老师能帮我看一眼吗？谢谢

人文的东西很难翻译的好，各位老师能帮我挑挑错误吗？谢谢

A Pink Salwar

粉红色的沙丽

I wake before the alarm goes off to a glorious dawn chorus in London. Usually drowned out by the cacophony of humans, cars, and sirens, now a symphony of birdsong bursts through the window. My morning coffee has no smell or taste, the heat from the mug providing the only stimulus. I walk to the station through the park, where cherry trees are in bud, teasing that they will soon erupt in pink blossoms. A rusty flash in my peripheral vision leads to a stare-off with a fox, each of us surprised to see the other. Scenes from films of a postapocalyptic world come to mind as my footsteps echo through the deserted station. The gentle hum of the escalator transports me underground, and in the eeriness of an empty Tube carriage at rush hour, there is comfort in the familiar voice of the station announcements.

闹钟还没响，我就醒来了，一醒来就听到伦敦破晓快乐的鸟鸣声。平时，鸟鸣声常被人、汽车和警笛的嘈杂声所淹没，现在窗外又传来了鸟鸣的交响乐。我的晨间咖啡就像白开水一样让人兴味索然，只有杯子的热度给了我唯一的刺激。我穿过公园一路向车站走去。一路上，公园里的的樱桃树正吐蕾，似乎调皮地在说它们很快就会绽放出粉红色的花朵。一道赭色影子在眼角边一闪而过，我扭头瞥了一眼不料却和一只狐狸吃惊地对视了一下。当脚步声在客流稀少的车站回荡时，我脑海中不禁浮现出电影中关于世界末日之后的场景。伴随着电梯轻柔的运行声我来到地下，高峰时段空荡荡的地铁车厢阴森恐怖，但车站熟悉的播报声让我感到些许安慰。

Through the main entrance of the hospital, the usual bustle of visitors and patients attending appointments is absent. I can hear none of the accustomed small talk between porters and patients being transported to scans. On the ward, I struggle to squeeze my hair under a surgical cap. Donning personal protective equipment (PPE) is like learning dance steps — gown, mask, face shield, gloves, more gloves. I feel like an astronaut as I step through the doors of the respiratory highdependency unit, each step weighed down by the PPE and the anticipation of the day.

走进医院的正门，看不到往常熙熙攘攘的来访者和就诊患者，也未听见护工和被送去扫描病人时惯常的闲聊。在病房里，我艰难地将头发塞到手术帽下。穿戴个人防护装备（PPE——长袍、面具、面罩、手套、更多的手套）就像在学习舞步。当我走进呼吸ICU的门时，感觉自己就像一名宇航员，每走一步都要被PPE和对这一天的期待所压垮。

The resident presents the histories as we round. “The first patient is a 45-year-old man, no previous medical history. Lives with wife and three children. Fevers, dry cough, shortness of breath. Day 10 of Covid-19 symptoms.” Blood results show lymphopenia, chest radiograph shows bilateral infiltrates. He has been continuing his work as a taxi driver despite the lockdown. “No work, no money,” he explains through gasps. The patient is Somali and 6 feet 5 inches tall. His long legs stretch out, almost comically uncontained by the length of the bed. He clasps his mobile phone and I catch a glimpse of the home screen, a photograph of his young children smiling broadly. Respiratory rate, 60 breaths per minute. The alarm from the pulse oximeter bleeps continuously, signaling his extreme hypoxemia. As the anesthetic team rushes to intubate him, there is no breath left for him to ask the difficult questions to which we have no answers. “When will I wake up?” “Will I wake up?”

查房时住院医介绍病史。“第1例患者为45岁男性，无既往病史，与妻子和三个孩子一起生活。发热、干咳、呼吸短促，Covid-19症状的第10天。”血液检查显示淋巴细胞减少，胸片显示双肺浸润。尽管已封城，他仍继续跑出租，“不工作就没有钱，”他上气不接下气地解释道。这位患者为索马里人，身高6英尺5英寸，这个身高使得他的长腿滑稽地从床沿边伸了出来。他握着手机，我看到了主屏幕上他那年幼孩子面带微笑的照片。呼吸频率每分钟60次，脉搏血氧仪发出发出持续蜂鸣报警声，这表明他处于极度低氧血症的状态。当麻醉医师团队急于给他插管时，他已经没有了呼吸也就没机会问我们其实也没有答案的难题：“我什么时候才能醒来？”“我会醒来吗？”

“The next patient is 68 years old, female, type 2 diabetes, on metformin. Lives with son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. Independent in activities of daily living and does the household cooking. Fevers, dry cough, shortness of breath. Day 8 of Covid-19 illness.” The patient has not changed into a hospital gown and wears a pink salwar kameez, the traditional long tunic and loose trouser suit of South Asia. The warm tones of the peach detailing of the salwar catch the light of the gold bangles that adorn her delicate wrists. She smiles despite her fever of 40°C and the tight face mask strapped to her head. We make adjustments to the pressures of the CPAP machine and the oxygen.

