“你愿意嫁给我丈夫吗？”－一个作家最后的心声
“你愿意嫁给我丈夫吗？"－一个作家最后的心声
这，是不是一个很奇怪的标题？有哪一个女子会推荐自己的先生让其他女人嫁给他？有哪一个女人会愿意放弃自己幸福的婚姻？除非她是一个非常特别的人？
艾米·克洛斯·罗森塔尔，就是这样一个非常特别的人！
她的特别是因为她是一个儿童小说作家，她可能比一般人更富有丰富的情感色彩；
她的特别是因为她在一天内爱上了她的先生陪伴他走过了9500天的生命历程；
她的特别是因为她的生命已经到了终点却要把一个好男人托付给另一个女人来照顾；
她的特别是因为她在情人节前写下了这篇文章作为自己真正的礼物已在3月13日51岁时永远地离开了我们；
艾米·克洛斯·罗森塔尔是一个多才多艺的儿童童话书作家，拍过电影，拍过YouTube上的一些录影集，受邀请还到各地去作过演说。今年情人节之前，她在自己生命倒计时的日子里写了一篇特别的文章，作为情人节给自己最好的礼物，3月3日文章发表在纽约时报上《你愿意嫁给我丈夫吗？》马上激发人们的好奇性，有谁要给自己的丈夫征婚？
她在2015年9月右腹痛，本以为是阑尾炎，却被医生告知卵巢癌末期，现在生命只能用天来计数的时候，面对三个朝气蓬勃的孩子和恩爱备至的丈夫有感而发。她不仅是一个想象丰富、笔墨酣畅，写过二十多本儿童图文并茂读物，她自己更是一个充满爱心和童趣的友好使者。她常常会到一个地方，出其不意地把一大堆$1挂在树上，当你跑到树下一抬头看见树上挂着的一块钱，顺手把它摘下来，这种惊喜是不是由心底而升；她还会跑到各个AT&T自动提款机前留下一张张温馨的小纸条，当你打开时都是充满正能量的话使人无比感恩；
天忌柔肠和多情，这么一个充满爱心，快快乐乐的的人却是一个行将走完自己生命，字里行间依然充满着对生活无限的眷恋和激情。她置自己的痛苦而脑后，具然还乐观地会为自己的先生征婚。她非常珍惜和感恩每一分每一秒与家人在一起的日子，也不无感叹：自己和家人在一起的时间不够多。现在她完全清醒地知道，体力和时间都使她不得不终止所有生活的、工作的和旅行的计划。人和人的心理活动和思维是不一样的。我在病床边送走过多少癌症病人，到生命将要终止的时候，很多人都会抱怨自己的命运如此悲凉，为什么得癌症的人偏偏是我，忧天怨地、抑郁躁狂、情绪不稳。而她却怕自己走了先生会孤独寂寞，把她自己对先生的了解和热爱，用快乐、阳光的笔写出来，希望赶快帮他找一个懂得生活的人来陪他继续走下去。
如果要回到心理学角度来看问题，其实从正常人的心态来看，大多数人是不愿为自己婚姻中的另一半找对象的；如果你很爱她/他的话，帮助自己的另一半找伴侣是不是违背很多人的本性?
艾米·克洛斯·罗森塔尔是一个作家，是一个充满情感的人，对生活的观察和体验有更多的感情和展望。她回顾了自己和先生共度9490天（十天后她已安息）的生活日子，简单地叙述了26年的生活，以及她说，应该还可以再过26年的计划，但是她却要先离开了，而她的先生这么优秀的男人，不能让他寂寞无闻。她和先生从小认识但直到大学毕业24岁那年有父亲的好朋友约翰叔叔牵线见面，第一次约会，一见到杰森，她马上知道这是可以托付终生的对象。一顿晚餐后，她就决定可以嫁给他了。一见钟情！她说：“我化一天时间爱上我的先生，而他化了一年才爱上我。
用艾米的话说：这个男人善于衣着、有品位、会做饭、会赚钱是律师、喜欢旅游、懂音乐、有爱心、长得帅。反正你能想到的优点按照Amy的描述全在他的身上。她用非常深情的笔墨描述到，我呢和他的生活就要走完了，可是他的生活还要继续。希望你们认为配得上他的人都可以来追求他。她还留了一段空白。这段空白就有你们来填，可是你是谁我不知道。我最喜欢的情人节的礼物不是给我的，而是一个会欣赏我先生的女性，慢慢进入他的生活，这是对我情人节真正的礼物。
这样一个心思缜密，热爱生命，充满阳光的人在生命最后时刻把自己的丈夫介绍出去，让先生后半生还有一个知心伴侣，写这样一段文字时，是不是她的心也在流血？
2010年在艾米生病前一次访谈节目上，她说过这样一句话：送给大家七个字：Make the most of your time here，这是我心灵和灵魂中讲给你们的话，就是：把现在过得精彩！
原文摘自纽约时报中文版：
你愿意嫁给我丈夫吗？
一段时间以来，我一直想写这篇文章，但吗啡加上美味的奶酪汉堡的缺失（现在已经五周没吃真正的食物了吧？）导致我精疲力尽，并且影响了我仅存的文字能力。另外，间歇性的打盹常常让我在语句写到一半时停下来，它们显然没有像我希望的那样迅速地推进我的工作，不过倒也的确算是一种迷迷糊糊的小快乐。
但我必须坚持，因为我面临一个最后期限，而且这一次的最后期限颇为紧张。我必须趁自己还 a）有你们的关注并且 b）有脉搏时，把这些话说出来（还要准确地说出来）。
我和这个最特别的男人已经结婚26年了。我本来打算和他再一起生活至少26年。
