Blurred languages
We have secret languages, those of us in healthcare. The rules are those of check-boxes, yes and no, here or there, how and when. In the flurry of capitalism and exhaustion and acuity, narratives that stray from the rules are redirected. sometimes... only when... I’m not sure... I don’t know the words to describe it... are asked to be stated differently to fit the code. rewritten. revised. aligned. When we, providers, stray into the world of patients, our dictionaries entangle. We dialect. We assume we still know the rules, but often we don’t. We try to remove our worry and personal experience from our words to appropriately fit the right language, to check the boxes, to answer in the binary, to point to only one response, but it blurs.
Add in masks, and it’s all harder. Language and understanding. Tone and demeanor. Play-acting at knowing the rules, humbly working at establishing human connection even when we don’t. Missing cues of breaks in speech, interrupting and interjecting with accidental abandon.
And all the while, one of us is nervous. scared. uncertain. One of us is at work. doing their best, or just going through the motions. distracted. thinking about the last patient or the next. worried about your diagnosis but can’t tell you. And minutes of silence, buttons pressed and machines whirring and tools tinkling, knocks on doors and oh-the-doctor-needs-to-take-a-final-look assurances, could all be just a little easier if we talked more. checked in. looked at each other’s eyes. found a moment to connect or laugh. considered that we are both human and getting through these moments minute. by. minute.
mammogram a-okay, y’all. be gentle with yourselves and each other tonight.
