摘要：“谁陪我去挑婚纱？”这是15岁女儿对罹患绝症母亲最不舍的追问。于是，她们决定不再等待，在伦敦上演了一场“婚礼预演”。她们为不存在的未婚夫构思故事，在试衣间里泪眼相望。本周《纽约时报》Modern Love专栏带来的故事关于如何用爱与创意面对生命的无常，关于一位

有趣灵魂说

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

Dress Rehearsal for a Wedding I’ll Never Attend

一场我将无法出席的婚礼彩排

When I told my 15-year-old daughter I was dying, she asked me to take her wedding dress shopping before I go.

当我告诉我15岁的女儿我即将离世时，她请求我在离开前陪她去挑选婚纱。

By Jennifer Steil

Brian Rea

当我的女儿在最近的学校假期期间报名参加英国国家剧院的表演课程时，我问我的肿瘤医生我能否陪她一起去。"就一个星期，"我说。"我保证会回来。我可不想错过更多的化疗。"

"去吧，"她说。"和你女儿好好玩。" 趁你还能的时候——我听到她心里这样想。

我不知道自己该如何熬过从我们在法国南部的家到伦敦的旅程。我的红细胞数量已降至历史最低点，必须输注铁剂和注射药物来强迫身体制造血红蛋白。我总是疲惫不堪。但我强迫自己继续行动。这很重要。

戏剧是维系我们这个小家庭的共同热情。我做了多年演员。我的丈夫蒂姆小时候会逃课去看皇家莎士比亚剧团的演出。而我的女儿西奥多拉八岁生日时，坚持要我们带她去看《第十二夜》。她决心要从事舞台事业。

这趟旅行，我可能再也无法完成了。三年前，癌症击穿了我依靠西兰花和每日锻炼筑起的盔甲，侵袭了我的卵巢。我的这种卵巢癌无法治愈，只有治疗方案——这是蒂姆、西奥多拉和我迟迟难以接受的事实。别人可能会因此而死，但我呢？我从1984年起就没吃过精制谷物！我跑过马拉松，还学会了倒立。难道这一切都白费了吗？

我们保持着乐观，度过了化疗和脏器切除手术的第一年，度过了短暂缓解后的第一次复发，直到今年癌症第二次复发。

"你需要告诉你的女儿，时间很宝贵，"我的法国肿瘤医生说。

西奥现在15岁。她在也门、约旦、英格兰、玻利维亚、乌兹别克斯坦和法国长大。她生命中最稳定的人是我。因为我是一名在家工作的作家，能有更多时间陪伴她。她的父亲也一直陪伴在侧，但蒂姆作为英国外交官的工作让他非常忙碌。

新冠疫情期间，西奥多拉和我被迫从乌兹别克斯坦的塔什干撤离，与蒂姆分离了一年。撤离和分离是外交官生活的常见副作用。

我的诊断颠覆了我们的生活。在伦敦治疗的头18个月里，我孤身一人。西奥在蒂姆的任职地塔什干上学。我们负担不起他辞职的代价。朋友们收留我，其他人来照顾我。我的家人每晚吃饭时都会给我打电话。

两年前蒂姆退休后，我们搬到了法国，住进了我们唯一拥有的自己的家。我们期待着在自己的空间里生活，终于可以打开行囊，安定下来。

去年，西奥开始上高中。她周一到周五住校，周末回家。这在法国乡村很常见，因为许多孩子住得离高中太远，无法通勤。西奥期待着她的新独立生活，以及学校提供的戏剧课程。尽管我一心只想让她留在我身边，但我知道这正是她应该开始独立的年纪。

那时，我已经进行了五个月的每周化疗，并且庆幸西奥没有看到我最糟糕的样子。周末，我们会爬村子后面的山，练习表演，在我的书房里自习。

当我的肿瘤医生同意我暂停一周化疗去伦敦时，我欣喜若狂。整整一周和西奥在一起！没有医院！

我和她在前往伦敦的第一段旅程中都沉默寡言，各自沉浸在自己的书中。直到我们在里尔换乘间隙喝咖啡时，她才问起我最近的肿瘤科就诊情况。她先是问我今年早些时候能否带她去美国的戏剧夏令营，我不得不告诉她，我不确定是否能带她去。

