My Father Came Home to Us After 306 Days in the Hospital入院306天，父亲回家了

尼基·伍尔夫 译/张爽

“He’s gone，” the doctors told us， gently.

Geoff Woolf—my dad—had been taken by ambulance to Whittington Hospital in north London with COVID-19 in March， at the beginning of the very first wave of the disease in the United Kingdom. He was placed on a ventilator a couple of days later. By the time the neurologists called us in to “discuss next steps”—their euphemism for switching off life support—Dad’s oxygen levels had finally stabilized after 67 brutal days of mechanical ventilation.

But two weeks after sedation was lifted， he had not returned to consciousness from the coma they had induced so that he wouldn’t reject the ventilation tube shoved down his windpipe. His doctors believed he now never would.

I remembered a song my dad had used to sing me to sleep at night. He had terrible pitch， really， but imbued the words with such meaning. “There was a boy， a very strange， enchanted boy …” I sang that song back to him， through tears that threatened to break into sobs， standing there with my two brothers， saying goodbye. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love， and be loved in return.”

Then， miraculously， though with agonizing slowness， he started to wake up. Eventually， 306 days after he was first admitted to the hospital， he came back home.

On March 21， when Dad first said he didn’t feel well， it was still easy to think of the pandemic as something that was happening elsewhere， to other people.

Like many others， I went out to the pub the night before lockdown came into force. Although experts and hospitals were sounding the alarm， warning that they might soon be overwhelmed， that the danger was clear and present， I had a feeling of invincibility with which it is now impossible to empathize. That pub trip will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The next day， Dad woke up exhausted， and complaining of stomach trouble. He didn’t have a fever， though， and his symptoms didn’t seem like those that people on TV were describing. He spent most of the day in bed， and the rest on the toilet. The following morning， I found him facedown at the breakfast table. Seeing him there， I felt the first spike of real fear—a fear that would stay with me for months.

I remember obsessing， when the ambulance came， about the need to pack his “useful bag.” Dad never goes anywhere without his useful bag. I put a clementine and a pack of blueberries in it， and rushed around in a panic because I couldn’t find his phone charger. The paramedics were kind. “He’ll be fine，” one of them said. Then they lifted Dad into the ambulance and closed the door. It sat there， doors closed， for about 10 more minutes. I stress-smoked a cigarette. Then， at 11 p.m. on the dot， they drove away.

When Dad first caught COVID-19， his chance of survival was statistically decent—somewhere between 90 and 99 percent， from what I could figure out during the hours I spent in the dark， obsessively reading research papers. When he was admitted to the hospital， those odds roughly dropped by a third. When he was placed on oxygen support， they halved again. By the time he was rushed into the ICU in acute respiratory distress and intubated for mechanical ventilation， his odds of surviving dropped below 10 percent. The longer he was ventilated， the further they decreased.

I was locked down， alone， in Dad’s now-empty house. At some point each day， the hospital call would come， and I would relay it to my family on Whats- App. I was going through this alone， but I was hardly alone in that. My family’s experience of this pandemic has been， I guess， starker than many others’， but， to some degree or another， everyone （anti-lockdown trolls and conspiracy theorists notwithstanding） has gone through the same rude transition from innocence to experience. Everywhere， as governments fumbled with lockdowns， people’s worlds shrank to their four walls. Time became meaningless for all of us.

For a few stiflingly hot weeks at Whittington in the height of summer， before Dad was transferred to a special neurological hospital with stricter rules on visitation， we were able to go in and see him. He was still unable to speak， so I drew conversation boxes on scrap paper. “I want to know about： hospital stuff; family stuff; the world.”

To us， Dad’s return to life seemed miraculous. To him， it seemed like a curse. As far as he was concerned， he had gone to sleep healthy—recently retired， a regular at the gym， studying for an art-history degree， a sociable lover of travel—and woken up profoundly disabled. He would come home， after 306 days in the hospital， in a wheelchair. The brain damage caused by the coronavirus has paralyzed his right side and left him with aphasia， which restricts his ability to speak， a particularly cruel outcome for a man whose love of language and literature is so core to his being.

The most bizarre part has been explaining everything that happened during the year he missed—not just to him， but to all of us. He woke up changed， and will have to get used to a different life. But he woke up in a changed world， too.

The mental-health effects of mass loneliness and isolation are yet to be uncovered. The scale of this catastrophe is yet to be fully understood.

What will this shared trauma do to all of us？ Can we ever go back to hugging and shaking hands？ Will we ever truly be comfortable again in large crowds， or in packed rooms？ I’m not sure I will.

Dad did not “beat” COVID-19. It devastated him， as it has devastated all of us. He will never be the same， and neither will we. But we know how lucky we are. We have him back. Or at least， as he himself put it in a melancholic moment at the hospital earlier in his recovery， “halfway back.”

Of course， things won’t go back to the way they were. But once all this is done， and the dust has settled， we can begin to think about how to go forward. There is， perhaps， hope in that.

“他要走了。”医生委婉地告诉我们。

2020年3月，我的父亲杰夫·伍尔夫因感染新冠病毒被救护车送往伦敦北部的惠廷顿医院，当时英国的第一波疫情刚刚开始。几天后，他戴上了呼吸机。等到神经科医生叫我们去“讨论后续措施”——关闭生命支持系统的委婉说法——父亲已经历了67天残酷的机械通气，血氧量终于稳定下来了。

但是，镇静剂解除两周后，他还没有恢复意识，医生之前让他保持昏迷，是防止他排斥气管的插管。医生认为他现在再也不会排斥了。

我记起父亲过去经常在晚上唱给我听的一首催眠曲。他唱歌其实音调不准，却让歌词充满意义。“有一个男孩，一个奇特的、欢乐的男孩……”我现在把这首歌唱给他听，眼泪在眼眶里打转，两位兄弟站在身边，向他说再见，“你学到的最棒的事就是去爱，同时收获爱。”

后来，父亲奇迹般地开始苏醒，虽然过程缓慢而痛苦。终于，在住院306天后，他回了家。

3月21日那天，父亲第一次说他感觉不舒服，那时我们仍然简单地认为这场疫情只发生在其他地方、其他人身上。

和许多人一样，我在封禁的前一天晚上去了酒吧。尽管专家和医院都发出了警告，说他们应付不了多久，危险迫在眉睫，但当时的我却有一种不可战胜的感觉，现在的我完全体会不到了。那次酒吧之旅使我终生难忘。

第二天，父亲筋疲力尽地醒来，抱怨胃部不适。但他没有发烧，症状也不像电视上说的那样。他一天的大部分时间都在床上度过，其余时间都在洗手间里。