A Dog-Eat-Dog Business, Part 7

When a travel insurer sent me to the Airport Marriott, I remembered that the hotel hadn’t called in a year, so I decided to reintroduce myself.

“We don’t have a doctor,” said the lady in the security office.

“I’ve made hundreds of visits.”

“I never called you,” she insisted. She summoned a nearby officer who agreed that no one knew about a hotel doctor. She accepted my card and put it in a drawer.

My next stop was the concierge desk, but it was vacant. When times are tough, concierges are the first employees to go.

The front desk clerks agreed that having a hotel doctor was a wonderful idea and thanked me for my cards.

“I guess no one’s been sick,” said the bellman cheerfully when I queried him. I had no doubt that whatever doctor he called tipped him $20 or $30 or $50 for the referral. This is illegal but a common practice. The bellman thanked me for my card and put it in a drawer.

If you assume that general managers hate choosing a doctor on the basis of his kickback, you’d be right. Sometimes. When I informed the GM of the Westin, he took action. When I informed the GM of the Beverly Hills Hotel he merely passed my letter on to the chief concierge who phoned to announce that I need expect no calls from the Beverly Hills hotel.

Sick guests often call the operator, so I dialed the Marriott’s number.

“Hi, Doctor Oppenheim. It’s been a long time.”

That was a pleasant surprise. The operator explained that she had worked there for twenty years and spoken to me many times. She admitted that the hotel had no policy on doctors nor was any name in their directory. She would be happy to take down my number and pass it around. 

I left feeling pleased with myself because I hardly ever market myself to employees. I continue to make the occasional visit to the Marriott but always at the request of a travel insurer. The hotel itself remains silent.

A Dog-Eat-Dog Business, Part 4

Danielle, chief concierge of the Ritz-Carlton, calls when her allergies are acting up, but this wasn’t the reason. It was an awkward situation, she explained, but she hoped I’d understand. A guest has complained, I thought. I racked my brain to think who it might be.

If it were up to her, she added, I would be the Ritz-Carlton’s doctor no matter what. Unfortunately, other concierges were putting pressure on her. Another hotel doctor had approached, offering thirty dollars for every referral. She had brushed him off, but her colleagues objected. They reminded her that vendors who want a hotel’s business (limousine services, tours, florists, masseurs) routinely tip the concierges. Why should doctors be exempt?

Here’s a suggestion, she said. Why didn’t I simply match his offer?

I told her that I’m happy to provide free care to hotel staff, but it’s unethical for a doctor to pay for a referral. It’s also illegal. No problem, she assured me. I would still be the Ritz-Carlton’s doctor.

Danielle might continue to call, but I’m less certain about her colleagues.

This exchange reminded me that I hadn’t written the California Medical Board in a few years, so I sent off another letter complaining about other hotel doctors paying referral fees. I’ve sent several. The board is legally obligated to respond to every complaint, and it duly responded, assuring me that it was aware of the problem.

It has never taken action, probably because the Medical Board gives priority to protecting patients from doctors. It shows less interest in protecting doctors from each other.

A Message From a Stranger

“A guest would like to meet you at 4:15 in the lobby.”

The caller was a concierge at the L.A. Hotel.

“Is that all?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Oppenheim. The guest just made the request and walked off.”

This really happened a few years ago. Doesn’t it sound like a bad novel? Retired CIA agent, Skip Oppenheim gets a message from a mysterious stranger as he unwinds at a luxurious hotel. The adventure begins.

As a hotel doctor, I am allergic to adventures. Sick guests rarely schedule a consultation in a public place. Most likely he had a request. I prefer to handle these over the phone at no charge. This is good P.R. but it’s also self-defense. If I travel to the hotel, and the guest makes a request I have to refuse, the consequences may not be life-threatening but they are not pleasant. Also, it’s hard to collect my fee.

“I don’t make appointments without talking to the guest first. Do you have his number?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Have him call when he gets back. I’m sure we can work out something.”

The concierge agreed. Sadly for this post, there is no punch line. I never heard from him.