想听个倒胃口的笑话吗？一对夫妇在2015年9月5日的深夜走进急诊室。几个小时过去了，在进行了一些检查后，医生明确表示，妻子右半边身体感觉到的剧痛不是他们所以为的没什么大不了的阑尾炎，而是卵巢癌。
在9月6日凌晨回家的路上，夫妇俩在一定程度上已经走出了令人不知所措的震惊。他们意识到，今天，得知是什么在崩溃的这一天，本是他们正式开始空巢生活的一天。他们三个孩子中最小的那个刚刚离开家去上大学。
顷刻间，很多计划都化为了泡影。
不能与丈夫和父母去南非旅行。现在也没有理由申请哈佛大学洛布研究员(Harvard Loeb Fellowship)职位。不能和母亲实现梦想中的亚洲之旅。不能在印度、温哥华和雅加达的优秀院校当驻校作家。
难怪cancer（癌症）这个词和cancel（取消）看上去这么相像。
这时，我们开始活在当下，我把它当作Be计划(Plan Be)。至于未来，请允许我向你介绍本文的主人公贾森·布莱恩·罗森塔尔(Jason Brian Rosenthal)。
他是一个容易让人爱上的人。我就是在一天时间里爱上他的。
我解释一下吧：我父亲从夏令营时代开始的挚友约翰叔叔是分别看着我和贾森长大的，但我和贾森从没见过面。我在东部上的大学，并在加州找到了自己的第一份工作。当我搬回芝加哥时，认为我和贾森是绝配的约翰给我们安排了一次相亲。
那是1989年。我们都只有24岁。我本来对事情会怎么发展没抱任何期望。但当他敲响我的小木板房的门时，我想，“哇哦，这个人有一种非常讨人喜欢的东西。”
到晚餐结束时，我知道自己想嫁给他。
贾森呢？他是一年后知道的。
我从来没用过Tinder、Bumble或eHarmony（均为社交交友平台—译注），但我要在这里根据和他在同一屋檐下生活了大概9490天的经历，给贾森创建一份概括性的个人简介。
首先，基本信息如下：身高5英尺10英寸（约合178cm）、体重160磅（约合73公斤）、头发花白、眼睛淡褐色。
接下来要列出的特点没有特定的顺序，因为在某种程度上，每个特点对我来说都很重要。
他衣着入时。我们年轻但已成年的儿子贾斯汀(Justin)和迈尔斯(Miles)经常借他的衣服穿。认识他的人—或仅仅是恰好向下瞥见了他礼服裤子与鞋子之间的那个间隙的人—知道，他在袜子的搭配上天赋惊人。他身体健康，且喜欢保持体型。
如果我们的家会说话，它会补充一点，贾森非比寻常地心灵手巧。说到饮食这个话题—天哪，他太会做饭了。结束漫长的一天后，没有比看着他走进门、啪嗒一声把装着食品杂货的袋子放在柜子上、用买到的油橄榄或一些美味的奶酪讨好我然后再开始准备晚饭更甜蜜的快乐。
贾森喜欢听现场音乐，这是我们最喜欢一起做的事。我还应该补充一点，我们19岁的女儿帕里斯(Paris)宁愿和他而不是其他任何人去听音乐会。
写第一部回忆录时，我总是用笔把编辑想让我扩充内容的章节圈出来。她会说，“我想看到更多和这个角色有关的内容。”
当然， 我同意。他的确是一个吸引人的角色。但有意思的是，她本来可以直接说：“贾森。咱们再补充一些和贾森有关的内容吧。”
他是一位非常优秀的父亲。你可以问任何人。看到拐角处的那个人了吗。去问他吧，他会告诉你的。贾森富有同情心，而且还会掂锅，让煎饼翻面。
贾森会画画。我喜欢他的画。要不是因为有法律学位，我会叫他画家。他的法律学位让他大部分时候，或者至少是在我生病前要在市中心的办公室从上午9点待到下午5点。
如果你在找一个不瞻前顾后、愿意说走就走的人结伴旅行，贾森就是你要找的人。他还喜欢小物件：小勺子、小罐子、一对夫妇坐在一条长凳上的迷你雕塑。他把那尊雕塑拿给我是为了提醒我，我们的家庭是怎么开始的。
贾森是这样一种人：他手捧献花出现在我们第一次做孕期超声波检查的地方。因为一向早起，他会在每个周日的早上用咖啡壶旁边的物品，比如勺子、马克杯、香蕉摆出某种奇怪的笑脸，来给我惊喜。
这个男人会从小商店或加油站出来，说：“摊开手掌。”然后，哇！缤纷的球状口香糖从天而降（他知道哪种口味我都喜欢，除了白色的。）
我猜你现在对他有了足够多的了解。那么我们就“向右拖曳”吧。
等等。我有没有提到他非常帅？我会想念凝视他的脸庞的感觉。
如果觉得他像是一位王子，我们的爱情像是一个童话，倒也不算太离谱，只要略去两个玩了25年过家家的人所有的日常生活。还有就是我患癌的部分。呸。
在最新的回忆录里（完全是在病症确诊前写就），我邀请读者发来关于配对纹身的建议—有了这样的纹身，作者和读者就能通过墨水联系起来。
我对此十分认真，也鼓励提交建议的人严肃以待。成百上千的建议纷至沓来。回忆录于8月出版的几周后，我收到了密尔沃基市62岁的图书管理员波莱特(Paulette)的信。
她的建议是“more”。因为我在书中的一篇文章里提到，我说出的第一个词就是“more”（真的）。而现在，它极有可能成为我说出的最后一个词（时间会给出答案）。
9月，波莱特驱车赶到芝加哥，在一个纹身店和我碰面。她纹在左手腕上（她的第一个纹身）。我则把女儿手写的字样纹在了左前臂内侧。这是我的第二个纹身；第一个很小，是在我脚踝上待了25年的小写字母“j”。你应该猜得到它代表着什么。贾森也有一个，但是字母更多：“AKR”。