"看起来我的治疗不会有间断，"我说。"也许永远都不会有了。"

然后我告诉她，我有可能活不到那个时候。"我并没有放弃希望，"我说。"我会尽我所能活下去，直到有人找到治愈方法。但关于实际情况，我不想对你撒谎。"

她哭了，我也哭了，我为让她伤心而道歉，她说这不是我的错。在欧洲之星列车上，她继续哭泣。"我希望你能看到我长大，"她说，"看到我爱上一个也爱我的人，看到我——"

"我知道，"我说。"我也是。我想活着看到你幸福。看到你找到真爱。我会尽我所能。我保证。"

"那谁陪我去挑婚纱呢？"她说。"等等。我们能在伦敦去挑吗？就当是假装我要结婚了？这样我们就能一起有这段经历了？"

"我觉得没什么不可以，"我说。"对我们俩的戏剧天赋来说，可能是个不错的练习。"

"好！"她说。"那么，我是怎么遇见我的未婚夫的，他又是怎么求婚的？"

我们开始编织她的故事。三天里，我们给她的未婚夫起了名字，选了他长大的地方（科茨沃尔德的一个小镇斯通豪斯），他的职业（体育教练），他们相遇的经过（在海德公园的九曲湖喂天鹅），以及他们在伦敦的住处（达尔斯顿，一家肯德基炸鸡店楼上）。我们还开始筹划她的婚礼：多少宾客，什么样的仪式。我们非常投入。

我花了好几天研究婚纱店，终于预约到了一家。下课後，我们向东区进发，在那家婚纱店对面的一家小餐馆吃了午餐，在那里我们敲定了故事细节，避免任何过于天马行空、可能显得不可信的内容。

我们很紧张。在附近的一家慈善商店里我们发生了小争执，又在预约时间快到前及时和好。我们太像了——都固执、有主见、生活规律刻板。我把我的订婚戒指给她戴在手指上。一位名叫杰斯的女士热情地欢迎我们来到精品店。我曾担心会听到夸张的祝贺和不礼貌的问题，但完全没有。杰斯给我们做了介绍，然后就让我们自己浏览衣架上的婚纱。

"你们可以触摸它们，"她说。

当我们滑动衣架时，西奥看了我一眼。"妈妈，"她说。"你流鼻血了。"

我后退一步，杰斯看起来有些担忧地递给我一张纸巾。"我想我可能最好别碰了，"我说。

西奥选了六件婚纱，有古典缎面的，也有梦幻蕾丝的，杰斯把它们拿到试衣间。另一位女士给我们端来了石榴汁和接骨木花无酒精鸡尾酒。我们为西奥和她的未婚夫举杯。

杰斯走进试衣间帮西奥扣上第一件婚纱的扣子。试衣间里已经备好了适合西奥尺码的蓝色缎面高跟鞋。当她走出来时，我的眼眶湿润了。她容光焕发，展现出青春可爱的模样。当她看到镜中的自己时，她的眼睛也湿润了。

"等戴上头纱再看，"杰斯说。"那时候感觉才真的来了。"

她把头纱别在西奥的头发后面，我的女儿瞬间变成了新娘，就像她未来婚礼当天可能的样子。我绝不能错过那一刻，我想。

西奥穿每一件婚纱都很美——每件样衣都完美合身——但我们始终对第一件情有独钟，那件婚纱价值2767英镑。我拍了几十张照片，但没有一张能完全捕捉到我眼前的景象，这个未来的梦想。西奥如此喜爱那件婚纱，以至于我幻想着买下它，尽管 根本不可能买得起。毕竟她已经停止长高了。很可能15年后它依然合身。

