Medical Catastrophe PDF

M E D ICAL C ATAS TROPHE
Also by Ronald W. Dworkin

Artificial Happiness
How Karl Marx Can Save American Capitalism
The Rise of the Imperial Self
M E D ICAL C ATAS TROPHE
Confessions of an Anesthesiologist
Ronald W. Dworkin, MD
ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD

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Names: Dworkin, Ronald William, author.

Title: Medical catastrophe : confessions of an anesthesiologist / Ronald W. Dworkin.
Description: Lanham : Rowman & Littlefield, [2017] | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016031394 (print) | LCCN 2016031790 (ebook) | ISBN 9781442265752 (cloth :
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Subjects: | MESH: Medical Errors | Practice Patterns, Physicians | Interprofessional Relations |
Physician-Patient Relations | Physician’s Role | Personal Narratives
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For the doctors I have known
CONTENTS
Author’s Note ix
Acknowledgments xi
1 The Politics of a Catastrophe 1

2 Impatience and the Urge to Be Macho 23
3 The Trap of Overspecialization 37
4 When No One Is in Command 55
5 When Patients Become Consumers 77
6 A Tale of Two Offices 97
7 When Doctors Lose Control of Their Own Personalities 127
8 When Doctors Lose Control of Their Own Rules 147
9 The Problem of Going Part-Time and When to Retire 163
10 I Come Full Circle 179
11 What Is a Doctor? 189
Notes 201
Bibliography 205
About the Author 207
vii
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The cases and events in this book are true, with dialogue often verbatim,
but names, dates, places, timing, and other identifying details have been
altered to preserve confidentiality. All names are assigned random letters.
It should also be noted that Dr. F, who appears in chapter 7, actually
represents a composite of two doctors; the Dr. F who speaks Japanese is
different from the Dr. F in the rest of the chapter. The patient-centered
care meeting that appears in chapter 5 is a composite of two meetings on
this subject. In chapter 1, the first case is a composite of two obstetrical
catastrophes, one involving a breech delivery and the other a shoulder
dystocia, while the subsequent meeting between attendings and residents
actually arose out of a third catastrophe.
At all times, when referring to doctors, I have tried to use the plural
“doctors” or “he or she,” but to preserve the narrative pace and avoid
wordiness, I have sometimes used the word “he” alone. No offense in-
tended to female doctors, who now make up half of the medical profes-
sion.
ix
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Suzanne Staszak-Silva, my editor at Rowman &

Littlefield, as well as senior executive editor Jonathan Sisk for making
this book project possible. I would also like to thank Professor Maria
Frawley and the entire staff at the George Washington University Honors
Program for opening up a new chapter in my professional life. I would
like to thank Alexandra Roosevelt for coining the phrase “artificial happi-
ness,” in regard to a previous book project, as well as Grace Dworkin for
suggesting the dedication for this book.
xi
1
THE POLITICS OF A CATASTROPHE
One night in the 1980s, during my anesthesiology training, I was sitting

in the doctors’ lounge with the on-call obstetrics resident. He told me that
a woman had just arrived on the labor and delivery floor for a probable
breech (feet-first) birth. I casually asked him if he had notified his attend-
ing. He rolled his eyes, which was code among us residents for “Of
course not,” as his attending, like mine, expected to sleep while on call. I
grinned but worried in the back of my mind about whether my night mate
had the wherewithal to deliver a breech baby.
I understood his predicament. Before turning in, my attending had
warned me that to call him was a sign of weakness. Yet when I gave him
a few blank anesthesia records to sign in advance, for cases that might
arise during the night and that in theory he would be responsible for, he
demurred, joking, “I don’t sign blank checks.” This left me in a bad
position. Calling him about a case would anger him, but if that case went
awry, he could always say I had forged ahead without his permission.
The other resident left and I dozed off in my chair. I was awakened an
hour later by commotion in the hall. Surprised by the unusual noise, I
hurried toward the door. Someone opened the door before I got there and
I heard a nurse’s voice calling in a nervous shout:
“We have a breech!”
I hastened my steps and called out, “Where?”
The next moment I knocked against a nurse, who was running down
the hall. “Please, here, in the OR . . .” she panted, putting her arm on my
shoulder.
1
2 CHA P TER 1
I followed the nurse to the entrance of the operating room. The bright
overhead light glared in my face and momentarily blinded me. I shaded
my eyes with my hand and scanned the operating room table. I saw the
terrified face of a woman; her gown bunched up around her breasts; the
legs and trunk of her baby’s body hanging outside her birth canal; and
finally the obstetrics resident standing between the women’s spread legs,
mute with astonishment, his eyes dilated. The baby’s legs twitched hor-
ribly, alternately flexing and extending as if working a bicycle, their color
turning the hue of metal. They stopped for a moment, then, along with the
baby’s trunk, shuddered convulsively.
The attending obstetrician rushed in. I put the woman to sleep, hoping
the anesthetic gas would relax the uterine muscle squeezing the baby’s
neck, while the attending and resident went to work down below.
Eventually the team proceeded to cesarian section, but it was too late.
The delivered baby lay on the bassinet, glassy-eyed, unwakeable, its hair
covered with blood clots, its tiny body wrapped in a blanket and growing
cold under the warm lights. The cloying smell of death and decay was
already coming from it. Possessed by a bestial curiosity and that secret
fear that all human beings experience before the mystery of the dead, a
medical student slowly advanced toward the bassinet to see what the baby
looked like. He took one glance and turned sharply away. “Lord Je-
sus . . .” someone sighed from a distance.
The woman woke up on the table with a dozen eyes staring at her. She
lay still for a minute, still feeling the effects of anesthesia, looking around
at the eyes while listening to whispers coming from different corners of
the room. Disoriented, she struggled to get off the bed, her arms barely
able to bear her weight. I restrained her. She tried in vain to push me off,
kicking the air violently with her exposed legs. In her post-anesthetic
delirium, her imagination began to conjure up incredible visions based on
her greatest fears:
“Let me go! . . . Who are you? . . . Where is my husband? . . . Don’t
you like me? . . . Water! I’m so thirsty!”
Not another word did people say. Once turned on her side, her cheek
pressed hard against the bed, the woman stopped struggling. She passed
her eyes in a long, slow stare over the bassinet. “Why doesn’t he . . . ?”
she asked. She took in the pinched nose, the tiny dark lines underneath
the vacant eyes, and the blackening face. Sensing the grim, unalleviated
tragedy, she began to sob, her mouth twitching with suffering. Finding no
T H E POLI T I C S OF A CAT ASTROP HE 3
outlet in movement, she clung tighter to my arm. She spoke a few more
words, but her voice grew hollow and less defined, as if she were going
farther and farther away. A nurse rushed over and lifted up the motionless
bundle in the bassinet. The baby’s helplessly drooping head fell in all
different directions until the nurse stabilized it with her hand. Then she
turned toward the wall, shielding the baby from further view. The loath-
some scene of unnecessary death, the mother’s groans, my frenetic eyes
staring uncomprehendingly out at the world were overwhelmingly op-
pressive, and the medical student moved quickly toward the side door,
hastening to get away from the memory of what he had seen.
When I finished work the next day, the darkness was already closing
in over the city. A wind sent the clouds scurrying and tore them apart to
reveal a sad-looking moon and a few meager stars. I went home and
fumbled for my key under the orb’s uncertain light. I drank several beers.
At around nine o’clock I got out of my chair and, with a heavy, bearish
swaying gait, went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Within
seconds, I was asleep. But I slept badly that night, turning over and over,
gripped by the horrible images of the previous evening.
This was a catastrophe. It is an experience that all doctors in training
prepare for. Yet this catastrophe seemed totally unnecessary. I wanted to
blame someone. I zeroed in on the obstetrics attending for going to bed
early that night, and I argued with my anesthesiology attending about it
the next day.
“That obstetrics attending should have been there from the begin-
ning,” I remarked.
“The resident should have called him,” my attending shot back.
“You guys get mad if we call,” I replied.
“If he needed help, then he should have called,” said the attending
sharply. “A doctor can’t be afraid to ask for help.”
He had a point. I felt myself on the defensive. “That attending didn’t
have to go to bed so early,” I countered.
My attending fell silent. His glance became thoughtful. He was really
thinking very hard about something. “They don’t pay us enough to stay
up all night,” he answered drily. “Private practitioners make twice as
much as we do.”
“How much should they make?” I asked.
“They should make what I make,” he replied.
4 CHA P TER 1
“But we residents do all the work for you,” I said, pressing my advan-
tage.
My attending looked down and inconspicuously held onto the end of
his little finger. Then he glared at me as if I were a worthless sort.
“Dr. Dworkin, as a resident, you will learn to eat shit and enjoy the
taste of it,” he snapped, before walking away.
Politics killed that baby. When I speak of politics I don’t mean parti-
san politics, such as Republican versus Democrat, or liberal versus con-
servative. I mean politics on the most basic level: how people relate to
each other in everyday life, and how, as a result, people think about
themselves. The obstetrics attending had resented his poor pay; he went
to bed early to avenge himself; the resident was too afraid to ask him for
help at a crucial moment; the baby died. Politics.
I always knew I would one day see death as a physician. I did not
know how I would react when I did, except to feel sad. But with this
death my mind smarted with a hurt of another kind. I felt ashamed.
I also felt uneasy. I began to question whether I had entered the right
profession. After all, I had gone into medicine to avoid politics, as I was
not a master of that complicated art. Anesthesiology seemed especially
suited to my tastes. Politics is about relationships, but an anesthesiologist
generally works alone and supervises himself. Moreover, if a patient
grows talkative or annoying, an anesthesiologist can always put that pa-
tient to sleep, which, again, makes for one person—me—working alone.
Indeed, the dearth of doctor-patient conversation in anesthesiology has
long attracted foreign medical graduates to the field because it makes
knowledge of English superfluous. Such borderline misanthropy may
seem odd in a doctor, but, as my father and grandfather, who were also
doctors, often told me, there is room in medicine for all sorts of personal-
ities. I liked science. I also wanted to do something useful. But I was not a
“people person.” I wanted to be left alone with my smarts and my hands
to take care of patients and not to worry about what other people were
thinking and feeling, other than my patient, to whom I could always give
more drugs.
Two decades of practicing anesthesiology have shown me my error.
Politics in medicine cannot be ignored. In fact, good medicine, safe medi-
cine, turns on politics. Politics is often the decisive factor in medical
catastrophes and near catastrophes. Politics can even be found lurking in
catastrophes seemingly caused by a lack of vigilance, a missed detail, or

an error in judgment. The breech birth catastrophe was no anomaly.
The public knows none of this. The Centers for Disease Control
(CDC) collects mortality statistics for medical catastrophes. The breech
birth death would have been classified as a “neonatal death secondary to
complications from delivery.” None of the politics would have come out.
My own specialty divides patient deaths into broad categories such as
“anesthetic overdose” or “difficult intubation.” Again, no category for
politics exists. This is because doctors do not see politics as a systemic
problem, while researchers who might pick up on the trend cannot do so
because of how catastrophes are reported. When a catastrophe occurs, the
hospital medical staff meets to discuss it, usually in a quality assurance
meeting or a root-cause analysis meeting. If the politics comes out at all,
it is there. But the meeting’s minutes are kept private by law so that staff
can speak freely. When a doctor talks politics with his or her malpractice
insurance carrier, again the discussion stays private. The state medical
boards and health departments, however, get official reports sanitized of
politics, while the CDC gets a number. Researchers have no way of
uncovering the role of politics in catastrophes. And yet politics is invari-
ably present. It is why I wrote this book. Patients think their lives depend
solely on science and technology, or, in the case of error, on a backup
system that double-checks a doctor’s work. They do not. They also de-
pend on politics.
The baby’s death haunted me for several weeks. One of the hospital
wards was shut down at the time, its lights turned off, with only the broad
outlines of white sheets covering idle equipment visible from the main
corridor. I would often pass by that ward unthinkingly, but now, with
death uppermost on my mind, the scene engendered in my imagination an
uncomfortable suspicion that mounds of dead bodies lay underneath
those sheets. I was also worried about litigation. But a friend of mine who
knew a trial lawyer allayed that fear. I was not a witness to the conversa-
tion, but my friend told me with precision what happened. My friend told
the lawyer about the event. Playing with his cigarette, the lawyer said,
“Nothing to worry about. The baby died.” Apparently a live but brain-
damaged baby risks a much higher jury award than a dead baby does. The
6 CHA P TER 1
issue was so critical that halfway through their conversation, the lawyer
anxiously turned to my friend and said, “You said the baby died, right?”
My friend reassured him on that point, and the lawyer fell back at ease.
A month later, ten professors and thirty residents from the obstetrics
and anesthesiology departments met to discuss the case. I had expected
the residents to complain about the obstetrics attending’s absence after
midnight. Instead, the majority of them angled for less frequent night call
duty. They argued that the obstetrics resident had made a bad decision
because he was tired. This was around the time of the Libby Zion case in
New York, where a young woman had died in an emergency room after
receiving a drug to control her shaking, which interacted with another
drug (an antidepressant) already in her system to cause cardiac arrest. 1
The plaintiffs argued that the residents prescribing the drug were over-
worked and overtired. This was not the case in the catastrophe I was
involved in—and I was there—but the issue was on everyone’s mind.
An anesthesiology professor, Dr. T, opened the floor to discussion. He
sat calmly on a chair with his legs crossed, his long white coat falling
around his sides, looking like a gentleman’s cape, even a royal one. He
was an eloquent man, almost artificially so, in the way he avoided
contractions in his speech and policed the residents’ speech. For example,
if a resident during a presentation said he had “tubed a patient,” Dr. T
would sternly correct him and say, “You mean you intubated the patient’s
trachea.” His habits were cultivated, often at the expense of comfort,
including the residents’ comfort, as when he expected everyone attending
a drug company–catered lunch to listen to the lecture before grabbing the
free food. I found him pretentious, and yet in the midst of it all I was
conscious that he made good on his claim to superiority. What is a gentle-
man doctor, let him be ever so eloquent and have so many long white
coats? And yet, even with such a self-satisfied creature as Dr. T, I myself
felt his gentlemanliness.
The audience hesitated. Then a beeper went off. As the resident being
paged walked toward the door, he declared, “How about changing call
from every third night to every fourth?” Before anyone could respond, he
was out of the room. But the most difficult thing had been done: someone
had spoken.
Dr. T kept his dignified bearing and said, “We can consider the pos-
sibility.”
“Consider”—what could be more ineffectual than that absurd and

pitiful word? we thought. “Why just ‘consider’?” a resident shot back.
“We’re overworked. That’s why people are making mistakes.”
In a quiet, measured tone of voice, Dr. T replied, “More night call
means more clinical experience.”
A collective moan rose up from some of the residents. They saw that
excuse as a residency program’s highhanded way of justifying hundred-
hour workweeks.
A complex mixture of emotions played across the professors’ faces.
Anger, agitation, astonishment—that was what one could read on their
features at one and the same time.
Curiously, another resident defended the current system. A young man
with glasses said, “Let’s just do our jobs and take care of patients.”
“We can’t if we’re overworked,” another resident replied.
“You can if you really want to,” the man with glasses said straightfor-
wardly. He seemed to understand the other resident’s simple secret
thought, that she just wanted more time off, and his comprehension gave
him confidence. It was almost as if he expected from the other resident an
honest acknowledgment of her guilt.
“I do want to do it,” the resident said defensively. “But every third
night call is dangerous.”
“Quit whining,” interjected another obstetrics resident. He was a mus-
cular young man who habitually sucked on a toothpick.
“I’m not whining!” the resident shouted back.
“Yeah, you are,” said the man with the toothpick. Then he smiled and
boasted, “I don’t care about night call. Give me more. I want to see how
much I can take.”
Some of the residents cursed in disbelief. One resident whispered,
“Macho bullshit.” But one of the anesthesiology department leaders, Dr.
S, agreed with the young man. “He’s right. You want to learn medicine?
Then you do cases,” he announced. He spoke as if everything were prede-
termined and also quite clear to him—that the residents had no hope of
getting what they wanted and should have no hope. Indeed, he seemed
less angry about what the residents were asking for than at who was doing
the asking.
Dr. S was a resolute and ruthless man. Such a personality was once
necessary in medicine. Since most doctors a generation ago were by
nature independent, great force was needed to weld them into a unity;
8 CHA P TER 1
sometimes the sole criterion for the job of department chairman was
being the biggest bully. Dr. S was especially hard on the residents, al-
though his teaching methods were partly calculated. With excessive
praise, inexperienced residents sometimes remain stunted in their growth,
thinking that they don’t have any further to go; it lulls their minds to
sleep; it makes them proud and hinders a critical attitude toward their
own work. Dr. S’s constant carping actually helped them become better
doctors. But it would be years before I understood this.
Among these conflicting opinions and voices I distinguished five par-
ties, separated by what each believed was most important about being a
doctor.
The first party consisted of the resident with glasses and three other
adherents. They were earnest toilers with self-abnegating natures who
went into medicine to help people. Yet there was something both attrac-
tive and repulsive in their benevolence. They expressed real kindness
toward patients. They demonstrated a passionate love for children, espe-
cially sick ones, and were sorry for them all. But they exuded the aroma
of sympathy for patients in the same way that men who have just been to
the barber reek of cheap scent. It was too obvious. And their sympathy
never bent; it sometimes stuck out and pricked like a needle from a
cactus. They reproached those residents who wanted more time off to
enjoy their lives.
The second party consisted of physicians who saw themselves primar-
ily as scientists. Although the residents in this faction were still immersed
in clinical training, the professors had eagerly left this dimension of medi-
cine and now understood little of clinical practice, which partly embar-
rassed them, and even partly scared them, but which they also saw as a
noble inability, of which they were secretly proud. Usually they were able
to fix it so that someone helped them or covered for them in the operating
rooms. The residents in this group wanted less frequent night call to
spend more time in the lab. When they became professors that desire
would merge seamlessly with a desire to stay out of the operating room
altogether.
The third (and second-largest) party consisted of most of the profes-
sors and some residents, including Dr. S and the young man with the
toothpick. All the members of this faction were men. They saw the doctor
as a practitioner of discrete tasks, especially technical procedures, that
one had to master. The more a doctor practiced them, the better he got,
and so the more night call, the better. They looked upon the scientists
with a secret sense of superiority and a certain pity, as if they were
hopeless cases who would never get the needle in the right place. They
didn’t know their respective fields inside and out the way the scientists
did, but they knew what was necessary to know.
Perhaps they were right. The real value in medicine is often in the
administration of drugs or the performance of procedures. Once, in a
lecture on anaphylaxis, Dr. S had told the residents, “All you have to
remember is the number ‘0.3,’” as that was the dose of adrenalin needed
to treat the condition. The arcane research controversies surrounding the
subject were unimportant, he declared. In truth, when a patient is wheez-
ing and the blood pressure is dropping from an allergic reaction, they are
unimportant.
The doctors in this group were cocky because they were accomplished
in something practical, giving them the gung-ho quality of the college
fraternity. The professors saw every third night call as a doctor’s rite of
passage. “We did it, so why can’t the young doctors?” they insisted. The
residents in this faction agreed, viewing night call as a glorified form
of hazing, and a welcome opportunity for real men to knock down walls
with their foreheads. They saw themselves as heroes—military-style
heroes.
The fourth party consisted of Dr. T and one of the obstetrics profes-
sors. They sympathized with the residents’ desire for an easier call sched-
ule but thought it imprudent. They saw every third night as a sad neces-
sity. Doctors needed experience; it was as if God had intended the injus-
tice of every third night call to be permanent. No residents were in this
group; indeed, no resident really even understood this group. The two
men exhibited a statesmanlike grandeur but also a glossy impenetrability;
they seemed to want to live up to certain principles of character, but
doing so made for a different reality about them. That they were privi-
leged white men who had gone to elite schools made them antagonistic to
progress and altogether unconscious of the demand for equality—includ-
ing the admission of more women and minorities into medicine. Indeed,
they seemed to believe that God had arranged the medical profession to
be the way it was, and that they were God’s emissaries on earth. But they
did their work with an easy grace, and with such kind voices and pleasant
manners that one almost thought they were.
10 CHA P TER 1
The fifth, and largest, faction consisted of the vast majority of resi-
dents, including many of the female residents. Compared to the other
doctors, they were of a different breed—those “who know how to live.”
By securing an easier call schedule for themselves, they believed they
were joining in that normal, truly human condition that people should
always be in. They wanted to do a good job for their patients while also
taking pleasure in their own lives. There was an absence of all effort at
self-glorification among them. No fussy amplification of white coats, no
made-up sense of gravitas, no feigned seriousness, no attempt in their gait
or speech to show superiority. As doctors in training, they were simply
doing a job while occasionally thinking about what they might have for
supper that evening or where they might go for the weekend.
I joined the largest faction after a quick process of elimination. I had
run afoul of the resident with glasses earlier in my career. One day, as I
rushed to sign out my patients to him to meet friends for dinner, he
grumbled, “It seems like the whole point of medical training for you is to
get out by 6 PM.” I replied honestly, “Well, yes.” He looked at me with a
scowl. Yet I had also run afoul of the resident with the toothpick for being
too attentive. Once, I had noticed that a patient scheduled for surgery had
an EKG suggestive of a recent myocardial infarction. I told the team
during rounds, including the resident with the toothpick, who was my
senior at the time. The attending groused about having to postpone the
operation until further evaluation; the resident took the toothpick out of
his mouth, glared at me, and whispered, “You fucked up.” By being
thorough, I had thrown a monkey wrench into the surgical schedule.
Henceforth, I was called “scientist” and “pointy head.” And yet the scien-
tists left me cold. An anesthesiology researcher had once berated me for
giving a narcotic to a patient in pain, thereby ruining his research project
by contaminating the control group. The gentleman doctors grated against
my democratic instincts. The only party left to me was the largest one,
clamoring for every fourth night call, which also seemed to me the most
sensible.
The different parties argued back and forth. Finally, a resident asked,
“Can the hospital even pay for extra residents?”
Dr. Z, the obstetrics attending who had been on call the night of the
catastrophe, rose up to speak, grabbing everyone’s attention. He was an
elderly man, his face gray and unfriendly.
“The hospital doesn’t care about your call schedule,” he grumbled.

