我满心希望自己发出的是正确的声音。从今往后，我不再头戴耳机，而只是把黑色的符号留在白色的纸上，替希望，还有追随希望而来的颤抖的呼吸声，占个位置。

1.take it from me：请相信我，我向你保证

2.resignation [?rez?ɡ?ne??（?）n] n. 屈从；顺从；逆来顺受

3.kick up a racket：制造喧闹，惹出乱子

4.tractor-trailer：重载拖车，牵引式挂车

5.bouncer [?ba?ns?（r）] n. （夜总会、舞会等雇用的）保镖

6.hurl [h??（r）l] vt. 谩骂，辱骂，责骂

7.epithet [?ep?θet] n. 绰号；带侮辱性的称谓

8.CPR：心肺复苏术（cardiopulmonary resuscitation）

9.fiddle [?f?d（?）l] vi. 摆弄

10.HIPAA：《健康保险携带和责任法案》（Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act），美国于1996年通过的一项法案，内容主要包含两方面：一是保障失业人员和重新择业人员享受医疗保险；二是简化管理条款，建立医疗电子数据交换、安全以及所有医疗保健相关数据保密性的标准化机制。

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

12.miscarriage [?m?sk?r?d?] n. [医]流产

13.liturgy [?l?t?（r）d?i] n. 祈祷

14.hold out：提供，提出

15.extravagant [?k?str?v?ɡ?nt] adj. 过度的，过高的

16.adrenaline [??dren?l?n] n. 肾上腺素

17.pager [?pe?d??（r）] n. 传呼机

18.dispatch [d??sp?t?] n. 派遣；调遣

19.roster [?r?st?（r）] n. 值勤人员表

20.for good：永久地

21.clutch [kl?t?] vt. 紧握，紧抓