Uncharted Territory
Emma Rossby
The doctor rings the bell and we are buzzed up. Our footsteps reverberate off the dark blue walls as I shadow her up the entryway stairs. She stops at the first door on the left and knocks confidently. She has met this couple before, the doctor says. They have been to prenatal consultations at her office a few streets down in Anderlecht, one of the larger Brussels municipalities. Her voice echoes slightly as she explains to me in French that the husband usually translates from French to Polish for his wife. I listen and nod as I heave an internal sigh of relief at the prospect of a calm afternoon. Having spent the morning observing babies’ first vaccinations and calculating the average time between injection and first scream (approximately 2.5 seconds), I’m glad for a change of scenery.
Muted scuffling sounds on the other side of the door. The doctor raises her hand to knock a second time just as the door bursts open and smashes against the outer wall. I tail the doctor through the doorway and into a flurry of activity. A bespectacled man circles around us, flinging out words as he grabs for his keys – “I’m so sorry!” – his bag – “have to run!” – his jacket – “good luck!” A drawn-out au revoir echoes up the stairs and combines with the boom of the apartment door slamming shut.
I blink and take in the smell of clean baby and lavender that fills the bright two-room apartment. White walls with purple trimming near the ceiling – minimalist, but not art gallery pretentious. A kitchenette and wooden table fill the right side of the space. On the left, an off-white sofa faces a TV. The muted mumbles of a news segment float through the room, punctuated by the occasional whimper of a newborn baby hidden in the room off the kitchen. The gentle woman in front of us matches her home. Her jeans are mostly covered by a knee-length beige sweater, the kind of knit monstrosity that I would mock my mother for buying, but then borrow and never return. She smiles softly as she tucks a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear, even though it is too short to stay there long.
I emerge from my spiral of thoughts and realize that the three of us are standing there in silence. I turn to the doctor, waiting for her to take charge. She just stands there. The woman in the beige sweater just stands there, smiling. Considering I have neither birthed an infant nor gotten a medical degree, I opt for following the lead, and I also just stand there.
Suddenly the doctor snaps out of it and turns to me. She speaks urgently in French:
“That man who just left? Her husband? He was our French-Polish translator.” I return her wide-eyed gaze and sputter an unprofessional, “quoi??” The doctor turns to the woman:
“English?”
“Not great, but ok,” the woman responds as she points us toward the wooden table.
A wave of relief washes over me. Crisis averted.
But the doctor is still breathing asthmatically. She hasn’t moved. Her eyes begin to twitch as she turns toward me again.
“Je ne parle pas anglais!”
I am still processing the fact that a doctor who offers postnatal consultations in such a diverse neighborhood in Brussels hyperventilates at the thought of speaking English when a large figure bounds out from behind the bedroom door. The doctor’s already shaky breath becomes a staccato of short gasps as the shaggy creature sniffs her crotch quizzically. We can practically smell her panic. The woman takes notice and laughs as she grabs the collar, crosses the living room and shoves the dog onto a small balcony.
Canine obstacle removed, the consultation begins. We crowd around the small kitchen table, myself directly across from the woman, and the doctor to my right. After a short huddle, we agree that the doctor will speak to me in French, and I will relay her words to the patient in English before translating her response back into French. My hands are unconsciously running up and down my jeans and my lunch is churning in my stomach. I take a deep breath as I realize that I am no longer a silent observer. No, my choice of words will have an actual impact on the health of the woman sitting right across from me. This is it. This is the true test. This is the culmination, the pinnacle, the –
I jolt out of my dramatic internal monologue when I hear the doctor inquire about the woman’s general health and well-being after delivery. That’s my cue. I speak to the woman in English and cling to every word of her response:
“Labor was short.”
“I’m going back to work next week.”
“My husband has been very supportive.”
Easily convertible to French. So far so good.
We go over some basic paperwork. The doctor explains, I direct, the woman signs.
This is going just swimmingly. No problem.
“And breast-feeding?” the doctor inquires.
Uncharted territory. Not unexpected, but unnerving nonetheless.
I await the woman’s replies:
“The baby feeds often.”
“She doesn’t cry much.”
“…but is it normal that my nipples are quite sore and crack and bleed sometimes?”
Oh dear.
Nipples.
What is the French word for nipples??
I stare into the distance as I try to construct a translation.
I can’t just point. That would be rude.
My gaze inadvertently shifts toward the woman’s breasts as I ponder the nipple.
No.
Look away.
In some languages nipple translates literally as breast-wart.
It’s a start.
What is the French word for wart??
No.
No good.
Oh God. What is even the word for breast?
I am not prepared for this.
Can we please go back to watching babies scream after being vaccinated?
No? OK. Focus. Nipple.
I try to sound as competent as possible as I utter a sentence in French that involves “blood” and “broken” and “thing on the chest” and “where the baby sucks.”
By some miracle the doctor understands the problem and nods with an interested “hmm.”
I reassure the woman that some discomfort is to be expected at the start.
Success.
We move on to pumping breast-milk.
Mainly French to English this time. Should be a breeze. I relay the doctor’s advice:
“You know, you can actually freeze pumped breast milk in ice cube trays.”
Frozen breast milk cubes.
Fascinating.
We get caught in a spiral of terminology but eventually distinguish pacifier from nipple shield from feeding bottle. The woman’s calm demeanor and sense of humor puts us all at ease. She hesitates for a moment before asking a question:
“Is it normal if there is a lot of runny and yellowish poop that leaks out of the diaper?”
Oh dear heavens.
Why.
Poop. Excrement. Feces. Bowel movement.
I stare intently at the lavender poking out of the tiny blue and white ceramic vase on the table. How do I know so many synonyms but not a single translation? Is it even legal for an unqualified intern with no degree in translation to communicate potentially dire infant bowel symptoms? I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be here. I turn my focus back to the poop and stutter another incoherent string of unthinkably advanced French terminology such as “poop” and “lots” and “not solid.” The doctor again responds with a thoughtful “hmm.” Apparently runny poop is normal, if it’s only once a day. I relay this solid piece of news and the woman and I share a look of mutual relief.
Are we done yet? No?
Oh. Breast engorgement.
***
I returned to the office the next morning. My boss asked me what I thought of the consultations and I explained that I had no notes from my observations at the home visit, because I spent the whole time acting as impromptu translator. Trying to hide my frustration, I asked if it was normal for medical professionals to not speak any English in such an international area, wondering what would have happened had I not been there.
“Ah,” my boss responded with her usual bluntness. “We Francophone Belgians are notoriously bad at English. But we can if we want. We just don’t. That’s why she used you instead.” My mind was spinning as I tried to formulate an appropriate response. “Oh well,” she quipped. “I’m sure you learned plenty. Here’s your next translating job.” She plopped a pastel pink French brochure on my desk.
“Everything you need to know about breastfeeding!”
I sighed and the coworker who shared my office giggled under her breath.
I did not sign up for this.