“They value doctors cheap these days, at no more than the cost of a
body.” His spleen welled up, bringing with it all the hatred and contempt
for human beings raging in the depths of his heart at that moment. “They
search our bags. They treat us like dirt,” he groused.
The “searches” he referred to had started several months before. Em-
ployees had been caught stealing bread and peanut butter from the
lounges and toilet paper from the restrooms, and so the hospital posted
security guards at each exit to check people’s bags as they left. Some of
the employees laughed as the guards rummaged through their miserable
belongings. Others were alarmed. I was irked. When I told a guard I was
a doctor, he said, “Sorry, I have to check everyone’s bags.” When I
insisted I was a doctor, the guard smugly asked, “How do I know you’re a
doctor? A tie’s not enough anymore. Where’s your badge?” So I let him
search my bag. But the older doctors were livid and refused to be
searched, including Dr. Z. They felt they were being treated like common
criminals. Eventually the hospital heard their protests and excluded the
doctors from the searches. But the damage had been done.
“They treat doctors like dirt when they’re not clinically involved,” Dr.
S said to his colleague. “Remember the radiology department? They
didn’t want to come in at 7 AM and read chest X-rays for the OR cases.
So the hospital said, ‘God damn it! You get out of here and we’ll build
our own department of radiology!’ And they did.”
One of the scientist doctors made a last-ditch push for every fourth
night call. “I think residents should submit a peer-reviewed journal article
before graduation—as a condition of graduation. A lighter call schedule
would facilitate that.”
“No one reads those journals,” replied Dr. S, with a dismissive wave
of his hand. “A good doctor practices clinical medicine. That’s why I
make sure nothing happens in the operating rooms without my signature.
My department is in charge of the intensive care unit. We stock the
emergency carts. We place IVs on the floor. We do lumbar punctures in
the emergency room. I’d control the parking lot if I could. And that’s how
you want it. No one in the hospital even goes to the bathroom unless they
ask you, because you have the key.”
“What has that got to do with every fourth night call?” the female
resident asked.
12 CHA P TER 1
“Because I don’t want to ask the hospital to pay for extra residents!”
he barked.
Dr. S’s harangue was enough to convince those residents angling for
easier night call duty that they weren’t going to get it. But privately I saw
that I had misjudged Dr. Z. He wasn’t angry about his salary. His feeling
of resentment was more subtle, as during a conversation, when it is not
the words spoken that offend a person but the intonation, because the
intonation reveals another meaning—the hidden real meaning. Dr. Z felt
disrespected as a physician. He thought he was being treated without the
respect due to a doctor. And yet how much respect should a doctor expect
if no one knows what a doctor is? Even we doctors didn’t know. That’s
why we were fighting among ourselves.
Night call remained every third night as before. But across the country
residents in all fields demanded better hours. They got them by the turn of
the century. Residency programs that kept the old system lost applicants.
Finally, in 2003, the accrediting agency for the nation’s residencies
capped a resident’s workweek at eighty hours. The next generation of
doctors wanted more time off for private life. No gentleman doctor or
abusive professor could restrain so elemental a movement.
During the next month, I pondered the matter of what a doctor is. As
an anesthesiologist, I had time to do so.
While a patient sleeps, an anesthesiologist sits nearby in a chair in a
space bounded on three sides by the surgical drape, the anesthesia ma-
chine, and a large cart holding drugs and other equipment. Alone in his
makeshift cockpit, he listens to the rhythmic clatter of surgical instru-
ments and the incessant, irritating noise of the suction canisters. When
those sounds are combined with the smoke emanating from the electro-
cautery and the absence of happy chatter, the operating room exudes a
special kind of seriousness, as in a battlefield trench. Like the soldier, the
anesthesiologist scans the world around him and waits for something bad
to happen—in the anesthesiologist’s case, blood loss or a drop in oxygen
levels. “Good” in anesthesiology means nothing more than the absence of
“bad.” The best an anesthesiologist can hope for is for nothing to happen
at all. Often nothing is happening, giving the anesthesiologist time to
stare about his world and lose himself in his personal problems.
Having received a good general education in college, I imagined a

doctor as someone who moved easily between science and the human-
ities. Both my father and my grandfather had done so, although this
tended to be less true of doctors my age, which troubled me. In 1959, the
English chemist and novelist C. P. Snow gave a lecture titled “The Two
Cultures,” in which he lamented the growing gulf between scientists and
literary people. Scientists had Newton, literary people had Shakespeare,
but by failing to cross over, each remained incomplete.
Sitting in my chair next to the head of my sleeping patient, I fantasized
how anesthesiology might bridge the two cultures. True, the very nature
of operating room work seems to preclude the anesthesiologist from ex-
celling in life’s humanistic dimensions. The anesthesiologist has to deal
with facts that are more specialized and immediate, less subtle and di-
verse than those that confront most other doctors; they are facts that do
not need an all-around intelligence to manage. Indeed, the most important
trait in an anesthesiologist is not all-around intelligence but whether he or
she panics during an emergency; thus, while it is hard for a great primary
care doctor to be a narrow-minded person, an anesthesiologist who is
narrow-minded can be a great success. But anesthesiologists are percep-
tive. They have a perceptiveness of the universal kind. Their scrutinizing
gaze passes through everything it meets with equal penetration. They can
guess a person’s weight to within a few pounds because they are so used
to calculating drug dosages by weight. By studying a patient’s pallor,
facial expression, pupil size, and degree of lip dryness, they can measure
to a nicety a patient’s feelings. Anesthesiologists also possess a rare ca-
pacity: they can recognize that critical inflection point when sickness
passes into a death spiral.
But all my fantasizing came to nothing. At the bottom of my con-
sciousness I knew my humanities days were over. Patient needs soon
pulled me back into the present, and I forgot all about the subject.
A week after the meeting between the attendings and residents, as I sat
in the hospital cafeteria eating my lunch, my emergency beeper sounded,
telling me that a patient on one of the wards was in respiratory distress
and needed to be intubated. Intubation involves putting a breathing tube
in a patient’s windpipe to assist his or her breathing, typically using a
device called a laryngoscope, which has a metal blade with a light at-
tached at the end of it. Once in place, the breathing tube is attached to a
ventilator that forces air into the patient’s lungs. While the ventilator is
14 CHA P TER 1
being readied, the anesthesiologist, nurse, or respiratory therapist manual-

ly squeezes air into the patient’s lungs using an air-filled bag connected to
the breathing tube.
I rushed to the patient’s room. I found an elderly woman sitting up-
right in bed, breathing fast and looking scared. I explained to her what I
would be doing: lying her body flat, numbing her throat with lidocaine,
inserting a small device into her mouth, and placing a breathing tube to
help her breathe. She showed little interest in what I was saying, as all her
energy was directed toward getting air into her lungs. I asked the nurse to
tell respiratory therapy to bring over a ventilator, then I set my instru-
ments out on the table to make sure I had everything I needed before
starting.
Within thirty seconds the patient started to tire out. Her mouth gulped
at the air ineffectually. I turned my eyes to her hands lying lifelessly
alongside her body and saw the nails flooding with a rosy blue. The nurse
and I quickly lowered the head of the patient’s bed, allowing me to get to
her airway. I applied a mask to her face and tried breathing for her with
an Ambu bag, but it was difficult. The woman lost consciousness. I
quickly opened her mouth and, without bothering to numb her throat,
swept her tongue to the left side with my laryngoscope and inserted the
breathing tube into her trachea. That she did not fight me was evidence
that high levels of carbon dioxide had already built up in her body, an-
esthetizing her.
I listened to both sides of her chest to confirm the breathing tube’s
position. A few minutes later she regained consciousness and began to
fight against the tube. I sedated her, all while squeezing the bag to breathe
for her. I impatiently asked the nurse when the ventilator would arrive.
She shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know. For the next fifteen
minutes I squeezed the bag, roughly nine times a minute, approximating a
normal breathing rate. I could not increase speed or decrease speed with-
out causing a problem for the patient. The nurse darted out of the room
while I committed myself to my mechanical routine.
The nurse returned to say that no ventilators were available in the
hospital right now, but that one could be made ready in about an hour.
An hour! I was furious. But there was nothing I could do. No one else
was around to squeeze the bag. The nurse had to take care of two other
patients on the floor.
Thirty minutes passed. Anger turned to boredom. I vaguely hoped for

something slightly out of the ordinary, but then quickly changed my
mind, as something out of the ordinary usually means an emergency for
an anesthesiologist. I began to yawn. The indifference of sleep possessed
me.
Forty-five minutes . . . forty-six minutes . . . forty-seven minutes. The
minutes passed on, and at the end of each one a caustic bitterness settled
in my mind. I answered the question of what a doctor is. Is a doctor a
caregiver? A scientist? A technician? A gentleman? A bridge between
cultures?
No, a doctor is a bellows.
My answer dovetailed with uninvited memories that suddenly rushed
forward into my mind. We doctors have a saying: “What do they call a
person who graduates last in his or her medical school class? Answer:
‘Doctor.’” The educational process regards the best doctor as not much
better than the worst. Working off the principle of the least common
denominator, medical schools operate on the level of the trade school to
ensure that most students graduate. Students learn body parts the way
mechanics learn engine parts. They learn machines to test the body the
way cable repairmen learn machines to test for bad connections. These
tasks do not require special creativity or any capacity for synthesis or
analysis.
Bored with this education—almost insulted by it—I had quietly re-
belled. During lectures I would sit in the back of the classroom and read
the New York Times, purposely pushing the newspaper out toward the
professor to let him know that nothing he said could be of any interest to
me. I ignored the other medical students (although this left me feeling
lonely) and studied in the main library rather than in the medical library.
Later, while interviewing for internships, I met a doctor who told me how
he spent his day “tricking the body”: if a patient’s blood pressure went
up, he pushed it down; if the blood pressure went down, he pushed it up. I
left the interview feeling demoralized, thinking that all my education had
prepared me to be nothing more than a handyman with a tire pump. Even
during residency I noticed that I, a trainee with a strong liberal arts educa-
tion from an elite college, was in one room monitoring a sleeping patient,
while another trainee with a communications major from a third-tier col-
lege was across the hall doing the same thing. I had taken a long, convo-
16 CHA P TER 1
luted path to the same end. The notion of “doctor as bellows” did not
seem that far off to me.
More than an hour after the intubation, a contrite respiratory therapist
wheeled a ventilator into the patient’s room. I hooked the patient’s
breathing tube onto the ventilator’s corrugated tubing, checked to make
sure the machine was delivering breaths, and left, feeling resentful. I felt
particularly hurt because the real insult came from within.
Two weeks later I was back on the labor and delivery floor.
All labor and delivery floors emit a characteristic noise. To check a
baby’s heartbeat inside the womb, obstetricians once listened with a
stethoscope. Nowadays, the laboring mother typically wears a wide belt
attached to an electronic amplifier, which causes the baby’s heartbeat to
roar continuously around the room and through the walls. To passersby
the heartbeat sounds like a strong horse galloping to its limits, its flanks
sweating, its nostrils dilated, while the electrical static in the background
sounds like distant gunfire. Taken together, the amplified heartbeats on a
labor and delivery floor bring to mind a cavalry charge, the earth groan-
ing heavily, crushed beneath a thousand hoofs going at full speed, afire
with frenzy—the battle for life.
I saw a group of nurses huddling outside a patient’s room. The room’s
electronic amplifier roared out a fetal heart rate slower than expected.
Sometimes a belt shifts position and captures the mother’s naturally slow-
er heart rate, which sounds like a horse’s trot, but until this is proven the
medical staff feels great anxiety, as a fetal heart rate less than 120 beats
per minute means the baby lacks oxygen. As I entered the room I saw a
nurse furiously slide the Doppler over the patient’s stomach. She con-
firmed it was the baby’s heart rate. If the rate stayed low, we would have
to perform an emergency cesarian section.
Fortunately, the normal galloping sound returned a minute later. But it
was a shot across the bow. I warned the mother that we could have
another problem later, and that we should place an epidural now, giving
her not only pain relief but also an alternative route for anesthesia in case
of emergency cesarian section. Going to sleep while pregnant carries
some risk, I explained. The mother declined, noting that she had rods put
in her spine as a teenager, for scoliosis. She didn’t want a needle touching
her back. In truth, rods do make placement of a spinal or epidural diffi-

cult. I let the matter drop.
Three hours later, with the woman now fully dilated and pushing, the
electronic amplifier sounded another steep decline in the baby’s heart
rate. This time the heart rate stayed down. Suddenly the obstetrician
called out, “Cord prolapse!” The umbilical cord, which delivers oxygen
to the baby, had become compressed inside the mother’s birth canal. All
blood had stopped flowing through it. The team quickly stripped the
mother of her monitors and rushed her to the operating room for an
emergency cesarian section. Without umbilical blood flow the baby had
nine minutes to live.
The mother was already on the operating table when I arrived. Two
minutes had passed. I slapped some monitors on her body and told her we
had to go to sleep. “No!” she screamed. I thought she was just venting
anxiety, until I applied a black oxygen mask to her face in preparation for
injecting Sodium Pentothal. She shook her head violently, trying to dodge
it. “No! No!” she shouted. “I don’t want to go to sleep!”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m afraid! Leave me be! I don’t want to go to sleep!” she screamed.
“But I have to put you to sleep. I don’t have time to try a spinal,” I
said.
“No! Do you hear me? I don’t want to go to sleep!” she furiously
replied.
Another minute passed. The baby had only six minutes of oxygen left.
I shopped for a different tone. I tried a relaxed and casual persona. I even
took off my mask so that she could see me smiling. “It’s no big deal.
You’ll just take a nap, and then you’ll wake up and see your baby,” I said
with sugary sweetness. But I smiled with an utter lack of confidence, and
my fear only fed her fear. “No!” she kept shouting. My palms now sweat-
ing, I pleaded, “Please, let me put you to sleep.” The woman began to cry.
Hysteria passed into sadness and regret. “No,” she whimpered. “I’m
afraid, I’m afraid.”
Five minutes left. If only I could say the right thing! But my instincts
were poor. I had relied on books to learn the art of bedside manner, and,
as with all things only superficially learned, I panicked when put to the
test. I racked my brain trying to think of what to say and how much to
talk, how and when to look the woman in the face, and every second I
grew more afraid of saying the wrong thing or more than I ought, and the
18 CHA P TER 1
more I thought, the more confused I became, and in the end I kept my
mouth shut altogether.
“Put her to sleep!” roared the obstetrician, hovering over the woman’s
prepped abdomen, a scalpel in hand. “What are you waiting for?”
I was waiting for her consent. Did I need her consent? Yes, otherwise
it would be assault, I thought. The woman has “rights” and “autonomy,”
all the words I had learned during my liberal arts education. She had said,
“No,” and no means no—at least in theory. If she had just given me some
wiggle room, if she had just said, “Well, maybe okay . . .” then I would
have slammed the Pentothal into her vein before she could have uttered a
qualifier. But she didn’t. Perhaps hysteria is crowding out her reason, I
thought. If so, I could override her. Yet her fear was reasonable. I had told
her before about the dangers of general anesthesia. I couldn’t in good
conscience say she was being irrational. So I did nothing. And yet doing
nothing was doing something: I was condemning her baby to death.
Life only intensifies that which is in a person to begin with, and in this
case what was intensified in me was confusion. What is a doctor? I didn’t
know. I might as well have tried to explain the concept of the fifth
dimension. Is a doctor a technician who carries out his patient’s will? Or
is he a judge who knows better than his patient? I had no answer. No
volume in the medical library had been titled “Nebulous.”
Three minutes left. Catastrophe loomed. Suddenly, Dr. S, who was the
anesthesiology attending on the labor and delivery floor that day, ran in.
Without breaking stride he reached for the syringe of Pentothal. “Put the
mask on the patient’s face,” he said in a ringing, powerful voice.
“But she refuses general anesthesia,” I replied.
“Put the mask on her face,” Dr. S repeated with cold determination,
turning his thick neck and staring coldly at me.
I could not resist; the authoritative voice of command beat at my ear.
Besides, he had already started to inject the Pentothal. Without any extra
oxygen the woman would turn blue when the drug hit her brain and
stopped her breathing. Dr. S had forced my hand. I was almost relieved.
The mask muffled the woman’s screams. Gradually the woman sur-
rendered to inexorable force, her cries of “No” waxing and waning as she
fell into unconsciousness, and sounding like a tea kettle on low. Once she
was unconscious I did protest to Dr. S—to ease my conscience. I sum-
marized what had happened and why I had delayed. Dr. S didn’t want to
hear it. “Doesn’t matter,” he declared, after following with a dose of
muscle relaxant to facilitate the intubation. “Delay and you get a bad
baby.”
I intubated the mother. The obstetrician cut. A floppy baby boy
emerged from the woman’s abdomen a minute later. The obstetrician
quickly passed him over to the nurse, who roughly swaddled him to prod
him to take some breaths. A minute later the baby offered up a healthy
cry.
I tried again to explain my position to Dr. S. He ignored me. “It
doesn’t matter. You get a bad baby,” he said, dismissively. I made one
more attempt as he left the room, but all he said before exiting was, “You
get a bad baby.”
I woke the woman up thirty minutes later and wheeled her to the
recovery room. She clutched her baby happily to her chest and kissed it.
When I explained to her how sorry I was that we had to put her to sleep,
she ignored me. “Remember, you were nervous,” I reminded her. Glanc-
ing in my direction, and visibly annoyed with having to talk to me, she
replied, “Yeah, it’s fine.” Then, shifting her attention back to her baby,
she smiled and cooed, “Isn’t he cute? So cute, my little one.”
I had almost caused a catastrophe. I felt awful. Another attending tried
to console me. He told me that it was good to make mistakes as a resident,
so that I could learn from them, instead of later, in practice, when no one
would be around to back me up.
True, I was only a resident at this stage. But inexperience alone was
not to blame. In the years to follow I would squirm whenever replaying
the scenario in my mind. Dr. S’s decision had been the right one. Its basis
had been simple: “You get a bad baby.” But I could not say I would
necessarily make the same decision in a similar case, for the law was
unclear on the matter. A distraught mother who refuses general anesthesia
has “rights” and “autonomy.” The law calls her a rational actor. But the
law also says that when a distraught mother signs the consent for an
epidural, the anesthesiologist is still liable for complications, because the
mother is not in her right mind when signing the consent. She is in pain
and not a rational actor. Which is it? Is a distraught mother a rational
actor? I do not know. Neither does the law.
Yet the contradiction is not really the law’s fault. It is ultimately the
doctors’ fault. Their confusion about what it means to be a doctor is what
invited the law into the matter in the first place. Doctors feared behaving
like Dr. S. They feared being thought of as overconfident brutes. They
20 CHA P TER 1
feared their iron tenacity might be interpreted as arrogance. They feared

their authority might be interpreted as oppression. They feared their con-
fidence might be interpreted as autocratic. They feared their impetuous
dash might be interpreted as insensitivity. They feared these things be-
cause they were unsure whether doctors should possess these qualities.
Indeed, they didn’t know what qualities a doctor should possess. At the
very least, they no longer knew whether a doctor should be tenacious,
arrogant, or authoritarian. So the law came in to sort out the mess, but it
only caused more confusion. That the law did a poor job, however, is not
the law’s fault.
Herein lies the root of many medical catastrophes and near catas-
trophes that I was to discover over the years: In the deepest recesses of
their minds, many doctors no longer know who they are. They have lost
the sense of themselves. They work with nurses and other doctors, they
deal with patients, more often than not these days they have employers,
and in all this they don’t really know where they stand. They don’t how
much authority they have, or, assuming they do have it, how much they
should wield it. They don’t want to seem paternalistic or bullying, but
they do want to do what they think is right. They don’t know if they
should follow their own judgment or, instead, conform to some practice
protocol. They don’t know what about being a doctor should make them
proud.
I exemplified all this. I was a textbook-smart anesthesiology resident,
but I didn’t know what qualities made for a good doctor. I didn’t know
how I should behave toward nurses, patients, or other doctors, other than
to follow general rules of propriety. I didn’t know whether science was
more important than technique in medicine, or whether technique was
more important than disposition. I didn’t know if a doctor was like any
other employee who deserved to be checked by security for stolen bread
and toilet paper. I was walking a political tightrope, dipping my balance
rod back and forth between right and left, desperate to keep my equilib-
rium. This made me dangerous. A doctor’s whole way of thinking be-
comes visibly undermined without a firm sense of identity, for his or her
world is ultimately balanced on that cornerstone. I would not become a
safe doctor until I could say for sure what a doctor is.
This took time.
It is difficult to write honestly about what I have learned about politics
and medical catastrophes during my years in practice, for politics is an
ugly business. Some doctors are eager to show off the medical profession.
Something about being a doctor thrills them. But they lack confidence in
their pride; they fear that pride may take a fall if some bad points show
up. I myself have never loved the medical profession with a lover’s
passion, a profession whose virtues are so many, and whose defects are
obvious. An honest discussion about the medical profession poses no
threat to my pride. But I do not write about medicine’s bad points to
expose doctors or to criticize them. On the contrary, my purpose is to help
them, and their patients, by showing them who their real enemy is.
Many American doctors today feel under siege because of the changes
in health care. They see no real enemy to lay their hands on, but they
cannot help feel that such an enemy exists, that the enemy is invisible at
their side, everywhere and at any time. That feeling gives rise to a pas-
sionate desire to argue—about government, about insurance companies,
about patients—but whenever they lash out and have a debate, it is never
really frank. They prefer to ignore the real issue, which beats within them
and seems too shameful to discuss but is responsible for more medical
catastrophes than any flawed drug regimen or half-ignored infection-con-
trol protocol, and that is that no one really knows any longer what a
doctor is. Even doctors don’t know.
2
IMPATIENCE AND THE URGE

