I have decided to share my experience with you in the hope that it helps other students, who are preparing for a medical elective abroad.
Over the past two months, I had the privilege of undertaking a medical elective at Hue Central Hospital in Vietnam. It was a culturally rich and challenging experience that offered not only clinical insight but also a deeper understanding of how culture, healthcare systems,
and resource constraints shape the way care is delivered. While I had many takeaways, one moment in particular taught me a lesson I’ll carry with me throughout my career: the balance between clinical efficiency and compassionate communication.
Hue Central Hospital is one of Vietnam’s largest tertiary hospitals, serving a vast population with limited resources. With around 2,500 beds moving through its wards, the pace is relentless. Doctors often manage dozens of patients in a single shift, moving between wards,
operating theatres, and emergency bays. Compared to the UK, the structural differences were striking — paper-based records, open
wards, limited access to privacy and dignity and no air conditioning in 38-degree heat — but it was the cultural differences that intrigued me most. Families play a central role in patient care, from feeding to post-op assistance. Hierarchies amongst staff are steeper. Conversations
are more pragmatic. And when time is tight, communication becomes task-focused —clinical, necessary, and brief.
During my seven weeks in this medical elective abroad, I rotated through four departments: Trauma and Orthopaedics, Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Emergency Medicine, and Neurosurgery. Each offered a different perspective into the realities of healthcare in Vietnam.
In Trauma and Orthopaedics, I saw the physical consequences of Vietnam’s motorbike-heavy traffic culture — fractures, head trauma, polytrauma — managed with remarkable skill despite equipment constraints.
Obstetrics and Gynaecology exposed me to culturally rich, emotionally charged moments of childbirth and maternal care, often navigated with quiet efficiency, deep family involvement and steeped in tradition.
Emergency medicine was controlled chaos — overcrowded, under-resourced, and yet astonishingly effective. Patients wait 10 minutes before being clerked by a doctor and spend a maximum of 4 hours in the department before being transferred elsewhere. Neurosurgery, by
contrast, felt calm and clinical.
Each rotation was different, but they all shared a common thread: communication was consistently deprioritised due to the sheer volume of patients to be seen.
The moment that stayed with me happened in the Emergency Department. A man was brought in after being hit by a motorbike. He was flailing, shouting in pain — clearly in distress. Within minutes, he was sedated, intubated, and sent for a CT scan. Neurosurgery reviewed him shortly after and determined his injuries were inoperable. He would be sent to ICU for monitoring, but there was little else to be done.
The doctor had to inform the family. A task that everyone dreads. Except in Vietnam, there was no quiet room, no pause, no softening of tone. The conversation happened in a busy corridor — standing, quickly, factually. Then the doctor walked away. The family stood there, crying, in the middle of a loud and impersonal space, surrounded by patients and staff rushing past.
This experience shifted my thinking. It reminded me that empathy is not just about individual intention, it’s about the system you’re working within. In the UK, we value space for communication because our system allows for it. In Vietnam, the same values may exist, but
time and resources simply don’t permit them to show in the same way. It also made me reconsider what “good communication” looks like. In Vietnam, people don’t tend to offer much sympathy. They prefer focussing on the silver linings or next steps. This culture was definitely on display in this situation. It was so easy for me to bring judgement to this situation, but I reflected on this situation’s context. That same doctor had intubated the patient, led the trauma response, and clerked ten more patients that hour. He had no break or a moment to stop. I began to ask myself: if I were under that kind of pressure, would my communication look any different?
My medical elective abroad, in Vietnam was not just a clinical learning opportunity — it was a profound lesson in humility. It reminded me that healthcare is delivered by people doing their best in systems not always designed to support them. And that good communication, while essential, is also vulnerable to the pressures of reality. I returned to the UK with a deeper appreciation for the space I’m given to connect with patients. But I also carry a new respect for the heroism of those who work in tougher conditions than I, making impossible decisions every day. Above all, I hope to never take for granted the space and time I am given in the UK to stop, to sit, and to speak with care.
