医学英语用词跟平时说话的用词不同，医学术语和大词比较多，还喜欢借用拉丁语，有些疾病和医疗器械采用发现者的名字，可能是法文，德文或者日文等等。
记得刚到美国不久，跟实验室的美国同事聊天，说到感冒了有痰这个事情，我用的词是“Sputum”，同事一时听不明白。我心想这个词挺简单的啊，我刚到美国不久都知道，怎么你不知道，难道是我的发音那么差？后来，也记不得是通过比划，还是解释，反正她弄明白了，就给我解释为什么一开始她没明白。她说，一般来说，普通人说到有痰，经常说“phlegm”，如果咯血了，就是“cough up blood”。Sputum”是一个医学用语，所以她一开始没想到我会用这个词。我在国内是学医的，所以这些简单的专业术语会用，但是却不知道平时说话时该用什么词。
在中国学医，来到美国行医的任经常会出现这样有趣的事情，知道医学专业用语，但是不知道平时应该用什么样的词汇说这些事情。在工作的过程中，会经常从病人那里学到这些医疗上用得到但是又不是医学专用术语得说法，比如“it knocks me out”，说的是一种药物让我昏睡过去。
死，用英语怎么说？我们都会想到dead, he/she is dead. 但是，这是在中国学英语时学到的最简单直接的翻译方法。在不同的场合应该使用不同的词。总的来说，dead这个说法不够客气和委婉。比较常见的说法是passed away（大致相当于中文“过世”，“去世”），比较中性，一般都会被接受，医生跟病人说明病情时也比较常用家属。Leave/left, gone这类说法委婉是委婉了，但不够清晰，有时候听者觉得很难相信自己亲爱的人死了，还会继续追问以求澄清，平白增添不必要的麻烦。至于升天堂，见上帝之类的说法，宗教意味比较浓，在医院里用得也不是太多。
在医院里，医疗工作者之间交流，会使用一个很出乎意料的词“expired”。有兴趣的读者可以去阅读下面两个网页。为了方便读者阅读，我也直接把第二个链接的全文贴了过来，文章写得很风趣。对于没有兴趣或没有时间的读者，我简单解释一下，“expired”这个词说的还是病人死了，但是显得比较医学化。经常用于医疗人员之间的交流，有时候也用于跟病人家属交流。创造这么一个很冷静很遥远的说法，大概是为了让医务工作者的情感能够跟失去一个病人的悲哀分隔一些吧。毕竟，时常要跟自己朝夕相处的病人永远告别，对任何人的心理都会是一个打击，医务工作者也不例外。
反正，习惯成习语，“expired”这个词是现在在医院里谈到病人死亡时很常用的说法。作为病人家属初次听到这个词可能会很惊愕，但是请了解说这个词的人是完全没有恶意的。事实是，在传递死亡这个消息的时候，最重要的不仅仅是用词，说话的人的表情和身体语言，以及病人去世之前的日子里跟家属的交流和对病人的治疗可能起的作用更大。
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080423231538AAxAjzj
Why do doctors say a patient has expired rather than they passed away or died?
http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/05/26/doctors-and-the-d-word/
Doctors and the ‘D’ Word
When I was a first-year medical student, I earned a few extra dollars by working the 4 p.m.-to-midnight shift in our hospital’s nursing office, where I scheduled private-duty nurses. One evening, about 9 p.m., a nurse called to inform me that her patient had “expired” and that she would need to be assigned to a different patient for the next day.
Expired?
I had no idea what she was talking about. I had an image of the rubber air mattresses we used during camping trips when I was a kid: When you opened the valve, the mattress would shake and shimmy as the air whistled out, gradually deflating unevenly until it was a flabby rumple of green rubber.
But then it slowly occurred to me what the nurse probably meant. “You mean the patient … died?” I asked, tentatively.
“Yes,” the nurse replied impatiently. “The patient expired.”
Expired. The word rolled so oddly on my tongue. What a strange way to refer to death. My own experiences with death at that time were limited to my anatomy cadaver and the vagaries of the pentose-phosphate cycle.
When I started my clinical clerkships, I began to hear the verb “expire” more frequently, and gradually it ceased to sound strange. As an intern, I witnessed my first deaths and was responsible for writing “expiration notes” in patients’ charts. Cartons of milk had expiration dates. Coupons expired. I guessed people could too.
I could understand why other people might prefer euphemisms for death, but why medical professionals? Weren’t we supposed to be much more comfortable with the workings of the human body? Didn’t we pride ourselves on our technical accuracy? Didn’t we say “umbilicus” instead of “belly button”? Didn’t we refer to the “lower extremity” instead of the “leg”?
Conventional wisdom holds that doctors become inured to death by seeing it so much, but the existentialists posit that seeing so much death has the reverse effect, making us acutely aware of our own mortality.
I think there is a little bit of both. Each time we see someone die, we realize that it could be us, or our parents, or our children. We doctors are just as terrified of death as any other human being scurrying around this little planet. And like any other human, we use euphemism to shield us from that fear. But unlike others who get to indulge in gentler plays of language (“off with the angels” or “at a better place”), we need to institutionalize it as just another piece of medical terminology — terminology that we are in control of.
A few years ago I was supervising on the medical wards during the month of July with a team of new doctors fresh out of medical school. There was one intern who hailed from below the Mason-Dixon line (something of a rarity in our New York City hospital). One morning she came up to me, her eyes heavy, and reported that Mr. Gonzalez had “passed” during the night.
My first reaction was to ask whether it was gas or stool that he had passed, since we’d been concerned about his intestinal symptoms. Then it dawned on me what she was saying.
“Oh, you mean he expired?” I said.
She looked up at me awkwardly and narrowed her eyes, then nodded slowly as she got what I meant. I recognized in her the same uncomfortable transition I had those many years ago, when my everyday words for dying were replaced by the medically acceptable terms.
The experience reminded me of a story published in the very first issue of the Bellevue Literary Review called “Cousin Esther Goes to Chicago,” by Cori Baill. The chief resident admonishes a new intern to stop giving such intensive care to a patient — Esther — who has terminal cancer. “That poor woman should have already gone to Chicago,” he says, trying gamely to convey his empathy. The housekeeper in the story — who is mopping the floors while overhearing this conversation — wonders if in Chicago when someone dies, they say that person “went to Baltimore.”
My intern’s use of the term “passed” also brought to mind a wonderful poem called “Gaudeamus Igitur,” by John Stone, a cardiologist from Atlanta. This poem — the title translates to “Therefore Let Us Rejoice” — was delivered as a commencement address to a class of Emory medical students who probably didn’t realize how lucky they were. I read this poem to all of my students and interns because it speaks to the emotions of moving on in medical training and in life. It includes this passage:
For this is the end of examinations
For this is the beginning of testing
For Death will give the final examination
and everyone will pass.
When Dr. Stone died in 2008, I thought of this line. I know he would have been relieved that he didn’t fail.
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