Luckless Americans

 Ailing US airline crew are out of luck. They must travel to a clinic in a strange city, present their insurance card, and hope for the best.

 Foreign airlines do better, sending a doctor to care for crew when they lay over. In Los Angeles that’s often me. Being young, crews suffer common ailments. Even better, company rules forbid work if they have a cold, a digestive upset, or a minor injury.

 On my own, I often handle minor ailments over the phone, but airlines demand a doctor on the spot to confirm the ailment and name a date when the employee may fly again. I enjoy those visits. These patients are never demanding; their priority is getting home. They hate being stuck in a hotel room. Airlines permit them to return as passengers, and I’m liberal about allowing them, so those visits usually end happily for both of us.   

 

Doing My Duty

“I can’t handle that in a hotel room,” I explained. “She probably needs an ultrasound.”

After consulting his superior, the dispatcher came back on the line to explain that he would like me to evaluate the guest, a flight attendant with abdominal pain and vaginal bleeding, and deliver a recommendation.

If the guest had called directly, I would have sent her to an emergency room or, during the day, to an obstetrician, but this request came from an agency that serves airline crew. It was paying the bill, and I had done my duty by warning that a housecall wasn’t appropriate. I was happy to make the visit. Once I confirmed her symptoms. I would simply call and report, and then send my bill.

A young man opened the door. I entered, expecting to see a girl friend or wife, but he was alone, and he identified himself as the patient. He had a sore throat.

I checked the name and date of birth on my invoice. It was identical. He spoke excellent English, so there was no chance of a misunderstanding.

After dealing with his problem, I phoned the agency. Was there another flight attendant with vaginal bleeding waiting for me? After a long consultation, he assured me that no one knew. It was probably a mistake.

I'm Not in It For the Money

The phone rang at 3:30 a.m. An airline pilot at the Costa Mesa Hilton needed a doctor, explained the caller. Could I go?

That Hilton is 46 miles away, but I drive there regularly for an agency that provides medical care to foreign airline crew when they lay over (American crew are on their own). It’s an easy drive at this hour. I accepted for several seconds until I woke up and remembered that the 405 freeway closes at the Orange County border during the wee hours for major construction. Despite the hour, closing the freeway produces an immense backup, and the detour through city streets is slow and tedious. Forced to go, I take a different freeway which is ten miles longer and only slightly less tedious.

I was in luck. Wee-hour patients usually suffer intense symptoms such as vomiting; they don’t like to wait. This guest had a cold and didn’t object to a visit later that morning.

I breathed a sigh of relief and went back to sleep. The delay would cost me $150 because the agency pays less for daytime housecalls, but it was worth it.