Rashes Are Easy, Part 2

His client had developed redness over her eyelids. Could I come?

As I wrote last time, rashes are easy, and eyelid rashes mostly turn out to be one of two or three diagnoses. I asked for the room number.

The guest was in a meeting, the caller responded. When I arrived, I should ask the concierge to fetch her.

So I did. The concierge phoned and informed me that the meeting would end shortly. I waited half an hour.

As expected, the eyelid rash was no problem. After accepting a tube of cream, she mentioned that her knee had hurt since her run the previous day. I examined the knee and reassured her. Then we talked about her husband who had a sore shoulder but refused to see a doctor.

A Plug for a Book

Try to find The Hotel, A Week in the Life of the Plaza by Sonny Kleinfeld. Published in 1989, it’s long out of print, but you’ll love it. Kleinfeld is a journalist who spent a week in the famous New York hotel and wrote about twenty chapters describing every position from the doorman, desk clerk and laundry worker to the kitchen staff, concierge, security, bellhops, housekeeping, and management.

I was impressed at the difficulty of keeping such an institution running smoothly and satisfying demanding guests. If you want to know the hardest job in a hotel, there’s no contest. It’s the housekeeper’s. 

The book includes a chapter on the hotel doctor that kept me scratching my head. Mostly, he complains.

It infuriates him that guests wake him up at 1 a.m. with a bad cold. I’d be thrilled by a call from an exclusive Los Angeles hotel at any hour. Why was he upset? Did he volunteer for the job? Is he working for free? I have no problem seeing guests who aren’t very sick no matter what the hour.

I take for granted that doctors go into medicine because they want to help people, and unlike other helping professions (clergyman, fireman, social worker) we’re paid very well. Almost no one calls me during wee hours unless they feel bad. That may represent poor judgment, but who thinks clearly when they’re miserable?

A Near Miss

No one came to the door after several knocks.

I had spoken to the guest an hour before and announced my arrival time. Taking for granted that doctors are never early, some guests wander off, but I wasn’t early. This was serious. Unlike the case when a travel insurer sends me, when guests call and vanish, I don’t get paid.

Some guest sleep soundly. I phoned the room; no one answered. I called the concierge to ask her help; before I could interrupt she cheerfully offered to phone the room and hung up. She came back on the line a minute later to announce that, sadly, the guest hadn’t answered, but she would be happy to take a message.

Sticking my business card in the door frame, I returned to the lobby and wandered about. Occasionally, for mysterious reasons, guests decide they must meet me downstairs. I look like a doctor in an old movie with a white beard, suit, and doctor’s bag, but no one took the bait.

I struck gold in the hotel restaurant where a man leapt up from a crowded table and hurried over. He began reciting his symptoms until I suggested we wait for some privacy.

When asked why he wasn’t in his room, he answered that he was hungry but that he had “told the hotel” where I could find him. He pointed to a desk clerk who was busy checking in a family.

Disappointment

“A guest needs a doctor. Are you available?”

“I am. If you connect me to his room, I’ll try to help.”

My tone was businesslike, but joy filled my heart. The caller was the Airport Renaissance which never called. Acquiring a competitor’s hotel is a rare and delightful event.

A male voice answered after two rings. “There’s something in my eye.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“It’s no big deal. If you give me tweezers, I’ll take it out myself.”

“You mean it’s visible?”

“There’s a sliver stuck in my eyeball… Don’t tell me to go to a hospital. I’ll sign anything. Come to the room. Or get me tweezers.”

He interrupted my response.

“No hospital! No emergency room! Bring legal documentation to protect your liability. I’ll sign. Come alone. Don’t bring any FBI or CIA.”

I called the concierge to report that this was a matter for the police or paramedics. She admitted that the guest was causing a disturbance.

Sadly, I realized that the Renaissance was not changing doctors. Hotels hate dealing with crazy, drunk, or disruptive guests. When the regular doctor refused to come, the staff, in desperation, began calling other doctors in hopes that one would make the problem go away. This happens once or twice a year.

