Medicine is Easy; Parking is Hard, Part 1

 A foreign student at the University of California had bronchitis. I live three miles from UCLA but this was the University of California at Irvine, 52 miles away. I quoted a fee that took this into account and was not overjoyed when it was accepted.

Navigating inside a huge campus is tricky, but Siri directed me to the correct address. It was, as I suspected, the administration building. No one lived there. I phoned the student to ask where he was and where to park because the streets were forbidden. He said he would come out and direct me.

When I phoned again in ten minutes, he assured me he was on his way. He arrived and guided me through winding streets to a parking lot with signs threatening serious consequences to anyone without a permit. He swore that it was OK. It was August; the campus was deserted, so I took the chance.

He wore shorts and t-shirt, appropriate for a hot summer day. Sweating in my suit, I trudged at his heels for several blocks, passing building after building until we reached his. It was a student dormitory, so there was no air conditioning. The visit went fine.   

Girls Are the Best

 “’allo!” a little girl shouted from her bed as I walked into the room, but that was her only English. Her French parents had called because she was running a 101 fever.

She seemed delighted to see me and jumped to sit on the edge for her exam. Smiling happily she waited as I quizzed the parents, opened her mouth widely at my request and made no complaint when I poked my otoscope into her ears.

I found everything normal. She had a virus that might last a few days and required only Tylenol. Staying in bed was not necessary. Everyone seemed pleased, the child most of all; she waved goodbye as I left.

I enjoyed that visit. Readers are familiar with my admirable qualities, but I admit that I am not the sort of jovial physician who enchants young children. Mostly I do fine, but I’ve endured plenty of encounters with apologetic parents and a screaming, struggling toddler.

These are almost all boys. Adult male pugnaciousness has not made the world a comfortable place, and it works equally badly in children. They get the exam regardless, but it’s drawn out and painful. The parents are embarrassed, the doctor relieved when it’s over.

Little girls rarely make a scene. If frightened, they keep quiet. If not, they realize, almost from birth, that charm works wonders. Everyone relaxes and takes care of business. Women should run the world.  

A Dog-Eat-Dog Business, Part 9

I keep an eye on the competition, searching the internet for various combinations of “hotel doctor,” “house call doctor,” “housecall,” etc.

Once I came upon International Medical Services which promised to send a highly qualified doctor to a home, office, or hotel at a moment’s notice. When I phoned, its medical director knew my name, having dealt with me at previous jobs.

Like all new arrivals, he insisted that business was thriving. In fact, as we spoke, a hotel guest needed a visit, and I was welcome to go. I asked about the fee.

“We charge between $1600 and $2000. The doctor gets half.”

“Guests won’t pay that!”

“We don’t have trouble. These are generally foreigners with travel insurance. Foreign travel insurance knows about American doctors.”

He suggested I quote $1200 and then add a few hundred dollars for medicines and supplies. That was his doctors’ routine.

I visited a young woman at the Hampton Inn with a simple urine infection. She handed over her credit card without complaint.

That felt creepy. I mailed $600 with a note asking him not to call again.

The Hampton Inn is not an upscale hotel. How did he persuade its staff to refer guests? My legal advisor warns me not to speculate.

 

Another Incident in a Hotel Doctor's Glamorous Life

Younger, cooler, more expensive doctors own the franchise on Los Angeles film shoots, but I go now and then.

A European director staying at the Langham in Pasadena asked for my services and then went off to work.

After driving miles through suburbs I encountered the usual cluster of trailers, street barriers, and police. It was a hot summer day in Los Angeles, but Pasadena is always ten degrees hotter.

Workers hurried about, but I was the only one wearing a suit, so I stood only a few minutes baking in the sun before an assistant approached. Like every aide I’ve met on film sets, she was young and beautiful. I hate to imagine the hiring procedures of production companies. 

She led me into a trailer, thankfully air-conditioned, where I waited fifteen minutes until the director made time. He showed me a rash and worried about bed bugs.

