Another Arab Prince

It seemed a routine visit for an upset stomach until I knocked at what turned out to be the penthouse suite of a Beverly Hills hotel. The man who answered identified himself as “the prince’s personal assistant.” I followed him into another large room where the prince, an elderly Saudi, lay in bed. It was five in the morning.

The assistant indicated the patient – not the prince but a young woman sitting nearby, looking wan. I took her into another room to deliver my care. She was an American in her twenties, and I wondered why she was in the prince’s room at this hour. Perhaps she was a prostitute, but she seemed nice.  

When I returned to the bedroom, the prince thanked me for coming, adding that he had a personal problem. He suffered crippling back pain and had run out of medication. Could I help? As we talked, I noticed the assistant waggling his finger in a gesture indicating that I should not pursue the matter. I took the hint.

Accompanying me to the elevator, the assistant explained that everyone preferred that the prince’s doctor handle the prince’s drugs. Then he pulled out a sheaf of bills and paid me far too much. I don’t decline tips from the very rich.

Most Arabs that I see are ordinary people, but over thirty years the occasional prince turns up. They pay generously and provide material for this blog .

The Glamorous Life of the Call Girl

At one a.m. in 1994, I received a call from Le Montrose, a boutique hotel in West Hollywood. The guest told me the problem was “personal.”

The man who opened the door was past sixty, short, plump, balding, and tieless, wearing a rumpled suit which I suspected he’d put on to greet me. Across the room, wearing a bathrobe, a young woman sat on the bed, staring sullenly at the floor.

“There’s been an accident,” he said.

Neither guest seemed injured, so I knew I wasn’t going to get off easy. This proved true as he explained that his friend seemed to have an object in her rectum. He provided no details.

Bizarre incidents fascinate doctors no less than laymen. Around the cafeteria table, interns compete in relating the latest. Outside of working hours, they remain a mainstay for impressing girls at parties.

Central to this adolescent obsession is the genre of things-that-end-up-in-people’s-rectums. I no longer find these amusing, not only because I’m a grown-up but because they make me nervous. I hate situations that I might not be able to handle. Removing something from the rectum often requires tools such as a proctoscope which I didn’t carry. Also practice. I had never done it.

But I had to try. After introducing myself to the woman, I put on a rubber glove and went to work. There is more space than you’d think inside a rectum; I felt a hard object touch my fingertip and then drift away. When something lies out of reach, it’s natural to stretch, and my desperate efforts caused her to groan with pain.

Suddenly, I snagged something and pulled out a shot glass. I almost danced with joy and relief. Although I expected an outpouring of gratitude, none appeared. Gathering up her clothes, the woman disappeared into the bathroom. The man nodded agreeably as if this were routine business. Filling out my invoice, I asked the woman’s name.

“Elizabeth Anderson.” He hesitated before answering, revealing that he had invented the name. Call girls lead a glamorous life in the movies, but the reality is often miserable. I handed him the invoice. He examined it thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of money,” he said. “You only spent five minutes here.”

In 1994 my fee for a wee-hour call was $180. He had not objected when I had informed him over the phone. When guests balk, I say I’ll accept whatever they consider fair. They often reconsider and pay my regular fee.

I told him I’d accept whatever he considered fair. He handed over $80. I don’t want to think how the woman made out.

How a Hotel Doctor is Like a Prostitute

I make the majority of my calls at the request of national housecall agencies, international travel insurers, airlines, and a sprinkling of miscellaneous sources including other hotel doctors. That’s fine with me.

A few dozen Los Angeles area hotels call me exclusively. That leaves over a hundred, all of whom have my number but who call another doctor or no doctor and sometimes me. Competition for these hotels has become so cutthroat that I’m happy to leave it to others.

If you’ve followed my posts you’ve learned about my excellent skills and low fees. Why would a hotel bother with anyone else? The answer is that service and price are useless marketing tools in medicine where the law of supply and demand doesn’t work. 

Providing a doctor produces no revenue for the hotel, and guests don’t demand one, so most general managers pay no attention. Asked for help by a guest, employees are on their own. 

They may simply give out a number, but many prefer the traditional arrangement once used to summon a prostitute. A bellman made a phone call. As the lady left, she stopped at the bell desk to drop off a portion of her fee.

It’s illegal for a doctor to pay for a referral, but what are the options for someone yearning to break in to the glamorous and lucrative world of hotel doctoring? Claiming to deliver superior medical care sounds weird. Advertising a low fee is vulgar. Whoring works better.