I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.
Let me not die while i am still alive.
Facebook營運長雪莉·桑德伯格（Sheryl Sandberg）的丈夫Dave Goldberg一個月前在墨西哥的旅行中意外喪生。失去丈夫30天後的今天，她寫下這篇悼念文章，用她的智慧與堅強，告訴我們：如何在悲慟之中去慢慢消化哪些無法言語的痛苦。
今天是我摯愛的丈夫結束sheloshim (去世頭三十天) 的日子。按照猶太教的傳統，在摯愛的親友去世之後，我們需要悼念七天，這段時間叫做shiva. 在shiva之後，我們可以繼續大多數正常的活動，但是只有sheloshim結束之後，才意味著對伴侶的宗教悼念真正結束。
我的一個童年好友現在做了拉比，他最近告訴我說，他聽到過的最有力量的一句話禱詞是，「請不要讓我在活著的時候死去。」在失去Dave之前，我根本不理解這句話。現在，我懂了。
我想，當悲劇發生時，人們會面臨選擇。你可以向那些填滿你的心和肺的空洞和虛無屈服，聽任它們讓你無法思考甚至是呼吸，但是你也可以努力從中尋找意義。過去三十天裡，有很多時候我陷入了那種空洞之中。我也知道，未來的日子裡，我仍然會經歷許多被無邊的空虛吞噬的時刻。
但是，我想選擇我的生活和其中的意義，在我能夠這樣做的時候。
這就是為什麼我寫下這篇文章的原因：為了紀念sheloshim的結束，為了把人們給我的那些東西回饋出去。悲痛是極其個人的體驗，但是那些向我敞開心扉分享他們自己悲痛體驗的人，他們的勇敢讓我能夠支撐下去。其中有些人是我最親密的朋友，還有一些是我完全不認識的陌生人，他們和世界分享了自己的智慧和建議。所以我也想分享我從中學到的一些東西，希望能幫助到更多的人，希望這一起悲劇能夠帶來某些意義。
過去的三十天，我像是過了三十年，我多了三十年的悲傷，但也感覺自己多了三十年的智慧。
我更加深刻地理解了身為人母的意義，這部分來自我的孩子們哭叫時我感受到的深沉悲痛，部分則來自我的母親對我所承受的痛苦的理解。每一天晚上，她都會躺在我身邊填補我的空虛，摟著我，直到我哭累之後睡著。為了讓我的淚水有釋放的空間，她努力忍住自己的淚水。她對我說，我的痛既是我自己的，也是我孩子的痛。我看到她眼睛裡的痛，明白了她的話。
我也知道了，原來我從來就不知道怎麼去安慰那些需要幫助的人。我以前說的話都是錯的；我一直對人們說，一切會好起來的，我以為希望是我能夠給他們的最好的安慰。我的一位癌症晚期的朋友對我說，人們對他說的最糟糕的話就是「一切都會好起來的」。那句話會一直在他的腦海裡尖叫。你怎麼知道一切會好起來呢？你知道我可能會死嗎？在過去一個月，我理解了他的這句話。真正的同情，不是堅持說一切會好起來的，而是承認一切不會好起來。當人們對我說，「你和你的孩子們會重新快樂起來的」，我的心告訴我，是的，我相信，可是我知道我永遠也不可能感受到單純的快樂了。
也有人對我說，「你的人生會恢復正常，可是再也不會像從前那樣美好」，這樣的話反而更能夠安慰我，因為他們知道真相，並且告訴了我真相。
即使是那些經常是出於最大的善意而問出來的一句簡單的「你過得怎麼樣」，也不如換成問我「你今天過得怎麼樣」。當人們問我「你過得怎麼樣」的時候，我幾乎忍不住要吼出來，「我的丈夫一個月前死了，你覺得我現在過得怎麼樣了？」 可是當我聽到「你今天過得怎麼樣」的時候，我知道，對方知道我現在能夠做的，是努力度過今天。
我也有一些實際的體會。雖然我們現在都知道Dave是當場死亡的，可是在救護車裡的時候我並不知道這一點。去醫院的那段路慢得讓我難以忍受，我到現在仍然恨不肯給我們讓路的每一輛車，恨那些惦記著自己早幾分鐘到達目的地而不願意給我們讓路的每一個人。在很多國家和城市開車的時候我都發現了這個現象。讓我們給救護車讓路吧，因為有人的父親母親，有人的伴侶，有人的孩子，他們的生命可能依賴於此。
我也知道了世間萬物看起來是何其短暫——或許，它們就是如此短暫。你腳下的那塊地毯，隨時都可能在完全沒有警告的情況下被抽走。在過去的三十天裡，我聽到了太多的女人在失去伴侶之後的故事，她們腳下的許多塊地毯都被抽走了。有些人缺乏幫助，只能獨自面對情感上的悲痛和經濟上的困境。在她們極其需要幫助的時候放棄這些女性和他們的家庭，在我看來是極不應該的。
我學會了尋求幫助——我還知道了我有多麼需要幫助。我一直是個大姐姐，是COO，是做事情的人，是做計劃的人。我沒有預計到那件事的發生，當它發生的時候，我再也沒辦法做任何事。那些我最親近的人接管了一切，他們幫我做計劃，幫我做安排。他們告訴我坐在哪裡，提醒我吃飯。直到現在他們仍然給我和我的孩子提供了極大的幫助。
我也知道了，堅韌是一項可以學習的技能。Adam M. Grant告訴我，我需要掌握三件對培養堅韌至關重要的事。首先是不把「自己」捲入其中(personalization)，要意識到這不是我的錯，他告訴我要忘記「對不起」這個詞，要一遍一遍地對自己說，這不是我的錯。其次是不把「永遠」捲入其中(permanence)，要記住我不會永遠這樣痛苦，事情會好起來的。最後是不讓事情無止境擴大(pervasiveness)，這件事沒有必要影響我生活中的每一個方面，學會作出區隔才是健康的做法。
對我來說，重新過渡到工作中是一個拯救自己、讓自己覺得有用和與外界重建聯繫的機會。但是我很快發現，即使這樣的聯繫也已經改變了。很多同事看到我走過來的時候眼睛裡都出現了畏懼。我知道那是為什麼——他們想幫我，卻不知道該怎麼幫。我應該提那件事嗎？還是不應該提？如果我提起來的話，我到底要說些什麼呢？和同事之間的親密關係對我來說非常重要，我意識到我需要去重新建立起那樣的關係。
所以，我需要讓他們走進我的內心，而那意味著我需要比自己以往想要表現的樣子更加開放、更加軟弱。我告訴那些和我工作最緊密的同事，他們可以誠實地問我問題，我會回答。我還說，他們可以討論自己的感受。其中一個同事對我承認，她曾經開車經過我家很多次，但是不知道是不是應該進來看看。另一個同事說，每次我在他旁邊的時候他都會覺得窒息，因為擔心自己會說錯話。坦誠的交流從此代替了對說錯話或者做錯事的擔心。
我一直很喜歡的一部卡通裡有一頭在房間裡接電話的大象，它說：「我是大象。」當我承認了這頭大象的存在，我們就能夠把它從房間裡面趕走。（Elephant in the room，房間裡的大象，是一句英語諺語，指那些顯而易見但是人們因為某種原因假裝不存在的東西——假裝在紐約譯註。）
但是也有一些時候，我不能讓別人進入我的內心。有一天我去學校參加Portfolio Night，在那裡孩子們給家長展示掛在教室牆上的自己的作品。有很多很多的家長——他們全都出於好意——想要和我有眼神接觸，想要對我說一些安慰的話。因為害怕自己會崩潰，我一直低著頭，不讓任何人看到我的眼睛。我希望他們能夠理解。
我也學會了感激。對那些我從前習以為常的東西懷有的真正的感激——比如生命。雖然我如此心碎，但是每天看到我的孩子們，我都會為他們擁有生命而感到欣喜。我感激他們的每一個微笑和每一次擁抱。我不再對每一天習以為常。一個朋友告訴我他討厭生日，所以不準備慶祝，我含著眼淚對他說：「好好慶祝生日吧，每一次過生日都是幸運的事。」我的下一個生日一定會像身陷地獄一樣痛苦，但是我在心裡比以往任何一個生日都更加堅定地想要慶祝。
