Why Doctor Oppenheim Isn’t Rich | The Life of a Hotel Doctor

But I still hope. I’ve written a novel about a hotel doctor. Fiction is a hard sell, and it’s still making the rounds. Everyone who learns I’m a hotel doctor in Los Angeles insists my memoirs would be a gold mine. So I wrote my memoirs. They’re on my hard disk at this moment. Every time I contact an agent, he or she is thrilled.

“That would make a great book. I bet you’ve seen plenty of celebrities.” “So I have.” “I bet you have great stories about them.” “I do.” “Tell me one.” “I’m a doctor. I can’t do that.”

That ends the conversation. Over a hundred agencies have considered “Hotel Doctor to the Stars,” but my inability to include celebrity scandal is a deal killer. Doing a search for “celebrity” on my database of hotel visits turns up 84. In fact, most celebrities were nice. Unpleasant visits rarely involved famous people, but there were exceptions. While ethics forbids specifics, here is a generic encounter whose dialogue is not invented.

A muscular man of sixty, deeply tanned, wearing a white linen suit, escorted me to the dimly lit bedroom where a famous person lay in a glossy blue dressing gown, surrounded by pillows. Although never a fan, I recognized a ruined version of the face from thirty years earlier. In a soft voice, he explained that he was suffering a migraine, an affliction that plagued him. This was a bad one.

I enjoyed migraines. Patients had had them before, so the diagnosis was easy. Victims called when the usual remedies failed, so it was appropriate to give an injection of the narcotic, Demerol, which was easy and usually worked. He thanked me, adding a hundred dollars to the hundred and twenty dollar fee I charged at that time. Even at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Americans rarely tipped doctors. This was not the case with foreigners, especially Japanese, who seemed to think it was expected. I declined tips except from those who were obviously rich, so I drove away in a good mood.

Four hours later, he called again. The injection had worked for a few hours, but the pain was back. In my experience, this happened occasionally, and it was not a good sign.

“If the first shot doesn’t help, chances are the second won’t either,” I explained. “You may need something more. You should call your doctor. Or go to an emergency room. Cedars is the closest.” This advice rarely worked, and it didn’t work this time. After the visit and injection, I delivered my standard second-Demerol-shot spiel. “Giving a major narcotic for migraine is all right once, not so good twice, and very bad on a regular basis. I don’t want to give you another. If the pain comes back, check with your doctor.”

“Absolutely, and I’m extremely grateful. You’ll never hear from me again.” Despite another tip, I felt less satisfaction as I drove way. In fact, none at all. Another call from the celebrity would be stressful, and people who want drugs keep calling.

He was undergoing a dental implant, the celebrity explained four months later, and the pain was excruciating. His dentist couldn’t see him until the following morning. Arriving at three a.m., I peered inside his mouth for evidence of dental work. There were plenty of possibilities. A hundred dollars on top my two hundred dollar wee-hour fee felt agreeable enough, but I was now certain this man would become a pest. He probably wasn’t a traditional addict but someone who enjoyed a blast of narcotics now and then. Plenty of rich people went in for this, a lucrative pursuit for the doctor who complied.

At nine the following morning, when the celebrity informed me the appointment wasn’t until the afternoon, I insisted he take this up with the dentist. The day passed anxiously, but he did not call again.

“Hey! Guess who I saw!” “Ah.” “Twice.”

My heart sank. Bill Farrell grinned and shrugged guiltily. A local internist, he covered for me on Sunday afternoon, allowing me and my wife to attend a movie undisturbed. A week had passed since the celebrity’s dental problems.

“Demerol?”

Farrell nodded. “Having a migraine. A couple hours later he said the shot wore off, so I went again. It sounded a little borderline...” Farrell had a sweet manner and also such a busy practice he was unlikely to solicit my hotels after a visit. He was an easygoing doctor, thrilled by the occasional encounter with famous people and unwilling to rock my boat when covering.

“You did good,” I assured him. “I’m glad you made some money.” Mornings were peak hours for hotel calls; they slacked off in the afternoon. Half the time when he covered my Sundays, Farrell made no visits.

My phone rang later that day. “A very kind doctor came to the room a few hours ago,” said a voice that was clearly the celebrity, now clearly a pest. “I wonder if I could have a word with him.”

“Doctor Farrell was covering, and he’s off duty. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to give you more Demerol.”

“I’m in absolute agony, doctor. I need help. Will you help me?”

Nothing roils a doctor’s guts more than such an appeal, and my guts were roiled, but I was already operating in drug abuser mode.

“Have your doctor call me.” “He’s in Las Vegas.” “I can’t possibly do anything until I talk to your doctor.” “I’ve already tried to reach him. He’s off duty till Monday.”

“Report him to the state medical board. A doctor must be available to his patients at all time. It’s the law... If you think you need Demerol, go an emergency room. Cedars is the closest.”

“I can’t move, Doctor Oppenheim. If you’re unwilling to help, please give me the name of a doctor who can.”

“No more Demerol.”

A medium-sized hotel generates two to eight requests for a doctor per month, occasionally less or more. So it was several months before I suspected the Beverly Hills Hotel might not be calling and a few more months until I realized it was gone for good. Despite the lack of evidence, I suspect the celebrity had complained about me.

“Beats me, Doctor Oppenheim. I guess no one’s been sick,” explained the concierge when I called to ask about the absence of calls. This was the traditional lie, much easier for an employee than the truth, which might upset the doctor.