It was one a.m. as I drove Santa Monica Boulevard, but crowds packed the sidewalks in West Hollywood, lining up to hear the latest band. A few blocks beyond, I parked at the Ramada.
A guest led me to the bathroom where her companion lay in the empty tub, clutching a towel and moaning. This was not the first time I cared for a patient in a bathtub or even the tenth.
“We’ve been out drinking,” explained the guest. “But not more than usual, and she didn’t have more than me. Do you think they put something in her drink?”
This was not the first time I heard that – or the tenth. I’m puzzled at how often guests suspect foul play when someone becomes violently ill after drinking.
I examined the patient as best I could without moving her because she insisted she could not move. Afterward I explained that alcohol is a toxin that messes up the brain, usually in pleasant ways but occasionally not. After delivering medication for vomiting, I told her to suck on ice chips and phone if she wasn’t better in a few hours. So far everyone has recovered.
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