希望的颜色

希望的颜色 崔忠军 编译 Tibetan bells chime softly as I open a door wreathed in pink roses. Pink letters spell out a welcome sign―Lovely Lady. Soon I’ll be greeted by some very special women. “My ladies,” I call them. They mean the world to me. So does this shop. Yet if I had my druthers, I would close it down tomorrow, after nearly 30 years. Let me explain. I was a young nursing student in California, full of idealistic dreams back in 1976. I didn’t know where life would take me, but like many students, I felt a desire to make a difference. I volunteered to help with a breast cancer support group that met at the hospital. Week after week women of all ages opened their hearts. Some spoke of side effects from chemo; others discussed the challenges of juggling family responsibilities with treatments. But they had one thing in common―feeling like they lost their sense of normalcy when they lost their hair. “It’s like I have no privacy,” one woman said. “One look at my head and everyone knows what’s wrong.” “I can’ t even find a decent wig,” said another. “Nothing looks like ‘me.’” Just a few weeks earlier, I’d accompanied my friend Carol on a trip to find a wig. Chemo had robbed her of her beautiful golden locks. We went all over town. Finally we ended up in a costume shop. Suffering from a serious disease, Carol was lumped in with people getting dressed up for Halloween! It broke my heart. Now, listening to these women, I discovered many of them had had similar bad experiences looking for scarves, clothes, even prosthetics. “I felt like a science experiment,” said one. Finally, one night driving home from the meeting, I turned to the Lord: There must be some way to help these women. Show me how. My mom had taught me to sew, so at least I could make scarves. And when it came to fitting and styling wigs, I’d attended classes for wig cutting. What if I opened a shop for them? A place where women experiencing breast cancer could be given undivided attention and feel, at least for a time, normal. A haven of sorts where they could find prosthetics, jewelry, clothes and wigs (nothing Halloweenish about it). I found a cozy rental space and, in the fall of 1978, I set up a shop called Bare Necessities. I took to my new mission-making every square inch welcoming. Wigs of every color and style were displayed on mannequins. Saucy hats and scarves in every shade lined ivory dressers. I hung verses on the walls. An open antique chest was home to inspirational books and pamphlets on breast cancer. I wanted women to feel as comfortable here as they did in a tearoom. Word spread quickly. “Finally!” cried one of my first women. “A place where I can shop and sit and chat with other women facing cancer. God bless you!” Another woman was shy at first. “I don’t know if I have the strength to beat this,” she admitted. “Yes, you do!” I said. “Just have faith.” She left my shop with her head wrapped