A Quiet Examination Room

The only sound in the examination room is the clicking of the doctor's keyboard.

I show the two of them the monitor displaying the typed words and wait for their reaction.

From the two sitting before the doctor, there is only the sound of fabric rustling and the occasional sigh. No other sounds can be heard.

Their eyes leave the monitor, their hands move quickly, and their expressions cloud over.

The two are sisters.
They have been deaf since birth.
Their words are expressed through their hands.
Their parents and relatives have passed away, and they have lived together for many years.
The older sister has been diagnosed with an illness, and we are discussing treatment options.
The two are facing a choice regarding treatment.

A major decision that concerns the patient's life.
Ideas about how to live one's life differ from person to person.

That is precisely why I wonder if what the doctor is conveying is being understood correctly.
What are they thinking right now?

To the two of them, who look anxious, I write on paper and show them:
“Do you have any questions about the doctor's explanation?”
“Would you like some time to discuss this between yourselves?”

Seeing that, their fingers, hands, and expressions move quickly.
This interval is frustrating.
I also feel a distance between us.
Using broken sign language, I ask, “Is there anything you don't understand?”
“Do you know sign language?” “A little.”
I feel like their tense faces have relaxed just a little.
From then on, I focus even harder so as not to miss their rapid hand movements.
When I don't understand, I ask them to “do it one more time.”


Both the doctor and I watch them closely, trying not to miss any changes in their expressions or feelings.
Is there a shadow of anxiety?
Was there anything they couldn't understand?

The silence continues.

Then, the two nod slowly and deeply.
They seem to have confirmed with each other and reached an understanding.

The patient is the first to move.
She moves her right hand from side to side.
“They've decided not to undergo treatment,” crosses my mind.
“I will support my sister,” the younger sister's fingers move.

With strong, quick, and repeated hand movements, they convey their firm will to do the things they want to do together and to do what the older sister wishes.

Feeling that their thoughts have been conveyed, I stroke my chest firmly with my hand and say, “I understand.”

Between deaf patients, their families, doctors, and nurses, conversations are conducted using written notes, computers, smartphones, and translation devices in addition to sign language.
Information from medical staff and explanations from doctors must be conveyed accurately to every patient.

For those who use sign language, I try to communicate in sign language as much as possible.
The same applies to those from overseas; I like to use their native language for greetings and such.
I want to adapt as much as possible to the communication methods used by the patients.


Just as there is the term “tone of voice,” feelings and individuality reside in one's voice.

To understand the feelings of patients who cannot speak, I observe and feel their facial expressions, hands, overall body movements, and neck and head movements simultaneously, more than usual.
And then, I carefully confirm their intentions.

I don't want to make patients feel frustrated.
I don't want them to think they aren't being understood.

Some people swallow what they want to say and leave.
Some people don't put things into words, but have strong feelings.
The two of them made me reflect on my interactions with others.

Even if it doesn't become a voice, I want to firmly accept what they hold dear.

“#MonokaKingdom2024”Theme “Voice”I am participating in.