It seemed a routine
visit for an upset stomach until I knocked at what turned out to be the
penthouse suite of a Beverly Hills hotel. The man who answered identified
himself as “the prince’s personal assistant.” I followed him into another large
room where the prince, an elderly Saudi, lay in bed. It was five in the
morning.
The assistant
indicated the patient – not the prince but a young woman sitting nearby,
looking wan. I took her into another room to deliver my care. She was an
American in her twenties, and I wondered why she was in the prince’s room at
this hour. Perhaps she was a prostitute, but she seemed nice.
When I returned to
the bedroom, the prince thanked me for coming, adding that he had a personal
problem. He suffered crippling back pain and had run out of medication. Could I
help? As we talked, I noticed the assistant waggling his finger in a gesture
indicating that I should not pursue the matter. I took the hint.
Accompanying me to
the elevator, the assistant explained that everyone preferred that the prince’s
doctor handle the prince’s drugs. Then he pulled out a sheaf of bills and paid
me far too much. I don’t decline tips from the very rich.
Most Arabs that I
see are ordinary people, but over thirty years the occasional prince turns up.
They pay generously and provide material for this blog .
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