That morning， I got the train as always. I was a publishing director and was looking forward to reading my newspaper， as usual. I would always turn to the cryptic crossword， but that day it didnt make any sense. Id been doing it for 30-old years， but trying to read this one was like treading through treacle： incredibly slow and hard. I thought I must be tired.

At the office， I sat down， turned on my computer and found I couldnt read the message on the screen. I said to my assistant， “This is strange， I cant make my computer work”， and she started laughing. Although I had no idea at the time， I was speaking gibberish.

Eventually， worried colleagues contacted my wife， Beth， and she drove me straight to hospital. There， confirmation came that Id had a stroke in the part of my brain that deals with communication. I was now suffering from aphasia， a condition that means its difficult or impossible to receive and produce language. When Beth asked the consultant how long it would take for me to get better， he replied， “How long is a piece of string？”

Over that first day， I got progressively worse. I couldnt understand what people were saying； I couldnt speak intelligibly； I couldnt read or write. A couple of nights later， I had to go to the loo and realised I couldnt read the signs on the doors. That was the first time I thought， “Christ， this is serious.”It was the only time I cried.

I was back at home a week later， and my goal was to get better and return to work in a couple of months. I started seeing a speech therapist three times a week， and was given homework to help rebuild my vocabulary and grammar. Id look at simple pictures and try to describe them as my mind wandered round and round in the darkness， looking for words.

Apart from being incredibly tired， and sleeping for hours and hours， I felt healthy. But I was deeply confused. Sitting around the table with my wife and children， all I could hear was a babble of noise. I couldnt separate sounds， be it a dog barking outside， music in the background or my wife talking to me. It was hugely frustrating. After a month， my own speech became functional—“Could you pass the salt？” “Shall we go for a walk？”—but I couldnt have a conversation. I couldnt read the newspaper. When I sat down to my favourite television programme， The Sopranos， I couldnt understand a thing. I felt so isolated.

People at work were fantastically supportive， but as the months passed it became clear I wasnt going to be able to go back to my old job. I still couldnt read properly， or have a phone conversation. The phrase that kept going through my mind was： damaged goods. For 25 years， I had defined myself as a publisher. I was used to a busy day of meetings， and bringing three manuscripts home with me each night. I enjoyed talking to my colleagues， I enjoyed working with writers and the status Id had. I loved reading books and the sustenance new ideas provided. I didnt feel ready to say goodbye to my old self. There were times when I felt incredibly angry.

In the darkest months， I devoted myself to trying. I would spend hours writing a description of something simple like a pencil， which would run over two pages. I couldnt manage novels or newspapers， so I tried reading poetry， and found the shorter lines less overwhelming. My speech came back， and I learned how to read again， albeit much more slowly. I also learned patience， and the ability to zone out of conversations when I couldnt keep up. I spent more time outside， looking after our garden， and eventually got a job a couple of days a week at a nursery. I allowed myself to slow down， and started to enjoy it.

Gradually， I sloughed off my old skin. I grieved the past， its passing and its absence， and started to come to terms with it. Now， 10 years later， I look after my grandson a day a week， and my relationship with my family is deeper than ever. We have learned to be very patient with each other. If youd asked me 15 years ago to rank the importance of the things in my life I might have said family， but in truth my all-consuming job was up there as well. Im no longer a high-achieving publisher or someone who reads 10 books a week. Im a family man and gardener with aphasia， and if I read 10 books a year， thats pretty good.

那天早上，我一如既往地去搭火車。我是一名出版總監(jiān)，像往常一樣，正期待著閱讀我的報(bào)紙。我總是會(huì)玩縱橫填字游戲，但那天的情況一點(diǎn)也不合乎常理。填字游戲我已經(jīng)玩了三十多年，但嘗試解開眼下的這一個(gè)就像踏著糖漿走路似的：難以置信的緩慢和艱難。我想我一定是累了。

到辦公室之后，我坐下，打開電腦，發(fā)現(xiàn)自己無(wú)法閱讀屏幕上的信息。我對(duì)我的助理說(shuō)：“奇怪，我無(wú)法讓我的電腦工作”，然后她就開始笑了。當(dāng)時(shí)我沒意識(shí)到，其實(shí)自己正在胡言亂語(yǔ)。

