The Danger of Spanish

I began my time on the wards with a good "medical student" case of post-streptococcal glomerulonephritis. This was a nine year old who had a recent upper respiratory infection and sore throat, now with blood in his urine, swelling, and hypertension as a result of renal failure. Though it was useful to review fluids and electrolytes in a pediatric population, I learned the most about building rapport with a so-called "tween" (pre-adolescent) who was a recent immigrant and spoke no English.

I found that my interaction with him and his mother fell into the danger zone of Spanish. The last time I formally studied Spanish was in high school, and though I've been to Mexico and Argentina since, my Spanish is fragmented, rudimentary, and very basic. Yet I overestimate my abilities. I think I know what I'm talking about.

This is the danger zone of a language. If I knew nothing, I'd get a translator. If I were fluent, I wouldn't need one. But as I am now, I convince myself I can ask about fiebre, dolor de cabeza, tos, falta de aire, nausea, orina, etc. But I know I'm far from fluent. The solution is obvious; get a translator. Spanish translators are the easiest to get in the hospital. There are also less-ideal alternatives; we can get phone translators or staff who speak Spanish. But despite all this, I have a great reluctance to do so. I have no good excuses, and the only thing I can say is that I'm trying to recognize my limit and when I have reached that, I will get a translator. This is something I will continue to work on, and something I know will get more and more difficult in the future as I find my time more and more precious.