我们对于这场"骗局"的紧张是多余的。杰斯只问了西奥什么时候订婚的，是不是惊喜，以及他们可能在哪里举行仪式。我倒是有点希望她多问点；毕竟，我们编造了一整套平行现实。我们在角色中表现得自然。我不需要假装情感。我们说的几乎都是真话。我让杰斯记下了婚纱的型号和设计师名字。

我没想到我们真的会想要那件婚纱。这原本只是一次彩排，可以这么说。然而，它感觉异常认真——并且充满欢乐。

当我们出来後，我们等到走开一个街区远，才击掌庆祝。"我们做到了，"我说。"我们成功了。"

在去剧院的公交车上，我们忍不住一直谈论她的婚礼。

"我比以往任何时候都更想坠入爱河，"西奥说。"还有那件婚纱。"❤

Jennifer Steil is a writer living in Paris. Her most recent novel is “Exile Music.”

詹妮弗·斯蒂尔是一位居住在巴黎的作家。她最新的小说是《流放音乐》。

When my teenage daughter enrolled in an acting course at the National Theater of Great Britain during her recent school vacation, I asked my oncologist if I could go with her. “It’s just a week,” I said. “I promise I’ll return. I wouldn’t want to miss out on more chemo.”

“Go,” she said. “Have fun with your daughter.” While you still can, I heard her think.

I wondered how I would survive the trip from our home in southern France to London. My red blood cells had hit a record low, necessitating iron infusions and injections to force my body to create hemoglobin. I was always exhausted. But I forced myself to keep moving. This was important.

Theater is a passion that has bound our little family. I worked as an actor for years. My husband, Tim, skipped school as a child to attend the Royal Shakespeare Company’s performances. And my daughter, Theadora, insisted we see “Twelfth Night” for her eighth birthday. She’s determined to make a career on the stage.

This was a trip I might not be able to make again. Three years earlier, cancer blasted through my armor of broccoli and daily exercise and came for my ovaries. There is no cure for my type of ovarian cancer, just treatments — something Tim, Theadora and I have been slow to accept. Other people might die from it, but me? I hadn’t eaten a refined grain since 1984! I had run a marathon and learned how to stand on my hands. Was this all for nothing?

We maintained our optimism through the first year of chemo and eviscerating surgery, through my first recurrence after the briefest remission, until my second recurrence this year.

“You need to tell your daughter that time is precious,” my French oncologist said.

Theo is 15. She has grown up in Yemen, Jordan, England, Bolivia, Uzbekistan and France. The most consistent thing in her life has been me. Because I work from home as a writer, I’m able to spend more time with her. Her father has also been a consistent presence, but Tim’s work as a British diplomat has kept him busy.

During Covid, Theadora and I were forcibly evacuated from Tashkent, Uzbekistan, and kept apart from Tim for a year. Evacuations and separations are a common side effect of diplomatic life.

My diagnosis overturned our lives. During my first 18 months of treatment in London, I was alone. Theo was in school in Tashkent, where Tim was posted. We could not afford for him to quit. Friends housed me and others came to look after me. My family rang me every evening during dinner.

When Tim retired two years ago, we moved to France, to the only home we have ever owned. We looked forward to living in our own space, to finally unpacking our bags.

Last year, Theo began lycée (high school). She stays at school Monday through Friday, coming

home for weekends. This is common in rural France, where many children live too far from their lycée to commute. Theo looked forward to her new independence, to the theater program her school offers. While I wanted nothing more than to keep her by my side, I knew these are the years she should be coming into her own.

By then, I had been in weekly chemo for five months and was glad Theo had been spared seeing me on my worst days. On weekends, we climbed the mountain behind our village, practiced acting exercises and had study halls in my office.

When my oncologist gave me permission to take a week off from chemo for London, I was thrilled. A whole week with Theo! Without hospitals!

