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.
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