in a teal scarf, and kept in touch with me throughout her treatment―today she’s cancer-free! After a few months this little spot became a second home for women with cancer, a place where they could retreat from the burdens of illness. I’d found my life’s work. I spent over a decade in California, catering to my ladies. But in 1989 I headed east to North Carolina to care for my elderly parents. There I opened a new shop. I named it Lovely Lady, after my lovely mother who bestowed her skills on me. Today, I’ve added inspirational DVDs and CDs to the chest. Bouquets of fresh pink and crimson roses stand on every side table. Two rooms are beauty parlors with salon-style chairs and full-length mirrors. Everywhere there is pink. Pink, the color of triumph over breast cancer, the color of hope. The sitting room boasts two overstuffed couches where women can sit and chat. One day every month a cancer support group meets in the shop. I laugh and cry with my ladies, but most of all I listen. I draw inspiration from their struggles, strength from their stories. At five o’clock the Tibetan bells chime once more as I close the brass-trimmed door to the Lovely Lady. I softly say the same prayer every day: Lord, please let there be a cure for breast cancer, so I can close my shop for good. But in the meantime help me make each woman feel like the lovely lady she is. 一扇粉红色玫瑰花装饰的门，当我打开它的时候，屋子里的藏钟轻轻地敲响，一段粉 红色的字体映入眼帘:淑女屋。我马上要与一些特别的女士会面，我称她们为“我的淑女朋 友”。这间小屋和我的这些朋友就是我的一切。然而，如果我能选择的话，我宁愿明天就关 掉它，即便它已开张了近30年之久。听我来说说原因吧。 早在1976年，我在加州上学，学的是护士专业。当时的我头脑中充满了不切实际的 梦想。我的人生没有明确的方向，不过就像大多数同学一样，我想改变现状。我志愿为一个 在医院聚会的乳腺癌互助小组服务。经过几周交往过后，不同年龄的女性病人相互打开心扉， 倾吐心声。有人说起化疗的副作用;有人讨论如何面对既要接受治疗又要承担家庭责任的难 题。不过，她们都有一个相同的感受，那就是头发脱落以后，生活便失去了常态。“感觉自 己毫无隐私，”一位女士说，“当别人看到我的光头就明白是怎么一回事了。”“我甚至都找不 到一顶得体的假发。”另外一位女士感叹，“生病前后大不相同了。” 就在听到这话的几周前，我陪着朋友卡罗琳去选购假发。化疗使卡罗琳一头金发落尽。 我们跑遍了全城，才在一家戏装店买到一顶假发。身患重病的卡罗琳不得不和一群为了万圣 节而打扮的人混在一起。这让我很心痛。现在，听到这些病人聊天，我发现她们中的大多数 人都有跟卡罗琳相似的经历。想买头巾、衣服、假发等却又找不到合意的。一个人说:“我 觉得自己就像在做实验。”有天晚上聚会开车回来的路上，我不停地祈祷:“一定有帮助她们 的办法，请告诉我吧～” 母亲教过我缝纫技术，至少我可以为她们做头巾。可我对假发的造型一点也不懂，为 此我参加了培训班。为她们开一家商店如何呢,在这个商店里，女性乳腺癌患者可以得到精 心照顾，从而可以体验一会像健康人的感觉。在这里，她们可以买到假肢、首饰、衣服和假 发(绝非万圣节用品)。1978年，我找到了一个温暖而舒适的地方，开了一家叫“必需品”的 商店。我尽力让店里每一个角落都让人喜欢。人体模型的头上戴着各种颜色和款式的假发; 货架上摆满了各种头巾和帽子。我还在墙上贴了一些激励性的语句。开放的古旧书架上摆上 了很多成功战胜癌魔的励志书籍。我想让女士们待在这里就像身在茶馆一样舒服。 小店的名声很快传开了。“我终于找到了～”一位女士感叹道:“找到了一个我既可以 购物又能坐下来和病友们聊聊天的地方～愿上帝保佑你～”另一位女士起初还有点羞涩，“我 不知道有没有能力战胜病魔。”“你能，”我鼓励她，“要相信自己～”她在我店里买了一件蓝 绿相间的头巾。她后来一直与我保持联系。而如今，她已经完全康复了。 短短两个月时间，我的小店成了那些身患癌症女士的第2个家。她们在这里可以卸下 病痛给身心带来的负担。我终于找到了人生中真正有意义的工作。 我在加州开店10年。1989年，为了照顾年迈的父母，我举家搬到北卡罗来纳州居住， 在那里，我新开了一家商店，起名叫“淑女屋”，以纪念我那可爱的、把缝纫技能传授于我的妈妈。 如今，我在书架上又添加了励志DVD和CD碟片，并在每张靠墙的桌子上放了粉色和深红色的玫瑰花束。店堂里放有美发厅里用的那种风格的椅子和长长的镜子。店里到处都是粉红色，粉红色是战胜癌症的颜色，温馨和谐，是代希望的颜色。起居室的两张沙发上总是挤满了聊天的女士们。癌症互助小组每个月都花一天时间在我的淑女屋里聚会。我与她们同欢笑、共哭泣。不过，更多的时候，我选择倾听。我自己也从她们与病魔斗争的故事中汲取了力量。 现在5点钟了，当我关上粉红色店门的时候，藏钟再次敲响，我在心里默默祈祷:上帝，请给予乳腺癌一个有效的疗法吧，这样我就可以永远关门停业了。不过与此同时，请你帮我让每个女士都觉得她们就像真正的淑女一样。 (责编:王莉娟)