Lost In Translation

“Bom dia” said the woman who opened the door.

“Bom dia,” I responded. That’s the limit of my conversational Portuguese. My heart sank as I looked around the room which contained a toddler but no adult male. Among foreign couples, the husband is much more likely to speak English.

The mother pointed at her child, made coughing noises, tapped his chest, and produced a thermometer which she waved significantly. Once she understood that I needed more information, she took up her cell phone. 

After some effort because her husband was apparently in a meeting she delivered a long recitation before handing me the phone.

“He have cough. He have the flu. He need something. She wants you to examine him.”

In response to my question, the father insisted that this was everything she had said, but I knew he was summarizing. This is a chronic problem with amateur interpreters. I asked more questions and received short versions of her long answers. The child looked happy and not at all sick, and my examination was normal. He had a cold. He’d coughed for four days and might cough for a few more, I explained. She was already giving him Tylenol, and no other medicine is safe for a two year-old. Luckily, he didn’t need medicine or bed rest or a special diet. It wasn’t even necessary to stay in the room.

If I had handed over medicine, every mother from Fiji to Mongolia to Nigeria would understand that I was behaving like a doctor. But I wasn’t. What was going on?

I’ve encountered this hundreds of times, so I work very, very hard to communicate that the child has a minor illness (husband’s translation: “Doctor says child is OK…”), that no treatment will help (husband’s translation: “Doctor does not want to give medicine…”) and that being stuck in a hotel room is boring, so she should try to enjoy herself (husband’s translation: “Doctor says go out; child is OK…”).

Tap, tap, tap…. The mother beat a tattoo on he child’s chest in a wordless appeal. Everyone knows that a sick child must be confined and given medicine. Why was I implying that he wasn’t sick?

I knew what she was thinking. I repeated my reassurance, and the husband translated. When, at the end, I asked if she understood she knew the correct answer: yes. She remembered her manners as I left and thanked me effusively.

I left feeling as discouraged as the woman. She was in a strange country, trapped in a hotel room with a sick child. Despite her best efforts, the foreign doctor didn’t understand that her son was sick.

A Brush With Disaster

A Beverly Garland guest phoned as I worked out at my gym one morning. I’m happy to cut this short to make a housecall, but the guest wanted me to come at one o’clock. I don’t like appointments, but this seemed an easy visit, and it was convenient because I could go after lunch.

After showering, I was walking to my car when a disturbing thought occurred. Exercise is boring, so I read the New Yorker while on the treadmill. When I finish an issue, I leave it in the locker room for anyone else. With a shock, I realized that I had scribbled the guest’s name and room number on that New Yorker which I later finished and absent-mindedly left behind. I rushed back, but the magazine had vanished. I prowled the gym, searching for anyone reading a New Yorker. No luck. I phoned the Beverly Garland to ask if anyone remembered referring a guest. No one remembered.

Now and then a competitor’s hotel calls when its doctor fails to show up, but I boast that this never happens at my hotels. I always tell a guest when I’ll arrive and make sure that I arrive on time. Now I had visions of the guest fuming as hours passed and eventually denouncing me to the staff.   

I racked my brain. The guest sounded Australian and had a Slavic-sounding name. Dutifully, the desk clerk checked her computer and found nothing. I asked if I could come and examine it myself; she agreed.

Guests who make appointments occasionally change their minds, so I always phone to make sure they’re in the room. With great good sense, I had told the guest I would check at noon. To my immense relief, when 12:30 passed with no call, he phoned.

Curing Hiccups

Every few years a hiccuping hotel guest appeals to me.

Hiccups rarely lasts more than a few hours, so a victim gives credit to his last effort and immediately rushes to his computer to proclaim its benefit. Literally hundreds of treatments exist: proof that all are worthless. Google “hiccups cure” to confirm that you must never look for health advice on the internet.

Long ago when an old doctor described a good treatment, I was skeptical. Even today, hotel visits for hiccups make me nervous, so I give a money-back guarantee. Once in the room, I take a tongue depressor and rub the soft palate at the back of the hiccuper’s throat. Sometimes he or she gags, sometimes not, but so far everyone has been happy to pay my fee.  

How to Remove a Sliver Painlessly

Her son had a sliver in his palm, explained a caller from the Airport Marriott. Could I come and remove it? The child was two.

Two is the worst age for a dignified doctor-patient relationship. Infants love everyone, and older children listen to reason. At two, girls are often terrified into silence, but males who don’t like doctors make for a noisy consultation.

Removing a fresh sliver with tweezers is easy, but most victims pluck at it with their fingertips, breaking off the tip, leaving the remainder nestled out of reach under the skin. 

As I unwrapped a scalpel, the parents assured the child that it wouldn’t hurt. Long experience had taught that this was a lie, so his protests became deafening.

In fact, the parents were right. Both worked hard to immobilize the child at first, but when it became clear there was no pain, he calmed. Your epidermis is dead skin, so shaving the very surface with a scalpel should be painless. I shaved enough to expose the splinter. A new safety razor works as well.