How to Find a Good Doctor

Readers of these posts occasionally ask me to be their doctor. Since I’m long past retirement age and make housecalls exclusively, I can’t be anyone’s family doctor.

These requests bring up a serious problem:  how do you find a good doctor? Searching the internet turns up an avalanche of physicians yearning to care for you.

All seem humane, state of the art, eager to serve. Why isn’t the choice easy? The answer, of course, is that these are advertisements: fawning and phony.

It’s impossible for doctors to advertise without appearing shifty. They invariably point out their expertise, but you take that for granted. They extol their compassion. That sounds creepy, but they can’t resist. 

I’m not after your business. I give medical advice but only if it contradicts what you hear elsewhere or seems amusing.

I enjoy describing life as a hotel doctor and delivering opinions on the world, mostly as it relates to medicine. I write what I want although my wife exerts a modest influence (almost always by saying “you can’t post that...”).

I’m often the hero of my stories, but they’re mostly day-to-day events, some of which I wish hadn’t happened. The result is that I come across as a real human being. Why shouldn’t I? I’m a good writer. Most doctors can’t write; neither can their advertising agencies.

Terrific doctors aren’t rare. Their patients know who they are, so the best way to find one is to poll people you know. Asking doctors is OK, because they’re unlikely to name anyone bad, but they tend to prefer their friends. The only terrific doctors I know are those I’ve seen in action – most often caring for me. Ask around.

A Creepy Frat Guy

The Andaz Hyatt had given my number, explained the caller. Could I see a member of their cast who was suffering an earache? Unfortunately, he was on location and wouldn’t return until evening.

She was delighted at my suggestion that I come to the film shoot, and I’m as eager as anyone to mingle with movie people. On the downside, I live six miles from the Hyatt; the film was shooting at the far end of the San Fernando Valley, twenty-five miles away, and I’d quoted my fee before learning this. 

The producers had taken over a run-down motel, painted it pink, and restored the coffee shop to its mid-twentieth century interior. I drove past warning “closed to the public” signs and parked among the cabins and scattered 1950s cars.

Several dozen people stood around, none over forty. You should realize that shooting a movie is boring. Filming takes up perhaps two percent of the day. The remainder involves setting up, technical changes, errands, and waiting around. Everyone looks forward to lunch. I attracted attention, being far older and much better dressed.

Earaches are easy. I followed a young man into the empty 1950s diner, made the diagnosis, handed over medicine, and took my leave.

As usual, one aspect of the experience seemed strange. The assistant who had phoned and greeted me on my arrival was a young, attractive woman. Other attractive women were carrying messages, answering phones, setting up the lunch buffet. Almost every actress in costume was beautiful; there were no exceptions for those in street clothes.

Somewhere in Los Angeles there is a creepy frat guy who handles hiring for film sets.