The Life of a Hotel Doctor - A Guest Who Haggled

Doctors who hate getting out of bed take advantage of the paramedics for guests want attention at inconvenient times. Since guests who ask for a doctor during the wee-hours believe their problem is urgent, they rarely object. When they do, veteran clerks remember me.

Delighted to hear from a new hotel, regardless of the hour, I phoned the room to learn the problem and to get approval for the visit and the fee. The guest, a man, told me the problem was “personal.”

More happy news. Personal problems of men involve their genitals. The common genital diseases are easy to treat, and most worries in that area turn out to be groundless. Relieving groundless worries is one of a doctor’s greatest pleasures. Then the guest punctured my balloon with news that it was his woman friend who had the personal problem. These tended to be gynecological, more complex than a male’s and difficult to handle in a hotel room.

The man who opened the door was past sixty, short, plump balding, and tieless, wearing a rumpled suit which I suspected he’d put on to greet me. Across the room, wearing a bathrobe, a much taller, younger blonde sat on the bed, staring sullenly at the floor.

“There’s been an accident,” he said.

Neither guest seemed injured, so I knew I wasn’t going to get off easy. This proved true as he explained that his friend seemed to have an object in her rectum. He provided no details.

Grotesque incidents fascinate doctors no less than laymen. Or at least they fascinate young doctors. Around the cafeteria table, interns and residents compete in relating the latest. Outside of working hours, such tales remain a mainstay for impressing girls at parties. The fascination fades with maturity; it’s been forty years since I thought it cool to tell these stories. Central to this adolescent obsession is the genre of things-that-end-up-in-people’s-rectums. I no longer found these amusing, not only because I was mature but because they made me nervous. I hate coming to a hotel for a situation I can’t handle. Removing a foreign body from the rectum requires tools such as a proctoscope which I didn’t carry. Also skills. I had never removed one.

But I was in the room, so I had to try. After introducing myself to the woman, I put on a rubber glove and went to work. There is more space than you’d think inside the rectum; I felt a hard object tap my fingertip and then drift away. When something lies out of reach, it’s natural to stretch, and my desperate efforts caused her to groan with pain.

Suddenly, I snagged something and pulled out a shot glass. I almost danced with joy and relief. Although I expected an outpouring of gratitude from the couple, they did not comply. Gathering up her clothes, the woman disappeared into the bathroom. The man nodded agreeably as if this were routine business.

Filling out my invoice, I asked the woman’s name. “Elizabeth Anderson.” He hesitated before answering, revealing that didn’t know and had invented a name. She was undoubtedly a prostitute. What a miserable life they lead! I gave him the invoice. He examined it thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of money,” he said. “You only spent five minutes here.”

Not only was he showing no gratitude, he was dickering about the bill! During wee-hours in 1994 it was $180. He had agreed to it when I phoned. When guests balk during the initial phone call, I say I’ll accept whatever they consider fair. This works out fine; guests often reconsider after the visit and pay my regular fee. For the rest, doctors enjoy delivering charity care provided they don’t have to do it too often. This was the single occasion a guest haggled after I arrived.

I told him I’d accept whatever he considered fair. He handed over $80.