Medicine
Danielle Ofri is a writer and practicing internist at New York City’s Bellevue Hospital and editor-in-chief of the Bellevue Literary Review. The following piece is an excerpt from her newest book, Medicine in Translation: Journeys with my Patients (©Beacon Press, 2010, reprinted with permission). In addition to following Danielle on Twitter, Facebook, or her homepage, you can also meet her this month at readings in New York and Washington, DC (including Barnes and Noble in Bethesda on Jan. 20 and Politics and Prose on Jan. 21).
**
“Je m’a…,” I stuttered to Aristede Mezondes, the serious young man in a grey wool overcoat, standing before me with ramrod posture. “Je m’appelle Dr. Ofri.”
There. I’d gotten it out.
The language of Descartes, Voltaire, and Balzac had clearly vacated my cortex. Despite those years of French classes and one brief visit to Paris, “Je m’appelle” was the best I could come up with. And even that was a struggle. Pushed aside by the overwhelming necessity for Spanish in our clinic, further dilapidated by decades of disuse, I could not conjure up a single word in French beyond stating my name. I was appalled at my brain’s porosity.
Mr. Mezondes smiled politely. No doubt he was accustomed, and perhaps resigned, to the challenges of communication here in America. I gestured for him to sit down, and tried to signal a polite, “just a moment,” as I started down the list of options. First was calling the office of our volunteer interpreters. I asked around in the waiting room, but nobody spoke French. I surveyed the clinic staff—only Spanish and Chinese to be found. Back at my office, I resorted to the final option and called AT&T. When a French-accented voice graced my ear, I exhaled a sigh of relief.
Mr. Mezondes and I took turns on the phone, and I learned that he was a 24 year-old man from Braazaville in Congo. He spent an extra cycle of translation ensuring that I understood that this was the Congo that used to be French Congo, not the Congo that used to be Zaire. He was generally healthy, but his main concern was a burning in his stomach, especially after he ate.
Even though we smiled gamely at each other as we handed the phone back and forth, it was hard to say that we were really having a conversation together. It was more like we were each having a conversation with the polite but business-like interpreter. And that’s what our conversation was: polite and business-like. I asked the questions, he supplied the answers. I kept my utterances brief, not wishing to overload the operator and I sensed Mr. Mezondes doing the same. I was also cognizant of the cost of the services, so I tried to be as efficient as possible. I even ventured to tell my patient his diagnosis and treatment during this initial conversation, something I normally would never do before the physical exam. But I didn’t want to have to call the operator back again, so I explained that he most likely had acid reflux, and—barring any information to the contrary that I might glean from the physical exam—that I would give him a medicine for acid and see him again in my clinic in one month.
We said goodbye to our AT&T friend and I gestured him up onto the exam table. As I palpated his abdomen and listened to his heart, Mr. Mezondes asked in halting English, “You speak little français?”
No.” I shook my head, regretting the years of study that had never succeeded in cementing my French. “Solamente español.”
“Español?” he said with a broad grin. “Yo hablo español.”
Spanish? He spoke Spanish?!?
For the rest of our visit, we chatted happily, if a bit awkwardly, in our mutual non-native languages. I learned that he’d studied Spanish at his university in Congo, and I told him that I’d studied on trips to Latin America. And then we were able to review his medical issues and treatment, and I could be confident that he understood.
It had never dawned on me that Mr. Mezondes would speak Spanish. I had assumed that, like most West Africans, Mr. Mezondes would only speak French in addition to his native language in Congo. It never dawned on Mr. Mezondes that I might speak Spanish. I guess he assumed that most white Americans didn’t speak anything but English.
“Hasta luego,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Ojalá que pasa un buen día,” I replied, with a small surge of pride that I’d nailed the subjunctive. I knew that Mr. Mezondes could appreciate the linguistic leap that grammatical construct entailed.
Mr. Mezondes left my office to make his appointment with the front-desk staff. Most of the Bellevue clerks were Hispanic, bilingual in Spanish and English. Mr. Mezondes—a native Congolese who spoke scant English—would have no trouble at all arranging his health care.
- Does Your Doctor Understand Your Health Beliefs?
As a family physician, I've found that patients' individual health beliefs often play a big role in important decisions such as starting a new medication or undergoing an invasive test or procedure. Some patients were more willing to endure potentially...
- Favorite Guest Blogs
This post links to a selection of moving poetry and short fiction pieces previously featured on Common Sense Family Doctor, mostly republished with permission from the Bellevue Literary Review and Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine. Many thanks...
- Book Review: Medicine In Translation
Like the rest of you who live anywhere in or near the Mid-Atlantic region of the U.S., I have been mostly trapped indoors for the past several days while record amounts of snow have been falling. I used some of the time to read a few really good health-related...
- Guest Blog: Medicine In Translation
Since I started this blog a few months ago, I've supplied nearly all of the content myself, occasionally quoting others in posts but also adding reflections of my own. However, I always planned to eventually invite guest bloggers with other "common...
- Getting The Right Students In Medical School
Are we getting the right students into the medical school? To answer this question, we have to decide what we want students to look like when they get out of medical school. There is some debate about this but not as much as you would think. Once we decide...
