粉红色的战争

Almost every night， I go into my parents' room and tuck my mom into bed. I'll lie next to her until my father comes upstairs or until homework calls. We'll sit there and talk， and I'll play with her hair， plug in1） her phone， and poke fun at2） her. She pokes right back. I'll turn out the light， kiss her forehead， pat her shoulder， and tell her good night. This is among my more peculiar habits， but her presence in mind and body is one of the most precious things in my life.

I remember it was an aberrantly3） warm day in February， especially for Vermont. The winter had been mild that year； the grass was especially green， and the sun was pleasantly golden， suspended in a cloudless sky. I skipped off the school bus to find her car in the driveway. I knew then that something was wrong. My stomach clenched and my chest throbbed； lead feet eventually brought me to the door. She was crying.

My mother looked at me through raw4） eyes and said， "I have breast cancer." We cried， we hugged， and I sat on her lap. I was in fifth grade， scared and confused， just leaving behind the years of cooties5）， flips on the monkey bars6）， and bedtime cuddles7）. Five years before， my grandmother had had the same cancer. She showed me where metal staples held her skin together in the strangest way. Was that going to happen to my mom？

几乎每天晚上，我都会走进父母的房间安顿妈妈上床睡觉。我会躺在她旁边，直到爸爸上楼或我不得不去做家庭作业。我们会坐在那儿聊天，我会拨弄她的头发，给她的手机插上电源，开她的玩笑，她也会反过来调侃我。我会关掉灯，亲亲她的额头，拍拍她的肩膀，和她说晚安。这是我诸多比较独特的习惯之一，但妈妈在心灵和身体上的存在才是我生命中最珍贵的事情之一。

我记得那是二月里异常暖和的一天，尤其是对佛蒙特州来说。那年冬天一直很暖和，草特别绿，宜人的金色太阳悬挂在万里无云的天空。我跳下校车，发现妈妈的车停在家门前的车道上。我当时就知道有什么事不对劲了。我的胃紧缩起来，心脏怦怦直跳，灌了铅似的双脚终于把我带到了门口。妈妈正在哭。

妈妈用红肿的双眼看着我说：“我得了乳腺癌。”我坐在她腿上，我们相拥而泣。那时我上五年级，才刚刚告别那些玩组装毛毛虫玩具、在攀爬架翻上翻下和睡前抱抱的岁月，我感到恐惧和困惑。五年前，我姥姥也得了乳腺癌。她给我看过那些被金属钉以无比奇怪的方式把皮肤拢在一起的地方。那将会发生在我妈妈身上吗？

We cried a lot as my mom told relatives and arranged appointments and bought a wig8） for when chemo9） began. I went along to help her choose， although she didn't like the one I picked out and instead bought a short， curly wig a shade or two lighter than her normal hair. She stayed strong for us during this time that I have come to associate with tears.

It was March when Mom went to the hospital to have the tumor10） removed. I went to school， needing the distraction. Dad called my teacher during the morning with updates. Then， during our silent reading time， as I was sitting between my two best friends， my teacher smiled and said， "She's out of surgery."

When chemo began the warrior scarves and the pink ribbons11） came to mean something more than "support the cause" and became "support my mom". That was also the time that our family hairdresser， a close friend of Mom's， came over with trimmers. We put a sheet on the floor， and in no time Mom's hair was a half inch long. Soon that half inch of fuzz fell out too， and she was left with a smooth， shining， pale scalp. Around the house she'd wear a wrap on her bald head. None of us liked looking at it. It took me a while before I could think of her bald without crying. Before all the hair was gone I told her to put some of it under her pillow for the "Hair Fairy". She agreed， to humor12） me. I snuck into her room while she was asleep and put a quarter under her pillow. My mom still carries that quarter with her.

She became distant， both in mind and body. I remember Dad telling my brother and me to play quietly because "Mommy needs to rest".

I didn't feel like I had a mom that summer. She is absent in those memories； simply not there. She continued to work， despite the chemo and radiation， but was always exhausted. At home she was either asleep or on "chemo-brain". She'd laugh off her newfound absentmindedness， saying she might even lose her head if it wasn't attached. Even though she would look at me and try to listen， she often wasn't able to understand what I was saying.

