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Letter to the editor

Sunday journal

Overcome by a language barrier

By EDUVIGIA T. ANCAYA
Published May 1, 2005

A knock on the door wakes me up. I hear, "Por favor, Doctora, come to the men's ward. A patient is in pain." I'm a last-year medical student and my position in the hospital hierarchy ladder stands firm at the bottom. I'm "el ultimo perro," the last dog, the one who gets called all night long at hospital San Miguel, in Buenos Aires. I'm also a young Polish immigrant in Argentina, not familiar with many of the local slang expressions.

I rush downstairs and ask a nurse what is going on. "It's that old Sicilian man, Senor Giuseppe Coconato, the one who throws kisses to every nurse. He has abdominal pain."

I find the patient's bed among a row of 30 snoring men. He lies holding his distended stomach. Bushy white hair and eyebrows dominate the dark Mediterranean features of this miniature of a man. He thanks me for coming. I examine him, evaluate the history, signs and symptoms, and promise him he'll soon get medication for gas pains.

As I walk away while scribbling orders on his chart, the patient asks in his unintelligible Sicilian accent, "Me van a poner la chata esta noche?' which means: are they going to bring me the bedpan tonight?

I only know in Spanish, "me van a poner la tapa esta noche?' which signifies: are they going to place the lid on me tonight? (slang for: am I going to die tonight?) That's what I think he's saying. Immediately, a nurturing instinct - which I'm happy to put to use after seven years of "book-worming" and no prior experience with patients - forces me to stop. So, after an abrupt 180-degree swivel, I face the patient.

"Are you married?" I ask.

"Yes," he says, "to Sebastiana, my wife of 50 years."

"Then how can you have such terrible thoughts tonight?"

Senor Coconato looks at me puzzled. I believe I'm reaching him and take advantage of the momentum.

"Do you have children?" I ask.

"Yes, eight beautiful bambini," he says and adds after a hesitation, "Me van a poner la chata esta noche?"

I'm lost. I attempt a different approach, "Do you believe in God, Senor Coconato?" I ask.

"Yes, I do, and in San Genaro, too, the patron of - " the Sicilian's words get louder and stop as he twists and turns with an agonizing expression on his face.

I sit on his bed and grab his hand, convinced I can talk him out of his dark thoughts. "I won't leave until you stop talking nonsense, Senor Coconato."

"Please, God, have mercy on me!"

"If you stop complaining, I'll let you go to sleep," I say, "but I promise you solemnly that in the next 24 hours, as long as I'm on call, nothing will happen. So, stop asking the same question and you'll feel better."

"Por favore, mia dolce Doctoressa, me van a poner la chata esta noche?" Senor Coconato screams, now in fetal position. Several patients sit up on their beds, rubbing their eyes in disbelief. But before I have a chance to answer, Senor Coconato stops his breath for a moment, then quiets down while his face takes on an expression of angelical bliss. At the same time, a suffocating odor fills the semidarkness of the ward.

I pet the patient's hair. "Please, forgive me, Senor Coconato. I'll call the nurse right away to clean you."

He throws me an understanding glance. His eyes, narrow and petrified until a few minutes ago, now are round, placid. I feel immense tenderness toward this forgiving, gentle man.

- Eduvigia T. Ancaya, a dermatologist and writer, lives in Valrico.

[Last modified April 28, 2005, 09:14:03]