TO BE MACHO
A few months went by. One afternoon, in between cases, while sitting
next to the operating room command center, I watched several young
orderlies pass the time throwing paper balls into a distant trashcan as they
talked about sports. A heavyset man sat on a plush office chair inside the
command center, scheduling cases and fielding requests for the orderlies’
services. Whenever a call came in, he would write out the request and
place the paper in a wire holder for an orderly to pick up. He conserved
his energy by rarely getting out of his chair except to eat or go to the
bathroom. After several hours spent running around the hospital, some of
the orderlies envied his quiet, sedentary life. So did some of the doctors.
I heard an overhead page calling for anesthesia to come to the emer-
gency room—stat. I raced downstairs and saw commotion around one of
the stalls. Forcing my way through the crowd of residents and nurses, I
found sitting on a gurney an eight-year-old boy struggling to breathe, his
chest wall retracting with each inspiration, his color dusky. A medical
resident was trying to fit a breathing mask around the boy’s face, scaring
the boy and causing him to choke and sputter.
“Aspirated food. . . . Don’t know what. . . . Can’t see it,” said the
doctor. The speed of his diction exposed his agitation.
Twenty seconds later the boy collapsed against the bed. The medical
resident grabbed a bag and mask, and he began furiously and mindlessly
pumping air into the boy’s mouth. Because of the obstruction in the boy’s
23
24 CHA P TER 2
windpipe, none of the air made it through, although the doctor hoped it
would.
“Stop!” I cried. “You’re pushing air into his stomach! His belly’s
getting too tight for him to breathe!” I grabbed a laryngoscope and a
breathing tube, pushed the doctor aside, and used my fingers to scissor
open the boy’s bluish lips and peer into the little throat.
I had a decision to make. If the food could not be brought up, then it
had to be pushed down past the carina, where the windpipe splits into two
smaller airways. The food would then go down one airway and leave the
other airway open, letting the boy breathe on one lung. But the food could
also shatter on its way down, blocking both airways. Then the boy would
die. Perhaps, I thought, I should cut open the boy’s windpipe at the neck
and try to grab the food? But I had no experience doing that; by the time I
got into the windpipe, the boy might be dead. Even if I could get in, the
food might be sitting below my incision. I decided to push the food down.
I inserted the tube amid cries of “What are you doing!” I felt a pop as I
passed the tube through the vocal cords, and then looked up at the boy’s
chest, which, for the first time, rose rather than collapsed on the left side
during inspiration. I pulled out the tube and put the mask back on the
boy’s face.
The terrifying glint of blue left the boy’s fingernails. Nevertheless, we
had to get the boy to the operating room so the ENT surgeon could
remove the food under controlled conditions. When we arrived, I told Dr.
G, the ENT attending, my plan. “I’ll breathe him down with anesthetic
gas and intubate him. Then I’ll pass a suction catheter down his stomach
and suck out any air or extra food. Then I’ll take the breathing tube out
and give him over to you. But you have only a minute for each attempt to
snare the food in his lung. In between attempts I’ll have to breathe for
him as well as give him some anesthetic gas through the open lung,” I
explained.
I pressed the black mask on the boy’s face and turned up the dial on
the anesthesia canister. After a minute Dr. G crowded in:
“Okay, that’s enough. He’s asleep. Let me start,” he demanded.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Be patient. It takes longer to get someone
deep on just one lung. If you start now, he’ll wake up in twenty seconds
and start coughing with your instruments in his throat.”
Dr. G moved away and impatiently tapped his feet.
I M PAT I E N CE AN D T H E U R GE TO BE MA CHO 25
Impatience is raw material for catastrophe in medicine. Sometimes in

medicine the need to act is urgent. But impatience can also have more
pedestrian origins. For some doctors, time is money. Other doctors are
just eager to go home.
Doctors for whom time is money want to be doing business, and they
are usually speeding somewhere, trying to cram as many patients as they
can into an hour, all while complaining about their office overhead or
how little Medicare pays them. One anesthesia department I rotated
through during my training exemplified this attitude. Each anesthesiolo-
gist in the group had certain days assigned to him when he would make
most of his money for the week. The operating schedule would list all the
patients for that day—including their insurance coverage—and the an-
esthesiologist for whom it was “money day” got first pick, choosing as
many cases as he wanted and typically loading up on patients with com-
mercial insurance. The anesthesiologist would rush around from case to
case, cramming as many surgeries into the day as possible. No doctor was
more impatient than an anesthesiologist on money day.
Other doctors are impatient because they want to go home. Medical
practice bores them. They also think the federal government is out to get
them, that patients disrespect them, and that malpractice lawyers want to
break them across their knees. They come to work each day wanting to
leave. Outbursts of impatience among them merely show how strained
their mental powers are.
I saw an example of this during a job interview in my last year of
residency. A large chalkboard hung on the wall in the lounge, listing all
the anesthesiologists working that day, with those at the top leaving be-
fore those at the bottom, the position of each doctor determined according
to when he or she was last on night call. When an anesthesiologist went
home, his name was crossed out, putting the next anesthesiologist “on
deck” and ready to be sprung. Doctors in the middle of the list felt a
growing excitement as they moved closer to being relieved, and they
glanced at the chalkboard every few minutes during breaks to see whether
any downward movement in the line had occurred. Doctors closer to the
bottom looked upon the list with quiet distress, knowing that they
wouldn’t be going home for hours. Each doctor dreamed of being on top
of the list so he or she could go home early. Some doctors purposely put
themselves on night call to grab the top position the next day; they were
like men at sea piling onto a lone piece of driftwood, each man trying to
26 CHA P TER 2
save himself, one man on top but for a moment, then disappearing under-
water as another man climbed on top of him. With so much attention paid
to this particular wall with the chalkboard, and with so much yearning
and hope associated with it, it was dubbed the Wailing Wall.
A lack of understanding between physicians is a third reason for impa-
tience. As physicians grow more subspecialized, they increasingly know
more about their own specialty and less about any other. When another
specialist acts in a way that impedes their ability to get back to their
offices or go home, they resent it because they do not understand it. They
argue with the offending doctor, or simply roll their eyes and cross their
arms in disgust.
Dr. G’s impatience drew from the first and third reasons. To look at
him, one would hardly think he was such an aggressive person, but be-
neath his amiable exterior, lightning was hidden. He had once tried to
push me into doing a Medicaid case to get it “out of the way” so he could
get back to his more lucrative office practice. The case involved a woman
with a history of asthma and a recent lower respiratory tract infection,
now scheduled for tonsillectomy. The anesthesia literature at the time
recommended careful consideration before putting such patients to sleep,
lest an asthma attack be provoked. When I delayed the case to check the
patient’s white blood cell count, Dr. G erupted in a fury, noting that the
ENT literature made no such recommendation. He seemed almost embar-
rassed by what he perceived to be my stupidity.
I spent three minutes letting the boy inhale anesthetic gas. Out of the
corner of my eye I could see Dr. G glaring at me. By the fourth minute his
impatience had started to work on me like a slow poison. I began to doubt
myself—after all, the boy looked like he was asleep—and once a doctor
doubts the strength of his position, especially when confronted by an
impatient colleague, he inevitably increases the scope of his doubts, and
then it becomes hard for him to stop.
Dr. G moved in closer after I intubated the boy. “Wait a minute,” I
said. “I need to suck out his stomach.” But my tone was more begging
than commanding. Dr. G crowded in on me again. This time I relented
twenty seconds earlier than I otherwise would have.
Right before Dr. G took over at the head of the bed, I tilted the table to
the right. Dr. G grew annoyed.
“What are you doing?” he asked impatiently.
“If you grab the food, then lose hold of it halfway out, I don’t want
any of it falling back into his good lung and blocking it,” I replied.
“Ridiculous. I’ve done lots of these cases and that’s never happened,”
boasted Dr. G, as he rolled the table back to level. “The tilt just makes
things that much harder for me,” he added.
The more I tried to explain to Dr. G my reasons for tilting the table,
the more I felt as though my explanation was a pack of lies, although I
was telling the simple truth. Dr. G cross-questioned me and demanded
specific evidence. “Have you ever seen a case where this has happened?”
he demanded, puffing up his chest theatrically. “No, I haven’t,” I replied
meekly. “You’re getting in a panic over nothing,” insisted Dr. G. “Well,
I don’t know . . .” I squeaked. Finally, losing patience, Dr. G shrugged
and said something rude and personal: “Dworkin, you’re a real Chicken
Little.”
I said nothing.
I had become quite unrecognizable in a very short time. It is a danger-
ous moment for patients. A doctor is full of confidence and vigor; sud-
denly his right hand loses its cunning; his tongue sticks in his mouth
every time he has to utter a decision; his eyes lose their luster and are no
longer able to sway his coworkers; his knack for guessing the right move
is irretrievably lost. The doctor knows all this, and yet, in spite of it, he
feels unable to change course. Why?
To stand up to a colleague, doctors must have something inside them-
selves besides what is instilled in them through professional training. It is
one thing to hold the line against another doctor on the basis of science—
for example, by invoking the rate of anesthetic induction on one lung. It is
another thing to fret about an obscure event that has been reported only a
few times before in the medical literature. Doctors risk becoming the butt
of jokes if they sound too many warning bells about rare events or dis-
eases that theoretically might occur. They are accused of “chasing ze-
bras.” Nevertheless, zebras do exist. Sometimes a doctor must insist that a
zebra does, in fact, lurk nearby. But to do so a doctor needs natural inner
strength. No scientific equation can fortify a doctor when he or she de-
clares the imminent presence of a zebra. A doctor needs natural determi-
nation and a backbone—something that I lacked in those days.
28 CHA P TER 2
I also let Dr. G have his way because I wanted to prove to him that I
was no Chicken Little. The desire to be macho exists to some degree in
every man, but it is especially prominent in doctors like Dr. G, who pride
themselves on being tough guys and adventurers. These doctors know
that medicine has changed over the years, but how it has changed has
affected their imaginations in a strange way. As medicine grows more
rule bound and protocol oriented, these doctors feel cribbed and confined;
they long to flout established guidelines, to become pioneers and travel
the open highway once again. For them, rules and protocols are for
nurses—medicine’s version of the prudent and cautious middle class. It is
not the physician of the past who serves as an invariable reference point
for these swashbucklers but the frontiersman—hence, these doctors are
often called “cowboys.” They love danger; they love the thrill of taking
risks. Their risk taking is really quite cowardly, for the real risk is to the
patient. Tell them afterward that they were trusting to luck and they will
laugh, “We got away with it,” reflecting a desire on their part to be seen
as adorably reckless cowboys.
Few things are more dangerous in medicine than a cowboy eager to
get back to his office or go home. An impatient cowboy must be resisted
at all costs. But I didn’t resist. I didn’t like confrontation, and I didn’t like
being called a chicken.
Dr. G positioned himself at the head of the table. I removed the boy’s
breathing tube. Dr. G reached into the airway with a long instrument,
grabbed the morsel of food, which turned out to be a peanut, and pulled.
At about the level of the boy’s vocal cords the peanut shattered into two
pieces and fell back, blocking both airways. Dr. G tried to extract one of
the pieces but failed. He quickly removed his instrument to let me venti-
late the boy with bag and mask, but the boy’s lungs were now totally
obstructed on both sides.
I was furious with myself. Then, as the boy’s lips turned blue, fear
sucked at my heart. The peanut was choking the boy’s little life.
I pressed the mask against the boy’s face to create a tighter seal, but
the air I squeezed in with my right hand simply went into the boy’s
stomach. I kept squeezing the bag, until sense and experience howled
inside my mind, prodding the blood in my brain to start moving again and
do something different. I thought about looking into the boy’s throat with
my laryngoscope to snare some of the food; yet I knew this was pointless,
as the food was below the vocal cords and beyond the level of conven-
tional vision. I was out of options. I hurriedly gave the airway back to the
Dr. G and told him that mask ventilation was futile. We had to clear the
boy’s airway below the vocal cords.
Dr. G threw back the boy’s head with all the force and resolution of a
man desperate to exonerate himself from a charge of murder. He jammed
the snare into the boy’s throat with his shaking hand.
“Jesus Christ!” the cowboy shouted. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”
Hope lay in extracting some of the peanut and nowhere else. Dr. G
worked furiously, scraping, grabbing, and poking, each time realizing
mournfully that he had not carried out his intention.
The boy’s arms lay flung out on armboards, his palms, now gray like
marble, turned upward and open, as if they were begging. I ordered the
nurse to retrieve the saw so that we could cut open the boy’s chest and
slice open the delicate airways to remove the bits of peanut under direct
vision—a horrible and likely futile maneuver, as the boy would probably
suffer irreparable brain damage by the time we got in. I tore off the drape
and exposed the white chest skin suffused with the color of lilac. I ima-
gined the cabbage-like scrunch of the rending bone that the saw would
produce as it cut through and felt lightheaded.
The whole room was infected by a capitulatory mood. Then, through
sheer luck, Dr. G removed a piece of peanut. Five seconds later I violent-
ly pressed the mask against the boy’s face and ventilated one lung. The
boy pinked up, the warm color coming across his face like the feeble light
of dawn after a long, dark night. Two minutes later I handed the airway
back to the surgeon, who calmly removed the second piece of nut, this
time with the table tilted to one side.
I glanced around the room, dazed and restive, my pupils dilated. In-
struments scattered on the floor were coated with blood and sputum. I
looked at them with respect and thanks, as though they were the real
soldiers, dead on the field, deserving of medals for big deeds, for hero-
ism. The nurse asked me something, but her words failed to penetrate my
consciousness. The nurse asked me again, “How long before the boy
wakes up?” I gazed at her, my eyes still aflame with the light of battle, but
said nothing.
The nurse called the recovery room to say the patient would be com-
ing out soon. Without emotion she gave the nurse on the other end of the
line the name of the procedure: “removal of foreign body from trachea.”
30 CHA P TER 2
She noted that general anesthesia had been used and also that the patient
had an intravenous.
And what had really happened? Two doctors had clashed in a contest
of egos, with a fair-haired young boy bruised and battered in the process,
until the breath of death was in the air, at which point both doctors,
mortally terrified, and feeling the pinching chill of malpractice, worked
together and luckily saved the situation. They finished with their arms as
heavy as lead, despising themselves.
And they called it the third case of the day.
We wheeled the young boy past the clerk encaged in the command
center. At that moment I had a terrible longing to be like him, relaxed and
comfortable, neither terrifying to other people nor afraid himself, going
home every day with a clean conscience and unaware that what he did for
a living never needed to be done by anybody.
“You did a good job in the emergency room. Why did you listen to
that surgeon?” I asked myself.
But what is done is done. A doctor learns early on that life flows only
one way and in one groove. After he or she makes a medical decision, the
roads not taken, like innumerable streams breaking off from the main
current, flow on visibly for some distance and scatter over the plain of
existence. It is even possible to imagine heading back, choosing one of
those streams, and following its winding course. But over time the
streams dwindle into rivulets, and the doctor realizes that only one chan-
nel of life, the channel forged by his or her decision, flows richly and
fully. Eventually the rivulets, tiny symbols of what might have been, dry
up altogether.
How could this near catastrophe have been averted? It is tempting to
blame Dr. G’s impatience, especially since impatience in health care
seems to be on the rise. Some primary care doctors today, for example,
are forced to restrict their patient visits to eleven minutes. 1 Surgery shows
a similar trend. A community hospital’s surgical schedule in the 1960s
often had large gaps between cases. Today, cases are stacked tightly, with
fifteen-minute turnover time. The rush even penetrates anesthesia re-
search, as most recent advances have been time-saving ones—for exam-
ple, new anesthetic gases that exit the body quickly, allowing for faster
wake-up, and non-narcotic pain substitutes that shorten recovery room

time, thereby improving efficiency at that end of the assembly line.
Overspecialization has also increased, fostering physician impatience
in a second way. Theoretically, a medical degree lets doctors practice any
medical field. Doctors stay in their own specialties today because they
can’t get the necessary malpractice insurance coverage. Still, as late as
the 1980s, it was not uncommon for doctors to cross over—for example,
ENT surgeons to practice a little general surgery, or obstetricians to prac-
tice a little anesthesiology. Not only does this no longer happen, but
within the specialties themselves doctors also increasingly confine them-
selves to a narrow slice of activity. The rarefied concerns of one group of
doctors inevitably become foreign to another. This makes doctors impa-
tient with one another.
Yet impatience is simply a factor to be reckoned with in human af-
fairs. To prevent a catastrophe, a doctor must confront impatience head
on. I had failed to do this with Dr. G.
Some people in medicine pin their hopes on less confrontational ap-
proaches. A few hospitals, for example, mount traffic lights on their walls
to police against rude behavior. The green light registers when people
nearby talk in normal conversational voices; raised voices trigger the
orange light; the red light flashes with frank yelling, warning the aggres-
sor to back off. Yet the red light doesn’t solve the impatient doctor prob-
lem. An impatient doctor can cut corners or call someone a “chicken” in a
normal conversational tone as well as in a loud voice. There are soft-
spoken cowboys.
Another innovation designed to do everything but confront the impa-
tient doctor head on is the “time-out.” During a time-out, hospital person-
nel stop what they are doing and go through a safety checklist. The time-
out does a good job of making sure the surgical site is correct, or that
antibiotics have been given prior to the start of a procedure. But the time-
out is useless as a check on an impatient cowboy who wants to get back to
his office or go home.
In theory, a cowboy’s reckless behavior should be flushed out at the
end of the time-out, when the nurse gets to the question—first posed to
the surgeon, and then to the anesthesiologist—“Do you have any general
concerns?” It is the moment when the sensible doctor might tell the
impatient doctor that the risks being taken are too great, and that a differ-
ent path should be taken. Yet the response to this question is uniformly
32 CHA P TER 2
silence, or, at most, “No.” Indeed, at no time have I ever heard a surgeon
respond in the affirmative to this question, nor have I, the anesthesiolo-
gist, ever done so; nor has any surgeon or anesthesiologist I know ever
done so. About minor concerns we remain silent, as announcing them
accomplishes nothing but make everyone in the operating room uneasy.
In regard to major concerns, the surgeon and I will have already discussed
them in advance, before the time-out, so there is no reason to air them
again. If a passive doctor fails to stand up to an impatient doctor when
discussing them—that is, if he hasn’t already pushed back in private—he
is even less likely do so during a very public time-out. If he does, he is
simply telling the operating room that he was too spineless to voice his
concerns at the appropriate time, when he was one-on-one with the sur-
geon, or that he voiced his concerns but failed to carry his point, in which
case now he was being sour grapes and a tattletale.
In medicine, war is sometimes necessary. A doctor must learn to fight.
He or she must accept the risk of being bloodied in that fight, being called
bad things, and having another doctor hate him or her as a consequence.
Even stalemate is safer than compromise with an impatient cowboy. Two
doctors fight one another, but they still need each other; each needs the
skills the other lacks. If a doctor cannot win a war, he or she can at least
stand firm and do nothing. For example, an anesthesiologist may not
carry the day with a cowboy surgeon, but he or she does not have to start
the anesthetic.
So long as the medical profession downplays the problem of the impa-
tient cowboy, catastrophes will continue to happen along this front. Medi-
cal training programs tend to look at conflict as an unnatural state of
affairs, or, when conflict does occur, something to be peacefully resolved.
This is wrong thinking. Conflict is a part of nature.
A medical school dean once told me that he preferred students who
were the sons and daughters of delicatessen owners rather than of aca-
demics. Delicatessen owners, he observed, have street smarts, gumption,
and an understanding that life is one long fight, qualities they often pass
on to their children. Academics, however, live in environments where
conflict is rare and scary, and where life is easy because others before
them already fought for their better life. Familiar with hard reality, the
children of delicatessen owners are more likely to stand up to cowboys,
he said, while the children of academics are more likely to shrink when
confronted with the darker and cruder sides of life.
We arrived in the recovery room. Upon discovering it was full and

unable to accept new patients, Dr. G, already in a bad mood to begin with,
flew into a temper. “What do you mean there’s no spot? I’ve got three
more cases!” he shouted.
The room shivered in fear. Nurses darted around frantically like bats
around a house, trying to prove how busy they were and how the crunch
had been unavoidable. With no one volunteering to take responsibility,
Dr. G raged. Housekeepers leaning on their mops gathered around the
entrance to see what the ruckus was all about. Several residents came by,
bunching together out of safety, as if they were in the proximity of a
dangerous animal.
Even the clerk in the command center wandered over from his com-
fortable chair to see what was happening. He wore surgical scrubs
adorned with several badges. He looked like a doctor. But he was not a
doctor. When Dr. G glared at him and demanded, “What are you looking
at?” the clerk scurried back to the safety of his cage.
By the time the nurses had found an open spot, the boy was awake and
thrashing about—so much that he pulled out his intravenous line. I
wanted to put a new one in. Although the boy was breathing comfortably,
I feared pulmonary complications later on, as repeated surgical manipula-
tions can injure an airway, while peanuts can provoke an intense inflam-
matory response in the lung. I thought having an intravenous in place
would be safer. But putting an intravenous in an awake and unhappy
eight-year-old is a hellish maneuver that requires numerous staff mem-
bers to hold the child down. Dr. G eyed the two ENT residents on his
team. Both looked doubtful and resistant, and eager to avoid hard work.
Since he wouldn’t have to deal with any airway complications in the
recovery room (I would), Dr. G waved his hand dismissively and said,
“Don’t worry about it. The child doesn’t need it.” The two residents
sighed with relief.
But this time—this time—there would be conflict. “No, he needs an
IV,” I explained. “And he’s going to get one.” My response was simple,
straightforward, uncomplicated, and honest. Dr. G glared at me. Another
test of wills loomed. But this time he sensed I was not my usual submis-
sive self, and rather than challenge me, he walked away. It was not a
34 CHA P TER 2
formal surrender, but when compared with events in the operating room,
it’s as if I had twisted his arm behind his back until he fell on his knees.
One of the residents rolled his eyes and called me a “jerk” while
holding down the child’s arms. He complained about having to get back
to his clinic. The other resident shook his head while holding onto the
child’s legs, calling the whole thing unnecessary. I had made myself a
terrible nuisance. But while they disapproved of my decision, they did not
refuse me the right to have it carried out. I was unbiased and without self-
interest; my honesty in assigning the task could not be questioned. These
elementary virtues made me powerful.
People sometimes say doctors act like dictators. They do so to criticize
doctors. But a dictator gains power through being frugal and incorrupt-
ible. This is a quality in a dictator that is also vital in a doctor. The doctor
must inspire the respect of his or her colleagues; if he or she cannot, there
will be doubts and conspiracies. If the other residents had sensed that I
wanted the intravenous simply to bill for it or to go home early, they
would have thrown more obstructions in my path. Because my motives
were worthy of respect, they did not.
Impatience is a form of stupidity, but typically it is a form of normal
stupidity. Dr. G’s impatience was an example of normal stupidity. After
all, most people would prefer to earn more money or go home if they
could. I certainly would. A doctor must resist such impatience. At the
same time, he or she must do so patiently, so long as it is normal stupid-
ity. A doctor must take name calling, eye rolling, and hostile body lan-
guage into account, and rather than complain about them or opine that
people should be without such faults, he or she must accept them. A
doctor’s job is to make use of the people he or she works with—as they
are and not as they ought to be.
A doctor who pushes back against normal stupidity should never ima-
gine that he or she does so for the last time. Stupidity never ends. A
doctor meets someone like Dr. G every day, perhaps twice a day. He or
she must know that firmness never brings lasting results and that it must
be recommenced every morning.
Medical practice is a dynamic process. Good medicine does not al-
ways come pre-packaged; it also arises when one doctor pushes back
against another, producing a stable equilibrium. On a good day, a cowboy
doctor will thank the other doctor for helping to guide things onto a safer
plane. On a bad day, the cowboy doctor will shout and scream and call
the other doctor names. But that goes with the business. A person cannot
be a doctor unless he or she can endure being called an “asshole” several
times a week.
3
THE TRAP OF OVERSPECIALIZATION
Life in the hospital continued in its inviolable order. The scene was no
different from what it had been several months before. A hospital does
not experience seasons. Doctors and nurses wear scrubs all year round,
and the smell of alcohol is everlasting; even the flowers in the waiting
room are replaced fully sprouted. The great transition in a hospital is not
from season to season but from day to night.
This transition heralds an important psychological change. During the
day an anesthesiologist rarely experiences a feeling of isolation because
he knows other anesthesiologists are around to help him if he gets into
trouble. Indeed, during a crisis, anesthesiologists swarm like bees. But at
night, when he becomes the on-call anesthesiologist covering the entire
hospital, the anesthesiologist is now completely alone, no matter how
much fellowship he enjoyed earlier that day, and this has a marked effect
on him. Sometimes he grows afraid. When putting a sick patient to sleep,
his hands move as they did earlier that day, but sometimes they no longer
seem to fully belong to him; they shake with a fine tremor and grow
sweaty, as if disease were taking both him and the patient.
Dr. C, my attending, was such a person. During the day he worked in
the urological or orthopedic suites. This had not been his plan—he had
trained in neuroanesthesia—but the department had been top-heavy with
specialists when he was hired. Better to let a few people do neuroan-
esthesia all the time, and get good at it, while others do something else
and get good at that, the thinking ran. Dr. C soon found himself handling
mostly cystoscopies and knee replacements. He became expert at spinal
37
38 CHA P TER 3
and epidural anesthesia, as these were the most common anesthetics used
in such cases. Gradually his other skills faded. When he noticed this
happening he fought to get into the other operating rooms, to rescue
himself, but at a critical inflection point he realized that his skills were
beyond saving, and he fought to stay out of those rooms. The department
happily obliged him during the day, but at nights, when on call, he still
had to function as a generalist, which scared him. Any case might walk
through the door at night. Whenever the on-call resident presented him
with a case in the evening, invariably the first question Dr. C asked, even
before hearing the details, was “Can we do a spinal?” It came almost as a
surprise to him that some emergencies had nothing to do with bladders or
knees, and that patients had illnesses requiring general anesthesia. At
such moments he would slouch in his chair and rub his forehead with his
hand, as though he had a headache.
Dr. C was a victim of occupational specialization, a well-established
trend in American medicine that has intensified over the last few decades.
In 1923, 11 percent of American doctors were specialists; in 1963, the
number was 72 percent; by 1977, it was 87 percent. 1 Today, the general
practitioner no longer even exists. What we call “primary care doctors,”
including internists and pediatricians, were considered specialists a half-
century ago. In the 1980s, rapid subspecialization took the trend to the
next level—for example, internists focusing on cardiology or gastroente-
rology, or OB/GYNs focusing on infertility or medical genetics. In the
1990s, “sub-subspecialization” picked up steam as doctors confined
themselves to a particular skill within their subspecialty—for example,
gastroenterologists who worked only on food allergies, or cardiologists
who worked only on heart failure. Although the literature says subspe-
cialists and sub-subspecialists usually keep a hand in general practice, my
own experience tells me this is less so now. To maintain income, solo
subspecialists do need to keep a hand in other areas—but doctors are now
less likely to be in solo practice. In the last eight years the proportion of
doctors in solo practice has dropped from 62 to 35 percent. 2 As employ-
ees of large organizations, on salary, these doctors function more like line
workers with a special technical skill. The problem, of course, comes
when a line worker must suddenly become a generalist again, on nights,
weekends, and holidays.
On this particular evening a two-year-old girl had been mauled by a
dog, resulting in several deep wounds to her leg that had to be washed out
T H E T RAP OF OV E RSPE CI A LIZA TION 39
and sutured. When I told Dr. C about the situation, he froze. Of all the
cases that struck fear in his heart, none did so more than pediatric cases,
as he had not put a child to sleep in more than ten years. Very quickly his
fear infected me, for up to that point in my training I had done only a
handful of cases involving small children. When we walked to the pre-op
area and spied the crying toddler, I felt nervous. While we interviewed
the girl’s parents, the feeling grew worse. I looked over at Dr. C. His lips
were dry and he could barely mumble. The parents sensed our anxiety,
and the mother asked Dr. C if he was comfortable with anesthetizing
children. “Yes . . . I mean, of course, I’ve done a number of them,” he
replied in an embarrassed voice. It’s a line that doctors sometimes use to
deflect attention away from their inexperience, since technically speaking
they aren’t lying—their “number” is simply zero.
We left to go set up the operating room. I looked for the pediatric
breathing circuit, which is smaller than the adult-sized version, but
couldn’t find it. Dr. C became frantic. “You can’t do a pediatric case
without a pediatric circuit!” he roared. In fact, you can, I found out later.
But doctors out of their element often fuss about technology. They feel
compelled to imitate the expert at all points lest they stray into utter
darkness by deviating for an instant.
We brought the little girl into the operating room. Dr. C gave her an
intramuscular injection of Atropine, a drug that increases heart rate. The
drug is useful in children because their circulatory system is so rate de-
pendent. I asked Dr. C whether the drug was necessary in this particular
case. Dr. C said nothing. I asked again. I really wanted to learn. Finally,
he barked, “Shut up, Dworkin! This is what pediatric anesthesiologists
do. OK? They give Atropine.” I fell silent.
Dr. C was acting silly, but I blame the system for his silliness. Dr. C
had put his faith in technical expertise because professional medicine
equates expertise with good doctoring. It is why Dr. C had subspecialized
in neuroanesthesia—to become a technical expert. Professional medicine
tells doctors to master a small bit of terrain to the exclusion of everything
else, and that by doing so they will reach the heights of doctoring, in both
prestige and salary. Yet all this does is turn a doctor into a monkey who
performs a special trick. Dr. C’s problem was that he had trained for a
different trick. When the system pushed Dr. C onto the wrong stage, the
monkey became an ass, which is a very different thing.
40 CHA P TER 3
I put the mask over the child’s face and slowly rotated the dial on the
anesthesia canister. The child screamed. When she finally lost conscious-
ness and entered the second stage of anesthesia, known as the “excite-
ment” phase, her eyes diverged and she began to cough. To make matters
worse her tongue fell back and obstructed her airway. I started to place an
oral airway inside her mouth to lift the tongue off the back of her throat,
but Dr. C stayed my hand. “Don’t! You’ll cause laryngospasm!” he
shouted excitedly. (In laryngospasm, a complication of stage-two an-
esthesia, the patient’s irritated vocal cords clamp together spasmodically,
preventing air from passing through into the lungs.) What Dr. C said was
true—in adults. Small children respond differently to an oral airway, a
pediatric anesthesiologist had once told me. “Remember that,” she had
said to drive the point home, as one day I might find myself in the very
trouble I was in now. I explained this to Dr. C, who relented. The oral
airway worked like a charm.
When the child was deep enough, Dr. C inserted an intravenous in her
arm. I tried to intubate her but failed. Dr. C also tried and failed. He then
tried to breathe for the child with a bag and mask, but secretions elicited
during the intubation attempts, combined with a return to stage-two an-
esthesia, caused the child to go into laryngospasm. Her airway was now
completely obstructed. The child’s heart rate dropped into the fifties. Dr.
C’s eyes stared into space with a newfound intensity. The surgeon scent-
ed danger.
“Do something!” the surgeon shouted.
Dr. C hesitated. “Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . we can try some Atropine?”
he ventured meekly.
“She doesn’t need Atropine! She needs oxygen!” blared the surgeon.
He was correct. Low oxygen levels cause a child’s heart rate to drop.
I hurriedly injected succinylcholine, a rapid-acting muscle relaxant,
into the intravenous to relax the girl’s vocal cords. Within thirty seconds
Dr. C was able to ventilate her. The oxygen bolus quickly returned her
heart rate to normal.
Dr. C again tried to intubate the child. This time he was successful. He
breathed a sigh of relief as he listened with his stethoscope to confirm that
the tube was in the right place. Then he looked at me with smiling eyes.
He seemed to feel a certain pleasure knowing that a big part of this
important business was already over. He even grew proud enough to
teach me a few pointers about pediatric anesthesia.
When the surgeon finished the repair everyone was in good spirits.
Nothing else, it seemed, could go wrong. But catastrophes do occur at the
end of a case precisely because it is a time when doctors and nurses relax
and let their guards down. They think of other things and their powers of
concentration wane. After the surgeon wrapped the little leg in gauze I
removed the child’s breathing tube. Instead of breathing normally, as she
had when the tube was in place, she held her breath. Maybe she was
breathing but her breaths were too small to be detected, Dr. C mused
aloud with a sad, almost wistful longing in his voice. He had been so
happy; things had been going so well; it seemed almost unfair to him that
with the case now over the gods would visit another complication on him.
The temptation to ignore things at the end of a case is great—and Dr. C
wanted to ignore them. But the child was definitely not breathing.
Life tensed. I nervously repositioned the little head. Fortunately, a
simple chin lift made all the difference, and the child began to breathe
normally again. The operating room staff breathed a sigh of relief. But the
jolt had robbed Dr. C of his celebratory mood.
After the case I went back to my small on-call room, removed my

