I Resist Temptation

A businessman at the Hilton-Garden Inn asked a pharmacist to recommend a cream for his insect bites. To his alarm, the pharmacist informed him that what looked like insect bites might be Lyme disease and that he should consult a physician.

This provided another delicious temptation in the life of a hotel doctor. I could make a housecall, assure the man he did not have Lyme disease, and collect my fee. He would feel vastly relieved and grateful. Everyone would be happy.

The businessman described half a dozen itchy pimples around his ankles. Even over the phone, it was obvious that they were insect bites. I reassured him, and he was relieved and grateful, but no money changed hands.

We Yearn to Help

If a prescription gave you diarrhea or made you vomit, you might complain. But until well into the twentieth century, the average American looked on a good “purge” as a way to expel disease. Physicians took pride in their cathartics, and when patients discussed a doctor’s skill, they gave high marks for the violence of his purges.

Nowadays Americans frown upon purging, but we seem to expect a medicine. It should be one only a doctor can prescribe; over-the-counter drugs don’t count. Pills are good, but an injection is better. Of course, modern drugs often work, but this is a minor matter compared to the deep human desire that a doctor do something.

I apologize if this sounds mildly insulting; I suspect most of you will deny expecting a drug. You want whatever will help. If nothing will help, you want to know.

Such sensible patients do appear, but no day passes when I don’t see disappointment in a patient’s eyes when he or she realizes I don’t plan to “give them something.” 

Doctors genuinely want to help you, and we feel bad when we can’t. We also feel bad when we do our best, and it’s obvious a patient doesn’t feel “helped.” So many of us add a prescription to convince you that we’re doing what a proper doctor should do.

I Prefer Vomiting and Diarrhea

Two women at the Holiday Inn were ill. The mother suffered low abdominal pain with vomiting and diarrhea. It seemed like the usual stomach flu. I assured her it wouldn’t last long and gave medication.

Her adult daughter also complained of low abdominal pain but without other symptoms. Viral gastroenteritis can occur without vomiting or diarrhea, but I feel reassured when they’re present. It’s a good rule that when two members of a family are ill at the same time, it’s the same illness, but no rule is absolute.

The problem is that isolated low abdominal pain in a young woman can indicate an urgent problem such as ectopic pregnancy or twisted ovary. This seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t rule it out. If she weren’t better in a few hours, I explained, she must go to the local emergency room. She did not object.

When I phoned a few hours later, the mother’s symptoms had vanished, and the daughter told me she felt a little better. Patient tend to tell doctors what they believe we want to hear, so “…a little better,” does not reassure me. Pressed, she admitted that she wasn’t feeling better. When urged to go to the emergency room, she worried about her lack of insurance and the late hour but promised to give it serious consideration.

I passed a restless night. When I phoned the next morning, she had recovered.

The World's Worst Travel Insurer

International Medical Assistance has a terrible reputation despite being my leading source of business. It often calls over a hundred times per year. Almost every doctor who knows IMA including the colleague who covers when I’m away, refuses its calls because it’s so hard to get paid.

Most travel insurers pay within a month or two. If they don’t, a call to the claims department corrects matters.

IMA never pays within two months. When I call, the claims department assures me that a check will be mailed in the near future or that my invoice never arrived. When I call a week later, I might hear the same explanation.

IMA was in business when I took up hotel doctoring in the 1980s and, for obvious reasons, happy to send patients. It didn’t take long for me to grow annoyed. Payment could take six month and required persistent phone calls. In 1993, with my practice prospering, I began refusing its calls.

In 1998, IMA changed ownership. A representative called to apologize for past difficulties and promise that it would now pay promptly.

But nothing changed. Checks didn’t arrive. I resumed pestering the billing department. By that time hotel doctoring was catching on so I had several competitors. IMA was irritating to deal with, but it provided plenty of business and – eventually – paid.

My frustration tolerance has diminished with age. In 2012 I was considering dropping IMA when a representative called to announce that it was again under new management. Payment would now be made every month directly into my checking account.

Sure enough, in January 2013, December’s payments appeared – minus several visits. Wearily, I picked up the phone. The problem remained when the February payment appeared, also for too little. The March payment was too much but it didn’t even out. April’s payment was also excessive; now I owed them. The May payment again missed several visits. By 2014 IMA had given up bank deposits and was back to sending checks. Slowly. That’s when I realized that IMA is cheap and stupid but probably not dishonest. Delaying payments saves money in the short run, but the P.R. damage far outweighs it. On the other hand, I have no competition for its business in Los Angeles.

More Worry

At the end of a hotel visit, a guest handed over her credit card. I wrote its number at the bottom of my medical record form. Seeing this, the guest frowned.

“Do you shred that after you use it?” she asked.

I shook my head no. “It goes into my files.”  I keep it in case of a problem with payment, although so far that’s not happened.

She scowled at this answer. I phoned the credit card company and began entering my answers to its computer’s questions. She hovered, staring anxiously at my form.

“So you don’t shred my number... I thought everyone shredded credit card numbers…”

The computer announced its approval. After hanging up, I tore off the bottom of my form and handed it back. She seemed vastly relieved.

Doctor Oppenheim Explains the Meaning of Life

I believe that things happen because they happen. We weren’t put on Earth for a purpose. You’re born, you do your best, you die.

This is not a popular point of view. Every writer and TV personality you’ve heard of disagrees, including several with a medical degree. Yet I’m convinced that searching for an explanation is the best way to understand natural phenomena but useless as a personal philosophy.  

“I’ve got cancer!...  Why me?” This is the first question every victim asks. If you believe the universe (God for those less cool) cares about you, everything happens for a reason, so this question has an answer.

But now the cancer victim has an extra job. Besides confronting the disease, he must look deep inside and learn how this is part of the plan. If he’s successful, he’ll feel better. Or she.

You’ve read essays by people who have (1) gotten cancer, (2) reexamined their lives, and (3) achieved inner peace. I’m sure this happens, but in my experience most of us do not find misfortune a chance for spiritual growth.

Exhorting patients to find themselves only adds to their burden. I especially dislike media doctors who urge victims to fight their disease, asserting that a positive attitude aids healing. Be happy or die.

Most cancer patients pull themselves together and deal with immediate problems. That’s the best they can do, and it’s not bad. 

You Think I Have a Soft Job

The phone rang at 1:10 a.m. An international housecall agency had a visit in Anaheim, forty miles away. I agreed to go but quoted a larger fee because of the hour and distance. The dispatcher, in Miami, said she would ask for approval and get back to me.

I dressed and waited. After ten minutes I called to ask about the delay.

“I’m sorry. We’re waiting for the E-mail.”

“E-mail!! Can’t you phone them?”

Apparently not. Approval had to come from Madrid or Buenos Aires. I waited another fifteen minutes before calling again. Learning that the E-mail still hadn’t arrived, I told the dispatcher I had changed my mind and went back to bed.