A Dog-Eat-Dog Business...again

Waiting at the local carwash, my eye ran over a sheet of ads along one wall. Among notices for personal injury lawyers, pest control, acupuncturists, and pizzas was a photo of a smiling young man in a white coat carrying a doctor’s bag. According to the text, a phone call would bring him to your door at a fee less than an emergency room’s. All ads for housecalls deliver this cheerful boast, never mentioning that the average ER visit has passed $1500.    

My first instinct was to chuckle at the waste of money. Few customers at a carwash will pay the going rate for a housecall. My second instinct was to worry. This fellow was ambitious. His web site features the same photograph plus testimonials from rating sites such as Yelp describing him as a healer of Christ-like compassion.

My third instinct was to recall a visit to Le Petite Hermitage, a small boutique hotel off the Sunset Strip. The guest had spoken to this doctor the day before, decided against a visit, and expressed pleasure at finding me and my lower fee. Since Le Petite Hermitage was a regular, I assumed he’d gotten the name from the internet. Now I’m not so sure because this occurred early in the year, and hotel hasn’t called since.

In large hotels employees know me by sight and take for granted, even without an official announcement, that I’m the official doctor. Since it has only 80 rooms, I may not visit Le Petite Hermitage for months at a time, so I’m not a familiar face. As a result, when an entrepreneurial physician makes an appearance to extol the benefits of his service including, perhaps, an amenity for the employee who refers a guest, he makes an impression.

A Dog-Eat-Dog Business, Part 2

“Doctor Lusman is out of town. Could you speak to a guest at the Fairmont?”

That was a jolt. Lusman was an ambitious young doctor who had phoned months earlier to introduce himself and offer to cover my hotels when I wanted to get away. I declined but suspected he was poaching. For Lusman to instruct his answering service to send me to one of my regulars showed immense gall or perhaps immense confidence.

In private practice it’s unethical to solicit another physician’s patients, but hotels are a grey area. Established hotel doctors who want to remain on friendly terms do not step on each other’s toes. I had made hundreds of visits to the Fairmont.

After the visit, I stopped by the concierge desk to mention that a guest had called another doctor.

Her eyes widened. “Gosh, I don’t know what happened, Doctor Oppenheim. The guest never talked to me.”

I felt better. Maybe it was an innocent mistake. This feeling lasted until I passed the front desk, and a bellman called out.

“Doctor! My name is Andre. I’m glad to meet you.” He hurried over, holding out his hand; we shook. “It was me that called you for the guest. Is he doing OK?”  I knew what this meant.

“Who do you think I am?”

The bellman cocked his head. “Aren’t you Doctor Lusman? People say I should call Doctor Lusman.”

“I’m Doctor Oppenheim, the hotel’s doctor.”

He looked confused. “Where’s Doctor Lusman?”

“He’s not available. You should call me in the future.” I walked away, pleased at frustrating the bellman who clearly expected a payoff. Bellmen were hopeless, I told myself. Concierges were the key to a hotel’s loyalty, and it looked liked they were still in my corner.

But this happened some time ago, and I haven’t heard from the Fairmont since. 

No Income Today

A lady at the Westin wanted a housecall for her cough and fever. This seemed reasonable until I learned that she was under treatment for multiple myeloma, a serious blood disease. It affects the immune system, so any sign of infection is a red flag.

I explained that she needed more than I could provide in a hotel room and gave directions to the nearest emergency room.

                                                 *          *          *

Two hours later I spoke to a guest at the Airport Holiday Inn who was experiencing stabbing chest pains. Chest pain is worrisome, but significant chest pain lingers. Fleeting pain in an otherwise healthy person is almost never a serious sign. I looked forward to the visit when, after my exam, I would deliver reassuring news. That anticipation disappeared when the guest mentioned that he had suffered several blood clots in his lung and was taking blood thinners. He added that these chest pains were different.

Different or not, it was a bad idea to assume that these were trivial. I sent him to a facility that could perform tests.

                                                *          *          *

A travel insurance agency asked me to see a hotel guest in Encinitas.

“That’s near San Diego,” I pointed out. “It’s a hundred miles.”