shoes, and flung myself down on the narrow, springy bed. The air in the
room was dry and stale; the stench of someone’s lunch from earlier in the
day rose from the trashcan by the brown desk. From outside the hallway
the fluorescent bulb’s vibrating hum sounded incessantly.
On-call rooms vary little across hospitals. Next to the bed stood a
brass desk lamp with a busted shade. Years of doctors waking up dis-
oriented in the middle of the night, reaching for the switch in the dark,
and knocking the lamp over had left the shade looking like a face
smashed up in a fight. By the lamp lay a phone. A brown chair claimed a
corner. There was no other furniture.
I lay still on my back to avoid crumpling my facemask or losing my
wallet out of my scrub shirt pocket. I wanted to sleep. When fatigue is the
result of physical effort, sleep is easy, but if fatigue comes from mental
effort, such as giving anesthesia, sleep is withheld despite being urgently
needed. I tried to believe in my ability to sleep. I tried to imagine myself
at home, spotlessly clean from a shower, in my own bed and rejoicing in
my own linens. But for the next twenty minutes I stared at the red digits
42 CHA P TER 3
beaming out from the clock on the desk. It seemed to me I was the only
person in the world at that moment not sleeping. I shifted my gaze toward
the faint glimmer of fluorescent light peering through the bottom of the
door. I began to feel the intense, clinging darkness in the room. Combined
with the stale air, it felt like I had been thrown into a hole and earth was
being shoveled on top of me. A heavy lump of dirt fell on my body, then
another, then a third. . . .
I anxiously flicked a switch near my head, causing the overhead light
to flame across the room. The first thing I saw was a large color photo-
graph of the Vermont countryside hanging on the wall, put there to give
the night call doctor a chance to wander in another, more fantastic world.
Gazing at the picture I found myself drawn into the beautiful scene. I felt
like the person who is suddenly infatuated with some region of the world
he has never seen, but about which he is determined to learn everything—
through books, through photographs. A small cabin sat in the middle of
the picture. Smoke rose out of its chimney. Perhaps a doctor lives there, I
thought. After all, serious people who do important work often go into
retirement from time to time. They have country houses, mountain cab-
ins, and cottages by the sea where they throw off all responsibility. Soli-
tude liberates them from the actual world and lets them enter into the
world of the imagination, where mundane matters recede and wider
thoughts take their place. Then I looked around me, saw the busted lamp-
shade and overflowing trashcan, and the spell was broken. In a doctor’s
call room solitude degrades.
I stared at my stethoscope lying on the desk, the technological symbol
of doctoring, and wondered about its meaning. Is a doctor a serious per-
son? Or is a doctor just a technician? Was I playing a great role or a small
role in life? A French philosopher once said that all those who live by
their work, manual or intellectual, are proletarians; all those who live by
their speech he called bourgeois. Lawyers and politicians are bourgeois in
that they earn their living by persuading others to pay them. Mechanics
and bricklayers, by contrast, do not need to persuade—the excellence of
their work is sufficient to sell it; technical knowledge replaces amiability
and a slippery tongue as the source of success. But if the doctor-techni-
cian is a proletarian, he does not need nice manners. He can be rough and
coarse in speech; he can dress like a tradesman, in uniform; he has no
constituents, no audience—all he needs is the power to endure and work
his machine. A bourgeois needs a pretty office; a proletarian can live

amid trash in a call room.
So what if I were a manual laborer? Manual labor, whether it is simple
or complicated, can be done well or done badly. There are clever and
stupid ways of digging a hole, just as there are careful and neglectful
ways of putting a person to sleep. A hole digger may do mediocre or
excellent work; it depends upon his technique, his care of the shovel, his
understanding of the soil, and the attention he gives to the weather. If he
tries to make his work a little better than is required of him, he becomes
an artist and is rewarded with more self-respect and personal enjoyment.
But unlike the manual laborer, the doctor-technician cannot really
improve on his work. An anesthesiologist, for example, is expected to put
a patient to sleep and wake the patient up, safely. He can do worse—
catastrophically worse—but no better. A healthy, living patient is ex-
pected of him each time. Theoretically, an anesthesiologist should be as
proud of his success in making his operating room into a perfect little
world as a hole digger of his in digging a hole, or a diplomat of his in
organizing a country’s affairs. But the anesthesiologist has no real room
to improve or embellish, and no reason to do any more than is necessary.
The hole-digger hand paints a beautiful flower on the walls of his hole,
without any relation to technique, and becomes a free artist, compared to
the anesthesiologist, who never really passes beyond the boundary of
technique, and never has any reason to do so.
The doctor-technician is a proletarian and a manual laborer who can-
not even aspire to art, I concluded. Was this to be my calling in life? I
rolled over onto my side and groaned.
I looked again at the Vermont picture. At the margin a man and wom-
an held hands and looked into each other’s eyes while standing in a field.
I imagined them speaking to each other, their voices quiet, offering up
declarations of love. Through the haze of my mind I pictured the glitter in
the woman’s questing eyes as she spoke, and the man’s half-closed eyes
that gleamed when he listened. I tried to imagine their interior lives. It
was an odd feeling—to be using my imagination in the hospital, that is. I
realized I hadn’t been compelled to do so for most of my time in medi-
cine. Every day on the wards I would memorize, reason, calculate, and
estimate. I would think with my hands and manipulate objects that had
weight and resistance. I would think with words and manipulate sounds
and symbols to communicate a point or to prompt another person to act.
44 CHA P TER 3
But none of this is the same as using one’s imagination, where one leaves
the actual world and ruminates and meditates. This may surprise, as pro-
fessional medicine calls the practice of medicine an art, and art demands
imagination.
Herein lies professional medicine’s great mistake. Medicine is an art.
But professional medicine confuses artistry with craftsmanship and em-
phasizes the latter, while only the former requires a person to be able to
imagine another person’s interior life.
The work of the artist is at once like and unlike that of the craftsman.
Both must possess a technical expertise that can be acquired only by
careful study, practice, and experience. Both the artist and the craftsman
must achieve a precision of touch that enables him or her to perform a
task with rapidity and complete success. During my residency, for exam-
ple, I would often marvel at how fast some heart surgeons could sew in a
coronary artery bypass graft. They could do so within minutes because
they had been doing this all their lives. But the acquisition of technical
expertise, which is essential to the craftsman (and to the monkey), is only
a part of the work of the artist. The artist must pour something of himself,
of his experiences, into his labor. A composer, for example, knows the
form of the symphony, but he also pours his soul into the symphony. In
other words, the artist, unlike the craftsman, must have lived.
So must the doctor. The doctor’s life includes the actual technical part,
but it also includes an imaginative part that teaches him what people are
like, as well as a meditative part in which he chews the cud of his past life
in order to transform his knowledge of people into medical decisions.
This makes living, reading, and conversation as necessary for the doctor
as learning technology.
I flicked off the light switch and lay back down on my side. I gave
myself the freedom to imagine the girl in the picture. I wondered what
she was like. For a young heterosexual male doctor alone in an on-call
room, nothing is more desired in the middle of the night than a woman to
share his bed, to caress him, to rub his leg with the soles of her feet. I
began to imagine a pretty woman I had known in college, her way of
fixing her hair, her smile. I felt a sudden yearning, and the effect of her
memory on my body startled me. All these thoughts bombarding my
consciousness exhausted me. But now, rather than welcome sleep, I
fought it, eager to pore over old memories. Eventually, losing the strug-
gle, I dozed off, my wakeful dreaming merging into semi-conscious hal-
lucinations. I imagined a pretty woman alone, standing amid Vermont’s

blindingly brilliant autumn foliage, surrounded by the murmurs of the
forest, the white, wind-driven clouds overhead. She was wearing a simple
cotton dress, her hair was long and flowing, strands pulled back on each
side in wings and held together by brown barrettes. My heart trembled
with gladness; I wanted to run to her, but my strength failed me, or
something restrained me, and the most I could do was move in little
spurts. Her image began to fade, and I wondered how I was going to live
in this forest alone. An invincible terror took possession of me. I strained
harder; I prayed to whoever was holding me for mercy, groaning and
cursing.
Then my beeper stuttered insistently and angrily.
The real world was calling. Time to get up. . . .
I called the number on the screen. It was the emergency room. The
doctor on the other end of the line said that a patient was having difficulty
breathing and might need to be intubated.
I went to evaluate her. The woman was in her twenties, thin, and
wearing a party dress. She had asked her friend to take her home because
she was feeling feverish and her throat hurt. While in the car she grew
short of breath, so her friend made a quick detour to the hospital. When I
met her she was sitting bolt upright in a tripod position, her head leaning
forward and her arms extended in front of her, her fists bracing against
the gurney. All her energy was focused on getting air into her lungs; even
her saliva was ignored, as she let it drool down the sides of her mouth.
Her eyes were unmoved, unseeing, and inexpressive. When I introduced
myself a look of helpless bewilderment passed over her face in a sort of
anxious spasm, making her sentient for an instant, only to return again to
that look of dumb amazement.
Her symptoms suggested acute epiglottitis, where the inflamed organ
sitting above the windpipe blocks air from passing into the lungs. This
confused me, as I thought epiglottitis was a disease of children. Neverthe-
less, an X-ray of her neck confirmed the diagnosis. The situation was
urgent. The woman needed to have an artificial airway established in the
operating room before the inflamed tissue closed off her windpipe alto-
gether.
46 CHA P TER 3
When I went upstairs and told Dr. C about the case, he turned pale and
looked at his watch. It was five o’clock in the morning. Perhaps the case
might be delayed until seven, when the regular day would start and more
staff would be around, he wondered out loud. I rolled my eyes. Then he
pulled himself together and announced the plan:
Acute epiglottitis is usually a pediatric problem, he noted. Therefore
we would apply the strategy that pediatric anesthesiologists use in such
cases. We would breathe the woman down with anesthetic gas; when she
was deep enough, we would intubate her. To be safe, we would have an
ENT surgeon around, ready to open a hole in her neck in case the airway
closed off altogether before the tube could be inserted.
A modest plan, but in retrospect it was not realizable. Again, Dr. C’s
error was to copy pediatric anesthesiologists at all points and not dare to
stray. Our patient exhibited stridor, meaning she made a vibrating noise
with each inhalation because her airway had narrowed. Because a child’s
airway is already narrow it takes only slight additional narrowing to cause
stridor; hence the endotracheal tube size needed in a stridorous child may
be only slightly less than that needed in a healthy child. Moreover, the
alternative to intubation—placing a hole in the windpipe directly through
the neck, a procedure called tracheostomy—is fraught with post-opera-
tive complications in children. This is why pediatric anesthesiologists
prefer to intubate children suffering from acute epiglottitis. Stridor in an
adult, however, indicates a high degree of narrowing. The normal adult
airway is fifteen to twenty millimeters in diameter, but an adult will not
exhibit stridor until his or her airway is less than five millimeters in
diameter—a large drop in cross-sectional area. Only a tiny breathing tube
relative to normal size can pass through a stridorous adult’s narrowed
airway, leaving the adult with the impossible task of breathing through a
thin straw. Much safer to let a surgeon carefully and methodically place a
wide-bore tracheostomy in an adult’s neck while the adult is still awake,
especially since adults suffer fewer postoperative complications from
tracheostomies than children do.
But Dr. C wasn’t thinking that way. He was a pseudo-technician try-
ing to mimic a real technician. He was a monkey on the wrong stage.
Although he had a plan, Dr. C showed signs of uneasiness. Instead of
waiting calmly for the moment to strike, he did his utmost to avoid it, to
put it off and to keep it at a distance from him. When the ward clerk asked
him if she should send for the patient, Dr. C said he needed more time to
set up the operating room. When the nurse finished sterilizing the instru-
ments, he told her to run them through the autoclave again, to be safe. He
was trying to run out the clock; he was trying to get to 7 AM. His instinct
for self-preservation was strong. It is the same instinct that fills a man
sentenced to death with hopes that are not destined not be fulfilled. Dr. C
kept looking anxiously at his watch, as if expecting it to save him. He
seemed to know that his expectations were in vain, but he waited all the
same.
The patient arrived. The ENT resident arrived a minute later. He was a
good-looking young man with that look of self-satisfaction and conceit
that senior residents are often more likely to exhibit than to deserve. He
stood near the operating room table with a bored air. When Dr. C asked
him whether he was ready to place a tracheostomy quickly, he replied,
“Of course. No problem.” I detected something of the patronizing attitude
of the expert standing above the rest of humanity in the tone of his reply,
which was jarring, since he was a resident, as was I, but Dr. C either
failed to notice it or simply overlooked it.
It was Dr. C’s second mistake—again, the mistake of the craftsman,
not the artist. Dr. C was obsessed with technique and ignorant of what life
experience should have been screaming to him about this young man:
how this young man had yet to lose the freewheeling habits of his student
days; how he had retained the urge to brag, to feign omniscience, and to
conceal with casual aloofness any personal doubts about his abilities;
how this young man proudly felt he was not like other young men. I
recognized the personality from my college years: mental laziness com-
bined with a rapscallion’s hope that “something always turns up, not to
worry.” The young man could not be taken at his word! But Dr. C failed
to take his measure and wrongly put his trust in him.
We put the woman at a forty-five degree angle on the operating room
table. She made a long and melancholy cry with each inspiration. The
sound seemed to arise from the very depths of her being. As the nurse
prepped the neck, the woman fixed her eyes on the operating room light
overhead, as if thinking here was the center, the focus around which the
world gravitated. She was oblivious to the activities going on around her.
She seemed to know only that something strong and bright, but less bright
than sunny warmth, swept her face, and that she needed more air.
I placed the mask on her face and turned up the gas. Gradually, the
anesthetic tugged at her consciousness, inducing forgetfulness, lassitude.
48 CHA P TER 3
Then came darkness, deep and impenetrable, weighing heavily on her

brain. I thought she would be resigned to the darkness, to be almost
grateful for it. But she was not resigned. There was some instinct in her
that desperately craved freedom from the blackness. Although uncon-
scious, she snapped her head from side to side. She reached for the mask
with an arm I had forgotten to tie down. She defiantly withheld her
breath.
Finally, she settled down. Then I looked inside her mouth with my
laryngoscope. I saw only red, angry-looking tissue. I could not find the
hole where I needed to insert my tube. I asked Dr. C to bang on the
woman’s chest to send a small air bubble out of her windpipe, to act as a
beacon. I confidently placed my tube at what I thought was the exit point.
But my monitors quickly told me that my tube had gone into the esopha-
gus and not the trachea. Dr. C furiously pushed me aside. His eyes darted
back and forth, disturbed and restless. He tried to intubate the patient but
failed. He tried a second time and failed again. Three attempts at intuba-
tion had irritated the woman’s already inflamed epiglottis, further nar-
rowing the hole she had to breathe through. Nevertheless, air still
squeaked through.
This is when the catastrophe occurred—a catastrophe that followed
directly from Dr. C’s misunderstanding of what a doctor is. Professional
medicine says a doctor is a craftsman, a technical expert. Therefore, Dr. C
assumed, a good doctor must be a good craftsman who can perform a
craftsman’s technical tasks. It would be a failure of doctoring not to do
so, he believed. It was on such thinking that one more attempt at intuba-
tion hinged. Dr. C could have ordered the ENT resident to start work on a
tracheostomy now, while the woman was still breathing. That way the
resident could have taken his time. But Dr. C was tempted to try one more
time to intubate, to prove to the whole world he was a doctor.
I have watched this mind-set operate in other venues. Anesthesiolo-
gists, for example, are keenly conscious of who is superior in the art of
spinal and epidural anesthesia. When an anesthesiologist successfully
places a spinal needle in a patient after another anesthesiologist has
failed, the failed anesthesiologist feels like a man unable to consummate
his marriage. He feels impotent, he can’t penetrate, he can’t get the thing
in, and another man must do it for him. He endures a serious challenge to
his manhood, and although he appreciates the other anesthesiologist’s
help, he also hates him for succeeding.
This mind-set is especially dangerous when it involves intubations.