“下一位患者是68岁女性，2型糖尿病，服用二甲双胍。与儿子、儿媳和孙子一起生活，可独立进行日常生活活动和家庭烹饪。现发热、干咳、呼吸短促，Covid-19发病的第8天。”患者未更换医院病号服，穿着粉红色的沙丽克米兹（Salwar Kameez，这是一种南亚传统的束腰外衣和宽松的裤子套装）。她那纤细的手腕上带着金手镯，与粉红色精致的沙丽克米兹暖色套装交相辉映。尽管发烧40 ℃、紧扣面罩，她还是微笑面对。我们调整了CPAP呼吸机的压力和吸入氧浓度。

“52-year-old female, hypertension on ramipril. Works as a nurse in the dialysis unit. Day 11 of Covid-19 symptoms.” The chest x-ray is the worst I have seen, both lungs almost completely obliterated by infiltrates. I am surprised to see the patient sitting with calm composure in a chair and to hear a polite, muffled inquiry, “How are you, doc?” through her face mask. I place the probe on her finger, and 74% starkly appears. She puts her family on speakerphone, and I inform them that she is being transferred to intensive care. She speaks in Tagalog to her family, trying to reassure them, and inter- spersed I hear her teenage daughter speaking in English through tears, “I love you, Mama.” Her sister begs me, “Please doctor, please, please save her. Please promise me, doctor.”

“52岁女性、高血压、雷米普利治疗，透析室的护士。Covid-19症状的第11天。”这是我见过的最差的胸部X线片，双肺几乎被完全浸润而破坏。我惊讶地看到患者在椅子上平静地坐着，从她的面罩中传出一个礼貌但闷闷不乐的问候“医生，你好”。我把脉氧探头放在她手指上，出现严酷的数字—74%。她让家人开着免提，我告诉他们她正被转往重症监护科。她用塔加洛语与她的家人对话，试图安慰他们，期间我听到她十几岁的女儿哭着用英语说，“我爱你，妈妈。”她的姐姐恳求我说：“医生，请救救她。请答应我，医生。”

“78-year-old man. History of myocardial infarction in 2012 and chronic kidney disease. Walks with a stick. Day 14 of Covid illness. Day 4 of CPAP. Worsening.” The patient’s turban is neatly tied. He has a long, white flowing beard and wears a kara — an iron bracelet, a symbol representing his faith. He is exhausted. His thin facial skin is bruised from the tight-fitting mask, and a pressure ulcer is slowly forming on his cheek, despite the regular adjustments made diligently by his nurse. After discussion with him and his family, we remove the CPAP mask and switch to a simple face mask. He asks for milky tea with two teaspoons of sugar. Later that afternoon, he closes his eyes and dies. A life filled with family and friendships, and at the end he is alone. The empty tea-stained polystyrene cup sits on the bedside table, its solace drained.

“78岁男性，2012年心肌梗死及慢性肾病病史。持拐走路，Covid疾病第14天，CPAP的第4天，正在恶化。”他留着长长的白色飘逸的胡须，系着整齐的头巾，戴着象征着其信仰卡拉-安（Kara-an）铁手镯，奄奄一息。尽管其护士努力定期调整面罩，其消瘦的面颊依然被紧扣的面罩擦伤，慢慢形成了压疮。在与他及其家人讨论后，我们取下了CPAP面罩，改用简单的面罩。他喝了含两茶匙糖的奶茶。当天下午晚些时候，他闭上眼睛走了。他将生活奉献给了家庭和朋友，最后他还是孑然一身。空的茶色聚苯乙烯杯还放在床头柜上，但带给患者的慰藉已烟消云散。

“55-year-old female. Diet-controlled type 2 diabetes. Works as a nurse in acute medicine. Day 8 of anosmia, fevers, and cough.” She looks so youthful, her eyes bright, her walnutcolored skin smooth. Her son lives in Ghana, her daughter is in the United States. “I am alone here,” she says, and tears overflow from her eyes. We try to fill the air with kind words, but they hang heavily, a meager attempt at consolation for the absence of family.

