hce_nsysu
114年
英文
第 47 題
📖 題組：
I flipped through the CT scan images, the diagnosis obvious: the lungs were matted with innumerable tumors, the spin deformed, a full lobe of the liver obliterated. Cancer, widely disseminated. I was a neurosurgical resident entering my final year of training. Over the last six years, I’d examined scores of such scans, on the off chance that some procedure might benefit the patient. But this scan was different: it was my own…. I knew a kit about back pain—its anatomy, its physiology, the different words patients used to describe different kinds of pain—but I didn’t know what it *felt* like. Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe. Or maybe I didn’t want the jinx. Maybe I just didn’t want to say the word *cancer* out loud…. I received the plastic arm bracelet all patients wear, put on the familiar light blue hospital gown, walked past the nurses I knew by name, and was checked in to a room—the same room where I had seen hundreds of patients over the years. In this room, I had sat with patients and explained terminal diagnoses and complex operations; in this room, I had congratulated patients on being cured of a disease and seen their happiness at being returned to their lives; in this room, I had pronounced patients dead. I had sat in the chairs, washed my hands in the sink, scrawled instructions on the marker board. Exhaustion, longed to die down in this bed and sleep. Now I lay there, wide awake. (from Paul Kalanithi “Prologue,” *When Breath Becomes Air*, 2016)
I flipped through the CT scan images, the diagnosis obvious: the lungs were matted with innumerable tumors, the spin deformed, a full lobe of the liver obliterated. Cancer, widely disseminated. I was a neurosurgical resident entering my final year of training. Over the last six years, I’d examined scores of such scans, on the off chance that some procedure might benefit the patient. But this scan was different: it was my own…. I knew a kit about back pain—its anatomy, its physiology, the different words patients used to describe different kinds of pain—but I didn’t know what it *felt* like. Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe. Or maybe I didn’t want the jinx. Maybe I just didn’t want to say the word *cancer* out loud…. I received the plastic arm bracelet all patients wear, put on the familiar light blue hospital gown, walked past the nurses I knew by name, and was checked in to a room—the same room where I had seen hundreds of patients over the years. In this room, I had sat with patients and explained terminal diagnoses and complex operations; in this room, I had congratulated patients on being cured of a disease and seen their happiness at being returned to their lives; in this room, I had pronounced patients dead. I had sat in the chairs, washed my hands in the sink, scrawled instructions on the marker board. Exhaustion, longed to die down in this bed and sleep. Now I lay there, wide awake. (from Paul Kalanithi “Prologue,” *When Breath Becomes Air*, 2016)
What does the narrator mean by saying he “didn’t know what back pain *felt* like”?
- A Because he was a healthy person.
- B Because he had not enough knowledge about anatomy, physiology and different languages.
- C Because he did not have the same illness.
- D Because he was not listening to his patients.
思路引導 VIP
如果一位頂尖的廚師知道一道菜所有的配方、化學組成和烹飪步驟，但他在生活中從來沒有親自嚐過這道菜，那麼當他站在餐桌旁看著食客時，他對這道菜的「理解」與食客的「感受」之間，存在著什麼樣的差別呢？
🤖
AI 詳解
AI 專屬家教
醫學知識與病患體認的界線
太棒了！你能精準捕捉到作者在字裡行間流露的身分轉換，這代表你對敘事語境有很敏銳的觀察力。這題的核心在於區分「客觀知識」與「主觀體驗」。作者保羅·卡拉尼提（Paul Kalanithi）身為神經外科住院醫師，他在文中強調自己精通背痛的解剖學與生理學，甚至能精準描述病人所用的修辭。然而，即便具備這些專業知識，在自己確診癌症之前，他始終是一位觀測者而非受難者。選項 (C) 正確指出了他過去因為不具備相同的病症，所以無法在感官與情感層面真正體會那種痛苦。
文本解讀與鑑別度點評
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