The last post on this blog - but I'm continuing on another

For mysterious reasons, Google has stopped indexing this blog, so you few loyal readers are among only a dozen or two that can still find me. I've tried and appealed to many support groups, but no one has helped.

Finally I decided to continue this in a new blog with a new name and a different E-mail hoping Google would lift the ban. I changed the name to "The Housecall Doctor."  At this point it doesn't look good because if you Google "The Housecall Doctor" the new blog doesn't turn up. But you can reach it by entering the link "thehousecalldoctor.blogspot.com.

A Dog-Eat-Dog Business, Part 11

 “This is Doctor Oppenheim,” I repeated several times before hanging up. Caller ID identified the Doubletree in Santa Monica, so I phoned to ask if someone had requested a doctor. Someone had.

“You answered, but you couldn’t hear me,” said the guest. “So I called the front desk again, and they gave me a different number. Another doctor is coming.”

That was upsetting because the Doubletree is a regular. When asked, the guest gave me the 800 number of Hotel Doctors International, a service based in Miami.

“How much are they charging?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They just asked if I had insurance.”

That was a red flag. Many hotel doctor agencies charge spectacular fees and then assure guests that travel insurance will reimburse them. Forewarned of our rapacious medical system, foreign travelers rarely make a fuss – and foreign travel insurance generally pays outrageous fees. But American insurance doesn’t.

I told the guest, an American, that my fee was $300 and that he should call the agency and ask what it charged. It turned out to be $650 (far from the largest I’ve heard), so I made the housecall.

Afterward, standing on tiptoes to peer over the front desk, I saw the colorful business card of Hotel Doctors International stuck on the counter. The clerk, who had insisted that mine was the only number she knew, expressed surprise when I pointed it out. 

 

All In a Day's Work

 “She speaks Spanish. I’m not sure what’s going on, but she needs a doctor.”

 The caller was the night manager at the Torrance Marriott. The hotel rarely calls, but I go regularly for crew of LAN, Chilean Airlines. An LAN crewperson who falls ill is supposed to call her supervisor who calls the central office who calls Federal Assist, a travel insurer, who calls Inn House Doctor, a national housecall agency who calls its answering service who then calls me. The guest hadn’t followed the procedure. If I made a housecall at her request, getting paid would be a major hassle.

 I phoned the answering service which had no idea what do. I phoned Federal Assist who insisted it wasn’t responsible for arranging visits. I phoned the director of Inn House Doctor to alert him to the problem. Then I waited.

 It was 5 a.m. It’s dangerous to make these housecalls before official approval because it may never arrive. But the rush hour was about to begin, and I couldn’t resist. I jumped in my car and drove the twenty miles to the Marriott. The freeway moved smoothly, but two blocks before the hotel, barriers and police cars blocked traffic. A dead body had been found on the street. That I was a doctor making a housecall did not persuade the guard.        

I parked and walked toward the hotel. A policeman hurried over as I passed the barrier, but he accepted my explanation and escorted me past the tent concealing the body.

 The visit was easy, and official approval arrived while I was in the room. When I finished at 7:00, my sigalert revealed a solid red line of jammed freeway for my return. So I returned to my car, tilted the seat back, and went to sleep.

 

The European Plague

 “I have the European plague. I need a doctor.”

“Excuse me?...”

“I have the European plague. I need a doctor for the American plague.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My child is in the bathroom with the European plague. Can you bring the doctor?”

What was he talking about?.... The exchange continued for some time until the light dawned. This was the fourth occasion this has happened in over thirty years and 30,000 phone calls. The guest had phoned the front desk because his electrical devices used European outlets which are different from ours. He needed an “adapter.” The clerk, not listening carefully, had heard “a doctor” and forwarded his call to me.

But I was also not listening carefully. It’s human nature to hear what you expect to hear, so I assumed that the caller had a medical problem.

I had heard “European plague” when he had said “European plug.” He had not said “my child is in the bathroom” but “my shaver is in the bathroom….”

Good Luck

 A national housecall service connected me with a guest at the Montage in Beverly Hills. She was suffering the flu; I told her I’d arrive in half an hour.

As soon as I hung up, I realized, to my dismay, that I had quoted my usual fee, forgetting that the housecall service takes a 40 percent cut. The Montage is a super-luxury hotel, and the guest was probably rich, but I couldn’t change the fee.

I was in luck. Not one but three guests in the room had the flu, so it worked out.

Vomiters Hate Waiting

A hotel guest phoned to ask when I’d arrive.

“In about fifteen minutes.”

On her initial call, I had told her I would arrive in an hour, and I was on schedule, so the call meant that she was still vomiting. Vomiters are impatient.

My database shows 2,328 entries for “gastroenteritis” (the common stomach flu). It’s my second leading diagnosis and far more satisfying than “upper respiratory infection” (4,584). Both are almost always incurable, but gastroenteritis rarely lasts more than a day; patients give me credit when it goes away.

The guest greeted me at the door, a good sign. A guest in bed is OK, sprawled on the bathroom floor is not good.

I asked the usual questions and did not interrupt as she delivered a precise, item by item, account of dinner. Everyone blames an upset stomach on their last meal, a belief as correct as most popular health beliefs. I gave the usual advice which included telling her to stop what she was doing (putting fluid into her stomach as fast as it came out) and to suck on ice and wait.

I gave the usual antivomiting injection and two packets of pills which I had pocketed before leaving so I wouldn’t have to remember to restock my bag.

When I phoned later, she told me that she had recovered and thanked me for curing her.

 

 

Christmas Day

 A travel insurer reported a sick child at the Anaheim Holiday Inn, near Disneyland forty miles away. Freeway traffic was tolerable, but when I arrived and knocked no one answered. 

I walked around the lobby. With my suit, beard, and black bag, I look like a doctor in an old Hollywood movie, but no one responded. A waitress in the hotel restaurant asked at everyone’s table, but no one admitted calling a doctor. 

I drove away in a good mood. When hotel guests call and then disappear, I’m out of luck, but travel insurers pay for no-show visits.  

I was a mile from home when the insurer called. The mother was on the line, claiming she had been waiting in the hotel. So I drove back to Anaheim. To my everlasting credit, I was entirely pleasant to the mother, waving off her excuses. The child had a cold.