Abstract

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Don't Mute the MessengerNilsa RicciAs a Spanish interpreter, I spend a lot of time talking with patients, family members, and other care team members. Like how an actor reciting from never-before-seen cue cards is talking or how a medium in a trance during a séance is talking. I talk without my voice. This leaves a lot left unsaid.I am also a resident, and I communicate with patients, family members, and other care team members in my own words. Working as both a Spanish interpreter and resident has given me a unique perspective, particularly about the boundaries I am able to set with patients. Both Spanish interpreters and medical providers are expected to maintain a professional distance with patients, which can [End Page 171] provide a certain level of emotional protection. However, the nature of interpreting compromises this distance and protection.In first person I must speak,Which makes my position unique.I was taught to interpret everything in the first person. For example, instead of saying, "The patient's mother is asking if her baby is dead …?" I ask, "Is my baby dead?!" The intent is to facilitate direct communication between patients and providers so they can build rapport. Unnoticed is that I hear a patient's traumatic experience, process it, and then deliver those vivid details in the first person of another language. My sense of self is breached because the first person is no longer innately reserved for my own self. The topic does not even have to be traumatic in the typical sense for it to cause harm. Speaking in the first person erodes the boundaries between self and non-self, exposing me to emotional trauma.One day, I was paged to an intensive care unit to interpret for a doctor and mother in front of an unconscious person on a ventilator. I had to play the role of a doctor who desperately wants to convince a mother that her son has no chance of survival—I must directly challenge any hope for a miracle to spare her a long road of heartbreak and disappointment. I also had to play the role of a mother who strongly questions science—I know faith is essential to my son's recovery, and I will wait for a miracle.In breaking bad news, there is that heavy moment when hopeful eyes beg for anything other than the painful message about to be delivered. The words may not be mine in origin, but the reaction is always to my interpretation. I watch the light of hope dull into despair and observe life leave the mother's essence.Boundaries blur as I play each part:I lend my voice but sacrifice my heart.Suddenly, I am wearing the mother's shoes and we experience grief's abyss together. I am made to recount memories I had with my son and made to long for the ones we will never form. Tears obscure my vision, and I feel my heart break as I realize my son is dead. My world crumbles and my vocal cords quiver then halt. I know the next sound will be incomprehensible. Wailing, the mother's voice is only intermittently understandable. In Spanish, she exclaims, "How many years must I live without you?" The doctor looks at me, inquisitive of my new silence.False memories flood my brainAs if possessed by pain.I hear myself say, "I can't understand her exactly," and then summarize her words in the third person. Instantly, I feel some relief. But with the relief comes shame for showing my weakness—for needing to break the protocol to cling to my sense of self. My pager suddenly beeps, breaking through the confusion like an alarm clock interrupting a nightmare. In a daze, I remember I am the interpreter—not this doctor, not this mother. I do not have a patient with complete loss of brain function. I do not have a son to bury. The doctor says, "Let's give her some privacy," and we excuse ourselves from her grief.Why then are your shadows still in sightEven now that my own script I write...