Listomania

I once made sixty to eighty visits per year to the Crowne Plaza at the airport. Then they dropped to about five.

During a recent visit I noticed a printed handout on a bedside table, a long list of clinics and doctors which the reader was invited to peruse. Given a list, guests tend to call the first number first and then work down. My name was sixth.

When consulted, hotel lawyers always forbid staff from recommending a doctor. Should a guest ask for help, they insist, an employee should silently hand over a list, the longer the better. In this way, when the guest sues the doctor, he or she won’t sue the hotel. Lawyers admit that this doesn’t work, but they can’t help themselves. 

Told to make up a list, employees take the easy route by consulting the internet where they find clinics, local practices, and entrepreneurial physicians who charge spectacular fees. They won’t find me, so it’s a crapshoot where on the list I’ll end up.

Having produced the list, management forgets about it. Lists always contains doctors and clinics that don’t make housecalls. As time passes, some numbers no longer work; for the rest, guests who want to speak to a doctor end up speaking to an answering service or receptionist.

It might take years for calls to return to normal, but I am patient. 

Good News, Usually

A flight attendant with diarrhea is usually good news. Airline crew are young, so they suffer uncomplicated medical problems, and diarrhea qualifies. Her hotel in Costa Mesa was 46 miles away, but it was Saturday morning, so traffic was light, and I’m paid extra for the distance.

To my annoyance, this was one of those inexplicable weekend days when the freeway was jammed although it wasn’t a holiday, and I never saw an accident.

After caring for the guest, always the easiest part, I got back on the freeway and its creeping traffic. Five minutes later my phone rang. This was bad news because freeway driving is more tiring than practicing medicine, and I had had enough. The caller was a national housecall service, and, to my surprise, the patient was in Costa Mesa, a half mile from where I’d been.

Unaware that I was nearby, the service quoted its usual fee for a long drive, so I retraced my route, cared for the guest, and returned to the crowded freeway. I was weary when I finally arrived home, hours past lunch time, but it had been a lucrative day in the fascinating life of a Los Angeles hotel doctor.  

The Old Man's Friend

A guest was coughing and feverish, and I heard crackling noises when I listened to his lungs, a sign of fluid. I suspected pneumonia.

I prefer diagnosing pneumonia to an upper respiratory infection because I can prescribe an antibiotic and skip the stressful explanation of why I’m not prescribing an antibiotic.

Unfortunately, this guest was 85. Most victims of pneumonia don’t need hospitalization. Even without treatment, most recover. This is not the case with the elderly where, long ago, pneumonia was known as “the old man’s friend.” Dying of pneumonia when you’re already feeble is apparently not a bad way to go.

The son did not like hearing that his father must go to an emergency room, but they went. When I phoned the following morning, I learned that the diagnosis was pneumonia. The doctor had prescribed an antibiotic and sent them out.

I was shocked. Hospitals always admitted elderly patients with pneumonia. What incompetent was on duty?...  The son assured me that his father was resting comfortably and promised to return to the hospital if symptoms worsened. When I called that evening, they had checked out.

If something bad happens, they will sue the hospital, but they will also sue me. It takes a long time for a malpractice lawyer to organize a suit, so his letter wouldn’t arrive for about a year.

Another Glamorous Film Shoot

 “We’re at 501 West Olympic,” explained my caller. “Come up to the seventeenth floor.”

That’s downtown, my least favorite neighborhood for street parking. I might find a spot within three or four blocks, but it was summer, and I wear a suit. No problem, said the caller, and directed me to crew parking a mile away.

I pulled into a lot jammed with mobile dressing rooms, equipment, cars, and a line of vans. An attractive young woman directed me to the leading van which chauffeured me through downtown traffic and pulled into another line of vans to let me off. After phoning a contact number, I waited for another young attractive woman (all assistants at film shoots are attractive young women) to conduct me to an elevator which let me out into a crowded corridor.

It takes a small army to shoot a film. Dozens of people under thirty rushed about. They were probably crew. Lounging about and getting in the way, another dozen, mostly over thirty, were probably actors. A person in charge noticed that I looked like a doctor and summoned the patient.

It was fortunate he wasn’t suffering hemorrhoids or jock itch because there was no privacy. We huddled in a corner and discussed his eye irritation. Afterward, the person in charge asked if I’d see someone who’d injured his neck in a fight scene. Leaving the building, I boarded the first of the line of vans and returned to the parking lot. 

Whether You Want Me or Not

If you want a housecall in Los Angeles, you’re likely to get me even if you don’t ask for me.

I don’t have a web site, but searching the internet turns up several agencies and a few individuals that promise to send a doctor at a moment’s notice. Many rely on me.

They also solicit hotels. Recently a national housecall service informed me that a guest at the Marina International wanted a doctor. The Marina International is one of my regulars.

After I phoned the guest, he asked me to come. I made a mental calculation before quoting the fee. The housecall service took forty percent, so I added forty percent.

Since those who call directly pay less, you might wonder why hotels don’t make sure guests get the best price. The answer, of course, is that hotels don’t know what doctors charge, nor do they care. Guests regularly ask me, but hotels never do.

Eighty Gouty Patients

A man’s foot began hurting one evening. By the following morning pain was excruciating.

That sounded like gout, one of my favorite diseases. The diagnosis is easy, and I can quickly make it better. What’s not to like?

I carry a treatment for gout, but once I hand it over, I have to remember to restock my bag. So I went to my drug closet, made up another bottle of pills, and threw it in my pocket. 

Sometimes I’m surprised when I arrive at the hotel but not this time. He had gout. I produced the pills from my pocket, and everyone was satisfied.

It occurs to me that I’ve seen so many victims – this was my 80^th – that I can check the experts. They claim that it attacks men overwhelmingly. Sure enough, only seven of my patients were women. They say it’s a disease of older people. 67 cases were over 40, none under 30.

Until a few years ago, treatment was a powerful anti-inflammatory drug such as indomethacin which produced unpleasant side-effects. Then experts decided a large dose of cortisone for a short period worked as well with less unpleasantness. I already carry an identical course to treat severe poison ivy. Patients feel better within a day.

A Difficult Hotel

The J.W. Marriott is not a regular, but its doctor is not a friend, so I don’t turn down its calls which arrive now and then.

Driving downtown, I had no worries about the patient but recalled that visiting the J.W. Marriott was often an unpleasant experience. Sure enough, the valet ignored a request to hold my car, gave me a parking slip, and drove the car deep into the bowels of the hotel.

The elevator required a room key. I waited for a guest, but apparently new technology makes it impossible to piggy-back on another’s key. I walked to the front desk and asked to use the elevator. This struck the clerk as a suspicious request.

An elderly man in a suit, carrying a doctor’s bag, and claiming to be a doctor might or might not be telling the truth. She politely quizzed me on my motives, phoned the room to confirm, and then asked me to wait while she summoned a security officer.

The officer remained at my side until the guest opened the door. After the visit, I returned to the lobby and handed over the parking slip. The desk clerk stared at it as if she had never seen one and then excused herself to consult the manager.

I waited several minutes until she returned to hand back the slip and explain that the hotel “was unable” to validate parking.

Downtown hotel parking is brutally expensive, and I remembered the same difficulty during earlier visits. Everyone hates hotel parking, so its cashiers are immune to arguments. I scribbled “hotel doctor” on the slip, shoved it through the window, and hurried away to stand at the curb. No one ran after me, and after a few minutes my car appeared. I don’t do that often, but so far it’s always worked.