I Like Vomiting

A businessman at the Standard had been throwing up since the wee hours. I assured him I’d arrive within the hour. It was nine a.m., so the usual half-hour drive downtown might last longer.

Before leaving, from my medication closet I extracted a syringe, a packet of antinausea pills, and an antivomiting suppository and dropped them into my pocket. This enabled me to avoid restocking my bag after returning home. Sometimes I forget.

The drive was tolerable. The guest was miserable, but he hadn’t vomited in two hours, so I suspected he was over the worst. I left feeling good. I like vomiting.

People chuckle to hear this, but in an otherwise healthy person, most episodes don’t last long, rarely more than a day. My medicines help symptoms but don’t speed recovery. When guests feel better, often by the time the medicine wears off, they believe I've cured them. He felt better by evening.

A Stressful Life

I’m running low on ondansetron, the best antinausea pill.

Unfortunately, I’m not low on many other supplies. I buy through an internet pharmaceutical company that charges a fat handling fee for orders under $200. Eight bottles of ondansetron, 240 pills, will cost $25. I could use more tongue depressors, but 500 at $5.24 is not much help. I dispense large quantities of  cough medicine and lidocaine gargle for sore throats, but those cost only a few dollars a piece. My bottle of 500 Amoxicillin capsules ($28) is half empty; stocking up would help but medicines have expiration dates, so one must be careful.

A few years ago, after thirty years of use, my blood pressure cuff broke, but I had a spare. Should I buy another? Will I be practicing when I’m 108?....

One of my boasts is that, unlike other hotel doctors, the fee I announce is the fee I collect. I don’t charge extra for anything. It turns out that pills, injectables, and supplies for common ailments are so cheap that I struggle to assemble an order exceeding $200. Life is tough.

Dealing With Buenos Aires

“Can you make a visit to Palo Alto?”

“That’s four hundred miles away!”

“How much would you charge?”

“I’m in Los Angeles. Do you understand?”

“Yes. How much would you charge?”

In fact, she didn’t understand. To save money, many travel insurers have closed their US offices, so this call originated from the patient’s home country. Inevitably, dispatchers in Buenos Aires don’t speak English as well as their former colleagues in Miami. I carefully explained that the distance made a visit impossible.

Unlike American travel insurers who require clients to pay up front and submit a claim, South American insurers send a doctor and pay me directly. I’ve made over two thousand visits for them. They’re among my favorites because patients who don’t pay directly are less demanding. Also, these insurers send me to hotels that don’t call or, even better, to my competitor’s hotels. A downside is that, if I don’t listen carefully, they send me to the wrong address. In Spanish “v” and “b” have identical sounds; so do “y” and “ll.”  

Then there was the time an insurer called at midnight.

“Can you make a visit to Culver City tomorrow?”

“Yes… But why did you call so late?”

“Because it says on your profile that you are available 24 hours.”

Traffic

Bending over, a guest at the Georgian felt stabbing pain in his back. He could barely move.

Acute back pain usually doesn’t last long, so, over the phone, I assured him that he would be disabled for a day and then gradually improve. I was not anxious to make this visit because it was 4 p.m. I would be driving to Santa Monica and back during the rush hour, a tedious experience. But he wanted a visit.

It was a tedious drive, not improved by the sight of immobile traffic on the opposite side of the freeway. The guest answered the door himself, always a good sign in someone with back pain. I examined him, repeated what I had said over the phone, and handed over pain medication; it was an easy visit.

Returning, I settled into the rear of a nearly motionless stream of cars. I was in no hurry; it was suppertime, but I wasn’t hungry. After ten minutes, my phone rang. A guest at the Crowne Plaza in Beverly Hills asked for a doctor. His wife was vomiting.

I often delay visits, but people who are vomiting hate to wait. This would normally be a quick drive because the Crowne Plaza was only five miles away, and I was headed in that direction. But it was the rush hour. I left the freeway and crept for thirty minutes along Pico Boulevard to the hotel. The visit went well, and the drive home was tolerable.