Fatal Diarrhea

Coris USA, a travel insurer, sent me to see an Argentinean lady with diarrhea at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Diarrhea is usually an easy visit.

Arriving, I learned that her illness was entering its sixth day: too long to be the ordinary stomach virus. She felt weak and feverish, and she had recently taken antibiotics, so I wondered this was Clostridium difficile colitis, an occasional consequence of the avalanche of antibiotics consumed by humans everywhere.

Every antibiotic you swallow kills trillions of germs, mostly harmless, living in your bowel. They are immediately replaced by other germs that can grow in the presence of that antibiotic. Most bowels don’t harbor C. difficile, but if yours does, antibiotics may convert a small population into a large one, and it produces an irritating toxin that causes a severe, occasionally fatal diarrhea. 

Diagnosing Clostridium requires more than suspicion, and there were other possibilities. She needed a thorough evaluation.

Fortunately, Coris USA is a good travel insurer: meaning that it (a) pays promptly and (b) takes my advice. These sound unrelated, but I’ve found that good insurers do both, bad ones do neither.

I phoned Coris’s Miami office with the news and the name of the doctor I recommended. The dispatcher contacted the main office in Buenos Aires for authorization; it appeared within the hour, and the patient went off. If I were dealing with a bad insurer, authorization would be denied or remain pending indefinitely. I often send patients off, warning that they will have to pay up front and try for reimbursement later.

Tests were positive, and she began improving after a few days of treatment: an antibiotic but one different from the one that caused the problem.

Free Enterprise in Action

Visiting Disneyland, a couple’s two year-old twins fell ill. The parents consulted the concierge, and a doctor who wasn’t me duly arrived.

A week later, the family traveled to Hollywood to spend a few days before flying home. That’s where I came on the scene.

The children had recovered, and I wrote my clearance-to-travel. From the parents’ description, they had suffered viral upper respiratory infections with cough, congestion, and general miseries. The hotel doctor had diagnosed: “otitis, tonsillitis, bronchitis, and mild pneumonia.” He had given injections, handed over medication, and written prescriptions for antibiotics, cough medicine, and eardrops.

The parents showed me his invoices. The fee for one child totaled $495, for the other $390. The prescriptions and injections came to over $100, so they paid about a thousand dollars for a single visit.

Nothing I do in a hotel room costs much, so I quote a flat fee and never charge extra for anything. That doctor billed $30 for an injection; those I carry for common problems (vomiting, pain, allergy) cost less than a dollar a dose. A syringe costs a dime. He handed over small packets of pills, charging $20 apiece. I carry similar packets containing from three to eight pills. Each pill costs between a nickel and a quarter. A bottle of cough medicine costs $1.50. A week’s supply of antibiotics is usually less than $5.00. I pay about $3.00 for a bottle of antibiotic eye drops. Perhaps my most expensive drug is antibiotic ear drops at $8.00. Doctors may charge $30 for a urinalysis, but the dipsticks they dunk in your urine come in bottles of 100 at $40.00. That’s 40 cents a dipstick.

Medicine is a noble profession, but while I’m in favor of doctors earning a large income, it’s beneath their dignity to pay obsessive attention to it. This might not be a majority opinion. Doctors regularly claim that they are businessmen operating in a free market. As such, it’s reasonable to charge for every service. Sensible patients understand, they insist.

Another Second Opinion

“I need a second opinion about something personal,” said an elderly man at a West Hollywood hotel.

It’s always pleasure to visit a patient who isn’t sick, although this seemed an odd situation. But first, since he was American and over 65, I explained that I wasn’t a Medicare doctor, so Medicare wouldn’t pay for this visit.

“That’s OK. I need to see you.”

I drove to the hotel and listened as he explained that his scrotum hung too low. His family doctor hadn’t taken it seriously, so he wanted my advice.

On examination, his scrotum appeared normal although perhaps lengthy. I asked how this caused a problem.

“When I sit on the toilet, it dips into the water,” he said.

I scratched my head.

“A urologist could probably do surgery to shorten it, but I’m not sure Medicare would pay.... Why don’t you lower the water in the toilet bowl?”

Breaking My Rule

I was awake at 7 a.m. writing this blog when a guest called with symptoms of a bladder infection.

Being American, her first question was: do I accept her insurance. I explained that I didn’t, adding that there was an urgent care clinic a mile away that would.

“I’d probably have to wait forever,” she said. “I have meetings.”

“I’m definitely convenient,” I said.

“Do you bring the medicine?”

“I do.”

I wanted to finish writing and eat breakfast, so I told her I’d arrive at 9 a.m., thereby demonstrating that, despite my wisdom and vast experience, I do stupid things.

It’s a rule of hotel doctoring to go as soon as possible. Guests who wait often reconsider, so I knew what to expect when the hotel’s number popped up on my caller ID at 8:00.

“I’m feeling better,” she lied. “I won’t need to see a doctor after all.”

“You won’t save much at the clinic,” I pointed out. “They’ll charge extra for the urine test and extra for the culture, and you’ll have to find a pharmacy and pay for the prescription.”

“Oh, no! I’m feeling fine,” she insisted. “Thank you for your help.” She hung up.

When patients cancel, I console myself if the illness seems likely to produce an unsatisfying encounter. For example, guests are often disappointed when I can’t cure their respiratory infection. But urine infections are easy to treat and treatment produces dramatic improvement. I hate to miss one.