Words do have power. Names have power. Words are events, they do things, change things. They transform both speaker and hearer ... They feed understanding or emotion back and forth and amplify it. — Ursula K. Le Guin
Every medical student should have a class in linguistics. I’m just unsure what it might replace. Maybe physiology? (When was the last time you used Fick’s or Fourier’s Laws anyway?). Even if we don’t supplant any core curriculum, it’s worth noting that we spend more time in our daily work calculating how to communicate things than calculating cardiac outputs. That we can convey so much so consistently and without specific training is a marvel. Making the diagnosis or a plan is often the easy part.
Linguistics is a broad field. At its essence, it studies how we communicate. It’s fascinating how we use tone, word choice, gestures, syntax, and grammar to explain, reassure, instruct or implore patients. Medical appointments are sometimes high stakes and occur within a huge variety of circumstances. In a single day of clinic, I had a patient with dementia, and one pursuing a PhD in P-Chem. I had English speakers, second language English speakers, and a Vietnamese patient who knew no English. In just one day, I explained things to toddlers and adults, a Black woman from Oklahoma and a Jewish woman from New York. For a brief few minutes, each of them was my partner in a game of medical charades. For each one, I had to figure out how to get them to know what I’m thinking.
Dr. Benabio
Dr. Jeffey Benabio
I learned of this game of charades concept from a podcast featuring Morten Christiansen, professor of psychology at Cornell University, and professor in Cognitive Science of Language, at Aarhus University, Denmark. The idea is that language can be thought of as a game where speakers constantly improvise based on the topic, each one’s expertise, and the shared understanding. I found this intriguing. In his explanation, grammar and definitions are less important than the mutual understanding of what is being communicated. It helps explain the wide variations of speech even among those speaking the same language. It also flips the idea that brains are designed for language, a concept proposed by linguistic greats such as Noam Chomsky and Steven Pinker. Rather, what we call language is just the best solution our brains could create to convey information.
I thought about how each of us instinctively varies the complexity of sentences and tone of voice based on the ability of each patient to understand. Gestures, storytelling and analogies are linguistic tools we use without thinking about them. We’ve a unique communications conundrum in that we often need patients to understand a complex idea, but only have minutes to get them there. We don’t want them to panic. We also don’t want them to be so dispassionate as to not act. To speed things up, we often use a technique known as chunking, short phrases that capture an idea in one bite. For example, “soak and smear” to get atopic patients to moisturize or “scrape and burn” to describe a curettage and electrodesiccation of a basal cell carcinoma or “a stick and a burn” before injecting them (I never liked that one). These are pithy, efficient. But they don’t always work.
One afternoon I had a 93-year-old woman with glossodynia. She had dementia and her 96-year-old husband was helping. When I explained how she’d “swish and spit” her magic mouthwash, he looked perplexed. Is she swishing a wand or something? I shook my head, “No” and gestured with my hands palms down, waving back and forth. It is just a mouthwash. She should rinse, then spit it out. I lost that round.
Then a 64-year-old woman whom I had to advise that the pink bump on her arm was a cutaneous neuroendocrine tumor. Do I call it a Merkel cell carcinoma? Do I say, “You know, like the one Jimmy Buffett had?” (Nope, not a good use of storytelling). She wanted to know how she got it. Sun exposure, we think. Or, perhaps a virus. Just how does one explain a virus called MCPyV that is ubiquitous but somehow caused cancer just for you? How do you convey, “This is serious, but you might not die like Jimmy Buffett?” I had to use all my language skills to get this right.
Then there is the Henderson-Hasselbalch problem of linguistics: communicating through a translator. When doing so, I’m cognizant of choosing short, simple sentences. Subject, verb, object. First this, then that. This mitigates what’s lost in translation and reduces waiting for translations (especially when your patient is storytelling in paragraphs). But try doing this with an emotionally wrought condition like alopecia. Finding the fewest words to convey that your FSH and estrogen levels are irrelevant to your telogen effluvium to a Vietnamese speaker is tricky. “Yes, I see your primary care physician ordered these tests. No, the numbers do not matter.” Did that translate as they are normal? Or that they don’t matter because she is 54? Or that they don’t matter to me because I didn’t order them?
When you find yourself exhausted at the day’s end, perhaps you’ll better appreciate how it was not only the graduate level medicine you did today; you’ve practically got a PhD in linguistics as well. You just didn’t realize it.
Dr. Benabio is chief of dermatology at Kaiser Permanente San Diego. The opinions expressed in this column are his own and do not represent those of Kaiser Permanente. Dr. Benabio is @Dermdoc on X. Write to him at dermnews@mdedge.com.