The egos of some anesthesiologists are tied up with being technical wiz-
ards. Because they associate being a doctor with performing a procedure,
they will jam a breathing tube inside a patient’s airway again and again,
determined to get the tube in, causing so much throat swelling that the
patient suffocates. I am familiar with several such patient deaths around
the country.
It was on this mind-set that our patient’s life hinged. Already shamed
by his lack of pediatric anesthesia expertise, Dr. C was determined to
salvage his reputation by accomplishing a more difficult trick: intubating
a patient with acute epiglottitis. “There was a man!” he imagined the
crowd would roar. In fact, there was a monkey. He placed the breathing
tube in the woman’s throat a fourth time. When the monitors proved
again that the tube was in the wrong place, he quickly removed it and put
the mask over the woman’s face to let her breathe oxygen and anesthetic
gas, but now she was completely obstructed. Instead of her chest rising
when she tried to breathe, it sank. Within seconds her color grew dusky.
All of us knew instinctively that death was close. Dr. C barked at the
ENT resident, “Do the trach!”
The resident’s face grew white as a sheet. “Okay, but you know, I
actually haven’t done this before . . .” he pleaded.
Slowly, as if trying to remember the illustrations in a textbook, the
resident cut the delicate throat with a scalpel. The more layers he pene-
trated, the more blood flowed from the small wound and poured over the
sides onto the mottled neck. The patient’s anatomy was deranged, he
declared, to justify his slow pace. After a minute, no real progress had
been made. The resident began to poke aimlessly in search of hard carti-
laginous rings. The patient was turning blue. Her heart rate dropped into
the forties.
Drops of sweat chilled my back. I looked at Dr. C. His nervous eyes
had a hint of madness in them as he gazed back at me. “Perhaps we can
give her some Atropine?” he panted with agitation. She didn’t need Atro-
pine; she needed oxygen. But Dr. C injected the drug through the wom-
an’s intravenous all the same.
The ENT resident dug deeper into the mashed blue-blood tissues, the
blood clots themselves impersonating vital structures, with light barely
able to penetrate the dark incision. A drop of brow sweat fell into his right
eye. He blinked furiously to regain his vision. In the background we
50 CHA P TER 3
heard the patient’s heart rate rise on the EKG monitor. False hope: the
Atropine Dr. C had given had artificially boosted the rate, although the
underlying cause—lack of air—remained uncorrected. Irrational, delud-
ing himself into thinking he had time when he actually had none, the ENT
resident began poking about the neck with less urgency and with a clarity
of mind that was useful but undeserved.
Things were going nowhere. I grabbed an intravenous catheter and
went to the side opposite of where the resident was working. My plan was
to pierce the small cricothyroid membrane that covers the windpipe low
in the neck, and to hook the catheter up to a high-pressure jet ventilator.
That way I could force air into the lungs, although how air would then
escape the lungs I wasn’t quite sure. I was counting on the resident
carving a hole in the trachea by that time. My needle hovered over the
patient’s neck below the site where the resident was working.
Suddenly a man in street clothes darted into the room. He shoved the
resident aside, grabbed a knife, and started cutting on the woman’s neck.
It was the ENT attending who had been paged to come in from home.
When he had heard what was happening he skipped changing into scrubs.
Probably he had a more sober and accurate view of the ENT resident’s
character than Dr. C did, adding to his sense of urgency. Within twenty
seconds the windpipe rose out of the wound. The surgeon cut horizontally
between two rings. He snatched a hook to spread the incision apart and
then inserted a tracheostomy tube into the hole. I connected the tube to
the anesthesia circuit and forced pure oxygen into the patient’s lungs.
Everyone fell back for a few moments and gazed at the patient’s face,
once blue, now reassuringly pale white—a mask that perhaps concealed
some deeper damage within.
We brought the patient to the recovery room. She had yet to regain
consciousness. Dr. C looked around skittishly to see if any eyes accused
him.
I stood staring at the woman, girlishly pretty even in her critical state.
She still wore her party dress. The arm that had reached up for the mask
during the anesthetic induction lay on the gurney, its hand clenched tight.
In all the swirling activity we had missed it, and I peeled back the fingers
to reveal a tiny locket with a young man’s picture in it. Evidently she had
clutched the locket before arriving in the emergency room.
“Who—who were you dreaming of in your hour of doom? Your boy-
friend? Your brother?” I asked myself, my heart fluttering with uneasy
curiosity.
I looked at her again. Life was seething, surging, pulsating inside her.
Her organs were healthy and fresh. Her brain was sunk in wearisome
sleep, waiting, hoping to be awakened, but the many minutes without
oxygen might prevent that from happening. Nausea welled up inside me.
I closed the woman’s hand around the locket, deciding it was right for the
locket and the woman not to be separated.
We were in the realm of the indefinite, without certainty. I was un-
comfortable—and yet discomfort captures the essence of what had gone
wrong. When doctors become craftsmen, they narrow down their minds
to materially determined magnitudes and formulas. To be certain about
what they do know, they shrink down what they have to know. But a
doctor-craftsman is dangerous, as the craftsman, unlike the monkey, has
an ego that needs to be stroked; the craftsman may persist in an activity
long after the monkey has abandoned it. When the craftsman’s work
depends on knowing people, the situation grows especially dire, as people
exemplify the indefinite more than anything else. The craftsman is not an
artist; he or she has little understanding of other people’s lives; he or she
has much perfect knowledge but little imperfect knowledge; he or she is
uncomfortable with the indefinite. Doctors are sometimes called “crafts-
men who love humanity,” but what good comes from loving humanity
without knowing people? Far safer for a doctor to despise humanity but
know well the people around him.
Professional medicine largely ignores the problem of subspecialists
suddenly thrust onto the general stage. Doctors confess their concerns to
each other privately but rarely publicly. Most medical boards today issue
time-limited certifications, requiring doctors to stay abreast of their fields
and keep a hand in general practice, thereby giving lip service to the
problem while covering themselves at the same time. The method is
useless.
I am a living example. Before anesthesiology trainees start their resi-
dencies they take the board certification exam, which they must pass
three years later to become board-certified. The test at this stage is only
practice; they aren’t expected to pass. But I did pass. People called it a
52 CHA P TER 3
fluke. But I had read all the anesthesia textbooks the year before. It was
no fluke. Nevertheless, the notion that I was a fully functioning an-
esthesiologist at this juncture was ridiculous. I had book knowledge but
no experience in giving anesthesia. And I certainly didn’t understand
people. I was unsafe. In the same way, Dr. C had book knowledge about
pediatric anesthesia but no experience in giving it. And he didn’t know
people. He could have passed a pediatric anesthesia certification test, but
it would have meant nothing.
Sometimes subspecialization in medicine goes so far that instead of
fearing what they no longer know, doctors cease to know that they no
longer know. They grow so removed from general medicine that they no
longer take other fields seriously. This also causes catastrophes. I am
familiar with several cases in outpatient surgery centers where gastroente-
rologists or plastic surgeons supervised nurse anesthetists, having as-
sumed the role of anesthesiologist (which they are legally allowed to do,
since they are MDs), resulting in a patient death. They watch the nurse
anesthetists perform their technical tasks; the whole thing looks so easy,
and pushing the anesthesiologist out of the picture saves money, so, these
physicians think to themselves, why not take over the supervisory role?
Then a catastrophe occurs. In one case, a patient’s surgery was performed
in the prone position under deep sedation, which most anesthesiologists
would have avoided because of the patient’s large size. In another case
the drug succinylcholine was not available to treat a patient’s laryngos-
pasm when her vocal cords were touched under anesthesia, causing her to
suffocate. Again, the gastroenterologist was supervising the nurse an-
esthetist; no anesthesiologist was immediately present. Very few an-
esthesiologists would have performed such a case without having succi-
nylcholine in the room. But in this case it was the gastroenterologist’s
call.
Fortunately, my patient finally woke up in the recovery room, her
mind intact. Catastrophe had been averted. At 8 AM we all went home.
Dr. C learned nothing from the experience, except to be wilier in the
future when ducking hard cases. His most trusted method came to be
“discovering” a small thyroid nodule in a patient that he didn’t want to
put to sleep, and then demanding a full workup, thereby punting the case
to another doctor at a future date. Another method of his was to hide the
patient’s chart before surgery to run out the clock. The nurse would waste
time looking for the chart; the patient could not be brought into the
operating room without it; with every minute of delay, Dr. C was that
much closer to being relieved by another doctor.
I went the other way. I learned to keep a familiarity with general
anesthesia practice and never to allow myself to become an exclusive
sub-subspecialist. A doctor is not a craftsman, and a good doctor is more
than just a good craftsman.
4
WHEN NO ONE IS IN COMMAND
After I finished my training, I spent time at a hospital on the East Coast.

It was a period of great turmoil in doctor-nurse relations. Some nurses
viewed the age-old doctors’ right to boss them around and deny them
patient care responsibilities as an unfair expression of doctors’ might.
Some doctors, in turn, viewed nurses as uppity and rebellious, and schem-
ing to put themselves on a par with physicians. Doctors and nurses, once
allies, increasingly became rivals and suspicious of one another.
During my fourth week on the job I worked with a nurse anesthetist—
a noisy person, bitter and insolent. She was fielding a question from our
patient as I approached from behind.
“What exactly is the difference between a nurse anesthetist and an
anesthesiologist?” the patient asked innocently.
“Oh, about $300,000 a year,” the nurse anesthetist replied scornfully.
I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Later, during the case, I asked
the nurse to measure the patient’s blood sugar. When I returned thirty
minutes later the test had not been done. I told her I was angry. Without
even bothering to look at me, she replied, “Oh, go suck an egg.”
I was annoyed but said nothing. I went back to the lounge and sat for a
while, nursing my grievance. When a more senior doctor walked in I
explained to him what had happened. He wisely told me to let the matter
drop. I said I wanted to talk to the head of nursing about it. He grew pale
and said that would be dangerous. Nurse X, the head of nursing, he
explained, was a real bruiser.
55
56 CHA P TER 4
I had heard about Nurse X. She reportedly sat in a large office at a

large desk with two framed diplomas hanging on the wall behind her, one
her BSN, the other her MSN. 1 She behaved like a typical self-important
bureaucrat, assigning committee work to subordinates and demanding
weekly written reports, even though no such committees or reports had
ever been needed at the hospital. Seared with an unshakeable hatred for
the old system that had doctors on top and nurses on the bottom, she
spoke often about the glorious future of nursing as if she were lecturing
from a rostrum. Nurses and doctors were converging on a common pro-
fessional role, she argued. On the wards she wore a long white lab coat,
like a doctor. For medical people, a person in a different coat seems like a
different person, and so her attire was significant.
She carried out her revolution through signed memoranda. In those
early days of change, nurses wielded power not by taking charge of
patients but by writing policy. Some policies involved manpower and
resource allocation, affecting everyone in the hospital, including doctors.
A surgeon, for example, couldn’t operate unless the operating room was
open and a nurse was available. This depended on policy. Other policies
governed how people behaved. Here, Nurse X wielded less power, since
she couldn’t actually command a doctor to do anything. Even in the
operating room she might strongly encourage a doctor to put up his mask,
but if he refused, she could do little about it, while if an orderly or
technician refused, he could be immediately fired. Nurse X put out sever-
al memoranda a week covering the entire range of hospital policy, with
every document signed with her name, followed by the appellation,
“BSN, MSN.” Employees coughed and fidgeted when reading her me-
mos, sometimes laughing nervously among each other, referring to Nurse
X as simply “BSN, MSN,” and with an uneasy feeling that they might
have something to fear from this person in the future. Fear as such had
not yet manifested itself, except for those assigned to one of Nurse X’s
committees, but it was somewhere on the way, like a storm cloud billow-
ing in from the distant horizon. Doctors also sensed trouble and avoided
her as much as possible.
I decided to forget the nurse anesthetist’s insult. The vast majority of
nurse anesthetists I had worked with were solid professionals, and not
like this nurse, so why not? However, two days later I found myself
working with her again. Our patient was an elderly woman going for a D
and C, 2 and possible laparoscopy, depending on what the surgeon found
WH E N N O ON E I S I N C OM MA ND 57
during the first procedure. The patient was anemic (the gynecologist
thought from postmenopausal bleeding); she also had a pacemaker, di-
abetes, and a history of congestive heart failure. The nurse anesthetist was
about to bring the patient into the operating room when I told her to hold
off, as I wanted to make a few phone calls to check out the patient’s
pacemaker. The nurse anesthetist rolled her eyes and impatiently asked,
“What for? It’s working.”
“If the gynecologist uses the electrocautery, we may have to put a
magnet on the pacemaker,” I replied.
“So . . . we’ll have a magnet ready,” the nurse anesthetist declared
mockingly. “Besides, the gynecologist won’t be using cautery during the
D and C. Let’s just go in.”
I explained my concerns. First, I didn’t know how old the pacemaker
battery was. Second, if we put a magnet on the pacemaker so that it
worked with the electrocautery, it would convert the pacemaker to a fixed
rate. Typically that’s not a problem, but if the pacemaker were a sequen-
tial model, causing the patient’s atrium to beat first and then her ventricle,
the fixed rate mode would lack the atrium component, which some heart
failure patients need to maintain blood pressure. I couldn’t tell the pace-
maker type from the EKG strip, as the patient’s heart was still beating on
its own. Third, the patient’s pacemaker might be one of those that must be
reprogrammed after a magnet has been applied. I needed to find these
things out.
The nurse anesthetist remained unconvinced. “But we’re not even
going to need the magnet,” she pleaded. I held my ground. The nurse
replied, “Listen, Ron, you’re fresh out of the university. I’ve been doing
this for twenty years. I’ve never even used a magnet.”
The nurse’s counterattack was cleverly two-pronged. First, she had
called me “Ron” and not “Dr. Dworkin.” As a resident I had allowed
several nurses to address me in this way, thinking that the casual, infor-
mal, we’re-all-just-friends mode was best for working relations. I realized
my error during a near catastrophe when I had to order a nurse to send for
blood. The nurse, lulled into believing we were professional equals, and
thinking it rude for friends to order each other around, refused to obey me
because she thought the blood transfusion unnecessary. Only by growing
officious and harsh, and threatening her with a charge of insubordination,
did I make her comply, although my harshness neutralized her contempt
and turned it into hatred. A doctor must inspire respect and sometimes
58 CHA P TER 4
even a little fear among subordinates to get them to respond quickly

during a crisis. Subordinates must know there are consequences to not
following orders. This means preventing subordinates from taking liber-
ties even privately, such as using a doctor’s first name. True, it is hard for
doctors to keep the right balance between the reserve and solemnity nec-
essary to their positions and the affability required of them in working
with subordinates, especially in a democratic society. But that just shows
how a doctor must be more than a craftsman. He or she must also exercise
tact.
By using my first name, the nurse anesthetist had tried to equalize our
relations so that I might be more easily swayed. Citing her greater experi-
ence was another strategy. To her mind, twenty years of experience can-
celed out my book smarts and extended educational experience, making
for a rough parity between us. In fact, this judgment is sometimes reason-
able. The doctor, no matter what stage he or she is at, must have the tact,
openness, and confidence to decide.
In this case, I refused to budge. The nurse anesthetist stormed off. In
the distance I saw her huddle with the three other nurses. A howl of scorn
arose from the small assembly. I knew they were talking about me.
I began to feel uneasy. After all, I was new at the hospital. And it was
four against one. When they walked toward me I felt that my nurse
anesthetist had unleashed an angry mob.
They crowded around me. One nurse declared, “This is silly. We
could be waiting an hour for that rep to call.” A second nurse demanded,
“What makes you think you can just shut everything down?” The other
two nurses nodded their heads in agreement.
I knew why the nurses were pushing me. Just as some doctors are
impatient and want to go home, so are some nurses. The case was sched-
uled to start at 3 PM. The nurses ended their shifts at 4 PM. If the case
start was delayed and the anesthetic induction and surgical prep were still
going on at 4 PM, the nurses would have to stay longer to finish those
activities before a new team could relieve them. They didn’t want to stay.
They wanted to leave exactly at 4 PM.
The assembly exerted a strange mental force on me. It started to hyp-
notize me, upset my equilibrium; there was no obvious reason for me to
submit to it, and yet I could only keep from submitting to it by offering
tremendous inward resistance. A doctor fighting another doctor is a low-
intensity battle compared to a doctor fighting a nurse. A doctor may incur
the wrath of another doctor, but he or she will see that other doctor only
sporadically, making any workplace tension intermittent. In addition, the
fight remains at the level of two combatants. But a doctor and a nurse see
each other every day. When they fight, the resulting tension becomes
constant and unremitting. Word of the fight soon gets around, and some-
times other nurses join the battle to defend their colleague. Their collec-
tive derision can transform the doctor’s life into a living hell—a hell
perpetrated in countless ways, often small and insidious, and turning the
doctor into a paranoid nervous wreck. At every turn he thinks the nurses
are out to get him. A nurse delays his case—they’re after me (even if the
nurse didn’t do it intentionally). A nurse fails to carry out his order—
they’re after me (even if the nurse forgot the order). A nurse pretends not
to hear him—they’re after me (even if the nurse really didn’t hear the
doctor). The doctor grows so unsettled that he or she can barely make it
through the day.
I kept up a bold front. I calmly told the nurses that we had to wait until
we gathered all the necessary information. But I also knew well enough
how many times before I had yielded in like circumstances, and experi-
ence indicated that the future would resemble the past.
The nurses badgered me until my innate predisposition to hedge led
me to say that we would wait ten more minutes, and that if we hadn’t
heard back from either the patient’s cardiologist or the pacemaker compa-
ny rep by then, they could bring the patient into the operating room.
After ten minutes there was still no call. The nurses started to bring the
patient into the room, but my courage had returned. I said no. The ex-
change grew more heated. “But you said—” declared a broken-hearted
nurse, in a tone of reproach. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it has to be,” I
replied. She kept pushing. In the end I snapped at her and called her a
“silly goose.” The nurse fell silent, went to make a phone call, and then
sat down to wait.
Within three minutes, BSN, MSN was down in the holding area,
standing directly in front of me and looking very angry. She was a large
and imposing person, wearing a long white lab coat.
“Young man, did you call one of my nurses a ‘goose’?” she blared.
My little assembly of nurses gathered round. Feelings of detestation
and horror mingled with satisfaction. This was what was wanted, it
seemed. It felt as though they wanted to make me feel like a boor, rather
than the knowledgeable professional I was. If I were a respected doctor,
60 CHA P TER 4
they would have to contend with me. But I had used the hated g-word.
The role of archfiend in this grim drama now belonged to me. And if
BSN, MSN could produce in such a spectacular manner evidence of
boorishness in me, some of which didn’t even need proving (given what I
had said), then clearly it followed that this assembly of nurses should
reject all my recommendations in regard to the patient, who should be
brought into the operating room forthwith.
There was a stir of anxiety. The assembly sensed this was the big
moment: this was the moment when I would either seize the leading role
or be put in my place for good.
Still smarting over my nurse having told me a few days before to go
suck an egg, I refused to cave.
“Did I call the nurse a goose? I’m not sure. Maybe I just said she was
something like a goose,” I replied with heavy sarcasm.
“Now you listen here—” BSN, MSN said before stopping herself and
proceeding in a more pedantic tone of voice. “Now listen, young man, our
job is to take care of patients. We’re a team. Do you understand? We all
want what’s best for the patient. To work as a team we must treat each
other with respect.”
I told the chief nurse that I understood her concerns, but I also ex-
plained my concerns regarding the pacemaker and the pushback I’d been
getting from her nurses.
BSN, MSN winked at the nurses, feeling herself to be on firmer foot-
ing. “Waiting so long for this rep to call does seem unreasonable. I think
we should at least start the case,” she declared with confidence. It was
now five against one.
“Well, I think differently. And I’m the doctor, so I’m in charge,” I
replied firmly.
“In charge of me?” she asked, her suspicions flaming up again.
“In this situation I am,” I said.
BSN, MSN stood still for a few moments in silence. “I’m not subordi-
nate to you, young man,” she harshly interjected.
“Then who are you subordinate to?” I asked.
“I am subordinate to the hospital president and to the board. You’re in
a department. I run a department. We’re equal. Don’t forget that,” she
answered angrily.
A phone call from the pacemaker company representative interrupted
the standoff. The rep said the patient’s pacemaker was a standard one, not
a sequential one. It did not have to be reprogrammed after magnet place-

ment. The battery was fresh. The nurses felt vindicated. My concerns had
been for nothing, although we could not have known this before the
phone call. But the nurses didn’t see it that way. They already had a claim
on me for my name-calling; now, to their minds, their judgment on medi-
cal matters had proved superior to mine.
BSN, MSN joined in the triumph, smiling even while her eyes still
blazed furiously. Pointing her forefinger at the syringe in my shirt pocket,
she said, “That’s an unlabeled syringe, doctor. You know the rules. All
syringes must be labeled.” She was determined to drive the point home
that we were on equal footing, that each of us could take turns ordering
the other, that she was watching me carefully and was prepared for any
eventuality, and that it would be unwise for me to come into conflict with
her again.
The nurses brought the patient into the operating room. I started the
case by myself, my nurse anesthetist having left for the day. I placed the
monitors on the patient and gave her some intravenous sedation. Two
operating room nurses hoisted the patient’s legs into stirrups. Both were
new to the case. During the hand-off the departing nurses had spent
longer than usual telling the new nurses about the patient—and the reason
for our delay. The four nurses had whispered quietly to each other, with
one of them glancing in my direction every few seconds. Although we
had entered the operating room on my terms, I knew I had not regained
my old position, as if there had never been a quarrel.
The gynecologist started the D and C. When I asked one of the nurses
if she could get me some warm blankets to put across the patient’s chest,
she promptly did so. Then she left the room to start another case across
the hall. I noticed that the bag of saline connected to the patient’s intrave-
nous was almost empty. Because I had to hold the sleeping patient’s chin
to assist her breathing, I asked the remaining nurse to grab a fresh bag
from the cabinet for me. The nurse acted as if she could neither see nor
hear me. I dropped the patient’s chin and got the bag myself.
I understood everything. It was the struggle between doctor and
nurse—who would dominate whom? Nothing was fixed, everything was
fluid and precarious, the outcome of the struggle unclear. I hoped that my
62 CHA P TER 4
decision to get the saline on my own, to be the bigger person, would

appease the nurse’s pride enough to smooth things over. I was wrong.
Every time I asked her for help, she would project an air of disinterest or
sometimes pretend not to hear; when she did pay attention, she looked at
me derisively. Still, I carefully avoided pushing things into a state of open
conflict, for I knew that when a doctor fights a nurse, the loss is great,
while the gain is dubious.
Toward the end of the case, my semiconscious patient began to experi-
ence pain. I gave her additional intravenous sedation, but she continued to
moan. I didn’t want to put her completely to sleep, with a breathing tube,
because her anatomy suggested she would be a difficult intubation. Put-
ting her to sleep without a breathing tube, however, risked aspiration,
because of her diabetes. It was a difficult situation, and an embarrassing
one for an anesthesiologist, whose job is to eliminate pain. The prudent
course, I decided, was to continue with small doses of intravenous seda-
tion, including a drug called Versed, which causes antegrade amnesia
(meaning a patient fails to consolidate into memory events going for-
ward). Although the patient might still express pain, unconsciousness
would prevent her from being aware of her pain, while Versed would
keep her from remembering her pain.
Nevertheless, a moaning patient looks bad. The nurse came over and
demanded that I put the patient to sleep. I tried to explain to her my
thinking while simultaneously watching the monitors and injecting more
drugs. She stared at me angrily. When the patient moaned again, the nurse
repeated her demand, looking at me as if I were an unfeeling brute. The
duel had to end. “Listen, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” I
snapped. Then I looked away.
The gynecologist decided that uterine bleeding failed to explain the
patient’s anemia. There was no reason to proceed to laparoscopy. Then he
performed one more pelvic exam. He suddenly exclaimed that he felt an
ovarian mass in the patient for the first time. He wanted to move forward
with laparoscopy after all. I was surprised—and a little suspicious. I
asked him why he had suddenly detected a mass now. He replied that
anesthesia often allows for a more accurate exam, as it relaxes a patient’s
muscles. Seemed reasonable. Still, in the back of my mind I wondered if
he had just wanted an excuse to perform a laparoscopy, to gain practice,
as laparoscopy was a relatively new procedure in those days. I asked him
what he was hoping to find. He quietly replied, “We’re just going to take
a little look around.”
I intubated the patient after some struggle. A technician came in to
assist the surgeon. He was a young man with no more than a high school
education. But he knew how to work the laparoscope better than any
doctor did, as he had been trained to assist physicians on this particular
surgery, and only this surgery.
The gynecologist fumbled with the laparoscopic equipment, failing to
pierce the patient’s abdominal wall with the needle that fills the abdomi-
nal cavity with air. He pushed too little because he feared that pushing too
hard might cause the needle to puncture a major blood vessel. The techni-
cian did it for him. Once the gynecologist was inside the cavity, he moved
the organs around with a long stick, causing some bleeding that short
bursts of cautery stemmed. I stood ready to apply the magnet to the
pacemaker, but it wasn’t needed.
The gynecologist inspected the ovary that he thought had a mass. He
wasn’t sure if there was a mass, and he hesitated over what to do. He
looked at the technician, who sensed his opinion was desired. The techni-
cian said he had seen similar situations before. Those surgeons who had
dissected down further often regretted it, he noted. He recommended
coming out of the abdomen and doing a more complete workup with
noninvasive radiography. The technician then remained silent for a min-
ute, and the gynecologist remained silent also. But the latter’s eyes were
as active as ever. He looked at the monitor that held a picture of the
patient’s ovary; then he allowed his eyes to settle on the surgical site. He
seemed uneasy. Finally, he decided to take the technician’s advice and
end the surgery.
It was an odd moment. This young man had appeared unexpectedly,
from out of the blue, and determined the direction of the case. He was
practicing medicine. There was nothing of the doctor about him—neither
the surgeon’s knowledge of anatomy nor my knowledge of physiology.
He was an instrument. He carried out the will of others. But because he
had performed the same activity over and over again, he had gone from
being an instrument to being someone able to help, advise, and decide on
a particular case. If that is the definition of a doctor, then he had become a
doctor.
The reader may think I am devaluing what this young man had to
offer. In fact, it’s just the opposite. He had added real value. As an
64 CHA P TER 4
accomplished technician, he may even represent the future of medicine.

