Children
as medical interpreters – devastating on every level. Pouelinna Po vividly
explains how painful and difficult it is to be put in an adult role in a
medical setting.
Popo’s Testimony
Language Access and Affordable Care Act Town Hall
June 7, 2013
Hi, my name is Pouelinna Po, I’m 17 years old
and I live in Long Beach. I’m a youth organizer at Khmer Girls in Action
(www.kgalb.org).
By the
time I was 7 or 8, I was already translating for my Dad
My story
is about my Dad, Vuthy Po. He was a refugee from Cambodia. He could barely
speak or understand English. By the time I was about seven or eight I was
already translating for my Dad. I would always be the one to go with him when
he went to the doctors, picked up medicine, or bought food. I never questioned
why I had to do this, but after a while I realized that the places he went
never understood him, and would just look at him confused when he spoke.
Because a lot of the places he would go never had people who understood or
spoke Khmer, I would have to go up to workers and translate for them what my Dad’s
needs were or any questions he had.
I knew that my Dad depended on me to translate to get anything done, but
as I grew up and my Dad’s health got worse this became more and more difficult
to do.
These
health conditions could have been managed
My Dad
struggled with multiple health problems. He was diagnosed with diabetes, and
also suffered from lung problems that made it hard for him to breath. Even
though these health conditions could have been managed, he was never able to
get the health care he needed. My Dad didn’t have a lot of money for medicine
and medical bills so he avoided going to the doctor and could only afford cheap
medicines as opposed to the ones he needed.
My Dad
didn’t have health insurance, and I was scared that if he didn’t get health
care he might die from his sickness, especially when I saw him get worse and
worse every day.
It was
hard to … carry the responsibility of caretaking
Out of my
entire family, my Dad only wanted me to know that he was sick. At first I felt
kind of special that he only wanted me to know, but as I watched him get sicker
and sicker it was hard to keep this secret from my family, and carry the
responsibility of caretaking for him. My Dad always took care of me, and now he
depended on me to take care of him.
I didn’t
want to say anything wrong
I would
have to call him to remind him to take whatever cheap medicines he thought
would help him, and when his doctor appointments were. I had to go to the
doctors with my Dad to translate for him. But I was not fluent in talking or
understanding Khmer so it was hard for me because I didn’t want to say anything
wrong, or some things I couldn’t even translate. When the doctors would talk to
me, I couldn’t event understand what they were saying or how to translate it to
my Dad. I knew how important it was to be at the doctor’s appointment, but I
dreaded going because every time I thought I was going to say something wrong
or make a mistake that would negatively affect my Dad’s health.
I felt
like I had so much pressure on me and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I
would cry in my room so my family didn’t see me, and would write about what I
was feeling. Most days I couldn’t sleep and would lie awake thinking about my Dad
and his health. It was tough to try to focus on school and I started to failing
my classes. Sometimes my Dad would call me during class and tell me that he was
dizzy or wasn’t feeling good, and I felt so terrible that I couldn’t be there
to help him. I started to miss school, stopped doing my homework, and was
always exhausted.
It was hurtful
to see him … I became depressed
It is not
easy to watch your own father get sick, and no longer be able to take care of
himself. It was hurtful to see him go through so much pain and misery, and I
became depressed. Even though I didn’t want to think about the possibility of
losing my Dad, the thoughts were constantly running through my head. And I
couldn’t turn to, or lean on my family for support because they had no idea
what was happening.
On March 27,
2011, around 8:30 pm, I got a phone call from my step sister saying my Dad was
rushed to Memorial Hospital. As soon as I heard that I felt like my world was
tumbling down. I couldn’t think about anything else but to get there and see
what was going on. I slept at the hospital for the first night he was there,
and looking at him suffer was so horrifying and hurtful. He was on life support, he couldn’t
breadth on his own, open his eyes and his fingers didn’t even move.
A few
days after being in the hospital the doctor called the whole family into a
meeting and told us what they discovered. Her first words were “I am sorry to
say…” As soon as I heard these first words I broke down and cried. They
pronounced my Dad brain dead on March 30, 2011. After hearing that there was
nothing the doctors or I could do anymore, they pulled the plug.
This
tragedy has impacted me and my family in so many ways. My family hasn’t been
the same, and I haven’t been the same. Nothing matters quite as much anymore. We no longer have
someone to call Dad.
I never
want another youth to go through what I went through
Losing my
Dad, has been a devastating experience and I can’t help but blame myself. I wonder if I knew Khmer better or if I
spoke up to get help, that my Dad would still be alive.
But, I
know the reality is that it’s not my
fault.
Me and my
Dad should have had access to translation.
In my
community I know that there are a lot of people who need translation, and that many
times youth have to do it. I never want another youth to go through what I went
through or have to feel what I’ve felt.