I’ve traveled that far in the past and charged accordingly, but I didn’t want to quote a fee and risk having it accepted because I wasn’t in a mood for the grueling drive. A local clinic would be cheaper, I informed the dispatcher. 

                                                *          *          *

“I’m a physician in the U.K., and my wife has conjunctivitis in both eyes. I went to the chemist for antibiotic drops, but apparently I have to see an American doctor.”

“It’s unusual to have bacterial conjunctivitis in both eyes,” I said. “If you’re certain, ask the pharmacist to phone, and I’ll approve the prescription.”

Later the pharmacist phoned. When it comes to their own illness or that of their family, doctors are no more accurate than laymen, but they have no interest in my opinion. 

Special Treatment

“Our general manager’s husband has an eye problem. Could you see him this morning?”

“I could.”

“She’s wondering how much you’d charge?”

“There will be no charge.”

The concierge sounded delighted. I was also pleased. She worked at a large West Hollywood hotel that didn’t call.

I’m happy to care for staff gratis. A lower level employee will certainly tell colleagues about the experience. This is important because, even at my regular hotels, many employees are unaware that I exist, and guests who ask for help usually ask only once.

Hotel managers, of course, have the power to make important decisions.

I’ve never been asked to see a general manager’s spouse, but it seemed wise to give him special treatment. He was staying in the penthouse. The eye problem presented no difficulty; I suggested soothing eye drops, and informed him that symptoms should vanish once he began wearing goggles when riding his motorcycle.

On my way out, the general manager expressed gratitude. I nodded modestly and kept my hopes to myself.

A Hotel Doctor's Database, Part 1

Few things besides wine and cheese improve with time, but a personal database is among them.   

It didn’t seem significant when I began in 1983, but now I can look over 18,316 visits. So when I claim to have made more housecalls than any doctor now alive, I have the evidence . It’s a fascinating trove of information. I saw 967 patients from Brazil, for example; 42 of them suffered skin problems. Of those calls from Brazilians, 70 arrived between 11pm and 6am, getting me out of bed.

Of the 18,316 nearly 12,000 (11,849) were of calls directly from a hotel. The remainder came from four other sources. 

The second source is agencies that insure travelers visiting America: 3490 visits. Few come from Europe or Australia whose insurers follow the American strategy of insisting that clients pay up front and apply for reimbursement later. Asian and Latin American carriers do better. Their clients phone the 800 number of the agency’s US office; the agency phones me; I make the housecall and send my invoice to the agency which pays exactly what I bill (American carriers undoubtedly roll their eyes at this archaic behavior).

Inevitably some insurers are less easy to deal with than others. Some have adopted the American system of requiring elaborate forms, itemization, and codes for every procedure. Others pay slowly and only after many pestering phone calls. When my patience runs out, I stop accepting their calls.

This doesn’t mean I stop seeing their clients, because they transfer their business to my third source of calls: competitors with 1760 visits. That includes other Los Angeles hotel doctors who ask my help or cover for me when I’m busy as well as one of the national housecall services. They have names like Expressdoc, AMPM Housecalls, Hoteldoc, Global Med. If you live in a large city, they may be available, but be warned that some are reasonable but others charge fees that will take your breath away.

Foreign airline crew make up the fourth source: 913 visits. American airlines have no interest in crew who fall ill when laying over. They have medical insurance but with no transportation or knowledge of facilities in a strange city, they are out of luck. Occasionally I deal with their pitiful calls and treat them as charity cases. As with American insurance carriers, it’s hopeless to bill an American airline for a housecall. 

A minor fifth category is what I call “private-parties:” 293 visits. These are people who learn about me from another source. That includes locals as well as former patients who return to the city and call me directly.

I Get Letters

In my dreams, agents write, suggesting a book, perhaps entitled “Hotel Doctor to the Stars.” So far these haven’t arrived, but physicians occasionally E-mail me. They want to know how to become a hotel doctor.