Instead, my doubts are about the doctors. If a technician with vast experi-
ence doing a particular procedure can outperform a doctor doing that
procedure, then what value does the doctor add? What important contri-
bution does the doctor make? What is distinctive about being a doctor?
Perhaps nothing, I thought to myself as I wheeled the patient back to the
recovery room.
Several days later, I drove downtown to a hotel for a medical confer-

ence on “team medicine.” Attendance was compulsory for doctors,
nurses, and surgical staff from the region’s major hospitals, with multiple
sections convening on different dates to accommodate people’s sched-
ules. The conference’s purpose was to move doctors and nurses, now
called “providers,” toward a more democratic approach to decision mak-
ing. In the future, at least in the ideal, nurses would offer advice and
input, doctors would listen carefully, and the health care “team” would
make decisions instead of doctors acting unilaterally.
When I walked into the large conference room, I saw faces that I
recognized, looking bored or sullen. Unlike most medical meetings,
where people go to enjoy themselves, to meet friends, and to be simulta-
neously instructed and entertained, this meeting was strictly business. On
the podium sat three nurses whom I did not recognize, along with BSN,
MSN. I took a seat in the back.
One of the nurses went up to the lectern and spoke generally about the
meeting’s purpose. She talked about the importance of helping the patient
and working together to do so. She said we should treat our patients the
way we would want our family members to be treated. Her words seemed
unnecessary, as no one in the room—doctor, nurse, or technician—
thought otherwise. The whole speech conveyed a sense of emptiness and
thinness. Afterward a few people clapped.
Our first activity was designed to “break down barriers,” but its real
purpose was to destroy the traditional chain of command. Doctors,
nurses, and orderlies were randomly divided into groups, each group
containing a sampling of all three. A group’s job was to grab some Legos
from a large bin in the center of the room, return to home base, and build
a tower with them. The group that built the highest tower at the end of
five minutes would be declared the winner. Each group would have one
commander, three people to run over and grab the Legos, and three peo-
ple remaining at home base to build with the Legos. Who was to com-
mand and who was to obey in the tower-building process was the essen-
tial teaching point. The commander was to be chosen at random; a doctor
did not automatically assume command. The commander would bark
orders to subordinates, telling them, for example, that the group needed
this size Lego, or two of that size, or four of another. If the commander
was a nurse or an orderly, he or she would experience the thrill of order-
ing doctors to fetch Legos, while doctors, in turn, would learn to accept
advice and direction from a lower member of the team.
The race began. A few doctors got into the spirit of things and good-
naturedly ran to the Legos bin when a nurse or orderly commanded them
to. But most of the doctors looked self-conscious, perceiving that the
exercise’s purpose was to wound their dignity and take them down a
notch. Several doctors grinned on purpose to keep from sneering as they
ran toward the bin. A few doctors stared blankly into space as they ran,
each of them embarrassed for the other. One elderly doctor was so in-
sulted that he remained seated, frowning fastidiously in his chair, scour-
ing his coat sleeve for dirt, and obviously thinking it beneath him to be
treated in such a manner. As a Lego builder rather than a retriever, I was
able to conceal my displeasure with slow hand motions that went unno-
ticed.
At the end of five minutes, the group with the two doctors who had
given it their all was declared the winner. Its members cheered and re-
turned to their seats.
A second nurse went up to the lectern. She talked about a case in
which a nurse had tried to tell a doctor about a patient’s new symptoms,
only to have the doctor ignore her. The patient died as a result. The nurse
dabbed her eye with a tissue, and then she gave two more examples of
patients injured when a doctor had failed to listen to a nurse. “We can do
better!” she declared.
What the nurse said was true. We can do better. I know of several
cases when doctors overlooked a nurse’s wise counsel and the patient
suffered as a result. In one case, a nurse anesthetist suggested giving a
patient a drying agent before the doctor tried to perform an awake intuba-
tion. The doctor ignored the nurse; as a result, the patient had so many
oral secretions that an awake intubation proved impossible. In a second
66 CHA P TER 4
case, a nurse anesthetist suspected that a patient had eaten before surgery.
She suggested canceling the case, or at least placing a breathing tube to
protect against aspiration. The doctor refused to listen to her; the case was
done under mask anesthesia; in the end, the patient did aspirate and ended
up in the intensive care unit for two weeks.
But the nurse at the conference was after something different. Her
sadness, her irritation, her enthusiasm—it was all laid bare for us. Every-
one in the audience knew what was going on and quietly submitted to the
invisible process. They knew a new belief system, the team system, was
being drummed into their heads. That new system aspired to put doctors
and nurses on the same level.
Ironically, this new belief system is as flawed as the old belief system
that held doctors to be omniscient and unassailable. Both belief systems
substitute a lofty worldview for complicated reality; both see the practice
of medicine as something that can be encompassed through a fundamen-
tal principle—an excellent idea, but one that is not accurate. Medical
practice is a murky world of egos and personalities, of authority tempered
by the natural give-and-take between people, and something best navigat-
ed using tact and common sense. A nurse with a fanatical belief in team
medicine, like a doctor with a fanatical belief in his or her supremacy, is
like the housekeeper with a fanatical belief in the possibility of a clean
house. The housekeeper’s mistake is not in fighting the dirt but in trying
to get rid of it altogether, as though such a thing were possible. A house is
necessarily a dirty place. Metaphorically speaking, so is medical practice.
Too many human limitations prevent the application of ideology.
Privately, many in the audience resisted what the nurse was saying or
approached the new system with a mixture of doubt and belief. Even
some of the nurses resisted, wondering about the new system’s viability
in practice. They also resented being given high-minded lessons on how
to live. But everyone feared a shake of the head or a warning finger from
the nurse on the podium if they dared to express doubt. Indeed, faults that
in other fields might have delegitimized the speaker—her strangely false
and high-pitched moral tone, her melodramatic absurdities, and her belief
in progress—gave her power. Everyone in the audience knew they would
have to accept the new system if they wanted to continue their profession-
al lives in a quiet, tranquil, and unruffled manner.
The nurse then told the story of how her own mother had mistakenly
taken some medicine with bourbon, thinking it was doctor’s orders. Her
doctor had only been joking when suggesting she take it with alcohol.
Indeed, the doctor’s own nurse had warned the doctor that the patient
might have taken the order seriously. But the doctor ignored the nurse.
The woman ended up drunk.
The audience stared at the nurse with puzzled eyes, uncertain how
they were to react. Should they laugh? Should they continue thinking
serious thoughts? The audience looked at the other three nurses on stage
to see how they were taking it. All of them were grinning. At once all
doubts vanished. We should have known. This was a comedy turn. Soon
we all echoed with obedient laughter.
The nurse at the lectern previewed a short film clip we were about to
watch: a dramatic reenactment of a true story about an anesthesiologist in
Britain who had trouble intubating a patient. Because the nurses and staff
in the operating room had been too cowed to advise the doctor, the patient
woke up brain-dead.
We watched the clip. Something in it didn’t make sense. The actress
playing the patient was thin and had a normal-looking airway. The drama
skipped time in five-minute intervals, with the actor playing the an-
esthesiologist failing each time to intubate the patient, but also calmly
breathing for the patient with bag and mask. Several nurse-actors at-
tended the doctor. They remained silent and played the role of cowed
subordinates, but what they were kept from saying that would have made
a difference was unclear. The clip conveyed no sense of urgency.
Some doctors in the audience grew emboldened during the discussion
that followed. One anesthesiologist queried, “If the patient was so thin
and with normal airway anatomy, why did the anesthesiologist in real life
have trouble intubating her?”
“I’m not sure what the problem was exactly,” the nurse at the lectern
replied. “But that’s not the point. The point is—”
Another doctor cut her off. “It is the point,” she said. “If the patient
had been morbidly obese, requiring multiple intubation attempts, then
maybe the anesthesiologist shouldn’t have put her to sleep in the first
place. But that was the anesthesiologist’s decision. Nothing for nursing to
say on the matter.”
Sensing pushback and eager to rescue their cause, one of the other
conference leaders walked up to the lectern. “I believe the patient was
slightly above average weight. But for some reason the anesthesiologist
had trouble intubating her,” she explained.
68 CHA P TER 4
“But why?” interjected an ENT surgeon, defiantly. “Even a patient

with a difficult airway can usually be ventilated with a bag and mask,
especially a thin one. Something doesn’t sound right. I don’t think nurs-
ing input would have made a difference in this case. Something else was
going on that caused the patient to wake up brain-dead.”
The two nurses stood at the lectern, hesitating. They appeared not to
know how to react. Should they take the doctor seriously? Should they
perceive some level of insult? Should they ignore the doctor? The situa-
tion seemed to be something outside their experience.
BSN, MSN approached the lectern with the third nurse. She looked
angry, as if the doctors in the audience were saying the wrong things,
appalling things. “The nurses were probably too afraid to tell the an-
esthesiologist that the patient’s oxygen level was declining,” BSN, MSN
declared. “That’s what happens when the team is not allowed—”
“But why would a doctor even have to be told?” I interrupted. “An
anesthesiologist’s ear is carefully trained to listen to the sound of the
oxygen monitor. It’s almost second nature to him; he practically hears it
in his sleep. The one thing that anesthesiologist would have known is the
patient’s oxygen level.”
BSN, MSN’s eyes blazed. “Maybe he didn’t! That’s why a team’s
input is most needed in a crisis!” she loudly declared.
The room fell silent for a moment. An elderly African American or-
derly sat two seats from me on my left. I recognized him from my hospi-
tal. His hair was gray; he stooped somewhat; his face was a spiderweb of
furrows; his demeanor deferential. The old system had not only prema-
turely aged him but also taught him that his opinion was both unwanted
and undesirable. But at this moment, years of operating room experience
seemed to stir his conscience. I heard him quietly mutter under his breath,
“I disagree.”
A brassy, middle-aged OB/GYN sitting in front of me was more vo-
cal. In a sneering tone she shouted at BSN, MSN, “When anesthesia is
having a problem, it’s not time to talk. It’s time to shut the fuck up!”
BSN, MSN looked furious. Staring fixedly and authoritatively at the
audience, she declared, “Now let me tell you, people, that so far as the
future is concerned, it’s going to be like this. We’re going to work as a
team, got it? The team has rules. If you’ve got sense, follow them, but if
you haven’t, clear out.”
In a stern voice, she went on about what nurses had to offer the team,
both as patient caregivers and as advocates. Never in my life had I seen a
more vicious caricature of nursing love. All of it resembled what nurses
do, but at the same time, for some inexplicable reason, it was so unpleas-
ant that the audience did not utter another word. On the faces of all were
confusion and concern.
Two weeks later, the patient with the unexplained anemia returned to
the hospital for removal of a tumor in her small intestine. Nurse A, the
nurse anesthetist on the case with me, was a young man in his mid-
thirties, technically adept, confident, sometimes a bit too confident,
knowing what he knew without knowing what he didn’t know. One might
have called him naive. He had the habit of mentally brushing aside advice
from his supervising physician, thinking himself quite capable of working
independently. He knew this attitude irritated his supervisors, but for him,
that irritation was only a sign that the advantage was on his side.
We decided to place an arterial line preoperatively in the holding area.
This involves inserting an intravenous catheter into one of the arteries at
the wrist and connecting it to a pressure monitor, yielding instantaneous
blood pressure measurements. I tried placing the catheter in the patient’s
left radial artery—twice—but failed. Nurse A was eager to try. I gave him
the green light after my second failed attempt. He quickly placed the line
in the patient’s right radial artery and was barely able to conceal his self-
satisfaction in doing so.
But he had gotten the line in.
During the case, the patient’s IV through her vein stopped working,
and because no other peripheral vein was visible, we decided to place a
central line to regain venous access. Nurse A asked if he could perform
the procedure. I agreed. He bent the patient’s wrinkled neck to the left
and swept across its right surface with antiseptic. Then he broke the
patient’s skin with a well-aimed puncture, eliciting a sudden flash of
blood. He passed a flexible wire through the needle, and then passed the
long catheter over the wire toward the right side of the patient’s heart. He
did a nice job.
Shortly after, we checked the patient’s blood sugar. It measured 230.
I directed Nurse A to give the patient a small dose of insulin and then left
70 CHA P TER 4
the operating room. When I returned ten minutes later, the patient’s EKG
showed frequent premature beats that risked turning into a dangerous
arrhythmia. When I scanned the monitor that measures the level of carbon
dioxide in a patient’s breath and saw the number 30 on the screen, I
instinctively knew what had happened.
Insulin drives potassium levels down. So does blood alkalosis. The
normal carbon dioxide level in human beings is 40. Breathing slower than
normal raises carbon dioxide and makes blood more acidic, while breath-
ing faster than normal lowers carbon dioxide and makes blood more
alkalotic. Nurse A was ventilating the patient at twelve times a minute
and causing a respiratory alkalosis. The patient’s potassium level, already
low to begin with (at 3.5), had declined from insulin, and declined further
from alkalosis, causing dangerous ventricular ectopy.
I dropped the ventilator rate from twelve to six, which corrected the
problem. Nurse A said nothing, but I was angry. He had been hyperventi-
lating the patient for no obvious reason. And yet I was more to blame
than he was for the trouble.
Many doctors prefer to do everything themselves, since all orders can
be misunderstood. But that’s not possible today. There aren’t enough
doctors. Instead, doctors must supervise the work of nurses and other
physician extenders. They must know how to use the minds of others. For
this reason they must take into account both the tradition and the custom
of the workplace in which they practice. Every nurse anesthetist at my
hospital, and not just Nurse A, moderately hyperventilated their patients
as a matter of course. It was their custom. I had observed this, and I
should have foreseen the consequences of treating my patient with insulin
in this environment. It is not enough for a doctor give an order. A doctor
must see to its execution and, when giving it, anticipate anything that may
nullify its effectiveness. Custom has a terrible way of avenging itself
when violated.
I told Nurse A to call me if there were any more problems. Then I left
the room to check on another case. I wandered back an hour later. Nurse
A had just turned off the anesthetic gas and was waiting for the patient to
wake up. It seemed to take longer than usual. Also, the patient’s blood
pressure was 83/50, lower than expected during a wake-up.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” replied Nurse A. “I turned off the gas and gave the
drugs to reverse the muscle relaxant, but she’s not waking up.”
“Are you sure you gave her reversal and not something else?” the
surgeon asked with an accusatory tone.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” replied Nurse A, defensively.
We waited a few more minutes. The patient remained unconscious as
her blood pressure continued to sag.
“For God’s sake, what did you give her?” the surgeon shouted angrily
at Nurse A.
“I told you. I gave the reversal,” he replied, but this time with doubt in
his voice. “I know it didn’t cause her blood pressure to drop,” he added
with more self-assurance. “That started before I gave the reversal.”
I jumped in. “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked.
“I knew what I was doing,” replied Nurse A proudly. “I checked the
central line pressure. It was 10 mm. I figured the gas was depressing her
heart, and that things would get better when I turned it off.”
I pulled down the patient’s lower eyelid. Her conjunctiva was paler,
and less pink, than when we had started.
“What are you doing?” barked the surgeon.
“She looks more anemic than before,” I mused.
“We didn’t lose that much blood,” said the surgeon, defensively.
“I’m just saying she looks more anemic,” I replied.
“It’s probably from the low blood pressure,” insisted Nurse A.
There is something that exists in anesthesiologists beyond the realm of
consciousness, some mysterious clocklike mechanism that suddenly
gives a signal when trouble looms. Call it a weird prescience or instinct;
whatever it is, anesthesiologists learn to trust it. I rested my gaze on the
empty suction canister where blood would go if lost and felt something
that lacked definition but I knew to be oppressive.
The patient’s blood pressure dropped into the mid-70s systolic.
“How did you check her central line pressure?” I asked Nurse A.
Behaving as if insulted by my question, Nurse A shook his head while
turning the stopcock that shifted the central line from intravenous access
mode to pressure monitoring mode. The waveform signature of the pa-
tient’s heart showed up on the screen along with the number 10 at the
side. “See, I told you,” he said.
I inspected the waveform and saw the problem. A central line wave-
form has several components, each component reflecting the action of the
heart during a single heartbeat. True, the number at the side read 10,
which is slightly above normal, but that number was the average of a very
72 CHA P TER 4
low number, reflecting the true filling pressure of the patient’s heart, and
a very high number, reflecting an artifact caused by the patient’s incom-
petent tricuspid valve. Nurse A had failed to inspect the waveform closely
or, more likely, didn’t know the waveform’s different components. He
had simply taken the average number as gospel.
“She’s bleeding. Her real central pressure is 1,” I insisted.
“We didn’t lose that much blood,” the surgeon muttered to himself.
But the warning whisper of sober reason had begun to counsel him. We
all stared at the patient’s abdominal wall. It had grown tighter during our
short debate. The patient was bleeding internally.
Everyone sprang into action. The surgeon sliced through his suture
line and inserted his sucker. Blood poured into the canister, sending great
foaming breakers against its plastic walls. An ominous alarm on the blood
pressure monitor rang. The patient’s pressure had dropped to 60/35.
I injected a cardiac stimulant into the patient’s central line. Her pres-
sure rose to 85/50. But this slight movement upward was like an engine
that had slowly risen up a long and steep ascent and was standing at the
top, waiting for some master force to propel it forward and downward
with irresistible force. Blood kept streaming out of the wound. The blood
pressure monitor sent its alarming cries throughout the room. 81/49. 72/
38. 61/21. We were going to crash.
During a crisis, everyone in an operating room begins to view life
from a singular angle. The minds of all are suddenly concentrated and
their bodies efficiently perform their assigned tasks. The surgeon worked
furiously, sucking, cauterizing, and stitching. The operating room nurse
called the blood bank and demanded that blood be made available for
immediate pickup. The orderly raced over to get it. In three minutes, he
dashed back into the operating room, panting heavily, as though fleeing
an enemy, carrying a large white box with a red cross emblazoned on
each side. Nurse A and I worked to place a second intravenous line in
preparation for the massive blood transfusion.
Once the initial pool of lost blood was evacuated from the abdominal
cavity, blood oozed more slowly from the patient’s bowel. But somehow,
somewhere, it found vent; it spirited up in a thick dark stream, submerg-
ing the intestines again. Looking for holes under such conditions is like
trying to spot coins under murky water. Had the torn vessels been arter-
ies, the job would have been easier, as arterial blood spurts and pulses
with great force, leaving an obvious trail back to any vessel opening. But
the operation had rent mostly veins, and each time the surgeon scooped
out a handful of blood to look for vessel tears, another handful welled up
out of nowhere and flooded the field. The surgeon could not find all the
holes.
The patient’s pulse was now barely palpable. Her white face was
suffused with a blue tinge, her eyes rested wearily in their sockets, the
lines underneath them darkened funereally. The process of disintegration
had begun; the whole framework of the patient’s existence had suddenly,
in the twinkling of an eye, become a faded, shadowy thing.
Nurse A and I transfused the first round of blood products. I noticed
the surgeon breathing heavily like a wounded animal, his body heat waft-
ing upward toward the low ceiling. The patient’s bleeding remained un-
controlled. I shot a glance at the monitors. No blood pressure was mea-
surable. I expected the laws of nature to assert themselves any second,
and for the patient’s heart to give out too. Yet the EKG showed the
patient’s heart was still beating. The pacemaker had kicked in. Her heart
was no different from a busted watch that keeps ticking by virtue of its
battery. I injected epinephrine into the patient’s intravenous to constrict
her blood vessels and give her some semblance of a blood pressure.
Thirty seconds later, 35/15 flashed on the screen.
The surgeon furiously sutured and cauterized. Nurse A and I squeezed
four more rounds of blood products into the patient’s bloodstream.
Her blood pressure rose steadily: 50/27. 68/44. 81/51. The surgeon
grew less frantic. We were on an upward path. Thirty minutes later the
patient was stable.
Such a right-about-face of destiny is common in anesthesiology. The
patient’s course moves swiftly toward disaster; then suddenly things are
well again, a mischance prevented, a horrible outcome forestalled. Life,
which suddenly seemed on the verge of being lost forever, belongs to the
patient once more. But what brain damage the patient had suffered during
the period of absent blood pressure we did not know. The surgeon re-
sutured the abdominal wall. We hoisted the patient’s bony body onto the
stretcher and moved her to the intensive care unit.
I removed the breathing tube a day later. The patient suffered some
weakness on her left side. She strengthened over the next week. After a
month, she regained all of her function.
Who was responsible for this near catastrophe? The surgeon? After
all, the surgeon had caused the bleeding. Yet if the patient’s tissues were
74 CHA P TER 4
inherently friable and prone to oozing, no one could blame the surgeon
for the blood loss that inevitably followed. Me? True, if I had done the
case on my own, I might have noticed the drop in central venous pressure
earlier. But a doctor today inevitably works with subordinates, and those
subordinates must be free to make decisions. Indeed, subordinates rebel if
not allowed such freedom. A doctor with experience knows that it is both
impossible and counterproductive to micromanage the activities of every
subordinate. A supervising doctor shapes the general direction of the case
or points out certain general trends. The traffic officer regulates the flow
of traffic; he or she does not assign a particular course to each car.
Nurse A? Closer. If Nurse A had alerted me to the drop in blood
pressure before things had gotten out of hand, the catastrophe might have
been averted. But that simply begs the question of why he had not. For
that we must blame the medical profession.
Nurse A had internalized professional medicine’s definition of the
doctor as a master technician. Because Nurse A was technically accom-
plished, he grew cocky. Having mastered what he believed to be a doc-
tor’s core duties, it was only natural that he would imagine his capacity
for doctoring to extend into other areas—such as managing the patient’s
sagging blood pressure on his own rather than alerting his attending. How
doctors define themselves had initiated a cascade of events that almost
led to a catastrophe.
It also explains why my first nurse anesthetist was so ill natured and
intractable. She resented the salary differential between her and me—and
naturally so, for if the medical profession tells her that a good doctor is a
good technician, and she is a good technician, then all that separates them
is salary, which to her mind is arbitrary and unfair. BSN, MSN’s behavior
was rooted in similar thinking. She saw doctors as her masters, and she
liked being paid by her masters, but she wondered why she ought not to
become a master herself, especially since well-trained nurses can insert
needles and prescribe pills as well as any doctor can. Hence, the idea of
“team medicine.”
I encountered a variation on this attitude a month before writing this
chapter. I was traveling on the highway. A car had crashed ahead of me.
A paramedic truck was parked beside it. I stopped, got out of my car,
leaned over the crash victim, told the paramedics I was a doctor, and
offered to help. Rather than welcome my assistance, the two paramedics
at the victim’s side ignored it. One paramedic, with a scowl, asked me
what kind of doctor I was. I told him I was an anesthesiologist. As the

