信仰的力量

\"You will never walk again. You will have to use wheelchair.\" Unprepared for the doctor's grim1 prognosis2， I heard his words fall heavily on my ears， numbing my soul. If I had never felt hopeless before， I felt hopeless then.

My catastrophic car accident had left me unconscious and in critical condition. I awakened to find both legs swathed in casts， the left one in traction3 to aid the healing of a broken hip and pelvis. While I had other serious injuries， my legs were my prime concern. Working as a special-needs teacher and \"on the go\" by nature， I couldn't imagine being confined， let alone an invalid.

Lying in my bed motionless and relying on prayer， I wondered how I could give my ten-year-old son hope that Mom would heal. He'd been cheerful on every visit， but I saw the fear in his eyes. Looking forward to having a totally handicapped mother and the implications of that were weighing heavily on his little shoulders. He needed the ray of hope that I would not be in a wheelchair forever.

Just maybe， I thought， I could use this experience to teach what to do when adversity strikes. But I wasn't just being altruistic4. I needed something besides my physical healing to sink my Irish stubbornness into--it's that trait that kept me going through the toughest challenge of my life.

It didn't take me long to become impatient with my limited mobility and even with the pace the therapists were willing to go with me. I vowed to learn everything they showed me. Attempting to move on my own at night after the nurses' last rounds， I'm sure I broke every hospital rule. I needed to make things happen my way. And being confined to a wheelchair the rest of my life didn't fit into my plans.

At first， I taught myself to move from the bed to the wheelchair. I made tiny movements for weeks， afraid of falling， but more afraid to just lie in bed. I reached a point where my arms were strong enough to swing me into the chair. Getting out of the chair and back into bed proved more difficult， but I soon developed a method of grabbing the sheets with one hand and the traction bar with the other. I wouldn't win any gymnastics competitions， but it worked. I often wondered what the nurses and therapists would have done if they'd seen me struggling on my own.

Once sure I could return myself to the bed from the wheelchair， I began to tackle a walker that had been left in my room by a former hospital roommate. If the nurses noticed that the wheelchair and walker were not where they had left them， they weren't saying anything. I wondered if a conspiracy of silence had developed: I wouldn't say anything about my secret therapy sessions， and they kept quiet as well.

Every night in my private room， as soon as I knew I wouldn't be interrupted or discovered， I would maneuver myself from the bed to the floor， holding on to the bed rail for dear life， and slowly putting my weight on my feet. After several weeks of these ever so difficult efforts， my strength and confidence continued to build. So came the ultimate challenge: alternating and moving my feet one inch at a time. I had dreams of striding briskly down the halls at school， playing dodge ball at recess， and driving again--grandiose5 dreams to be sure， but I knew one thing for certain: there would come a day when the wheelchair would be gone and I would walk.

It came the time to share my accomplishments with the person most important to me. One night， before my son arrived for his regular visit， I pulled myself into the chair and stationed the walker in front of me. When I heard him greet the nurses at the station， I dragged myself up. As he opened the door， I took a few small steps. Shocked， he could only watch as I turned and started back to bed. All of the pain， the fear， and the struggle faded as I heard the words I had longed to hear， \"Mommy， you can walk!\"

I am now able to walk alone， sometimes using a cane. I am able to take public transportation to shop and visit friends. My life has been blessed with many milestones and accomplishments of which I am proud. But none has ever brought me the satisfaction and joy offered by those four little words spoken by my son.

“你再也不能走路了，你得坐輪椅?！贬t生殘酷的“判決”如五雷轟頂。幾乎將我擊暈。我毫無心理準備，那一刻:一種從未有過的絕望感襲上心頭。

那場災難性的車禍使我不省人事。生命垂危。醒來時，我發現兩條腿都打著石膏。為了幫助髖骨和骨盆愈合，我的左腿被牽引起來。雖然身上還有其他更嚴重的傷，但最令我擔心的還是這兩條腿。我是一位特教，且天生好動。我無法想象自己被困在輪椅上的情形，更別說要成為殘疾了。

我躺在床上不能動彈，只能默默祈禱。我就想，怎樣讓我10歲的兒子對他媽媽的康復懷有希望呢?每次他來看我。都很高興，但我仍能從他眼中讀到恐懼。他一定對媽媽即將成為一個徹底的殘疾人有所預料，這種打擊對他來說太沉重了。他需要希望的曙光:媽媽不會永遠待在輪椅上。

我覺得這是有望實現的，我以切身經歷告訴人們怎樣去面對已降臨的災難。但是，這并不是一種無私的行為。除了治療身體的創傷外。我還需把愛爾蘭人的頑強注入體內——正是這種特質使我能夠應對生活中最嚴峻的挑戰。

不久，我就對身體上的不靈活失去了耐性，甚至對治療專家給我定下的治療速度也失去了信心。我下定決心要把他們教給我的一切都學會。每天，在護士查完最后一次房，我都違反醫院的規章制度:自己學著挪步。我想讓事情按我的意愿發展，不想自己的后半生拴在輪椅上。

首先，我學著從床上挪到輪椅上，這一個動作竟花了我幾個星期的時間，我很怕摔倒，可我更怕永遠這樣躺在床上。我努力鍛煉，好讓胳膊變得有力起來，能讓我從輪椅中撐起。但是，從輪椅上起來，再回到床上的這個過程更困難?？晌疫€是很快找到了方法，我一手抓床單，一手抓牽引橫杠。雖然這種方法不會贏得任何體操比賽，但很管用。我常想:如果醫護人員看到我獨自掙扎的情形，會怎樣呢?

當我覺得自己可以從輪椅回到病床上時，就開始試著用助行架，那是先前的一位病友留下的。如果護士們發現輪椅和助行架換了位置，他們不會說什么的。我想知道，我們之間是不是有一種不謀而合的默契:對獨自秘密治療我絕口不提，他們也都保持緘默。

每天晚上，只要我覺得沒人會進來了或是我不會被人發現，我就開始用力抓住床的橫桿，慢慢站起身，從床上挪到地板上。經過數周的艱苦努力，我感到自己的力氣不斷變大，信心也不斷增強。繼而是最后的挑戰:兩腿交替前移，每次挪一英寸。我甚至幻想著在學校的禮堂闊步前行，休假時玩躲球游戲，還能開車——這的確是宏偉的夢想，但我堅信:終有一天，我會擺脫輪椅，自己走路。

終于，我迎來了與我生命中最重要的人分享成就的時刻。一天晚上，在兒子照常來看我前，我已經獨自坐到了輪椅上，并將助行架放在了面前。聽見兒子與值班護士打招呼時，我努力掙扎著站了起來。當他開門時，我挪了幾小步，他大吃一驚，不知所措，只是呆望著。我轉身又回到病床，終于聽到了我渴盼已久的話:“媽媽，你能走路了!”此刻，一切的痛苦和恐懼都已不復存在。

現在，我可以自己走路了，偶爾會用一下拐杖。我可以自己乘公交車購物訪友。生活中，我歷經了許多轉折點和成就，這些都讓我無比自豪、備感欣慰。但兒子說出的那幾個字是最令我心滿意足的。

注釋:

1.grim adj.嚴酷的

2.prognosis n.預測

3.traction n.牽引

4.altruistic adj.利他的;無私心的

5.grandiose adj.宏偉的;宏大的