Some days, the job of a medical interpreter feels heavier than others. There are calls that test my emotional resilience, moments when I must remind myself why I do this work and instances where my humanity and professionalism collide. One such moment came when I had to interpret the final wishes of a patient who no longer wanted to suffer.
On the other end of the line was a Limited English Proficient (LEP) patient, her voice trembling as she pleaded with the doctor. “Please, just give me something so I can go. I don’t want to suffer anymore.” Her daughter, holding her hand, sobbed beside her, whispering, “Mama…” But the patient, through her own tears, reassured her daughter, “Don’t be sad. Be happy for me. I won’t be in pain anymore.”
The room was filled with grief, though I wasn’t physically present. I could see and hear the stifled cries of other family members who had gathered over the phone, their silence carrying more weight than words ever could. The doctor, composed but gentle, spoke carefully, and I had to render every word with clarity, without letting my voice waver.
It is in moments like this that the role of a medical interpreter becomes more than just a bridge between languages. It is a balancing act of neutrality and empathy, professionalism and compassion. I had to be the voice, not the person. I had to let the words flow through me without becoming my own. And yet, how could I not feel the depth of this moment? How could I not ache for this mother and daughter as their worlds began to separate?
I reminded myself of my role, I was there to ensure understanding, to make sure the patient’s wishes were accurately conveyed, and to allow the doctor and family to communicate fully. But being neutral did not mean being cold. My tone had to reflect the emotions present in the room without inserting my own. I had to match the doctor’s calm reassurance, the patient’s desperate plea, and the daughter’s heartbreak, all while maintaining composure.
As the conversation continued, the doctor spoke of legal complications in offering MAID (Medically Assisted Death) and hospice care facility options, ensuring comfort in her final days, of giving her peace without hastening the inevitable. The family, through their tears, agreed. And in that moment, I was not just an interpreter, I witnessed one of the most profound human experiences: the act of letting go.
When the call ended, I sat in silence. The weight of it lingered. I knew I had done my job well, I had remained neutral, and professional, yet, I had honored their emotions through my voice. But the emotions did not disappear simply because I had hung up. They stayed with me, as they always do, as quiet reminders of the humanity in my work.
Being a medical interpreter means standing at the crossroads of language and emotion, facilitating communication in the most vulnerable of moments. It is not easy. It is not light. But it is necessary. And if, for even a moment, I helped bring clarity, understanding, or a sense of peace, then I know I have done what I was meant to do.
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