I advise them to (1) let local hotels know they’re available and (2) wait. It helps if (3) there’s no competition. That worked for me although I began in 1983 and it wasn’t until 1992 when my yearly visits passed 1,000, and I quit other jobs to become a fulltime hotel doctor. By then others were entering the field, so newer doctors will wait longer.

My only advertising is a dignified letter to general managers three or four times a year. Aggressive competitors who extol their services to desk clerks and concierges often take over my regular hotels, at least temporarily, but it didn’t work when I tried it. At better hotels, employees are nice to everyone, so they listened intently, eagerly accepted my business card, and promised to keep me in mind. The first few times, I left feeling pleased with myself, but calls never followed. At cheap hotels and motels, staff seemed mystified at the concept of calling a hotel doctor. No one ever got sick, they insisted.

It’s possible I was missing the key inducement: money. Paying a bellman, desk clerk, or concierge “referral fee” has a long tradition in hotel doctoring. It’s illegal, and all my competitors condemn the practice, but I suspect it happens.

An Encounter at the Beverly Hills Hotel

In 1995, a man wearing only pajama bottoms dashed into the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel as I stood at the concierge’s desk.

“Don’t pay him!” he screamed.

Without lowering his voice, he denounced my competence and asserted that, once he informed the general manager, I would never again enter the Beverly Hills Hotel.

He had consulted me for a painful anal condition. I didn’t find anything wrong but gave some suppositories from my bag. He showed no interest in suggestions for sitz-baths and stool softeners, finally interrupting to declare that he needed substantial pain relief, preferably by injection. He heard my explanation for declining in sullen silence.

I left the room without the usual pleasantries and made a beeline for the concierge but not to get paid. I never ask for money after a visit turns out badly. If the guest isn’t planning to complain, the sight of my charge on the bill might change his mind. In these situations I try to neutralize damage by warning that I’d seen a guest who might cause difficulties. I had barely begun when the man’s entrance made this superfluous.

I kept quiet, and he eventually ran out of gas and stalked off. To my relief, several amused employees urged me not to worry. This guest was well known to them. 

When an Antibiotic Helps

If you receive an antibiotic for a respiratory infection, it’s probably a placebo because almost all respiratory infections are viruses.

If you receive an antibiotic for a skin infection, there’s a chance you have a bacterial infection that an antibiotic won’t help. A boil or other collection of pus will heal if the pus is drained. If the doctor gives an antibiotic but doesn’t drain the pus, it will also heal. That’s because most infections, boils included, eventually heal.

You’ll get an antibiotic if your doctor diagnoses an ear or sinus infection. It’s a bad idea to ask if this will help because (if he’s honest), he’ll admit that no one knows. In experiment after experiment, when researchers compare patients given and not given antibiotics for ear or sinus infections, the results are never dramatic. Often there’s no difference. Sometimes they help a little. Doctors in some nations don’t treat these with antibiotics.

That’s why urine infections are my favorites. It’s not controversial that antibiotics help. For infections in young women, help comes quickly, usually within a day. These are satisfying encounters for everyone concerned.

Overdressed for Summer

It’s August. Wearing a suit and tie, I’m reminded of how much I resent hotels that refuse to let me park free. I only learned that the Casa Del Mar didn’t when the clerk declined to validate, and I was stuck for $20. But the Casa Del Mar is on the beach where it’s cool enough to walk a few blocks without suffering.

The Sheraton in Pasadena is in Pasadena where it’s ten degrees warmer than Los Angeles. The average summer day in Los Angeles is tolerable but opening the car door in Pasadena is always a shock. Worse, I travel to the Pasadena Sheraton to see Virgin-Atlantic crew who are British. Foreigners, Arabs excepted, believe that air conditioning is bad for the health. When anyone gets sick, they turn it off, so not only do I arrive at the hotel in a sweat but go about my business in a hot room.

When the General Manager Consults the Lawyer

The concierge expressed relief when I answered. A lady’s 11 year-old son was seriously ill, but the mother had refused to take him to an emergency room. She had been pestering the hotel staff all day.

“What’s the problem?” I asked. “You only had to phone me.”

