Have you ever been to a foreign country, or even an area of your home country that speaks a different language, and been completely unable to understand what is being said around you?

It’s frustrating at best, and honestly a bit unsettling. We depend so heavily on spoken and written communication that it can feel impossible to communicate without it. There’s a reason they call it a “language barrier.” This is a major issue in medicine, especially when caring for refugee and other underserved populations in predominantly English-speaking areas. Communicating with patients in a way that they understand can sometimes be difficult even if they speak the same language as you. Now imagine having an additional complicating factor, and you’re facing a daunting task.

It has been many years since I have taken a formal language class, but luckily I had a very strong foundation from AP Spanish in high school (thank you Señora D!). I have forgotten some of it, but the more I use it with patients, the more confident I get. About 80% of patients who come to my clinic are Spanish speaking only, and up to half of the patients I see in the hospital as well.

My Spanish isn’t perfect by any means, but it’s good enough to communicate with patients whose primary language isn’t English. I distinctly remember being on labor and delivery, and coaching a first time mom through the birthing process in Spanish because the live interpreter wasn’t available and the phone interpreter kept cutting in and out. I’ve never given birth, but it seems that pushing a baby into the world isn’t as intuitive as one may think. The OBs teach women in labor the positioning and strategy that typically helps their pushing be more effective, and without being able to communicate these directions it is very difficult to achieve the right scenario. Anyway, it was obvious that me being able to speak the patient’s language made all the difference, and I think she felt better knowing she could voice her concerns and would be understood. Even if I did confuse my words and tell her we would put a catheter in her gallbladder (whoops).

In medicine we often talk about meeting people where they are, and in this case, trying to communicate in a language the patient understands is a valuable part of that. Of course, it’s difficult, and I couldn’t interpret a single word of French past “bonjour.” So, I want to take this opportunity to thank the pros, the often underappreciated healthcare heroes, our medical interpreters. It is so impressive that these individuals are not only bi- (or sometimes tri!) lingual, but that they use their skills to make such a huge difference in the quality of patient care we are able to provide. Here’s to you, interpreters, and here’s to striving for a more collaborative, communicative environment among people of different languages and backgrounds.