patient’s face dripped blood, the paramedic shrugged and said, “I’ve
probably seen a lot more trauma cases than you.” His purpose at that
moment was not to help the crash victim, but to make the point that here,
in the field, he was more of a doctor than I was.
Nurses may protest. They will say I have generalized from a few bad
apples to condemn all nurses. That is not my purpose. Moreover, any
such generalization would be grossly inaccurate. Like most doctors, most
nurses are hardworking professionals with a sense of balance about what
they do and do not know. They take good care of their patients. They are
knowledgeable and bring a wealth of experience to patient care. It is no
surprise that the safest format for practicing anesthesia remains an an-
esthesiologist and nurse anesthetist working together, thereby doubling
the trained set of eyes and ears around a patient. Doctors and nurses were
practicing team medicine long before “team medicine” became a political
cause, a catch phrase, and a movement. Few nurses are like BSN, MSN or
Nurse A.
But neither are there many catastrophes. I would be remiss if I didn’t
place the correct interpretation on those few catastrophes that I have
experienced in my career to benefit the reader from the lessons and, for
that matter, the warnings they contain. We all know the ideal of the
doctor and the nurse. But in this world of dreams, are we justified in
ignoring the few nightmares?
5
WHEN PATIENTS BECOME CONSUMERS
A week later, while still new at the hospital, I was assigned to another
D and C. My patient was nervous, and when she fretted that her surgery
was scheduled for a full hour, I tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry. It’s
more like ten minutes,” I said.
Several days later, a senior doctor approached me with a grin on his
face. “Did you tell that patient her surgery was only ten minutes?” he
asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
The doctor laughed. “Young man, never tell patients it’s ten minutes,
even if it is. When they get the surgeon’s bill, they’ll feel swindled. ‘All
that money for just ten lousy minutes!’ they’ll say. Always tell them at
least thirty.”
“Welcome to private practice,” I joked sheepishly.
“Don’t worry, you’ll learn, but the surgeon is mad because his patient
thinks she’s been cheated,” he replied.
Most doctors learn at some point that satisfying patients involves more
than just curing them of disease. Patients always feel a little vulnerable in
a doctor’s presence. Nakedness threatens their self-respect; a physician’s
superior knowledge threatens their self-confidence; patients who would
not ordinarily admit their weaknesses suddenly find themselves forced to
discuss their most intimate problems, embarrassing them. Then there’s
the doctor’s bill. On top of that, patients worry about being hurt with
scalpels and needles. And, of course, there is the fear of dying. A curios-
ity in medicine is that upon disease—a very natural phenomenon—the
77
78 CHA P TER 5
most exquisitely complex emotional states are erected. For this reason
doctors learn to treat patients somewhat gingerly and to accept their un-
reasoning sides. Nothing is stupider than the doctor who, from scientific
or doctrinaire heights, is contemptuous of a patient’s funny feelings and
ideas.
Nevertheless, the doctor-patient relationship is an inherently unequal
one, and the unreasonable patient who tries to make it equal—for exam-
ple, by telling a doctor how to practice medicine—risks complications,
even catastrophes. One might compare the impulses of a patient’s mind to
the movements of the ocean. One patient complains about his bill; a
second patient complains that his doctor gave him bad directions; a third
patient complains that her doctor didn’t return her phone call. The wise
doctor never becomes exasperated by such events. Like the mariner in a
storm, he or she slackens sail, waits, and hopes; eventually, the storm
passes and the voyage continues. But a patient who demands to be on
equal footing with his or her doctor creates the conditions of a permanent
storm, making travel dangerous.
I encountered this problem during my second month in practice when
caring for a doctor’s wife scheduled for a vaginal hysterectomy. I antici-
pated trouble upon greeting the woman in the pre-op area. I spied her
coiffed hair and exact lipstick. Her wrists and fingers were adorned with
gold. Her whole presentation seemed astonishingly expensive and well
ordered, and out of place for a surgical theater. In those days being a
doctor’s wife meant something, and this woman wanted everyone to
know she was no ordinary patient.
I told her it would be best if she wiped off her lipstick. She refused.
“All right, can you remove the nail polish from just one finger?” I
asked.
“Why are you insisting on this?” she asked with inexplicable pride.
“Are you always so rude to your patients? Or maybe you just don’t like
the color.”
I knew what was going on. The source of her stubbornness was not in
me but within herself. The woman felt vulnerable, and understandably so.
She needed surgery on a bodily area that, to her mind, defined woman-
hood; she was scared and embarrassed; even her flirtatiousness sprung
from fear. If a doctor analyzes looks, words, and gestures, and is open to
hidden meanings, he or she can usually explain the rough treatment he or
she is getting from a patient.
WH E N PAT I E N T S B E COM E CONSUMERS 79
But this woman was interfering with my ability to take care of her. I
told her I had to be able to inspect her skin color while she was under
anesthesia, to check for anemia or hypoxia. She continued to resist, al-
though in a sweeter tone. “Please, doctor, I’m just used to looking my
best,” she pleaded. Her emotion was a complex one, made up of pride, a
claim to delicacy, an appeal to my willingness as a man to sacrifice my
desires for a woman, and a need to establish self-assurance by winning a
difficult victory. In any other patient I would have insisted on the finger-
nail polish (and the lipstick) coming off, but since she was a doctor’s wife
and a special case, I relented.
The nurses also relented by letting her keep her jewelry on. Indeed, the
whole operating team was on edge because of her VIP status. They scur-
ried around to create an exceptional surgical experience for her, an expe-
rience that fit her so well that it seemed as though the best doctors in the
city had consulted among themselves how to proceed in the best possible
fashion. When the woman arrived in the operating room one nurse fussed
about her, putting a pillow under her head as she lay down. Another nurse
stood at her side and held her hand. Lying on the table, her gown unwrin-
kled, her bracelets and rings shining exquisitely under the light, her body
unruffled and still, the woman looked as if she had been chiseled into
marble, the work of a brilliant sculptor—the perfect beginning to a per-
fect operation. And yet one of the nurses forgot to give her an antibiotic.
I gave the woman some narcotic and Versed. Rather than fall silent,
she grew talkative. She confessed to having crush on the surgeon. The
surgeon’s eyes smiled at me; then he nodded his head—my cue to put the
patient to sleep quickly before she said anything more embarrassing.
I would be remiss in writing a book about anesthesiology, even a
serious book about anesthesiology and medical safety, without answering
the question I am asked most often about the field: Do people talk under
anesthesia, and, if so, do they ever talk about sex? Now would be a good
a time to answer this question. Yes, people under anesthesia do talk about
sex. In my experience, and in the experience of other anesthesiologists
I’ve talked to, women talk more than men. I once had a patient blurt out
under sedation the name of the man she was having an affair with. A
second patient blurted out the name of the man her best friend was having
an affair with. A third patient imagined aloud during a vaginal prep that
she was having intercourse. A fourth patient mumbled during jaw sur-
gery, “How long until I can have sex?” Her question confused the operat-
80 CHA P TER 5
ing room staff, as her surgery wasn’t gynecological, until she complained
that her husband demanded oral sex, which she hated performing. She
asked if she could have her jaw wired shut for a year to absolve her of the
duty. I have many such stories.
Back to my narrative. I intubated the patient, turned on the anesthetic
gas, and let the surgeon work. Now would have been the right time to
wipe off the lipstick. Foolishly, I did not. On the contrary, I had been so
careful not to smear it during the intubation that I was almost proud of
myself. A few minutes later, the pulse oximeter (a probe placed on the
finger to measure oxygen levels) malfunctioned—not surprisingly, since
in those days pulse oximeters had difficulty seeing through nail polish. I
fiddled with the device, trying it on different fingers, when I suddenly
noticed that the pressure needed to push air into the patient’s lungs was
higher than expected. With the pulse oximeter malfunctioning and the
woman’s fingernails covered in polish, I instinctively glanced at her lips
to inspect their color. They were bright red—from lipstick. I quickly
wiped off the lipstick to reveal their true color, which was dusky because
of a drop in oxygen levels.
I figured the breathing tube must have drifted too far into to the pa-
tient’s right lung, causing the left lung to go without oxygen. I listened to
the patient’s chest with my stethoscope, confirmed the diagnosis, and
pulled the tube back. With both lungs now oxygenating, the patient’s lips
pinked up immediately. The rest of the case went uneventfully, although
when wheeling the patient back to the recovery room, I noticed a red
furrow on her wrist where her bracelet sat, caused by pressure from the
armboard against the metal. I kicked myself for not having insisted that
she remove her jewelry.
This was not a catastrophe, but it might have been. It taught me some-
thing about doctors and patients.
Patients often do themselves a disservice, and even increase their risk
of catastrophe, when they try to stand out. Doctors and nurses generally
work best when allowed to follow their routines, and patients who em-
phasize their VIP status just throw everyone off kilter. Exceptions are
made. Deviations from protocol are permitted. Duties are overlooked
because everyone is anxious. Such patients often get worse care, not
better.
From an anesthesiologist’s perspective, it is often safest for the patient
to have no identity at all. This goes against the grain of contemporary
medical training, which tries to humanize doctors and strengthen their

emotional connection with patients. Some doctors today even pride them-
selves on making friends with their patients. 1 A few doctors call such
behavior unprofessional. But more important, it’s dangerous. The more
emotionally involved anesthesiologists are with their patients, the less
they are able to think and reason during a crisis. The notion that someone
dear to them, or to others, might die at their hands unsettles them. When
disaster looms, they anticipate the tears on the faces of grieving family
members, and fear spreads unreasoningly throughout the different com-
partments of their mind, clogging their reason. It is why an anesthesiolo-
gist is never supposed to put a family member to sleep.
Some of the finest anesthesiologists see patients as nothing more than
bodies to be anesthetized. When waking up a patient from surgery, they
scan the anesthesia record to relearn the patient’s name before calling it
out, and then just as quickly forget it. Nameless patients stop being VIPs
or even individuals. Even a patient asleep on the operating table remains
an individual if he or she has a name; the anesthesiologist imagines ask-
ing the unconscious patient a question and thinks to himself, I know what
he would say; if only he were awake, he would answer! Patients with
names stand out. VIPs stand out even more. Nameless patients do not. A
nameless patient is just human, just a concept. The anesthesiologist expe-
riences less fear when taking care of such a patient.
Callous, yes, but it lets the anesthesiologist’s mind work methodically
and correctly during a crisis. Good medicine is a fine balance between
worrying about a patient and not caring at all.
The following week, I took care of a sixty-five-year-old man, Mr. D,

scheduled for a trans-urethral prostatectomy (TURP). When he asked me
about the anesthetic, I suggested spinal anesthesia. I told him there was
no significant difference in mortality rates between general and spinal
anesthesia, except when doing a TURP. It was the one operation where
spinal anesthesia was recommended, as the anesthesiologist can more
easily detect the unique complications of a TURP in an awake patient
under spinal anesthesia. Mr. D didn’t care. He demanded general an-
esthesia because he had heard that spinal anesthesia left people paralyzed.
I told him how rare that was. Mr. D didn’t care. I told him how a cluster
82 CHA P TER 5
of bad outcomes had occurred during the 1960s, in the United Kingdom,
when glass spinal anesthetic ampules had been stored in formaldehyde to
keep them sterile. Formaldehyde had entered through cracks in the am-
pules, paralyzing patients when the mix was injected into their spines.
The tragedy hit the newspapers, I explained, causing spinal anesthesia to
be unfairly maligned. Mr. D didn’t care. He demanded general anesthesia
and said it was his right as a patient to choose.
I understood his fears. He feared being paralyzed. He also feared
surgery on his penis. Most men do. The very idea sickens them. Never-
theless, Mr. D’s challenge signified a greater trespass on my authority as
a physician and a greater risk of catastrophe than had my patient the week
before. The doctor’s wife had demanded an exception that interfered with
my ability to monitor her under anesthesia. Mr. D wanted to decide the
entire anesthetic.
Mr. D’s demand didn’t come out of the blue, especially his use of the
word “right.” Cultural change lay behind it. The patients’ rights move-
ment grew out of a larger bioethics movement that started in in the late
1960s, bringing the discourse of moral philosophy into the world of pro-
fessional medicine. Words such as “rights” and “autonomy” spread from
the university to the patient’s bedside. The bioethics movement, in turn,
arose from other rights-based movements, each with its own medical
connection. The civil rights movement invoked the infamous Tuskegee
experiment, where black men with syphilis were purposely denied treat-
ment for decades. The women’s rights movement rebelled against restric-
tions on abortion. The gay rights movement condemned psychiatry for
calling homosexuality abnormal. Each of these movements had their
counterparts in Europe, and each, in turn, drew from an even larger set of
ideas, including the belief that medicine had become an oppressive arm of
the modern industrial state.
But the pedigree of Mr. D’s demand also included something uniquely
American, as the patients’ rights movement in the United States was also
part of a larger consumer choice movement. By the 1970s, Americans no
longer wanted to choose from among four kinds of breakfast cereal; they
wanted to choose from among fifty. It was the same with cars, television
shows, and every other kind of consumer product. Americans wanted the
right to customize their consumer experience. This demand penetrated
medicine in subtle ways. For example, drug companies, which had con-
fined their advertisements to medical journals for much of the twentieth
century, began marketing their products directly to patients—now viewed

as consumers—starting in the early 1990s. This was unique to the United
States, as drug companies are still banned from advertising directly to the
public in Europe. This shouldn’t surprise, as state-dominated health
care—indeed, state-dominated anything—is often antithetical to consu-
mer choice.
I hesitated to pick a fight with Mr. D. After all, some patients do have
TURPs under general anesthesia without problems. Just because an anes-
thetic is suboptimal doesn’t mean it’s illegal. I also took the words
“rights” and “autonomy” very seriously. I believed in the ideology. The
problem was that Mr. D’s urologist was mediocre. His urologist cut into
prostates in ways that opened up channels for the glycine-filled solution
used during the procedure to flood into the bloodstream. In addition, the
surgeon was technically slow, made worse by his tendency to talk sports
and politics. He would operate for thirty seconds, then raise his head to
argue something about Democrats or Republicans, during which time
more fluid would pass into the patient’s system. That is why I wanted to
use spinal anesthesia. Unlike a general anesthetic, which can theoretically
last for days, a spinal anesthetic lasts only a couple of hours, which forces
a urologist to quit cutting at a certain point, regardless of whether he or
she wants to. In addition, I could detect fluid overload in Mr. D more
quickly if he were awake.
But I couldn’t tell Mr. D that his surgeon was lousy. Physicians have a
code. When a layperson asks a physician to recommend a good doctor,
the physician won’t recommend someone terrible. But if a layperson is
already under that terrible doctor’s care, physicians usually avoid bad-
mouthing that doctor to his or her patient, unless the patient is a friend or
family member, in which case they tell the patient immediately. Mr. D
was a stranger. I couldn’t tell him that I needed to do a spinal because his
urologist was slow, sloppy, and a chatterbox. So I let it go.
We brought Mr. D into the operating room. I induced general an-
esthesia and the urologist started working. Sure enough, every few min-
utes he launched into a tirade about Congress and, later, the National
Football League. To prod him to return to work, I told him he had to
finish quickly to lessen the time for fluid to enter Mr. D’s bloodstream.
“Oh, yeah. Sure,” the urologist replied in agreement, but then a short time
later he moved his head away from the cystoscope and started talking
again. He was in the mood to talk.
84 CHA P TER 5
I should have been more adamant in telling him to shut up and work,
but politics intervened. In those days, surgeons often behaved like kings,
expecting not only to be obeyed but also to be entertained. Some of them
saw the anesthesiologist as a kind of court jester, to speak to them when
they desired conversation, to shut up when they didn’t, and to grovel
before them when they wanted to feel important. Anesthesiologists were
once happy to perform in this role, since surgeons brought the patients,
and without patients there would be no work. “Yes, it’s embarrassing
what we’re doing, trying to humor the surgeons,” anesthesiologists would
admit to themselves. “So long as we remain fully conscious, it’s for the
good of the practice, it’s okay. Just don’t make a circus of the job.”
Rather than protest when the urologist talked, I was soon giving my own
opinions on the national debt and the likely winner of the next Super
Bowl.
About ninety minutes into the procedure Mr. D’s blood pressure
climbed higher. No change in anesthetic state or surgical stimulus ex-
plained the increase. I assumed it was from too much fluid entering the
patient’s bloodstream through the open prostate, so I told the urologist to
move things along. He refocused, only to lose his way again.
“Who do you think will win the next election?” he asked.
The patient’s blood pressure rose higher. Had Mr. D been awake, I
might have been able to glean important data from his complaints. Short-
ness of breath would have suggested fluid overload. Restlessness, confu-
sion, and nausea would have suggested water intoxication. Gradually, the
inflation pressure needed to push air into Mr. D’s lungs increased, most
likely from fluid overload. The urologist had to stop.
“That’s enough. You’re done,” I said sternly.
“Just a little more. Really. Maybe another twenty minutes,” pleaded
the urologist.
“You said that twenty minutes ago. No, you’re done. If you have more
prostate tissue to shave off, you can bring him back another day. He’s
showing signs of fluid overload,” I insisted.
The urologist glared at me but quickly wrapped things up. I turned off
the anesthetic gas. Twenty minutes later Mr. D was still unconscious. We
brought him to the recovery room. I ordered a blood test for a sodium
level, which came back 119 (the normal is 140). It explained Mr. D’s
sleepiness. Too much sodium-poor fluid had entered his bloodstream
through the open prostate sinuses. Indeed, the sodium level was so low as
to risk seizures. Yet I couldn’t treat Mr. D aggressively with sodium

because that would have expanded his blood volume when he was al-
ready fluid overloaded and risk pushing him into heart failure.
After five hours, the sodium returned to acceptable levels. Mr. D woke
up—blind. It was a known, albeit rare, complication of TURPs. Glycine
in the cystoscopy solution had entered the patient’s bloodstream in large
amounts, interrupting neural transmission in his retinas.
“I can’t see!” screamed Mr. D.
I tried to evaluate Mr. D’s vision, but he kept shaking his head in
panic. “I can’t see!” he screamed.
His eye exam was consistent with glycine toxicity. I stared at his
sightless head, feeling helpless. I tried to explain to him that his blindness
was likely temporary, but my words of reassurance were drowned out by
other sounds in the recovery room, all bombarding his consciousness.
I sedated him with Versed, hoping his vision would return by the time
the drug wore off. He woke up an hour later. His face was as blank and
lifeless as the faces of the blind. Then he cried. I gave him another dose of
Versed. When he woke up an hour later, he saw light but no forms. I tried
again to reassure him, but other sounds from the recovery room kept
coming, flying, falling over one another. A clamorous darkness. They
tortured him. He started to cry again. I gave him more Versed.
Two hours later, he woke up and said he could see vague forms. He
was calmer now, in part from the Versed but also because he sensed
things were improving. He still had that far-out gaze. Over the next hour,
more images filtered their way to the dark recesses of his brain. He
looked around to test his vision, reaching out to the recovery room’s
brightly lit parts. Increasingly, he enjoyed the conviction that he had seen.
Two hours later, he did see.
I swore I would never let myself get into such difficulty again. In the
future, if a patient refused my advice, I would refuse to do the case.
Simple as that. After all, some doctors don’t even give their patients a
choice. “You’re going to get a spinal. No discussion,” is how one senior
doctor said he would have approached Mr. D. I wasn’t ready to go that
far, but I was ready to shut things down if a patient demanded an unsafe
anesthetic. Brave I would be to shut things down, I thought.
Then again, how brave would I be to shut things down simply because
I feared telling my patient that his or her surgeon was mediocre? Not very
brave. Something was missing from the oath I had sworn.
86 CHA P TER 5
The courage to say “no” is a part of being a doctor. But it is only a

part. A doctor also has to be flexible. He has to know what is possible.
The sense of what is possible includes the ability to recognize that certain
things are impossible—in other words, unsafe—but also to know that
things that appear to be very difficult are in fact possible. A stubborn
patient can sometimes be charmed, coaxed, nudged, or inspired to follow
the wiser path. A good doctor does more than just draw red lines and say,
“No.” He or she also persuades.
It is the difference between commanding and governing. To command
is to lead a group of people under discipline toward a clear goal. A
general commands a group of soldiers. A dictator commands a whole
society. Both expect to be obeyed. To govern, however, is to lead people
toward unclear and shifting objectives, with nothing really compelling
people to obey.
A doctor governs rather than commands a patient. A patient is not
compelled to obey a doctor. When a patient is healthy, he or she is even
less likely to obey. A doctor also has other constituents, including a
patient’s family, nurses, and other doctors, all equally free. A patient’s
family is not compelled to obey a doctor. Officially, nurses are compelled
to obey, but, unofficially, they will push back if doctors use the wrong
tone with them. Other doctors are no more compelled to obey a doctor
than a patient is. The impulses of these free people—patients, patient
families, nurses, and other doctors—are at all times a parallelogram of
forces. They are hard to synchronize. A doctor must know what these
forces are. Sometimes he must say to himself, “I can go just so far and no
farther”; he must say “no” and refuse to do something he thinks is unsafe.
But he must also have a sense of what is possible; he must calculate how
much he can move one party without offending the others; he must fore-
see the inevitable reactions of the other parties when one party is ap-
peased; he must always be taking the temperature of the various parties to
see if one party’s willingness to compromise has bled into anger, hurt
feelings, and obstructionism.
Just as a governor is careful not to appease one class at the risk of
angering another, a good doctor should not shield another doctor at the
expense of his patient. Yet this must be done tactfully, with finesse—to
keep the parallelogram of forces from working at cross-purposes. If I
could do it over again, I would tell Mr. D in the pre-op area, “Your
urologist is a very thorough surgeon and takes longer than average to
perform a TURP. So it would be safer for you to have a spinal.” It might

