As a medical interpreter, I’ve stood beside patients during some of their most vulnerable moments, after a shocking diagnosis, in the middle of excruciating pain, or during a long and emotionally draining hospital stay. It’s an intense privilege to bridge communication in these critical moments. But I’d be lying if I said it’s always easy.
One recurring situation gives me pause and honestly leaves me with mixed feelings. When a patient, understandably overwhelmed by illness or discomfort, lashes out, sometimes harshly, at the nursing staff who are doing their best to help.
On one hand, I deeply empathize. Illness strips away control, dignity, and comfort. Pain can fray patience. Fear manifests in anger. The sterile environment of hospitals doesn’t help, and language barriers can add a layer of isolation and helplessness. I understand why a patient might feel cornered, frustrated, or even scared. And it’s not my place to police their emotions.
But on the other hand, nurses and healthcare staff are human too.
They clock in with aching backs, mental fatigue, and emotional scars from the shift before. Yet they still smile, clean up bodily fluids, monitor vital signs, and offer reassurance in quiet, thankless moments. When a patient snaps or berates them, sometimes repeatedly, it leaves a mark. And when I have to interpret those outbursts word for word, I can feel the tension rise in the room. The nurse glances at me. I glance at her. And there’s a silent question lingering in the air. Is this okay?
So I’m left torn.
Yes, patients are suffering. And no, suffering doesn’t always come out quietly or politely. But does that justify mistreating the very people trying to ease that suffering?
Empathy for patients shouldn’t mean excusing hostility toward caregivers. At the same time, acknowledging staff fatigue shouldn’t dismiss a patient’s pain or disorientation. Both realities can exist at once and often do.
As an interpreter, I walk that tightrope. I strive to remain neutral, to deliver the message faithfully, tone and all. But I also absorb the emotional atmosphere, and sometimes it’s heavy. I can’t intervene, but I feel the weight of every word. Sometimes I want to step outside and just breathe.
I suppose this is the unspoken emotional labor of interpreting. Being present in the crossfire of unintentional wounds, compassion fatigue, and human vulnerability.
Maybe the best I can do is continue to hold space for everyone in the room. To remind myself that pain doesn’t always look like sadness. It can sound like anger or silence. And kindness, though often quiet, is an act of resistance in emotionally charged spaces.
I don’t have all the answers. But I hope, little by little, we can cultivate environments where empathy is a two-way street and where those who care, whether lying in the bed or standing beside it, are treated with dignity.
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