最終，擔(dān)心我的同事聯(lián)系了我妻子貝絲，她直接開車把我送去醫(yī)院。在那里，證實(shí)了我大腦中負(fù)責(zé)語(yǔ)言溝通的那一部分中風(fēng)了。如今我患了失語(yǔ)癥，這種情況意味著我會(huì)難以或者幾乎無(wú)法接收或說(shuō)出任何語(yǔ)言。當(dāng)貝絲問(wèn)會(huì)診醫(yī)生我需要多久才會(huì)有所好轉(zhuǎn)時(shí)，他回答道：“一根繩子有多長(zhǎng)？”

第一天之后，我的病情日益惡化。我聽不懂別人在說(shuō)什么；我不能清楚地表達(dá)自己；我也無(wú)法讀、寫。之后有好幾個(gè)晚上，我不得不去洗手間時(shí)，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)自己無(wú)法辨識(shí)門上的標(biāo)志。那是我第一次想：“天?。∵@真可怕。”那是我僅有的一次哭泣。

一周后我回了家，我的目標(biāo)是幾個(gè)月內(nèi)康復(fù)，然后回去工作。我開始每周看三次語(yǔ)言治療師，治療師還布置作業(yè)幫我重建詞匯和語(yǔ)法。我會(huì)看些簡(jiǎn)單的圖片，然后當(dāng)我的思維在昏暗中迷迷糊糊地徘徊著找尋字眼的時(shí)候，試著去描述它們。

除了變得極其疲倦，能連續(xù)睡上好幾個(gè)小時(shí)之外，我覺得自己很健康。但是我非常困惑。當(dāng)我和妻兒坐在餐桌旁，我能聽到的只是喋喋不休的噪音。我無(wú)法分辨聲音，分不清外面的犬吠，背后的音樂(lè)聲或者妻子跟我講話的聲音。這令人萬(wàn)分沮喪。一個(gè)月之后，我能說(shuō)些實(shí)用的語(yǔ)句了——“能幫我遞下鹽嗎？”“我們?nèi)ド⒉胶脝?？”——但我還是不能進(jìn)行會(huì)話。我無(wú)法閱讀報(bào)紙。當(dāng)我坐下來(lái)觀看我最喜歡的電視節(jié)目《黑道家族》時(shí)，我一丁點(diǎn)兒都看不懂。我覺得很孤獨(dú)。

同事們給予我很多幫助，但是數(shù)月過(guò)后，我明顯已經(jīng)無(wú)法再回到原來(lái)的工作崗位上了。我仍然無(wú)法正確閱讀，或進(jìn)行電話交談。那個(gè)不斷地閃過(guò)我腦海的短語(yǔ)是：殘缺不全。25年以來(lái)，我定義自己為出版商。我習(xí)慣了一天繁忙的會(huì)議，然后每晚帶三份手稿回家。我喜愛和同事們交談，與作家共事以及擁有如今的地位都讓我很享受。我喜歡閱讀書籍和吸收新點(diǎn)子。我覺得我并未準(zhǔn)備好告別從前的自己。時(shí)不時(shí)我便感覺自己怒火中燒。

在最黑暗的那幾個(gè)月里，我傾盡全力要改變現(xiàn)狀。我會(huì)花幾個(gè)小時(shí)去寫一些關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單物品的描述，比如鉛筆，一寫便會(huì)超過(guò)兩頁(yè)。我無(wú)法閱讀小說(shuō)或者報(bào)紙，所以我嘗試閱讀詩(shī)歌，發(fā)現(xiàn)那些短句不是那么難以應(yīng)付。我的語(yǔ)言恢復(fù)了，我又再次學(xué)會(huì)了閱讀，雖然慢了很多。我還學(xué)會(huì)了耐心，學(xué)會(huì)了在跟不上別人的談話時(shí)，渾然不覺地把自己帶離話題的本領(lǐng)。我花更多的時(shí)間在戶外，照料我的花園，最終找了份在苗圃的工作，一周只上兩三天班。我讓自己放慢腳步，開始享受生活。

逐漸地，我拋掉了以前的自己。我緬懷過(guò)去、其流逝、其缺席，然后開始妥協(xié)接受一切。十年之后的現(xiàn)在，我每周要照看我的孫子一天，我與家人的關(guān)系比以往任何時(shí)候都親密。我們學(xué)會(huì)了耐心對(duì)待彼此。如果十五年前你讓我將生命中重要的事情排序，也許我會(huì)說(shuō)家庭是第一位，但事實(shí)上，我全身心投入的工作也是同等重要。如今，我不再是一名出色的出版商或某個(gè)每周閱書十卷的人。我是一個(gè)居家男人，一個(gè)患了失語(yǔ)癥的園丁，而且如果我能每年閱書十卷，也還不賴。