我想要有更多时间，和贾森待在一起。我想要有更多时间，和我的孩子们待在一起。我想要有更多时间，在周四的夜晚去绿磨坊爵士俱乐部(Green Mill Jazz Club)喝马丁尼。但这一切都不可能发生了。我活在这个世界上的时间可能只剩下几天了。那我为什么要写这个呢？
我是在情人节那天写完这篇文字的 ，而我希望得到的鲜花以外真正的礼物便是，一个对的人能读到它，找到贾森，开始另一段爱情故事。
我会刻意把底下的空间留白，为你们奉上你们应得的新的开始。
给你我全部的爱，艾米(Amy)
Attached English Version
You May Want to Marry My Husband
By AMY KROUSE ROSENTHAL MARCH 3, 2017
Note: Amy Krouse Rosenthal died on March 13, 2017, 10 days after this essay was published.
I have been trying to write this for a while, but the morphine and lack of juicy cheeseburgers (what has it been now, five weeks without real food?) have drained my energy and interfered with whatever prose prowess remains. Additionally, the intermittent micronaps that keep whisking me away midsentence are clearly not propelling my work forward as quickly as I would like. But they are, admittedly, a bit of trippy fun.
Still, I have to stick with it, because I’m facing a deadline, in this case, a pressing one. I need to say this (and say it right) while I have a) your attention, and b) a pulse.
I have been married to the most extraordinary man for 26 years. I was planning on at least another 26 together.
Want to hear a sick joke? A husband and wife walk into the emergency room in the late evening on Sept. 5, 2015. A few hours and tests later, the doctor clarifies that the unusual pain the wife is feeling on her right side isn’t the no-biggie appendicitis they suspected but rather ovarian cancer.
As the couple head home in the early morning of Sept. 6, somehow through the foggy shock of it all, they make the connection that today, the day they learned what had been festering, is also the day they would have officially kicked off their empty-nestering. The youngest of their three children had just left for college.
So many plans instantly went poof.
No trip with my husband and parents to South Africa. No reason, now, to apply for the Harvard Loeb Fellowship. No dream tour of Asia with my mother. No writers’ residencies at those wonderful schools in India, Vancouver, Jakarta.
