Lost In Translation

“Bom dia” said the woman who opened the door.

“Bom dia,” I responded. That’s the limit of my conversational Portuguese. My heart sank as I looked around the room which contained a toddler but no adult male. Among foreign couples, the husband is much more likely to speak English.

The mother pointed at her child, made coughing noises, tapped his chest, and produced a thermometer which she waved significantly. Once she understood that I needed more information, she took up her cell phone. 

After some effort because her husband was apparently in a meeting she delivered a long recitation before handing me the phone.

“He have cough. He have the flu. He need something. She wants you to examine him.”

In response to my question, the father insisted that this was everything she had said, but I knew he was summarizing. This is a chronic problem with amateur interpreters. I asked more questions and received short versions of her long answers. The child looked happy and not at all sick, and my examination was normal. He had a cold. He’d coughed for four days and might cough for a few more, I explained. She was already giving him Tylenol, and no other medicine is safe for a two year-old. Luckily, he didn’t need medicine or bed rest or a special diet. It wasn’t even necessary to stay in the room.

If I had handed over medicine, every mother from Fiji to Mongolia to Nigeria would understand that I was behaving like a doctor. But I wasn’t. What was going on?

I’ve encountered this hundreds of times, so I work very, very hard to communicate that the child has a minor illness (husband’s translation: “Doctor says child is OK…”), that no treatment will help (husband’s translation: “Doctor does not want to give medicine…”) and that being stuck in a hotel room is boring, so she should try to enjoy herself (husband’s translation: “Doctor says go out; child is OK…”).

Tap, tap, tap…. The mother beat a tattoo on he child’s chest in a wordless appeal. Everyone knows that a sick child must be confined and given medicine. Why was I implying that he wasn’t sick?

I knew what she was thinking. I repeated my reassurance, and the husband translated. When, at the end, I asked if she understood she knew the correct answer: yes. She remembered her manners as I left and thanked me effusively.

I left feeling as discouraged as the woman. She was in a strange country, trapped in a hotel room with a sick child. Despite her best efforts, the foreign doctor didn’t understand that her son was sick.

A Brush With Disaster

A Beverly Garland guest phoned as I worked out at my gym one morning. I’m happy to cut this short to make a housecall, but the guest wanted me to come at one o’clock. I don’t like appointments, but this seemed an easy visit, and it was convenient because I could go after lunch.

After showering, I was walking to my car when a disturbing thought occurred. Exercise is boring, so I read the New Yorker while on the treadmill. When I finish an issue, I leave it in the locker room for anyone else. With a shock, I realized that I had scribbled the guest’s name and room number on that New Yorker which I later finished and absent-mindedly left behind. I rushed back, but the magazine had vanished. I prowled the gym, searching for anyone reading a New Yorker. No luck. I phoned the Beverly Garland to ask if anyone remembered referring a guest. No one remembered.

Now and then a competitor’s hotel calls when its doctor fails to show up, but I boast that this never happens at my hotels. I always tell a guest when I’ll arrive and make sure that I arrive on time. Now I had visions of the guest fuming as hours passed and eventually denouncing me to the staff.   

I racked my brain. The guest sounded Australian and had a Slavic-sounding name. Dutifully, the desk clerk checked her computer and found nothing. I asked if I could come and examine it myself; she agreed.

Guests who make appointments occasionally change their minds, so I always phone to make sure they’re in the room. With great good sense, I had told the guest I would check at noon. To my immense relief, when 12:30 passed with no call, he phoned.

Curing Hiccups

Every few years a hiccuping hotel guest appeals to me.

Hiccups rarely lasts more than a few hours, so a victim gives credit to his last effort and immediately rushes to his computer to proclaim its benefit. Literally hundreds of treatments exist: proof that all are worthless. Google “hiccups cure” to confirm that you must never look for health advice on the internet.

Long ago when an old doctor described a good treatment, I was skeptical. Even today, hotel visits for hiccups make me nervous, so I give a money-back guarantee. Once in the room, I take a tongue depressor and rub the soft palate at the back of the hiccuper’s throat. Sometimes he or she gags, sometimes not, but so far everyone has been happy to pay my fee.  

How to Remove a Sliver Painlessly

Her son had a sliver in his palm, explained a caller from the Airport Marriott. Could I come and remove it? The child was two.

Two is the worst age for a dignified doctor-patient relationship. Infants love everyone, and older children listen to reason. At two, girls are often terrified into silence, but males who don’t like doctors make for a noisy consultation.

Removing a fresh sliver with tweezers is easy, but most victims pluck at it with their fingertips, breaking off the tip, leaving the remainder nestled out of reach under the skin. 

