Facebook (脸书) 营运总监Sheryl Sandberg在丈夫突然去世的第30天，在Facebook上面写下这段感人至深的纪念文字。今天我把它翻译成了中文。我想，如何去哀悼离开的亲人，并坚强面对，对于每个活着的人都是巨大的考验，也是应该学习的功课。

我想把这篇文章，献给两周前因心脏病去世的我的四姨妈。我知道四姨妈在生前，也订阅了我的公众号，会读我写的东西。在我成长的过程中，她也一直给我许多关心和帮助。希望她在天堂不再有苦难和困扰，也希望生者坚强。

作者： Sheryl Sandberg

今天是我挚爱的丈夫去世30天纪念日。犹太教把逝者下葬后的头七天哀悼阶段称为Shiva。 Shiva结束后，亲属可以恢复正常生活，但亲人去世之后的30天，也就是sheloshim的尾声，才标志着哀悼的正式结束。

英文全文

Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourningknown 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 thatmarks 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: “Letme not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayerbefore losing Dave. Now I do.

I think when tragedy occurs, it presents achoice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, yourlungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to findmeaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in thatvoid. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vastemptiness as well.

But when I can, I want to choose life andmeaning.

And this is why I am writing: to mark the endof sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While theexperience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who haveshared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened theirhearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have sharedwisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hopethat it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning fromthis 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 ofwhat it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when mychildren scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. Shehas tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I crymyself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room formine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own andmy children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her owneyes.

I have learned that I never really knew what tosay to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assurepeople that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thingI could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worstthing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in hishead would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you notunderstand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying toteach me.

Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay butacknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your childrenwill find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I knowI will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a newnormal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know andspeak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the bestof intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “Howare you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do youthink I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows thatthe 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 inthe ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate everycar that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving attheir destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I havenoticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out ofthe way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

I have learned how ephemeral everything canfeel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can bepulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirtydays, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiplerugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle aloneas they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong tome that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatestneed.

I have learned to ask for help—and I havelearned 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 notcapable 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 stilldoing 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 Ican work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told meto 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 getbetter. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; theability to compartmentalize is healthy.

For me, starting the transition back to workhas been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quicklydiscovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had alook of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help butweren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mentionit, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with mycolleagues 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 questionsand I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how theyfelt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, notsure 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 ofdoing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time hasan elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once Iaddressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.

At the same time, there are moments when I can’tlet people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show theirparents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So manyof the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or saysomething they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so noone could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.

I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude forthe things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I lookat my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate everysmile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told methat he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him andsaid through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to haveeach one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined tocelebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.

I am truly grateful to the many who haveoffered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have nevermet, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—somethingshe had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, Ibelieve as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know wellto those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending moretime with their families.

I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to myfamily and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they willcontinue 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, onlytheir faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for themknows no bounds.

I was talking to one of these friends about afather-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan tofill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He puthis 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 yourchildren as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick theshit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn foroption A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end togrief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.

原创2015-06-04晓晓有所得 by 李春晓