Habla usted Klingon?

In the County Hospital Pediatric Emergency Department™, roughly 75% of the patients are spanish speaking only. Which is fine, except for the fact that my spanish is quite limited. And you can probably tell from my writing that my English ain't so hot neither. I can conduct a basic medical interview, and figure out enough to come up with a diagnosis, but beyond that my knowledge is limited to: "No tengo los pantalones," "¿Dónde está el boticario más cercano?," and "Pensaba que ella tenía dieciocho."

As a fallback plan, I have two resources: interpreters and online translation software. Interpreters are great, but using one is a little odd. They'll talk to the patient for a full five minutes, then turn to you and say "She said no." Also, I'm pretty sure I heard the interpreter say "Este estudiante de medicina tiene un grande culo y huele mal" right in the middle of their conversation. I don't know what it means, but I don't like it! And most of the interpreters have been doing this long enough that they do most of history on their own, leaving me to scribe what I hear.

Online translators, on the other hand, are a little sketchy. I use them for discharge information (that's "discharge" as in "leaving the hospital," not "discharge" as in "from my pene"), but I find that things get lost in translation. For example, "Followup with your doctor in 2-3 days" became "el seguimiento de forma adjetivo con su pediatra en 2-3 días." Using my keen deductive reasoning, I decided that didn't look right. Translating in back yielded, "Tracking adjective form with your pediatrician in 2-3 days." Close but no cigarro.

That little experience did remind me of one of my favorite hobbies during my halcyon days of youth (boredom in high school): the double translate. Take a block of text, translate into a different language, then back again. Hilarity doth ensue. I know I'm lame, but at least I wasn't cookin' up meth in the garage! Here's an example - Christopher Walken's memorable speech from Pulp Fiction:

The way your dad looked at it, this watch was your birthright. He'd be damned if any slopes gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright, so he hid it, in the one place he knew he could hide something: his ass. Five long years, he wore this watch up his ass. Then when he died of dysentery, he gave me the watch. I hid this uncomfortable piece of metal up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the watch to you.

Becomes

The manner in which his father looked at it, this watch was his birth. There were be damned if any clues that will put their hands greasy yellow at its birth of the boy, so he hid in the only place he knew he could hide something: his ass. Five long years, carrying the clock until his ass. Then when he died of dysentery, he gave me the watch. I hid this uncomfortable piece of metal up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, give me the watch to you.

Good times. And that's exactly how I imagine myself sounding to the patients: "Are you to be having problems to eat?"

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