The European Plague

 “I have the European plague. I need a doctor.”

“Excuse me?...”

“I have the European plague. I need a doctor for the American plague.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My child is in the bathroom with the European plague. Can you bring the doctor?”

What was he talking about?.... The exchange continued for some time until the light dawned. This was the fourth occasion this has happened in over thirty years and 30,000 phone calls. The guest had phoned the front desk because his electrical devices used European outlets which are different from ours. He needed an “adapter.” The clerk, not listening carefully, had heard “a doctor” and forwarded his call to me.

But I was also not listening carefully. It’s human nature to hear what you expect to hear, so I assumed that the caller had a medical problem.

I had heard “European plague” when he had said “European plug.” He had not said “my child is in the bathroom” but “my shaver is in the bathroom….”

Good Luck

 A national housecall service connected me with a guest at the Montage in Beverly Hills. She was suffering the flu; I told her I’d arrive in half an hour.

As soon as I hung up, I realized, to my dismay, that I had quoted my usual fee, forgetting that the housecall service takes a 40 percent cut. The Montage is a super-luxury hotel, and the guest was probably rich, but I couldn’t change the fee.

I was in luck. Not one but three guests in the room had the flu, so it worked out.

Vomiters Hate Waiting

A hotel guest phoned to ask when I’d arrive.

“In about fifteen minutes.”

On her initial call, I had told her I would arrive in an hour, and I was on schedule, so the call meant that she was still vomiting. Vomiters are impatient.

My database shows 2,328 entries for “gastroenteritis” (the common stomach flu). It’s my second leading diagnosis and far more satisfying than “upper respiratory infection” (4,584). Both are almost always incurable, but gastroenteritis rarely lasts more than a day; patients give me credit when it goes away.

The guest greeted me at the door, a good sign. A guest in bed is OK, sprawled on the bathroom floor is not good.

I asked the usual questions and did not interrupt as she delivered a precise, item by item, account of dinner. Everyone blames an upset stomach on their last meal, a belief as correct as most popular health beliefs. I gave the usual advice which included telling her to stop what she was doing (putting fluid into her stomach as fast as it came out) and to suck on ice and wait.

I gave the usual antivomiting injection and two packets of pills which I had pocketed before leaving so I wouldn’t have to remember to restock my bag.

When I phoned later, she told me that she had recovered and thanked me for curing her.

 

 

Christmas Day

 A travel insurer reported a sick child at the Anaheim Holiday Inn, near Disneyland forty miles away. Freeway traffic was tolerable, but when I arrived and knocked no one answered. 

I walked around the lobby. With my suit, beard, and black bag, I look like a doctor in an old Hollywood movie, but no one responded. A waitress in the hotel restaurant asked at everyone’s table, but no one admitted calling a doctor. 

I drove away in a good mood. When hotel guests call and then disappear, I’m out of luck, but travel insurers pay for no-show visits.  

I was a mile from home when the insurer called. The mother was on the line, claiming she had been waiting in the hotel. So I drove back to Anaheim. To my everlasting credit, I was entirely pleasant to the mother, waving off her excuses. The child had a cold.