The Power of a Word

My name is Bronwyn Allan (SRC 0040177), and I am currently completing my Bpsych Equivalent practicum at Ububele. On Wednesdays, I spend two hours at Edenvale Hospital in the maternity ward, conducting newborn consults and supporting mothers in those tender first days after birth.

This past week reminded me just how powerful communication can be.

I met a gentle Zimbabwean mother who had delivered a healthy baby. While her newborn was doing well, she herself was being kept in hospital due to hypertension. She explained that she had a “high pulse,” and although she seemed physically stable, something about her demeanour felt unsettled. As we spoke, she suddenly began to sob.

When I gently asked what was making her so distressed, she shared — through tears — that a doctor had just informed her that they were going to “kill” her for a few minutes and then wake her up in order to treat her heart. She was terrified. She had refused to sign the consent forms because she could not understand why anyone would expect her to agree to being killed — even temporarily. In that moment, her fear was very real. I asked her who had explained this to her, and she pointed to a doctor in a red dress in the neighbouring ward. Wanting clarity, I approached the nurses’ station to enquire about the situation. When I relayed what the patient had understood, there was immediate confusion — and then gentle laughter — from the staff. The doctor in question joined us, visibly puzzled, as she knew exactly which patient had refused to sign consent.

Together, we returned to the mother’s bedside. The doctor kindly asked her to repeat what she believed had been said. Through tears, the patient again explained that she had been told she would “die for a few minutes and then be woken up.” The doctor’s eyes widened in realisation. “No, sissie,” she said gently, “I said I am going to inject you with dye so we can scan your heart.”

Dye.

Not die.

A single word — misheard in a vulnerable moment — had transformed a routine medical procedure into a terrifying experience. As the misunderstanding became clear, the tension in the room dissolved. The mother began to laugh, the staff laughed, and relief replaced fear. With clarity restored, she felt safe enough to sign the consent forms and proceed with her treatment.

Later that day, as I was leaving the hospital, the doctor came to thank me for helping to clear up the confusion. But truly, the moment reinforced something deeper for me.

In healthcare settings — especially in maternity wards, where mothers are physically vulnerable, emotionally raw, and often navigating language or cultural differences — communication is everything. A single misunderstood word can create panic. A few moments of listening can restore safety. This experience reminded me that part of our role as counsellors is to slow d

own the moment, to hold space for fear, and to ask one more question when something doesn’t sit right. Sometimes healing begins not with treatment — but with translation. It was a very good day.

Written by Bronwyn Allan - Student Registered Counsellor