As I unwrapped a scalpel, the parents assured the child that it wouldn’t hurt. Long experience had taught that this was a lie, so his protests became deafening.

In fact, the parents were right. Both worked hard to immobilize the child at first, but when it became clear there was no pain, he calmed. Your epidermis is dead skin, so shaving the very surface with a scalpel should be painless. I shaved enough to expose the splinter. A new safety razor works as well.

A Hotel Doctor's Christmas

I’m the only hotel doctor who loves to work on Christmas. Freeway traffic is light, always a bonus but more so on Christmas because my competitors, including those in Orange County, prefer their holidays undisturbed, so I make some distant visits.

Guests who fall ill are especially grateful to find a doctor. Employees, apologetic when they phone, are impressed when I make an appearance. Visiting a hotel that doesn’t call provides an irresistible opportunity to point out the superior service I deliver.

The only person not delighted by all this is my wife. Long ago, receiving a second call while engaged in the first, I missed the family Christmas dinner. I won’t do that again, but that’s only a matter of juggling a few hours.

You Must See "The Dallas Buyer's Club"

Everyone agrees it’s one 2013’s outstanding films. On Rotten Tomato’s site, a spectacular 42 of 42 reviewers approve. Matthew McConaughey delivers an Oscar-winning performance as a homophobic Texas good-old-boy who learns that he has AIDS in 1985.

Defying his doctor, who announces that he has thirty days to live and that no treatment exists, he pulls himself together, searches for treatments in places beyond the influence of the medical establishment (Mexico, for instance), smuggles them into the USA, and distributes them to AIDS victims despite government persecution.

Although I recommend The Dallas Buyer’s Club, I left halfway through. I couldn’t bear it because it contains every dumb Hollywood cliché about physicians and science.

Every doctor is a jerk except (a) the beautiful young woman doctor who finds Matthew McConaughey cool and (b) the seedy, unshaven doctor whom McConaughey stumbles upon running a Mexican clinic. After announcing that he has lost his US license (undoubtedly for being too compassionate), this doctor explains that his regimen of vitamins and immune boosters will help.

I am not one of those tiresome people who insist that movies stick to facts. History is boring and complicated. American movies must tell a coherent story with an upbeat ending and an admirable hero (Matthew McConaughey has flaws, but they are cute flaws: he is oversexed, a spendthrift, rude, and he lies – but only to bad people).

At that time, a hundred Mexican clinics sold AIDS treatments. None worked. Everyone who took them died. No American audience would accept Matthew McConaughey passing out fake drugs, so the screenwriters tweak the historical facts. In the movie, the drugs work.

I’m puzzled why conservatives denounce Hollywood for turning out liberal propaganda. The Dallas Buyer’s Club is a Tea Party dream. The government is a heartless oppressor. That includes the FDA which the writers confuse with the FBI because they create a menacing agent who threatens to arrest Matthew McConaughey. This FBI… I mean FDA agent never says “Your drugs don’t work!” He says “Your drugs are not FDA approved!” which, since he’s a villain, means they do work.  

Let me know how it turns out.

A Week's Vacation

Returning from a week’s vacation, I took my phone off call-forwarding. Knowing that I keep detailed records, the colleague who covered E-mailed me the information I needed.

Seven hotels phoned; he made four housecalls and took care of three over the phone.

Universal Assistance, a travel insurer, called once. He asked for their credit card number which they gave, and he made the visit.

World Aid, another travel insurer, called twice but refused to give a credit card, so he refused the calls. I fax my invoices to World Aid which usually pays in a month or two. When they don’t, I phone to remind them. Many hotel doctors hate pestering agencies for payment, so they insist on a credit card.

International Assistance called three times, and he declined as soon as they identified themselves. IA still owes him for visits in years past. International Assistance has a poisonous reputation among hotel doctors because it often took six months to pay when it paid at all. Institutions such as clinics and hospitals can deal with this (state-run Medicaid programs are not much better), but individuals soon give up.

Ironically, my patience with IA has been rewarded. After the latest change of ownership a year ago, it got its act together. It now pays reliably every month and provides a great deal of business, but a long time will pass before it lives down its reputation among my colleagues.

Inn-House Doctors called five times, and he made two visits: one to Hollywood and one to the airport area. A national housecall service, Inn-House serves a few hotels and travel insurers but many airline flight crew. In their eternal search for better hotel rates, airlines have been boarding crew further and further from Los Angeles airport which is twenty miles from my colleague’s home. He declined two visits to Long Beach (45 miles) and one to Anaheim (60 miles).