At first I titled this entry, "the gift of language", but while thinking about it - language does not get us anywhere if we cannot communicate with someone else.
Take, for example, the adorable 85 year old Baba that will go down in the books as being my "first patient". Other health care professionals on the unit seem to dislike having "Baba" as a patient because every time they enter her room she either:
a) talks non-stop
or
b) only uses an English word for every 20 Italian words and even then, it is said with a very thick immigrant accent
In the short time that I have come to know her, I've learned a few incredibly valuable lessons regarding communication.
1) When 'pretending' to speak Italian, one must simply add "isimo" onto the end of every word. This way, even if the patient is confused by what you are asking them, they will laugh at your feeble attempt to try and meet them in the middle.
2) As much as I want it to be, "Crap-isimo" is not a word in the Italian language. If I had the opportunity to add it to the vocabulary of Italians, the definition I would attach to the word would be, "Wooooow, I screwed THAT up royally!" or alternatively, "DOH!"
3) If one truly does not understand what another is saying, a smile and a gentle hand on the shoulder go a very long way.
4) People prefer being spoken to directly and greatly detest having to use their adolescent grand daughter as a translator when trying to tell you that they are constipated.
5) Communication is so much more than simply the language we speak from our lips. It is about reading the pain in someone's face as they undergo an uncomfortable procedure or dressing change and reassuring them when it happens. It is about engaging their eyes as a sign of deep respect and admiration for the journey they have traveled and the experiences they have to share. It is about smiling as if to tell them that being in their presence has truly made your day. It is about holding their hand with a warm and gentle embrace as if to say, "I'm here, I'm with you, I want to help to lift you to your feet when you've fallen". It is about sitting in silence in their presence in place of saying, "I shall keep watch for you", reassuring them that they are not alone but very much loved and looked after. And finally, it is about a journey - a journey of two people towards a deeper sense of what the other means by their frantic, indiscernible speech or their playful twinkle in their eye. It is a journey that requires many steps, many detours, many bathroom breaks and many, many servings of patience, teamwork, and laughter.
She has taught me lessons that I hope to never forget and lessons that are applicable to so many various relationships in life outside the hospital walls. For even when we speak the same language as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues... we struggle immensely with communicating. We send virtual messages in place of phone calls, we neglect requests to respond, and we get overwhelmed by day-to-day responsibilities that before we know it, the day is done. Some lessons I wish I could write in a card and mail to people who have, for whatever reason, stopped communicating simply to remind them that I am still here - patiently waiting for the gift to communicate with them.
