The word “just” is a minimizer. Several years ago, during a random conversation, whoever was speaking said something and that just clicked into place. Back then I used it all the time. My symptoms “just made me tired” or, “I’ll be ok. My XXXX was “just” acting up.”
I hadn’t realized until then that I was communicating that the difficulties that come with patient life were no big deal.
After that I made a conscious effort to use “just” in a more appropriate context.
Recently, I ran into a bit of a similar situation with a phrase I have never used, but which I have heard often in my work.
“We’re all patients.”
Wellll . . .
Yes and no.
In one context, yes, we are all likely to come in contact with the healthcare system. Some of us will be exposed to it early. Some of us will not have to deal with it until the end of our lives, when our bodies succumb to the natural effects of aging.
But in another context, no, not everyone will be a patient.
Because there are patients and there are patients.
The last time I heard that sentence, I was sitting at a table with several professional healthcare stakeholders. The group was working on patient centricity, which was why I was there, and as usual, the only patient representative in the room. I was answering a question and trying to convey the nuances and layers of emotional complexity that come with patienthood when another person at the table jumped in with the sentiment that we were all patients.
They meant well. But I had a visceral reaction. Which I didn’t express at the time. I wanted to take a minute to explore what had tripped my language red flag.
Let me be clear. I am not usually sensitive to language. There is a movement picking up steam, especially among the non-patient stakeholders, to use more person-focused language. But I will never object to being called a diabetic instead of a person with diabetes. And I don’t need to be called a person instead of a patient. Actually, not calling me a patient takes away a piece of my identity. I spend more time and energy on keeping myself functional because of my conditions than most people spend at work. So, yes, I am a patient, and yes, I am a diabetic.
But this rubbed me the wrong way.
I make no judgments. Having an appendix removed as a routine procedure with no complications can be unpleasant and traumatic. Anyone who has had an episode of ill health knows a certain kind of fear and anxiety over the future and how much it will cost to set the illness to rights.
But for many, including the person who made the comment, that’s the end. They’re done with whatever their healthcare struggle had been. They walked away and now lived a healthy life.
They have been a patient, but they have never experienced the relentlessness that comes with chronic illness, or in this case, had to choose where to cut essentials to afford an emergency room visit. They recovered from their fatigue and there are no more illness shoes waiting to drop, no more autonomy they will have to lose, no more accommodations they will have to make.
So, maybe I am making a judgment.
We might all be patients at some point.
But not, not all of us are patients.