As a caregiver, I’ve become a sort of medical translator

I sit in the doctor’s office translating between two languages.

The oncologist speaks in medical terms — “progression-free survival,” “bispecific antibody therapy,” “osteolytic lesions,” “minimal residual disease.” My mum listens carefully, but I see the slight furrow in her brow. She is not fluent in this language. So I quietly translate. “It means the treatment is working for now,” I say softly. “It means we have more time.”

This translation work has become one of my main roles as her caregiver.

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When the doctor talks about “bone-modifying agents” to protect against fractures, I explain it as “medicine to keep your bones stronger so you can move more comfortably around the house.” When they mention “relapsed and refractory myeloma,” I translate it as: “The cancer has come back and is harder to control, but we have new options to try.” I try to turn cold statistics into human hope, side-effect lists into practical daily plans she can understand.

The translation goes both ways.

When my mum says, “I’m just so tired today,” I carry that to the doctor in clearer terms: “Her fatigue has increased significantly this week and is affecting her ability to do basic tasks like bathing or walking to the garden.” When she describes the bone pain as “a deep ache that starts in my lower back and spreads down my legs,” I make sure the doctor hears the exact location and intensity so they can adjust her care plan. I become the bridge between her lived experience and the medical world.

This role is exhausting but necessary.

Medical language can feel distant and clinical. It talks about “quality of life” as a score on a chart. For us, it means whether she can enjoy a cup of tea without too much discomfort, whether she can sit in the garden for a few minutes without pain, whether she can sleep through the night without waking in distress. I try to bring the human reality into the conversation so the doctors can see beyond the numbers and charts.

I am still learning how to translate well.

Some days I get the balance right — clear enough for the doctor, gentle enough for my mum. Other days I stumble, either softening the truth too much or making it sound harsher than necessary. But I keep trying because this translation work is an act of love. It helps my mum feel heard and understood. It helps the doctors understand the person behind the patient.

In the end, I am not just a caregiver. I am a translator, moving carefully between the language of medicine and the language of the heart, trying to make sure nothing important gets lost in between.

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