Medicine
Guest Blog: Found in Translation?
Danielle Ofri is a writer and practicing internist at New York City’s Bellevue Hospital and editor-in-chief of the Bellevue Literary Review. The following piece is an excerpt from her newest book, Medicine in Translation: Journeys with my Patients (©Beacon Press, 2010, reprinted with permission). In addition to following Danielle on Twitter, Facebook, or her homepage, you can also meet her this month at readings in New York and Washington, DC (including Barnes and Noble in Bethesda on Jan. 20 and Politics and Prose on Jan. 21).
**
“Je m’a…,” I stuttered to Aristede Mezondes, the serious young man in a grey wool overcoat, standing before me with ramrod posture. “Je m’appelle Dr. Ofri.”
There. I’d gotten it out.
The language of Descartes, Voltaire, and Balzac had clearly vacated my cortex. Despite those years of French classes and one brief visit to Paris, “Je m’appelle” was the best I could come up with. And even that was a struggle. Pushed aside by the overwhelming necessity for Spanish in our clinic, further dilapidated by decades of disuse, I could not conjure up a single word in French beyond stating my name. I was appalled at my brain’s porosity.
Mr. Mezondes smiled politely. No doubt he was accustomed, and perhaps resigned, to the challenges of communication here in America. I gestured for him to sit down, and tried to signal a polite, “just a moment,” as I started down the list of options. First was calling the office of our volunteer interpreters. I asked around in the waiting room, but nobody spoke French. I surveyed the clinic staff—only Spanish and Chinese to be found. Back at my office, I resorted to the final option and called AT&T. When a French-accented voice graced my ear, I exhaled a sigh of relief.
Mr. Mezondes and I took turns on the phone, and I learned that he was a 24 year-old man from Braazaville in Congo. He spent an extra cycle of translation ensuring that I understood that this was the Congo that used to be French Congo, not the Congo that used to be Zaire. He was generally healthy, but his main concern was a burning in his stomach, especially after he ate.
Even though we smiled gamely at each other as we handed the phone back and forth, it was hard to say that we were really having a conversation together. It was more like we were each having a conversation with the polite but business-like interpreter. And that’s what our conversation was: polite and business-like. I asked the questions, he supplied the answers. I kept my utterances brief, not wishing to overload the operator and I sensed Mr. Mezondes doing the same. I was also cognizant of the cost of the services, so I tried to be as efficient as possible. I even ventured to tell my patient his diagnosis and treatment during this initial conversation, something I normally would never do before the physical exam. But I didn’t want to have to call the operator back again, so I explained that he most likely had acid reflux, and—barring any information to the contrary that I might glean from the physical exam—that I would give him a medicine for acid and see him again in my clinic in one month.
We said goodbye to our AT&T friend and I gestured him up onto the exam table. As I palpated his abdomen and listened to his heart, Mr. Mezondes asked in halting English, “You speak little français?”
No.” I shook my head, regretting the years of study that had never succeeded in cementing my French. “Solamente español.”
“Español?” he said with a broad grin. “Yo hablo español.”
Spanish? He spoke Spanish?!?
For the rest of our visit, we chatted happily, if a bit awkwardly, in our mutual non-native languages. I learned that he’d studied Spanish at his university in Congo, and I told him that I’d studied on trips to Latin America. And then we were able to review his medical issues and treatment, and I could be confident that he understood.
It had never dawned on me that Mr. Mezondes would speak Spanish. I had assumed that, like most West Africans, Mr. Mezondes would only speak French in addition to his native language in Congo. It never dawned on Mr. Mezondes that I might speak Spanish. I guess he assumed that most white Americans didn’t speak anything but English.
“Hasta luego,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Ojalá que pasa un buen día,” I replied, with a small surge of pride that I’d nailed the subjunctive. I knew that Mr. Mezondes could appreciate the linguistic leap that grammatical construct entailed.
Mr. Mezondes left my office to make his appointment with the front-desk staff. Most of the Bellevue clerks were Hispanic, bilingual in Spanish and English. Mr. Mezondes—a native Congolese who spoke scant English—would have no trouble at all arranging his health care.
- Does Your Doctor Understand Your Health Beliefs?
As a family physician, I've found that patients' individual health beliefs often play a big role in important decisions such as starting a new medication or undergoing an invasive test or procedure. Some patients were more willing to endure potentially...
- Favorite Guest Blogs
This post links to a selection of moving poetry and short fiction pieces previously featured on Common Sense Family Doctor, mostly republished with permission from the Bellevue Literary Review and Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine. Many thanks...
- Book Review: Medicine In Translation
Like the rest of you who live anywhere in or near the Mid-Atlantic region of the U.S., I have been mostly trapped indoors for the past several days while record amounts of snow have been falling. I used some of the time to read a few really good health-related...
- Guest Blog: Medicine In Translation
Since I started this blog a few months ago, I've supplied nearly all of the content myself, occasionally quoting others in posts but also adding reflections of my own. However, I always planned to eventually invite guest bloggers with other "common...
- Getting The Right Students In Medical School
Are we getting the right students into the medical school? To answer this question, we have to decide what we want students to look like when they get out of medical school. There is some debate about this but not as much as you would think. Once we decide...