Takeaway
Medical jargon is a foreign language to many patients. Check for understanding by asking them to explain what they've heard in their own words.
Connecting with patients | July 2, 2026 | 4 min read
By Nettie Reynolds, MDiv, interfaith chaplain
During seminary, I spent a year studying Koine Greek, the language of the New Testament. I memorized vocabulary, wrestled with verb tenses, and slowly learned to translate passages that had been written nearly two thousand years ago. At the time, I imagined it would be one of the most useful things I would learn in my training.
Years later, as a hospice chaplain, I found myself studying another language on my own. I hired a private tutor to teach me hospital Spanish in order to communicate more directly with the patients and families I served in Texas. The hospital also had professional interpreters, whose work I came to value deeply. They did far more than translate words—they understood pauses, emotion, and cultural nuance in ways no vocabulary list ever could.
What I didn’t expect was that the language I would spend the most time translating wasn’t Greek or Spanish.
It was the language of medicine.
When medical jargon is a barrier
Like every profession, healthcare has its own vocabulary. It’s precise, efficient, and essential for communicating with one another. We spend years listening to and speaking these words in classrooms, clinical rounds, and conversations with colleagues until they become second nature. Over time, the language becomes so familiar that we no longer hear it as specialized vocabulary. Before long, terms such as prognosis, palliative care, disease progression, terminal agitation, ambulate, NPO, failure to thrive, and goals of care become part of everyday conversations with colleagues.
But for many patients and families these words are entirely unfamiliar. They’re often hearing this language for the very first time, and sometimes on one of the hardest days of their lives. While clinicians are communicating with precision, families are trying to make sense of words they’ve never encountered before—and no one hands them a glossary when they walk through the hospital doors.
“Can you tell me what that actually means?”
After family meetings, I often remained behind while physicians continued on to the next patient. The patient or family member would often turn to me and ask, “Can you tell me what that all actually means?”
The question wasn’t a reflection of anyone’s failure to explain—it was a reminder that understanding is shaped by far more than vocabulary.
Families are sometimes trying to absorb life-changing news while exhausted from nights spent sleeping in hospital chairs. They may be living on interrupted sleep, cafeteria coffee, and a steady stream of conversations with different clinicians. They’re often trying to remember medication lists, answer calls from worried relatives, and make hard decisions.
Sometimes the barrier truly is language. Although professional interpreters were sometimes available at my hospital, there were occasions when an adult son or daughter quietly stepped into that role for a parent who spoke little English. I always admired their willingness to help, but I also felt for them. They were carrying two burdens at once: translating complicated medical information while hearing difficult news about someone they loved. No family member should have to shoulder both responsibilities if another option is available.
When in-person translators are unavailable many hospitals rely on remote video or audio interpreting services and/or other translation technology. Those tools have an important place in healthcare, but they can’t notice the confused expression that lingers after a conversation ends, or when someone is nodding politely rather than with understanding. And they can’t sense the hesitation that often precedes the question a family is afraid to ask.
Listening beyond words
Over the years, I found myself paying as much attention to faces as I did to words. If someone looked uncertain, I tried another explanation. If they nodded quickly, I learned not to assume comprehension. I often asked them to tell me, in their own words, what they understood about what the physician had shared. Those conversations often revealed where clarification was still needed, and they gave families permission to ask the questions they worried might sound foolish.
Three questions that I’ve found helpful:
1. Can you tell me, in your own words, what you’ve heard today?
2. Who will help you remember this information once you leave the hospital?
3. What questions do you still have that we haven’t answered?
Each question creates space for clarification and connection. Communication isn’t simply about speaking and listening—it’s about helping another person feel understood. Sometimes the most meaningful translation in healthcare is from the language of medicine to the shared language of being human.
This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.