My phone rang as I was driving to the Langham in
Pasadena. Coris USA, a travel insurer, had another housecall. Since I was on
the freeway, I couldn’t write, so I asked for the address, planning to collect
the remaining information from the patient. I hate to be late, so I told the
dispatcher I might not arrive for several hours.
The Langham guest had a sore throat, an uncomplicated
visit. I reached the Coris destination, a private house in Hollywood, an hour
after the call. The gate in the surrounding fence was locked. The buzzer felt
loose in its housing, giving the impression that it was broken. This seemed the
case because no one appeared.
What to do… Usually I phone the patient, but I didn’t
have a number. I considered phoning Coris, but whoever answered would ask for
the patient’s name which I also didn’t have. She might or might not succeed in
tracking down the original dispatcher, but it was guaranteed I’d spend a long
time on hold in a chilly drizzle.
The railing was my height, and there were footholds. Passerbys
certainly wondered at an elderly man in a suit struggling over a fence, but I
succeeded without tearing my clothes.
The woman who answered the door denied that anyone wanted
me. It turned out this was not a private house but a youth hostel. The woman
consulted other residents; one remembered someone who wanted a doctor, but she
had left.
The resident didn’t have her phone number but offered
to leave a message on Facebook. I called Coris to warn them that matters were
not looking well.
Then the door burst open, revealing the patient,
gasping for breath after running several blocks. The visit itself was
uncomplicated.
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