It’s been a while since I’ve written. Not because life has slowed down or there’s nothing to say. Quite the opposite. Every day brings moments so full of human complexity and quiet heartbreak that I often struggle to find the words. But some days press on your heart in a way that demands to be shared, not just for the catharsis, but because these stories matter. They remind us what it means to be human.
Some stories stay with you, even after the call ends.
Today was my first time interpreting for her. An elderly woman, almost 80, her husband, who has been in the hospital for five months now. She is a Limited English Proficient (LEP) patient, recently admitted for her own medical concerns. And yet, she barely spoke about herself. Her focus was still, always, on him.
What struck me immediately was how she carried herself, tired and lost. Her hands trembled slightly, her voice teary and fragile as she spoke. She told the doctor, softly and slowly, about her life, her routine, and the loneliness that had slowly wrapped itself around her.
Before she was hospitalized, she would wake up early every morning and take an Uber to visit her husband. She stayed with him the whole day. She only left in the evening to prepare breakfast and lunch for both of them for the next day. That had been the rhythm of her life for the past few months. A life centered entirely around someone she loves dearly, someone she is terrified of losing.
They have no children left. Their only child passed away five years ago from cancer. She has a sister, but her husband has no siblings. No extended family. It’s just the two of them and now the space between their hospital beds.
She tried to explain this to the doctor today. Her words shook with grief, but also with deep sadness. She spoke about how afraid she is. That if he dies, she will truly be alone. That she has already let go of her social life, her community, her identity outside of this one role, being his wife, his caretaker, his everything.
And I was there, witnessing it all. It was my first time meeting her, but the weight of her story settled deeply. I interpreted each word carefully, letting her truth come through with clarity and respect. Her pain. Her routine. Her worry. Her love.
These are the kinds of calls that stay with you.
Interpreting is not just about language. It is about presence. It is about standing quietly in the room, invisible but deeply involved, holding space for a stranger’s heartbreak and dignity. You do not fix anything. But you help ensure nothing gets lost in translation, not even the trembling in their voice.
She reminded me today that love does not always look like grand gestures. Sometimes, love is showing up every day with a home-cooked meal, even when your own body is giving out. Sometimes, love is staying one more hour in the hallway, just to make sure he is okay.
To everyone who works in care, and especially to my fellow interpreters, thank you for holding space. And to anyone who feels unseen in their pain, I hope you know your story matters. It matters deeply.
She is still in my thoughts tonight.
To all the interpreters reading this, your work is profound. And to anyone feeling alone or invisible in their suffering, I hope you know there is someone out there listening. Someone who cares, even if it is through a wire, a headset, or a screen. Your story matters.
Gen Hayashi
Medical Interpreter
Behind the Mic
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