No wonder the word cancer and cancel look so similar.
This is when we entered what I came to think of as Plan “Be,” existing only in the present. As for the future, allow me to introduce you to the gentleman of this article, Jason Brian Rosenthal.
He is an easy man to fall in love with. I did it in one day.
Let me explain: My father’s best friend since summer camp, “Uncle” John, had known Jason and me separately our whole lives, but Jason and I had never met. I went to college out east and took my first job in California. When I moved back home to Chicago, John — who thought Jason and I were perfect for each other — set us up on a blind date.
It was 1989. We were only 24. I had precisely zero expectations about this going anywhere. But when he knocked on the door of my little frame house, I thought, “Uh-oh, there is something highly likable about this person.”
By the end of dinner, I knew I wanted to marry him.
Jason? He knew a year later.
I have never been on Tinder, Bumble or eHarmony, but I’m going to create a general profile for Jason right here, based on my experience of coexisting in the same house with him for, like, 9,490 days.
First, the basics: He is 5-foot-10, 160 pounds, with salt-and-pepper hair and hazel eyes.
The following list of attributes is in no particular order because everything feels important to me in some way.
He is a sharp dresser. Our young adult sons, Justin and Miles, often borrow his clothes. Those who know him — or just happen to glance down at the gap between his dress slacks and dress shoes — know that he has a flair for fabulous socks. He is fit and enjoys keeping in shape.
If our home could speak, it would add that Jason is uncannily handy. On the subject of food — man, can he cook. After a long day, there is no sweeter joy than seeing him walk in the door, plop a grocery bag down on the counter, and woo me with olives and some yummy cheese he has procured before he gets to work on the evening’s meal.
Jason loves listening to live music; it’s our favorite thing to do together. I should also add that our 19-year-old daughter, Paris, would rather go to a concert with him than anyone else.
When I was working on my first memoir, I kept circling sections my editor wanted me to expand upon. She would say, “I’d like to see more of this character.”
Of course, I would agree — he was indeed a captivating character. But it was funny because she could have just said: “Jason. Let’s add more about Jason.”
He is an absolutely wonderful father. Ask anyone. See that guy on the corner? Go ahead and ask him; he’ll tell you. Jason is compassionate — and he can flip a pancake.
Jason paints. I love his artwork. I would call him an artist except for the law degree that keeps him at his downtown office most days from 9 to 5. Or at least it did before I got sick.
If you’re looking for a dreamy, let’s-go-for-it travel companion, Jason is your man. He also has an affinity for tiny things: taster spoons, little jars, a mini-sculpture of a couple sitting on a bench, which he presented to me as a reminder of how our family began.
Here is the kind of man Jason is: He showed up at our first pregnancy ultrasound with flowers. This is a man who, because he is always up early, surprises me every Sunday morning by making some kind of oddball smiley face out of items near the coffeepot: a spoon, a mug, a banana.
This is a man who emerges from the minimart or gas station and says, “Give me your palm.” And, voilà, a colorful gumball appears. (He knows I love all the flavors but white.)
My guess is you know enough about him now. So let’s swipe right.
Wait. Did I mention that he is incredibly handsome? I’m going to miss looking at that face of his.
If he sounds like a prince and our relationship seems like a fairy tale, it’s not too far off, except for all of the regular stuff that comes from two and a half decades of playing house together. And the part about me getting cancer. Blech.
In my most recent memoir (written entirely before my diagnosis), I invited readers to send in suggestions for matching tattoos, the idea being that author and reader would be bonded by ink.
I was totally serious about this and encouraged submitters to be serious as well. Hundreds poured in. A few weeks after publication in August, I heard from a 62-year-old librarian in Milwaukee named Paulette.
She suggested the word “more.” This was based on an essay in the book where I mention that “more” was my first spoken word (true). And now it may very well be my last (time shall tell).
In September, Paulette drove down to meet me at a Chicago tattoo parlor. She got hers (her very first) on her left wrist. I got mine on the underside of my left forearm, in my daughter’s handwriting. This was my second tattoo; the first is a small, lowercase “j” that has been on my ankle for 25 years. You can probably guess what it stands for. Jason has one too, but with more letters: “AKR.”
I want more time with Jason. I want more time with my children. I want more time sipping martinis at the Green Mill Jazz Club on Thursday nights. But that is not going to happen. I probably have only a few days left being a person on this planet. So why I am doing this?
I am wrapping this up on Valentine’s Day, and the most genuine, non-vase-oriented gift I can hope for is that the right person reads this, finds Jason, and another love story begins.
I’ll leave this intentional empty space below as a way of giving you two the fresh start you deserve.
