Not every call stays with you, but some never leave.
I was called in to interpret for a patient with limited English proficiency (LEP) who had been admitted in critical condition. The doctors needed to speak with the family. The patient was confused, in visible pain, and moaning quietly. Her condition had deteriorated quickly. Advanced cancer had led to multisystem organ failure. Everyone in the room knew the time was short, possibly hours, if not days.
Her son was on the phone, desperate. He was trying to catch the next flight to see his mother one last time, but he kept asking the doctor, “Will I be too late? Will she still be alive when I get there?” His voice cracked. I could hear the weight of hope and dread tangled together in every word.
Meanwhile, the family members who were by her bedside were faced with a devastating decision: whether to continue aggressive treatment that might keep her body alive for a little longer, or transition to comfort care to ease her pain as she slipped away.
It wasn’t a choice between life and death. It was a choice between more suffering and a peaceful goodbye.
The Role I Had to Play
In those moments, I wasn’t just interpreting. I was the bridge between the family’s emotions and the clinical language of medicine. The patient’s husband, who spoke limited English, struggled to understand what was happening. He kept asking simple questions in his dialect, “You can give her pain medicine, right?” “What can you do to help her?”, trying to make sense of a situation where nothing made sense.
The doctors explained that no matter what was done, her life could not be prolonged. The cancer had spread too far. Her body was shutting down. Comfort care would mean easing her pain, keeping her peaceful, and allowing her to pass with dignity. Aggressive care, on the other hand, might mean tubes, machines, more pain, and still no survival.
As I interpreted, I found myself carefully choosing words that carried clarity without cruelty, compassion without overstepping. I stayed as close to the source message as possible, but I knew tone mattered. The way I relayed the doctor’s words could shape how the family received them, how they understood the finality of what was coming.
Holding the Space
The son kept asking if she would hang on until he arrived. I had to interpret the doctor’s honest response: “We don’t know. But we’ll do everything we can to keep her comfortable until then.”
The husband and family members wept silently as I repeated those words in his language. He turned to the others in the room, asking what they should do. Tension filled the space, grief, confusion, and fear. And in the middle of it all, I held my place, not speaking for them, but making sure they were heard, seen, and understood.
I stayed on the line until the family could come to a decision. Time was ticking, and yet every second felt heavy. In the quiet between each sentence, I could feel the emotional weight pressing in. This was the last chapter of someone’s life, and I was there to ensure no word, no emotion, was lost in translation.
Why It Still Matters
Calls like these are the hardest. You hang up the line, and you sit in silence for a while afterward. You think about the son on the plane. You think about the husband and relatives beside the bed. And you think about how, in their most vulnerable moment, your voice was the one connecting them to the truth, however painful it was.
Being an interpreter in these moments is not just about language. It’s about presence. It’s about holding space for pain, for clarity, and for love in its rawest form.
We don’t make decisions. We don’t give advice. But we carry each word with care, because we know how much they matter.
This work is more than a job. It’s a responsibility, and a privilege.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in these blog entries are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the company. Any content provided by the author is of their opinion and is not intended to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, individual, or anyone or anything.