Over this past winter I had travelled in Peru and Bolivia for a few weeks and the experience helped boost my confidence in my limited Spanish speaking capabilities. Although the three years of high school Spanish that I have rarely used in the past 15 years may have helped me book a room in a hostel and order breakfast, I recognize that the I’m lacking in the proficient medical vocabulary required to tell a four year that it is time for her medicine or that I need to take her blood pressure.
Despite this barrier, I managed to fumble through the communication required to connect with my four year old patient and her mother who both only spoke Spanish. With the help of a Spanish-English dictionary on my phone, I was able to identify the source of my patient’s pain as being an uncomfortable pizca, located in the pinching Oxygen saturation probe attached to her finger. When I brought in a syringe of her prescribed steroids to add to her IV line I could calm her fears by explaining that it wasn’t un inyección y es solamente para la lieña. This rudimentary communication got me through the day efficiently without the burden of calling the translator phone for simple tasks.
However,I recognize the perils that a primarily English speaking medical profession can place upon a diverse and
During my care, an endocrinologist entered the room to speak with the mother and educate her about her daughter’s condition and prescriptions. Paperwork was handed to her with emphasis on how important it was for her to monitor her daughter’s temperature and to notify all of her caregivers and teachers about her cortisol deficiency. Looking into the mother’s eyes I could tell she didn’t have the faintest idea about what the endocrinologist was telling her. I stepped in asking her if she understood, which she admitted that she didn’t. So I found myself acting as translator for an endocrinologist, illuminating the finer points of care for this woman’s daughter, all in an ugly use of half understood words and broken phrases.
Leaving the hospital after completing my day, I couldn’t help reflect on how complicated and intimidating the medical system can be for the common person. Learning about a child’s illness and how to properly care for it is nerve-wracking and stressful, yet how much more so is that stress when the system doesn’t speak your language?
Over this past winter I had travelled in Peru and Bolivia for a few weeks and the experience helped boost my confidence in my limited Spanish speaking capabilities. Although the three years of high school Spanish that I have rarely used in the past 15 years may have helped me book a room in a hostel and order breakfast, I recognize that the I’m lacking in the proficient medical vocabulary required to tell a four year that it is time for her medicine or that I need to take her blood pressure.
Despite this barrier, I managed to fumble through the communication required to connect with my four year old patient and her mother who both only spoke Spanish. With the help of a Spanish-English dictionary on my phone, I was able to identify the source of my patient’s pain as being an uncomfortable pizca, located in the pinching Oxygen saturation probe attached to her finger. When I brought in a syringe of her prescribed steroids to add to her IV line I could calm her fears by explaining that it wasn’t un inyección y es solamente para la lieña. This rudimentary communication got me through the day efficiently without the burden of calling the translator phone for simple tasks.
However,I recognize the perils that a primarily English speaking medical profession can place upon a diverse and
During my care, an endocrinologist entered the room to speak with the mother and educate her about her daughter’s condition and prescriptions. Paperwork was handed to her with emphasis on how important it was for her to monitor her daughter’s temperature and to notify all of her caregivers and teachers about her cortisol deficiency. Looking into the mother’s eyes I could tell she didn’t have the faintest idea about what the endocrinologist was telling her. I stepped in asking her if she understood, which she admitted that she didn’t. So I found myself acting as translator for an endocrinologist, illuminating the finer points of care for this woman’s daughter, all in an ugly use of half understood words and broken phrases.
Leaving the hospital after completing my day, I couldn’t help reflect on how complicated and intimidating the medical system can be for the common person. Learning about a child’s illness and how to properly care for it is nerve-wracking and stressful, yet how much more so is that stress when the system doesn’t speak your language?
