My Favorite Infections

Number one is urine infections in women, because I quickly make them go away. Handing over a packet of antibiotics, I assure someone who has been running to the bathroom every half hour that she’ll feel better by the next morning. In men, urine infections are usually prostate infections; these resolve slowly.

Eye infections (“pinkeye,” conjunctivitis) go away quickly after we prescribe antibiotic drops because most conjunctivitis goes away quickly whether or not antibiotics help (mostly they don’t). Everyone with a pink eye assumes they need eye drops, and doctors are happy to oblige, so we find these satisfying to treat.

Some intestinal infections respond to antibiotics but almost all occur in poor parts of the world. They’re rare in the US where vomiting and diarrhea is usually a “stomach virus” and short-lived.   

Amazingly, experts debate whether antibiotics help ear infections. Doctors in many nations don’t prescribe them, but Americans do. Patients give us credit when they get better. We like that.

47 No-Shows

When there was no response after my third knock, I experienced a familiar sinking feeling. Under the category “no show,” my database reveals 47 entries. 

I phoned the guest, but there was no answer. At the front desk, the clerk assured me that I had the correct room and that they had no idea where the guest might be. A security officer opened the room and confirmed that it was empty.

For mysterious reasons, guests occasionally wait downstairs. I wandered through the lobby and restaurants. With my beard, suit, and black bag, I look exactly like a doctor, and now and then my quarry jumps up and identifies him or herself. Not this time.

“When do you plan to arrive?” asked a desk clerk who phoned an hour later, adding that my guest had been waiting in the lobby. When I spoke to the guest, he insisted that he’d “told the hotel” where he could be found.

"This Has to Go Into My Blog!"`

A dispatcher from the agency that handles airline flight crew mentioned a sore throat, but the guest mentioned an “unprotected sexual contact” two nights earlier. The sore throat appeared soon after, and he was worried. Very worried.

No problem. Unprotected sex with a stranger is a bad idea, but the odds of disaster are low. I settled back to learn what happened.

He seemed distracted. Asked for details of the contact, he didn’t remember. The phone rang. During the conversation, he mentioned to the caller (apparently his supervisor) that someone was in the room who claimed to be a doctor. Could he explain?

That sounded odd. When he hung up, I suggested he call the agency to confirm my identity. He did so and then handed me the phone. The dispatcher apologized and admitted that the guest had been calling since the previous day and seemed disturbed. He hoped I could help.

Confirming my identity did not improve matters. When someone knocked at the door, he told them to go away. Ignoring me, he dialed the hotel phone. Reaching voicemail he explained that he needed a clinic appointment but someone had sent a doctor. He needed an explanation. Hanging up, he dialed his cell phone, reaching a friend for a short chat during which he mentioned that there was a stranger in the room.

I suggested that if he wanted to go to a clinic, I could arrange it. Waving this off, he dialed another number. It wasn’t clear who or why he was phoning. Someone knocked, and he told them to go away. When I expressed a wish to leave, he stood at the door. For the first time I felt nervous. I repeated my request several times in a soothing voice. He opened the door a crack. I squeezed out, and he slammed it behind me.

In the lobby, I phoned the agency to explain that the guest needed a psychiatric evaluation. Minutes later, as I sat filling out forms, a noisy flotilla of fire trucks, police cars, and paramedic van pulled up.

I followed half a dozen men up to the room. Several of the guest’s crewmates were on the scene, trying to persuade him to open the door. They would have succeeded if given time, but the officers wanted to wrap things up.

If I were paranoid, I would not want to hear strange men pounding on my door demanding that I open. They broke in and hauled him off. Acute psychotic breaks rarely last long, and he was back in a few days, much better according to the dispatcher. He needed another visit to clear him to fly.   

Does Everyone Live Like That?

The Beverly Garland is a sixteen mile freeway drive. The guest had phoned at 8 a.m. on Wednesday. I avoid distant housecalls during the rush hour; guests rarely object to waiting.

But I had finished breakfast. I had no plans for several hours. Why not get the visit out of the way? I checked my traffic app. North on the 405 was not bad; the second leg, east on the 101 was solid red. Maybe it would ease by the time I reached it.

Driving north on the 405, I shared my fellow drivers’ relief that we were not on the immobile southbound side. Half a mile before the connector to the 101, the right lane stopped cold. 

It took another 45 minutes to reach the hotel. I hate being late, but I had warned the guest, giving myself plenty of time. I listened to a tape. I paid close attention to driving, moving at a steady few miles per hour instead of braking and accelerating constantly. Doing that requires allowing the car in front to move ahead some distance. Cars from the adjacent lane occasionally pulled into that space, infuriating the driver behind me. I hoped he wasn’t armed.

Getting stuck in the rush hour was my decision, but millions of people have no choice. They do it ten times a week. How can they live like that?.....