This spring， my mom is five years cancer free. Her hair has grown back wavy13） and not gray， as she had feared. She claims to still have chemo-brain some days， but now it really is just a joke. The wig is sitting on my shelf. Our warrior scarves are collecting dust. We still have pink ribbons everywhere. The remains of her war against cancer are spread throughout our lives like battle scars to brag about14） to the world. After that difficult year of tears， my mom is back and here to help me through the simple problems of high school.

So I don't fight with my mom. I don't ignore her intentionally， nor do I talk about her negatively. She is healthy and strong and present in every sense of the word15）. She's my mom again. Every night， I tuck her in， turn out the light， and kiss her cheek because I know that we are lucky； there are plenty of girls out there whose moms didn't find their lumps early enough. Never before have I been so thankful for my mother and so grateful that she is here with me.

随着妈妈通知了亲戚们，安排了各种预约，还买了一顶假发以供化疗开始时用，我们哭了好多次。我陪着她去帮她挑假发，不过她不喜欢我选的那个，反而买了一顶短卷发，颜色比她正常的发色浅一两个色度。在这段时间里，她为了我们一直保持坚强，我也渐渐习惯了与眼泪为伴。

三月的时候妈妈去医院切除肿瘤。我需要分散一下注意力，于是去了学校。手术那天上午，爸爸打电话给我的老师，报告最新消息。接着在默读时间，当时我坐在我最要好的两个朋友中间，老师微笑着告诉我：“她做完手术了。”

当化疗开始时，勇士围巾与粉红丝带就有了比“支持防治乳腺癌事业”更多的意义，变成“支持我妈妈”。也正是在那个时候，我们家的美发师――妈妈的一个密友――带着理发器来到了我们家。我们在地上铺了一条床单，转眼间妈妈的头发就只有半英寸长了。很快那半英寸长的头发也掉落了，只留下平滑铮亮的苍白头皮。在家时她会在光头上戴个头巾。我们都不喜欢看那个头巾。我花了好长时间才做到不会一想到她的光头就哭。在她所有头发都剪掉之前，我让她把一些头发放在她的枕头底下留给“头发仙女”。为了迁就我，她同意了。我趁她睡着时溜进她的房间，将一个两角五分的硬币放在了她枕头下面――妈妈到现在还随身带着那枚硬币。

她变得离我们远了，无论是心灵上还是身体上。我记得爸爸告诉我和弟弟要安安静静地玩，因为“妈妈需要休息”。

那年夏天我感觉自己就像没有妈妈一样。那些记忆里没有她，她就是不在那儿。尽管要做化疗和放疗，但她还是继续工作，不过却总是疲惫不堪。在家的时候她不是在睡觉就是处于“化疗脑”状态（编注：指病人在接受化疗后出现的思维不清和记忆衰退症状）。对于她新发现的这个健忘症，她总是一笑了之，还打趣说她的脑袋要不是长在身上，她可能都会把脑袋弄丢了。尽管她也会看着我努力倾听，但她经常不能理解我在说什么。

今年春天，妈妈摆脱癌症五年了。她的头发已经长回来了，是卷发，而且没有像她担心的那样变成灰白色。有些时候她声称自己仍有“化疗脑”，但现在这真的只是个玩笑而已。那顶假发就放在我的书架上；我们的勇士围巾则不断积聚着灰尘；我们家到处都还留着粉红丝带。她与癌症作战的这些残迹如今遍布在我们的生活中，像是我们藉以向全世界炫耀的战斗伤疤。在那以泪洗面的艰难的一年后，我的妈妈回来了，在我身边帮助我解决高中那些简单的问题。

所以我不会和妈妈争吵，我不会故意不理她，也不会说她的不好。她现在身体健康、强壮，任何意义上都存在着。她又是我的妈妈了。每天晚上，我会安顿她睡觉，关掉灯，亲亲她的脸颊，因为我知道我们是幸运的―世界上还有很多女孩，她们的妈妈没能及早发现自己的乳腺癌。我从未对我的妈妈如此心存感激，从未对她就在我的身边如此感恩。