I'm Under a Doctor's Care

“I parked illegally, and they towed my car. It’s in an impound lot, and, wouldn’t you know.….”

Tales of misfortune (as opposed to complaints of illness) at one a.m. are a routine tactic of drug abusers.

“…My prescriptions were in the glove compartment. I don’t know when I can get them. I’m under a doctor’s care for….”

I declined his request for Oxycontin. The call had come from the desk clerk who had immediately handed the phone to the guest. As a result, when I hung up, I knew the guest might inform clerk of his disappointment with the hotel doctor. 

Under those circumstances, I phone the clerk and explain that the guest has made a request that I cannot, in good conscience, grant. Remembering his manners, the clerk expressed sympathy, but you never know…. 

A Big Tipper

Le Meredien in Beverly Hills has a firm policy against recommending a doctor. This does not mean that it never calls, only that a call from Le Meredien means a guest making trouble, and the harassed employee has chosen Doctor Oppenheim as the lesser of two evils, the greater being burdening his boss with the problem.

 “I’m here to see the gentleman in 499,” I informed the concierge. “Is there anything I should know?” 

She made a show of checking her computer. “That would be Prince Mahmel. He’s been asking for a doctor. Repeatedly. The Saudi consulate had your number.” 

Concealing my pleasure at that news, I thanked her and headed for the elevator. 499 stood at the end of the hall, the largest suite on the floor. Its door stood open. Knocking and then pushing it further, I encountered the smell of alcohol, never a good sign when the patient is Moslem. No one was in sight, but a doorway led to the bedroom and the prince, a small figure in a huge bed, covers drawn up to his chin. Balding and past forty, his disheveled hair was the single unkempt feature, and a goatee the only evidence of his foreignness

“Pain. Terrible pain,” he announced loudly.

“Where is the pain, Mr. Mahmel?”

“Kidney. I have kidney stones in my kidney.” He threw the covers to one side and pointed to his right flank. “My doctor prescribes Dihydroco, but I have no more.”

“That’s not a drug I’m familiar with.”

“It is from London. I live in London.”

“Do you just need a prescription?”

“Also a shot. The pain is unbearable.”

I examined the prince and tested his urine for blood. Everything was normal but this can happen with a kidney stone. I thumped his back over his kidneys, and he groaned. I was not convinced. Le Meredien wasn’t a potential client, so I could expect no advantage from pacifying the prince, and no damage from a complaint.

“I’ll give you a Toradol injection.” An excellent pain remedy, Toradol is similar to ibuprofen but probably not what he expected.

“Many thanks.”

Any doubt about the prince’s drug consumption vanished when my needle jerked to a halt half an inch beneath the skin. Fibrosis from hundreds of injections had given the prince’s buttock muscle the consistency of wood. I forced the syringe down and delivered the injection. Anticipating the pleasures ahead, the prince clutched my hand in gratitude.

Yanking open the drawer of the bedside table which turned out to be stuffed with hundred dollar bills, he snatched a handful and pushed them into my grasp.

Grateful the prince had forgotten his request for a prescription, I thanked him and hurried out. Later I counted fourteen bills. I gave them to my wife who bought a Chinese rug for our living room.