I’d made over 300 visits to that hotel since the 1990s. But even as I spoke, I remembered that it hadn’t called in six months. As I feared, the concierge explained that a new general manager had decreed that, for liability reasons, sick guests would be directed to the local emergency room unless calling 911 was appropriate. Doctor referrals were forbidden.

At any given time, about twenty percent of Los Angeles hotels have this policy, but it’s never the same twenty percent. Hotels adopt and then discard this rule because it causes public relations problems. Most guests don’t require 911 and don’t want to go to an emergency room, so they stay in the hotel, sick and resentful. A few persistent guests make so much trouble that, as in this case, a desperate employee disobeys her boss. I’ve made a dozen such visits.

Calling me would have saved everyone trouble. The child had a fever and a bad cough, a routine viral infection. It was an easy visit.

Afterward, as I was commiserating with the concierge, my phone rang with an example of how things are done right. A man at the Langham in Pasadena wanted a doctor to check out his cold. I told him I’d arrive in 45 minutes.

Getting Help, Part 2

My relations with other Los Angeles housecall doctors are civilized but not close. As a result, when I leave town there’s only one colleague I trust to cover. Mostly this works out. I schedule my trips so they don’t conflict with his.

When I’m in town I’m always available. That includes after bedtime, in the movies and restaurants, and during social events. It includes concerts and live theater, but I sit on the aisle, so I can hurry to the lobby when my phone buzzes. None of this bothers me greatly (my wife is another matter).  

One event causes problems: baseball games. One of my brothers has Dodger season tickets, and we attend a dozen times during the season. We go to a restaurant and then the game: almost the only time we get together; I love it and don’t want to be interrupted. I’m out of commission only about six hours, and occasionally my colleague can’t cover.

I could continue to answer the phone, but crowd noise in the stadium makes conversation difficult. It also reveals that I’m having fun, and patients hate disturbing a doctor during his leisure time. My solution is to change my phone message to announce that I’m unavailable until (whatever time the game ends) and then turn off the phone. Genuine emergencies are very rare in a hotel doctor’s practice, and so far it’s turned out all right. But I’m always looking for help.

Girls Are the Best

 “...allo!!” shouted a little girl from her bed as I walked in, 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 when asked 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 loved 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.   

The Most Deeply Compassionate Physician

I’m an early riser, so the 5:30 a.m. phone call last week found me at my computer writing this blog. The caller was Le Montage, a luxury hotel in Beverly Hills.

It was a perfect time. Wilshire Boulevard was deserted. The hotel was three miles away. I could park on the street. Guests during the small hours are particularly grateful. I was home in time for breakfast.

My last visit to Le Montage occurred several months ago. The call arrived at 3 a.m.

That I am Los Angeles’ leading hotel doctor is beyond doubt, but I have never dominated the elite establishments (Bel Air, Four Seasons, Beverly Wilshire, L’Hermitage, Peninsula, Beverly Hills Hotel). These already had doctors when I began in 1983.

After a few decades, some took notice, and I often covered for their doctors, but nowadays when these hotels call, it’s generally during the wee hours.

I suspect this is because a new generation came on the scene a few years ago including several young aggressive doctors building a concierge practice. Concierge doctors offer an exclusive personal service, but they accept only cash. They have no interest in Hiltons, Ramadas, Holiday Inns et al whose middle-class guests might object to the fees, but luxury hotels are a different matter. They solicited with considerable success.

“Do you think they're paying off the concierges and bellman?” asked a veteran colleague when the subject came up.

"They wouldn't stoop to that," I responded. It's illegal. I’ve met several of these doctors, and they seem personable. Check their web sites (google “Los Angeles house call doctor”). All describe themselves as skilled and deeply compassionate. Read their testimonials or the Yelp comments. Unanimous praise.

When these physicians introduce themselves to bellmen and concierges, they undoubtedly emphasize their skill and deep compassion. Who would not be impressed?

As midnight approaches, bellmen and concierges go home. The skeleton night staff has never encountered these exceptional physicians, so when a guest falls ill, they call Doctor Oppenheim.