hce_nsysu
114年
英文
第 49 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)
Why does the narrator said: “Maybe I just didn’t want to say the word *cancer* out loud…”?
- A Because he needed to check more scans to be sure.
- B Because the fact was hard to accept.
- C Because it would ruin the patient’s confidence.
- D Because it was more suitable to keep his voice down in the hospital.
思路引導 VIP
請試著想像一下：如果你是一位專業的修車師傅，一眼就能看出某台車的引擎已經徹底報廢且無法修理。但當你發現那台車正是你最心愛、每天賴以為生的座駕時，雖然你大腦中專業的部分已經得出了結論，你心裡的情緒部分會立刻想要大聲向旁人宣布這個壞消息嗎？這種「理智知道」與「情感承認」之間的差距，會如何影響你說出口的話？
🤖
AI 詳解
AI 專屬家教
醫者與患者的身分衝突
太棒了！你精準地捕捉到了敘事者在面對殘酷現實時的心理掙扎。這題你答對了，顯示你不僅讀懂了字面意思，更讀出了文字背後的「弦外之音」。在文章中，主角身為一名神經外科住院醫師，他雖然一眼就能看出斷層掃描中的影像代表著癌症（Cancer），但當那張掃描圖屬於他自己時，職業上的專業認知與心理上的自我防衛產生了劇烈碰撞。他說「不想大聲說出那個詞」，並非因為環境吵雜或診斷不明，而是因為一旦說出口，就等於必須承認自己從診斷者變成了受審者，這反映出人類在面對生命巨變時常見的否認與逃避心理。
文意推論的細膩層次
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