我對許許多多給予我同情的人深懷感激。一個同事告訴我，他的太太——一個我從來沒有見過的女性，為了表示對我的支持，決定回到學校去完成學業，這件事她已經拖了很多年。是的！我比以往更加相信只要條件允許，女性要挺身而進(原文是lean in，這是桑德伯格自傳的書名——假裝在紐約譯註)。也有許許多多的男性——有些我非常熟悉，還有一些我可能永遠也不可能認識——為了表達對Dave的紀念，開始抽出更多的時間陪伴家人。
為了讓我相信他們會一直陪在我身邊，我的家人和朋友們為我付出了那麼多，我沒辦法表達我對他們有多感激。在我被空洞感吞沒的最殘酷的時刻，在我未來的人生中會被無盡的年年月月拉長的空虛之中，只有他們的臉能夠帶我走出孤獨與恐懼。我對他們的感激之情難以言盡。
有一次，我和一個朋友談到因為Dave不在而沒辦法完成一個需要父親和孩子一起參加的活動。我們一起想了一個如何代替Dave角色的計劃。我哭著對他說，「可是我想要Dave. 我想要選項A。」他伸出手臂摟著我說，「選項A已經不在了，讓我們把選項B好好用起來吧。」
Dave，為了紀念你，為了好好撫養你的孩子們，我承諾我會好好地把選項B給用起來。雖然sheloshim已經結束了，我仍然會紀念選項A，我會一直紀念選項A。就像Bono唱過的，「悲傷沒有盡頭...愛沒有盡頭。」我愛你，Dave。
From Sheryl Sandberg:
Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.
A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: 「Let me not die while I am still alive.」 I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.
I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.
But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.
And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.
I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.
I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.
I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was 「It is going to be okay.」 That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, 「You and your children will find happiness again,」 my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, 「You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good」 comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple 「How are you?」—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with 「How are you today?」 When I am asked 「How are you?」 I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear 「How are you today?」 I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.
I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.
I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.
I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.
I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word 「sorry.」 To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.
For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she』d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, 「It’s the elephant.」 Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.
At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.
I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, 「Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.」 My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.
I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.
I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.
I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, 「But I want Dave. I want option A.」 He put his arm around me and said, 「Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.」
Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, 「There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.」 I love you, Dave. — with Dave Goldberg.
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