Many foreigners believe Americans fall below civilized standards of cleanliness. We think of personal hygiene in terms of body odor, but they notice that we allow dogs free run of our houses, and we don’t take off our shoes when we come inside. That the Langham is very expensive does not rule out bedbugs, but I diagnosed hives, an allergic reaction.

I’m not sure my reassurance convinced him, but he was a workaholic like so many of my patients. He hurried back to the set with the box of pills I handed out, and I considered it likely that he put it out of his mind.

Lost in Translation Again

 6 a.m. Saturday is an ideal time for a call. I had finished writing and was sitting down to breakfast. I told the dispatcher that I would be at the hotel in an hour.

The freeway was clear. Parking, even downtown, would be easy. My phone rang as I drove. It was the guest’s travel insurer warning that there was no answer when he phoned to tell her when I’d arrive. When guests request my services directly and then vanish, I don’t get paid, but this is not the case with travel insurers, so I drove on. It was unlikely she had left the hotel.

At this hour, I check at the desk to make sure I don’t knock at the wrong door. The clerk confirmed the room, called, and reported that someone had answered and then hung up.

It was good news that she was present, not so good that she had immediately hung up. That’s a sign that a guest doesn’t speak English. 

A young Japanese woman greeted me at the door, ushered me inside, consulted her Ipad, then announced in triumph: “......stomach!!....”

One advantage of travel insurance is that dispatchers will interpret. Despite my admonition, they prefer to edit, abridge, and summarize rather than simply translate; their English is often rudimentary, and passing the phone back and forth makes for a long, tedious visit.

On the plus side, these guests usually have uncomplicated problems. It worked out. 

A Black Spot

  “You’ve got a black spot,” said my wife when I asked her to scratch my back.

“Black as the tar in the road?” I asked. She confirmed this, but as I quizzed her she realized that a black spot was bad and began retreating. Maybe it was dark brown.

She took a picture with her cell phone. It was half an inch in diameter, dark, and lumpy but not obviously malignant looking. Wives are always discovering things on their husbands which, being men, they ignore. Later the husbands die.

I decided I needed to see an expert. It was Friday, and I didn’t want to spend an anxious weekend, so it had to be today.

My favorite dermatologist in Los Angeles is Pamela Rand. She does not accept insurance, Medicare included, so I use others for routine skin problems. She was on vacation.

I like the doctor I see at the UCLA dermatology clinic in Santa Monica, but the clerk reported no openings until Tuesday. When I pressed, she transferred me to a nurse who, after consulting for several minutes, reported she could move me up to Monday. I would have tried to pull rank as a physician had I been really frightened, but I was only uneasy.

A few dermatologists phoned at random were not helpful. I phoned the main UCLA clinic in Westwood and learned that there were no openings except in distant suburban facilities. Thousand Oaks and Westlake were about forty miles; Porter Ranch seemed closer.

The drive was long, but parking was free. The dermatologist took a quick look and told me it was benign. I sat patiently as she educated me on seborrheic keratoses (age spots) and accepted her handout. Doctors don’t learn that I’m a physician unless they ask. It doesn’t get me better medical care, and some doctors feel uncomfortable having one as a patient. 

 

A Pure Source of Natural Energy

 A yoga instructor was attending a convention of like-minded devotees when one vendor gave him a sample of a natural energy pill. Within half an hour, he became certain that his blood pressure was out of control.

Patients who believe they know when their blood pressure is high are wrong because high blood pressure causes no symptoms. But he was certainly jittery.

In fact, his pressure was higher than I’d like in a 43 year-old man, but he admitted that his family doctor had also found this. He had been trying to control it through yoga.

I read the label on the bottle. Each pill contained a mixture of herbals and vitamins and a large dose of caffeine. I never drank coffee, and my first experience with caffeine – in a wake-up pill in college – was dramatic. I loved feeling super-alert, but I understand why a more mellow personality might not.

The effect was already wearing off, and he had no objection to my explanation. When I suggested that it was time to treat his hypertension, he promised to ramp up his yoga.