At the ER

 Recently I went to the  hospital in Salem. The first trip was to urgent care for sharp pains in my right side. They said I had rib cage inflammation and gave me steroids. The second trip was  to urgent  care for pressure-like pains in my left side. They said I had a UTI and gave me antibiotics.

I can’t go to my doctor’s office when I have an urgent problem or illness. They need two weeks notice to schedule a sign language interpreter. My friend had to help with communication at urgent care. She can fingerspell. It’s not ideal. It’s against my rights under ADA. But it’s the only thing I could do.

The pain in my left side got worse. It hurt so bad all I could do was sit doubled over. I also had a reaction to the antibiotic. This time I went to the ER. To do this, I needed an actual interpreter.

My friend called the only interpreting agency in the area to give them notice that I would need an emergency interpreter. I can’t ask for an interpreter myself, or else I would have to pay for the services. The hospital has to call the agency.

The fight began. I was  in my wheelchair, moaning and crying from the pain. I could not understand what they were saying, but I could hear the yelling. It made me feel ancious, small and worthless.

“We have a system here,” the woman said. 

By that she meant VRI (Video Remote Interpreter). This is when the interpreter is not on site. Technology is used and the interpreter appears on a computer screen. Sorry, I’m DeafBlind. The blind part means I can’t see.

I always have this urge to say, “Let’s do it.” Then I’ll feel the screen and act puzzled when I can’t understand the interpreter.

“We have lots of deaf and blind people who use the system.”

Not true. I’m the only DeafBlind person in Salem and probably the only one in my small county.

The argument continues. Charlie insists they must get an interpreter from the agency.

“I’m going to call my supervisor.”

The first supervisor comes in. The second arrives. The third shows up. All of them refuse my request.

“You did it here twice recently,” they say to Charlie. “You have to do it now.”

It takes four years of colle to get a degree in ASL or interpreting, and the person must  pass various skill tests. A family membe is not an interpreter. A friend  is not an interpeter.

“Why are you changing your mind all of a sudden.”

Because this is an emergency, and I need to know what is being said in my own language. I need to be fully informed.

Charlie spells into my hand, and I don’t understand.

Because I need to understand everything. What if that had been vital information, and I didn’t understand?

They did something really strange. Someone called Columbiana County Board of Developmental Disabilities, and my SSA was sent over. Why? WHY? She’s a wonderful and caring person, but she doesnot know sign language. I need an interpreter to communicate with her. How was she supposed to help?

Several hours have passed and I’m still in the waiting room. They finally agree to call the agency.

“It won’t take long,” Charlie tells me. “They have an interpreter ready for you.”

We wait and wait and wait. No interpreter arrives. A few more hours pass. The agency calls and says they have no available interpreters.

What use is an emergency interpreter line if there is never an interpreter?

What am I going to do now? What choice do I have?” Charlie has to be my interpreter again.

I go into the room, put on a gown and wait. A nurse finally arrives to put in and IV. I tell him not to do it in my hand. It  interferes with communication. I’m dehydrate, and he can’t find a vein. He puts it in my hand.

My left arm is out of order.  I can’t use it with the IV, pulse ox and BP cuff in the way. Do they  realize I need use of the arm to communicate?

The doctor finally arrives. It’s the first thing she says. It always is.

“So, you are deaf and blind?)

Angie C. Orlando

September 1, 2024

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