by Chloe Tran
It begins with a patient in a room whose language hasn’t entirely arrived.
The chart notes: abdominal pain. Moderate. Intermittent. Controlled.
But the words when they describe it come slowly, carefully, as if forced through an intermediary in order to emerge as English. They are not incorrect sentences; they are reduced sentences, as if some whole other shape has been shorn away during the translation.
In their native language, the description assumes new shape. The pain is not a simple symptom; it has a richness to it. It exists not only within the body but also within the memory. It refuses to be held long enough for simple quantification.
The resident moves quickly, already synthesizing, sorting. There is a directness to clinical language which permits almost no hesitation. All is made to become legible. All is made to become brief.
The translation is reported back in yet plainer terms. Clear. Usable. Documented.
It somehow seems less substantive than what had been articulated.
Afterward, alone, the event is recounted in words again, though even in the recall, little is recovered from the original encounter. Language often shrinks experience to what is most pragmatic and leaves the rest unsaid.
Upon exit, the patient pauses at the doorway. Briefly looks back over their shoulder. Utters a phrase in their native tongue, now gentler, as if speaking to a translator within.
Just fragments can be made out,
but enough is grasped to comprehend. Not all of what matters can endure the journey into clinical language.
Not all that is lost in translation is reclaimed.
Art by American Watercolor, “Embracing Abstraction“
About the Author
Chloe is a writer who loves personal voice and creative writing. She is drawn to honest storytelling and enjoys exploring everyday experiences through clear, expressive, and thoughtful prose.