“55岁女性，饮食控制的2型糖尿病，急诊科护士，嗅觉丧失、发热和咳嗽的第8天”她看上去很年轻，眼睛明亮，核桃色的光滑皮肤。她的儿子在加纳，女儿在美国。“我孤零零在这里，”她说完，眼泪夺眶而出。我们艰难的试图用亲切的话语改善氛围，尝试用微不足道的言语安慰这位家人缺席的患者。

“47-year-old man with type 2 diabetes. Day 5 of cough and fevers. Admitted this morning. Oxygen saturations 95% on 4 liters of oxygen, and respiratory rate is 24.” The observations on the chart are the best I have seen today. My relief is displaced by the panic in his eyes. He has not been able to move his right arm for the past 30 minutes. His words tumble out like he is drunk. Imaging reveals the filling defect in the left internal carotid artery and the resulting infarct, the virus making his blood sticky and his endothelium inflamed. This virus is wicked and keeps taking.

“47岁男性、2型糖尿病、咳嗽发烧第五天，今早入院。4升/分钟氧气时氧饱和度为95%，呼吸频率24”。图表上记录到的观察结果是我今天看到的最好的。我刚松了一口气就被他眼中的惊慌将心提到了嗓子眼。过去的30分钟里，他的右臂一直无法移动，说话时就像喝醉了一样。影像显示左侧颈内动脉的充盈缺陷和由此导致的梗死，这种邪恶的、不断肆虐的病毒使其血液变得粘滞、内皮发炎。

The ward fills with gold warmth as the sun starts to set. The cardiac arrest alarm blares. The nurse has started chest compressions, and we go through the orchestrated ballet of resuscitation. Scissors quickly cut through the pink salwar, and the paddles are applied. Pulseless electrical activity due to hypoxemia. After we stop, the team stands dazed, stifled by PPE, stifled by not being able to console each other by a squeeze of the hand or a pat on the shoulder, stifled by watching this virus choke the breath from our patients.

当太阳开始下山时，温暖的病房里充满了金色的余晖。心脏骤停警报声突然响起，在我们开始有条不紊的复苏前护士已经开始了胸部按压。剪刀迅速切开粉红色的沙丽克米兹，然后贴上电极。心脏骤停是因低氧血症而导致的无脉电活动。当我们停止复苏、头晕目眩站在那里时，因穿着个人防护用品、因无法通过握手或拍肩膀来安慰对方、因眼睁睁看着病毒窒息了患者的呼吸，我们都感觉自己也即将窒息。

I doff my PPE carefully and wash my hands. My face hurts, the tight mask that protects me marking my cheeks. The granddaughter is listed as the next of kin. I slowly dial the number and wait for an answer. I hear the background noise of family life, the volume on a television hastily turned down, the clang of a pot as dinner is prepared. I explain who I am and that I’m calling from the hospital. “Why are you calling? What’s happened? She’s OK, right?” I give the granddaughter the news and wait as this family’s world crumbles. The sounds of raw grief come through the receiver — crying, howling, guttural sobs. I am silent.

我仔细脱下PPE、洗手。由于保护面罩紧扣脸颊时留下了深深的印迹，我的脸生疼。患者的近亲登记的是孙女，我小心翼翼地拨着她的号码，等待接听。我听到了日常生活中的各种声音、急匆匆调低的电视机的音量声、准备晚餐时锅碗瓢盆的叮当声。我告诉她我是谁，告知道我是从医院打来的。“你为什么打电话？出什么事了？她没事，对吧？”我把患者去世的消息告诉孙女，在等回话时我等到了这个家庭的世界崩溃。听筒里传来真切的悲伤声——哭泣、嚎哭、轻声抽泣，我沉默了。

Morning news bulletins scream and shout the fears of the second wave. I inhale the steam from the cup and take a sip of tea, savoring the intricacy of cardamom and ginger. Autumn has erupted, and the leaves are changing to feuille morte and turmeric colors. A dark winter brings a tsunami of patients, countless individual desperate experiences accumulating in our collective grief. I dream of scissors cutting through the pink salwar.

晨间新闻播报的最新消息充斥着病毒的第二波来袭的警告，带来了新的恐惧。我吸了一下茶水中散发的蒸汽，抿了一口茶，品味着豆蔻和姜无法言说的味道。秋天已到，树叶正凋谢成棕色和姜黄色。在这个黑暗的冬天，Covid患者大量涌现，无数绝望的病患经历让我们越来越陷入集体悲痛中。睡梦中，我梦见我用剪刀剪断了粉红色的纱丽。

I walk to the station through the park. Yellow heralds a hopeful reawakening with the drama of forsythia and daffodils trumpeting the arrival of spring. There has been a light rain in the early hours, and the earthy aroma of petrichor lies teasingly just below the surface. I can’t breathe deeply enough to fill my lungs with the scent.

我穿过公园走向地铁站，园内黄色的连翘和水仙花戏剧化地预示着一个充满希望的苏醒，大肆宣告着春天的到来。凌晨下了一场小雨，地铁内居然空气清新，我却不敢尽情深呼吸这种清新的空气。

各位老师能帮我挑挑错误吗?谢谢