She and I were subdued on the first leg of our journey to London, each absorbed in a book. It wasn’t until we were in Lille, having coffee between trains, that she asked about my recent oncology appointment. She began by asking whether I could take her to theater camp in the United States early this year, and I had to say that I wasn’t sure I could take her at all.

“It doesn’t seem like there will be a break in my treatments,” I said. “Maybe ever.”

And then I told her it was possible I would not still be alive. “I am not giving up hope,” I said. “I will do everything I can do to stay alive until someone finds a cure. But I don’t want to lie to you about how things are.”

She cried and I cried and apologized for making her sad, and she said it wasn’t my fault. On the Eurostar, she continued to cry. “I want you to see me grow up,” she said, “and fall in love with someone who loves me, to see me —”

“I know,” I said. “Me too. I want to live to see you happy. To see you find love. I will do everything I can. I promise.”

“Who is going to go wedding dress shopping with me?” she said. “Wait. Can we go in London? Like, pretend I’m getting married? So we can have the experience together?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “Could be a good exercise for our theatrical talents.”

“OK!” she said. “So how did I meet my fiancé, and how did he propose?”

We began crafting her narrative. Over three days, we named her fiancé, chose where he grew up (Stonehouse, a town in the Cotswolds), what he does for a living (sports coach), how they met (feeding swans in Hyde Park’s Serpentine) and where they live in London (Dalston, over a Kentucky Fried Chicken). We also started planning her wedding: how many guests, what kind of ceremony. We committed.

I spent days researching bridal boutiques before I finally got an appointment. After her class, we headed east and ate lunch at a diner opposite the boutique where we firmed up the details of our narrative, avoiding anything too imaginative that might stand out as unbelievable.

We were nervous. We bickered in a nearby charity shop, making up just in time for our appointment. We’re too much alike — stubborn, opinionated, rigid in our routines. I gave her my engagement ring to slip on her finger. A woman named Jess warmly welcomed us to the boutique. I had feared the screech of effusive congratulations and intrusive questions, but there was none of that. Jess oriented us and let us examine the racks on our own.

You can touch them,” she said.

As we slid hangers on the racks, Theo glanced at me. “Mom,” she said. “Your nose is bleeding.”

I stepped back as Jess, looking anxious, handed me a tissue. “I think maybe I won’t touch,” I said.

Theo chose six dresses, a mix of classical satin and fanciful lace, and Jess carried them to the dressing room. Another woman brought us pomegranate juice and elderflower mocktails. We

toasted Theo and her fiancé.

Jess disappeared into the dressing room to button Theo into her first dress. Already inside were blue satin heels in Theo’s size. When she emerged, my eyes filled. She was radiant, a vision of youthful loveliness. When she saw her reflection, her own eyes went glassy.

“Wait until you get the veil on,” Jess said. “Then it really gets real.”

She pinned one to the back of Theo’s hair, and there was my daughter as a bride, as she might look on her wedding day. I cannot miss it, I thought.

Theo looked beautiful in every dress — every sample size fit her perfectly — but we remained

enchanted with the first, which cost 2,767 British pounds. I took dozens of photos, but none quite captured what was before me, this dream of the future. Theo loved the dress so much I fantasized about buying it, despite the financial impossibility. She has stopped growing, after all. Chances are it will still fit in 15 years.

Our nerves about our deception were unwarranted. Jess only asked when Theo got engaged, whether it was a surprise and where they might have the ceremony. I kind of wanted her to ask more; I mean, we had invented an entire alternate reality. We behaved naturally in our roles. I did not have to pretend emotion. Almost everything we said was true. I had Jess write down the dress model and designer name.

I didn’t expect us to actually want the dress. It was meant to be a dress rehearsal, so to speak. Yet it felt deadly serious — and joyful.

When we emerged, we waited until we were a block away to high-five each other. “We did it,” I said. “We pulled it off.”

On the bus to the theater, we couldn’t stop talking about her wedding.

“I want to fall in love more than ever,” Theo said. “And that dress.”

来源：左右图史