have done the trick. Mr. D might have been nudged onto the safer path,
while his urologist would have been spared direct criticism.
All this may seem trivial, silly, and even slippery. But in doctoring, as
in politics, it is useless to formulate grand theories of human relationships
if, due to the parties concerned, they are irrelevant. Doctors know how to
make polite bows to theories of human behavior to appease those who
guard temple gates. But doctors actually occupy themselves with taking
care of people’s real needs. If they find obstacles, they make detours; if
they encounter resistance, they cajole, sweet talk, finesse, and even play
games. The true doctor says, “Let the principles go and save the patient.”
A year ago (and twenty-five years after taking care of Mr. D), I at-
tended a conference on a new concept in medicine called “patient-cen-
tered care.” Its purpose is to give patients and their families more say in
their medical decisions. Although I went to the conference to investigate,
I met an anesthesiologist from out of state who had been compelled to
attend. She told me her story.
She had come in on her day off to take care of a morbidly obese
twenty-five-year-old woman needing gall bladder surgery. The patient
had requested her. She met the patient and the patient’s father in the
holding area. The father insisted that he be allowed to accompany his
daughter into the operating room to hold her hand while she went to
sleep. He also insisted that she be given gaseous anesthesia before receiv-
ing an intravenous, as his daughter was afraid of needles. In regard to the
first request, the anesthesiologist told him that bad things can happen
during an anesthetic induction, and that a parent’s presence can interfere
with a quick response. 2 Exceptions are made in cases involving children,
the anesthesiologist said, but not in adult cases. In regard to the second
request, she told the father that a gas induction in an adult increased the
risk of serious complications, including loss of the airway and death—
especially in morbidly obese adults. It’s much safer to use a conventional
intravenous induction, she said. Despite her reasoned arguments, the
father refused to back down. They argued back and forth. Finally, the
father gave way, but later he complained to the hospital administration
about his “mistreatment.” He was especially angry that the anesthesiolo-
88 CHA P TER 5
gist had called his daughter “morbidly obese,” although this was the
official diagnosis according to medical terminology. (Morbidly obese is
defined as twice one’s ideal body weight.) Instead of supporting the an-
esthesiologist in her decision, the hospital, which employed her, repri-
manded her and gave her a Wikipedia article on patient-centered care.
They said the patient and her father were “customers,” and that her job as
an employee was to satisfy them. They ordered her to attend a conference
on the subject, issuing vague threats about what might happen if she
didn’t.
We entered the conference room together. Doctors from all over the
region were there. Four panelists sat on the podium: a Stage IV breast
cancer patient, a hospital administrator, a doctor, and a nurse practitioner
(with the ominous appellation “BSN, MSN” after her name).
The breast cancer patient spoke first. She talked about how, when
diagnosed with metastatic cancer, a surgeon had given her only one op-
tion, a mastectomy, not to cure her but to give her a little more time to
live. An equally narrow-minded oncologist had recommended only
chemotherapy. “This is what I give to all my patients,” the oncologist
reportedly said. When asked if there were other options, the oncologist
said, “Nope, that’s it.”
At this point, something between a hiss of detestation and a murmur of
horror ran through the audience. The woman then talked about how she
explored other options on her own. She finally decided on palliative care
so that the time she had left wouldn’t be filled with the painful side
effects of chemotherapy. “It’s important that consumers be given all their
options,” she concluded. “They are when buying cars, so why not in
health care?”
The woman was sweet and sincere. And dying. The audience reacted
sympathetically. I was surprised that such arrogant, close-minded physi-
cians still practiced. Why not give a breast cancer patient all her options?
Even as a medical student in the 1980s, I was taught to do so. In that
respect, patient-centered care seemed like another variation on the old
patient autonomy movement that began in the late 1960s. Still, I was
surprised to hear patients called “consumers.”
The hospital administrator followed. He spoke more as if reading out
an indictment. Doctors were charged, collectively and individually, with
gross insensitivity to patients and their families, refusing to accommodate
patient wishes and needs, refusing to give weight to patient opinions, and
covering the traces of their crimes with appeals to science, claiming that
science guided their behavior when, in fact, it was arrogance, dictatorial
tendencies, and a lack of empathy. He cited Dr. Donald Berwick, former
head of the Centers for Medicaid and Medicare Services, who had spoken
recently at his daughter’s medical school graduation about a woman who
had been denied access to her husband’s deathbed because of physician
policy. 3 It had been “cruel,” said the hospital administrator, which was
the same word used to describe the incident in Dr. Berwick’s speech. The
administrator added more incriminating stories—for example, a doctor’s
refusal to pray with a nervous patient before surgery. Finally, having
piled up all the evidence he required, the administrator smiled trium-
phantly and pronounced a new age of patient-centered care, an age of
“transparency,” “dialogue,” and “inclusion,” in which patients would no
longer be “marginalized.”
The audience remained silent. No one thought of presenting the other
side. No one was even sure if there was another side. Personally, I didn’t
disagree with the administrator, although his language disturbed me. I
smelled ideology. “Marginalization,” “inclusion,” a more “just culture”—
these were all catchwords of the political left. And why the revolutionary
fervor? The patient autonomy movement had already been around for
forty years.
Next, the doctor on the panel spoke. He described a YouTube video
that had gone viral and showed doctors and nurses dancing in the operat-
ing room as the patient entered. Apparently the patient was nervous and
to ease her fears had requested not only that music be played but also that
the staff dance to it. The audience chuckled. This seemed a bit over the
top. We assumed the speaker was reassuring us with an example of the
new policy’s outer limits: true, in the future, doctors would have to be
more flexible in the face of patient demands, but they wouldn’t actually
have to go to such ridiculous extremes. Instead, the doctor on the panel
praised the video as an example of good patient-centered care.
I think the audience and the speakers at the podium understood each
other at this point. A fundamental shift in the power relations between
doctors and patients was under way. Patients were consumers now, and
the doctor’s job was to give them what they wanted no matter how ridicu-
lous their request seemed. It only remained to present the new concept in
PowerPoint form, to dress it up in its proper ideological clothes, and to
link the talks of the four speakers into a more or less coherent whole.
90 CHA P TER 5
The doctor went on to confess how he had ignored patient desires in

the past. During this part of his speech he seemed to shrivel and contract.
His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed. If the panel had wanted to
convey what they believed to be the grotesque past of doctor-patient
relations, they could have chosen no better means than this penitent fig-
ure. After confessing his crimes, the doctor talked about the future. Doc-
tors, nurses, and patients would all be on the same “team,” he proclaimed.
Doctors would embrace “patient preferences and values” rather than ig-
nore them. Doctors would be “advocates” for their patients. His words
reeled off like a well-learned lesson. Indeed, they almost seemed to be
delivered as if he were under the influence of some drug or hypnotic
spell. His statements didn’t really add anything new to what the others
had said; in fact, they were altogether superfluous. Nevertheless, he was a
doctor who had given a confession, and one sensed a ripple of satisfaction
passing through the other panel members. Having played his part, he sat
down and fell silent.
Finally the nurse rose to speak. After declaring her deep passion for
patient-centered care, she admitted that doctors must follow the standard
of care when practicing medicine. “That’s paramount,” she said with
confidence. But doctors also had to integrate a patient’s values into their
decision making, she declared. “Standard of care and patient needs are
never mutually exclusive,” she insisted.
I looked over at the anesthesiologist whom I had walked in with,
hoping she might tell the room about her case. I raised an eyebrow when
she looked back at me, as a cue for her to speak up. Instead, she privately
waved me off. I was not surprised. She had come to the meeting to learn
correct thought and to clear herself of the slightest suspicion in the eyes
of her employer. The last thing she wanted was for her hospital to hear
that she had been difficult.
So I spoke. While leaving her name out, I described her case, focusing
on the dangers of breathing down a morbidly obese adult with anesthetic
gas before placing an intravenous.
“In this case the standard of care and what the patient’s father wanted
were mutually exclusive,” I concluded. “The standard of care should have
trumped patient desires in this case, correct?”
There was a stir of interest in the audience.
The nurse stared at me and declared, “No, they are never mutually
exclusive. In the case you describe I’m sure a compromise was possible.”
“But it wasn’t,” I replied.

“It always is,” the nurse shot back.
“But in this case there wasn’t. The father refused to budge,” I said.
“I can’t imagine that. I can’t even consider that,” insisted the nurse.
The entire panel looked annoyed. They were not used to someone in
the audience declaring opposition to the new program. They also knew I
was saying things that, for some physicians, might not be without their
attractions.
Another anesthesiologist in the audience spoke up. “Breathing an
adult down with anesthetic gas is not actually a breach of the standard of
care,” he said.
The panel members seemed to relax for a moment. I caught the nurse’s
eye and found her regarding me with a significant smile, as though to say,
“You slipped up.”
“But it is a breach of the standard of care in obese patients,” I coun-
tered. “Such patients have a much greater risk of aspiration,”
The other anesthesiologist said nothing in response. Yet no one else in
the room backed me up. Even the anesthesiologist whose case I cited
remained silent. I felt alone, like the last survivor of a vanished race—
doctors who value safe practice above any other consideration.
Another doctor tried to effect a compromise: “Can we at least say that
patients with special wants and needs should contact their surgeons or
anesthesiologists in advance, so there will be time to accommodate
them?”
“That’s a good idea,” replied the nurse, hoping this would end the
exchange.
But I refused to remain quiet. “In the case I mentioned, the father’s
desire expressed in advance wouldn’t have changed anything. Breathing
down his obese daughter with gas would still have been dangerous,” I
said.
“There was a way. There was a way,” replied the nurse, angrily. “The
doctor involved in your case could have done something. He probably
just refused.” Deliberate sabotage on the part of a doctor was somehow a
much more satisfactory explanation to her mind than a doctor’s desire to
follow practice guidelines.
I disagreed. This time the nurse sought refuge in generalities. “Listen,
medicine used to be a one-way street, with doctors telling patients what to
92 CHA P TER 5
do. Now, it’s going to be a two-way street,” she said, with a note of scorn
in her voice.
The hospital administrator piled on. “That’s right. It used to be that the
doctor was in the front seat, driving the car, while the patient was in the
back seat. Now, the patient is going to be in the front seat, too. Not
necessarily in the driver’s seat, but definitely in the front seat,” he said.
These were nice metaphors, but they bore no relation to the reality of
the case we were discussing. I said so, and then harped again on the rules
governing anesthesia safe practice.
The nurse grew angrier. The hospital administrator adopted a more
self-satisfied expression. He was the kind of businessman who is obsti-
nately sure of himself and thinks only he sees the big picture. He laughed
sarcastically as I spoke. “Some rules are important. But other rules are
silly. Everyone knows that. Sometimes you have to break a silly rule. You
can let the hospital know if there’s a silly rule. We’ll make a note of it,”
he replied.
“But what if a doctor thinks a rule isn’t silly? And what if the doctor
breaks that rule, gets a bad outcome, and gets sued? What’s the doctor
supposed to do then?” I replied.
The physician on the panel shifted uneasily in his chair. From some
last remnant of professional pride, or from some strange feeling of hones-
ty surviving all other emotions, he quietly said, “That’s a good point.”
The nurse glared at him. He fell silent, back to whatever limbo he had
come from.
Instead of answering my question directly, the nurse sidestepped it. “If
you and a patient have issues, just call for a mediator on staff,” she said.
“Is the mediator a doctor?” asked a physician in the audience.
“Sometimes the mediator is a nurse,” replied the nurse, defensively.
“So we’re supposed to let a nurse decide what is best, and the doctor is
supposed to accept the nurse’s ruling as final? That doesn’t make any
sense,” said the physician.
Other doctors spoke up. They finally had a glimpse of the meshes in
which they might be entangled themselves one day. One physician took
an altogether separate line, aiming it directly at the hospital administrator.
“How can you tell us to spend more time with patients to learn their
needs while also telling us to keep our office visits under ten minutes?
How can you tell anesthesiologists to take time to meet patient needs
while also telling them to start their cases on time or be penalized?” she
asked.
A few in the audience murmured in approval. More debate was immi-
nent. But for the nurse and the hospital administrator things had already
gone too far. The nurse was wedded to her idea of patient-centered care,
and she seemed worried that more debate would threaten her chance to
transform that idea into reality. The hospital administrator, however, was
more interested in practical considerations. Hospital surveys had shown
that patients wanted patient-centered care. Several hospitals had already
toyed with the idea of setting up patient-centered floors, where inpatients
and doctors share completely in decision making. Patient-centered care
was going to happen whether the doctors wanted it or not.
The hospital administrator implied that all dialogue was now at an
end. “Listen, I know people fear change. That’s natural. But what you
fear now you will get used to eventually. I remember when doctors once
feared the concept of informed consent. They thought it was crazy. Of
course, it wasn’t. And doctors got used to it,” he said with feigned light-
heartedness. “Just as you will get used to patient-centered care,” he added
in a more threatening tone.
Bit by bit, the fantastic structure took shape in my mind. I began to see
how patient-centered care differed from the old patient autonomy move-
ment that had tripped me up twenty-five years before when caring for
Mr. D.
Mr. D had demanded certain rights as a patient. In the years to follow,
patients became even more demanding, especially when they gained ac-
cess to medical information through the Internet. The patient autonomy
movement in the United States was always especially strong. 4 Many
doctors grew to resent their patients second-guessing them. Yet, as a
whole, the movement proved to be a good thing, protecting patients and
giving them a needed say in their care. Moreover, a stable equilibrium
grew up between doctors and patients over time. Patients learned more
about their treatment options and had more say in their care; when pa-
tients pushed too hard, a doctor could always say, “I can go just so far and
no farther.”
But a consumer rights component always lurked within the patient
autonomy movement. It is not just as patients that people today want
control over their care but also as consumers. This is the energy source
behind patient-centered care. In fact, Dr. Donald Berwick, a leader in the
94 CHA P TER 5
patient-centered care movement, writes in his manifesto that patients to-

day are “consumers” who should have “choice in all matters, without
exception.” 5
Not surprisingly, the patient-centered care movement is stronger in the
United States than in any other country. America respects and values
customer service; it is an integral part of the national character. American
politicians and clergymen play upon the feeling of respect for service as
much as businesspeople do. Politicians call themselves “public servants,”
while the church performance itself is called a “service.” The compelling
spell of patient-centered care is hard for any American to resist—even
doctors.
The patient-centered care movement does have the potential to
achieve its own stable equilibrium, just as the patient autonomy move-
ment did. Yet an unrelated trend in American medicine makes this hard to
achieve, raising the risk of catastrophe: doctors in the United States have
increasingly become dependent employees.
Most doctors once worked either as self-employed professionals or in
small professional partnerships. In the last fifteen years, more doctors
have become employees of large institutions, such as hospitals or corpo-
rations. With dependent employment come bosses and the fear of being
fired, especially for not giving customers what they want.
Doctors today feel pressure from both above and below. If doctors
make their patients happy, they can keep their jobs; if not, they risk losing
them. Doctors feel enough fear that some of them will adopt a risky
course to please their customers. In one example I am familiar with, a
doctor at a hospital in the southeastern United States acceded to a pa-
tient’s demand that she be allowed to hold and nuzzle her baby immedi-
ately after delivery during a cesarian section and while still on the operat-
ing table. The anesthesiologist thought it unwise, as the patient was at
high risk for postpartum hemorrhage, but she felt pressured by the hospi-
tal to give the mother what she wanted. She allowed the mother to hold
her baby after delivery. When the mother suffered a serious hemorrhage,
the baby’s presence prevented the anesthesiologist from easily accessing
the mother’s intravenous. The nurse wrested the baby from underneath
the mother’s gown, but this took time, during which the mother lost
consciousness and possibly aspirated, as her oxygen levels remained low
in the post-op area. Fortunately, she made a full recovery.
A situation analogous to what has happened in medicine has happened

in academia. Students today see themselves as consumers, especially giv-
en the high price they pay for college. Sometimes they demand that
professors tailor their lectures to please them, even if that means learning
less. Yet professors only found themselves at risk of losing their jobs
when college administrators, who technically employ them, agreed that
students were customers, since they were paying the bills, and therefore
should be given what they wanted. It was only when professors realized
they had bosses, and could be fired for failing to satisfy their customers,
that they felt pressured into giving in to students.
In academia, the stakes are a student’s education. In medicine, the
stakes are a patient’s life. Sandwiched between employers above and
customers below, doctors are fast losing the ability to say, “I can go just
so far and no farther.”
6
A TALE OF TWO OFFICES
A man today goes into a hospital and feels himself lost in some great
city. No one takes any notice of him. If he asks for directions, busy staff
bristle with irritation or ignore him altogether. He wanders along a corri-
dor, telling himself, “When this corridor comes to an end there will be
something pretty or heartwarming, or at least different, or maybe just
space for my eye to roam,” but no—there is nothing but another corridor
like the one he has left, and whether he looks to the right or to the left, he
sees corridors and rooms, all alike, over and over again, closing in on him
like an army of robots. No interesting sight for his eye to rest on, no
stained glass windows, no crown moldings, no fireplaces. Nothing to
inspire him. No real space or even a sense of imagined space. The man
feels hemmed in on all sides—and his thoughts and feelings are hemmed
in too.
The mid-twentieth-century Catholic hospital where my father worked
as a doctor had a different air. It functioned as a hospital but looked like a
church. Cherubs, angels, and garlands were carved into the white stone
edifice. Wide steps at the main entrance led to a heavy wooden door with
black iron hinges, with the door itself contained inside a Gothic arch. The
peaked roof over the entrance supported a large white cross. Inside the
building, the halls were dark and foreboding. Here and there, slanting
beams of sunlight passed through small windows and picked out from
among the shadows the faded pictures of Christ that hung upon the walls.
In this dim world, Catholic sisters in white habits glided about solemnly
from sickroom to sickroom, in a somber yearning for divine intervention
97
98 CHA P TER 6
that scratched at their belief in an omnipotent God, while visitors sensed

that irrational forces were at play, and that mankind was not totally in
control. A hush fell about little children as they walked around, many of
whom steered close to their parents out of fear. Even drug reps entering
the building on business felt tempted to bow their heads.
As a child, I often went on rounds with my father. Whenever I entered
the hospital, leaving the hot California sun behind me, a black cloud
would suddenly weigh heavily on my brain. There was the smell of damp
air. The hall was inexplicably cold and dark. And quiet. A profound
respectful silence reigned, except for the chapel music that quailed with a
painful sigh, and that made me feel melancholy. My father would take me
onto the wards to greet his patients. The rooms were full of terrifying
diseases, or so I thought. A creaking noise from a door would send
shivers down my spine, as though a monster inside had moved. On the
walls hung pictures of terrible heavenly wrath: a writhing Jesus, a fiery
ball over Sodom, locusts causing famine, and the deeply furrowed face of
God.
In this world of permanent twilight I saw through my child’s eyes
what I believed to be fantastic creatures.
I saw a doctor wearing a clean, long white cape (what I later learned
was an operating room cover gown). I imagined that cape flowing back-
ward as the doctor flew through the sky. The doctor flew over peaks and
precipices, flinging thunderbolts at disease; were it not for his brave
schemes and brilliant exploits, a terrifying death, a death that frightens
the imagination, would descend upon all. Dare one doubt a doctor’s pow-
ers? Why, when he approached certain doors they magically opened be-
cause he commanded them to. Sometimes they only opened halfway and
stopped, as if to taunt him, and then the doctor would stare back angrily,
and they would open up completely, unable to withstand his power. (I
later learned these were electric operating room doors.)
I also saw a beautiful creature clothed in a white dress and white cap.
Tender, sweet, and kind, she was the nurse. I compared her soft hands
with the doctor’s cold, sharp instruments. I worshipped her graceful pride
and light step, and the delicacy with which she mopped a patient’s brow
with cool compresses. She would lean over and pat the patient’s pillow,
and the patient would shake with pleasure, his sensitive nose smelling the
clean scent around her neck, the fragrance of lemons, of fresh air, of the
country. Then she would clean the patient, comb his hair, take his temper-
A T ALE OF T WO OFFI C E S 99
ature, and ask him how he slept and whether anything troubled him.
Sometimes her medicine hurt, and yet even if she inflicted pain by giving
the patient a shot, it was a kind and helpful pain! The pain was over
quickly, and then the nurse would stroke the patient’s head and cry with
him (if he were a child), and even if the patient threw a tantrum, she
would go on being nice to him.
I saw a doctor’s wife in the distance. So regal! The queen of the realm.
And yet so busy. Family happiness and the care of the hospital were her
sole business in life. At the hospital, she would volunteer and spread good
cheer. She worked in the gift shop. She baked pies for the nurses. I often
picked through the cart of magazines and knick-knacks that she pushed
around the wards. Yet the doctor’s wife was more than just a street
peddler. She kept a wary eye on all that went on in the hospital and her
husband’s office. When a patient complained about the cafeteria food,
she saw that it was fixed. When the hospital needed a new machine, she
put on a pretty dress (not without pride) and charmed her friends into
giving money. On the hospital board she was always consulted. Her home
life was just as much a continuous dashing and scurrying around. She
never complained because her husband came home late at night, or be-
cause a sick patient ruined the family vacation. She cooked supper while
the children played around their father, climbed on his knees, and put
their arms around his neck. After dinner she made sure the children did
their homework so that one day the white coat would pass from father to
child, just as it had passed from grandfather to father. Later, while her
husband snored away upstairs, she would pore over office receipts, click-
ing the keys on the adding machine, and not until she finished would she
go upstairs and fall soundly asleep.
I glimpsed another woman behind a counter. With her white head-
dress, her diminutive size, her large twinkling eyes, and her white, almost
translucent skin, she looked like a mythical fairy creature peeping out
trustingly from behind a giant oak. I wondered if she was winged, like an
angel. No, she was a Catholic sister. Her whiteness and purity reminded
me of the nurse; yet she was not motherly so much as transcendent.
Shining brightly, she would come over to me, take me by the hand, and
say her holy words—a prayer so beautiful that I thought it should be
accompanied by a lute. A smile of happiness would spread across my
face, and I would think, The doctor will fix me, the nurse will love me,
and the sister will bless me. As in fairy tales, I imagined her keeping evil
100 CHA P TER 6
spirits imprisoned in enchanted dungeons, her words depriving them of

any ability to harm me. When she finished her prayer she would stuff me
full of candies that were hidden inside in her habit. Then she would
withdraw gradually, as though reluctantly, like the sun drifting down
toward the horizon, only to return and bring her warmth another day.
Beloved hospital of old! Your memory, a remnant of a dream of the
historic past. It rises amid the gray monotony of the present day—dim,
misty, tinged with the sweetness that breathes from memories of the
vanished past. Vanished—yes, but not without a trace! It still lives, this
past, in wards where sick patients lie worrying and search in their imagi-
nations for something to ease the fear of what encompasses them. It lives
in legend. Low I bow and kiss your tender shadows, hospital of old. I kiss
your mythical inhabitants, cavalcade of honor, your chapel’s rapturous
song of the nightingale.
My grandfather was born in a small farming village in Germany in

1893. His father was a cattle dealer. Beginning in 1912, he studied medi-
cine in Munich for a year, then Freiburg for another two years, and then
Frankfurt for two more years. Such hopping around was common among
medical students in those days and reflected nothing more than a desire
on my grandfather’s part to see some nice towns. He served in World
War I (on the German side) as an auxiliary field doctor before marrying
my grandmother and settling down in Frankfurt to work as an internist.
Times were hard. Germany almost starved during the first few years
after the war. My grandparents lived on horseflesh. The prescription pad
saved them, as milk was available by prescription only, so my grand-
father could get some. With extremist politics adding another layer of
uncertainty, my grandparents emigrated to Washington, D.C., in 1923.
Once there, my grandfather set up a practice on Columbia Road, within
walking distance of Garfield Memorial Hospital. 1
Life became easier. Nevertheless, my grandfather’s medical practice
failed to take off. Anti-Semitism wasn’t the problem. On the contrary,
Garfield Hospital had a long history of welcoming Jewish physicians.
The first contributions to build the hospital actually came from two small
Jewish congregations, the news of President Garfield’s assassination hav-
ing reached them on the Hebrew Sabbath. Nor was the problem a lack of
friends. My grandparents had busy social lives. Still, none of their friends
ever became patients.
At first my grandparents took the problem in stride. On rare days when
my grandfather actually brought home money, my grandmother would
tease, “You’ve got the gewinnthosen on” (in translation, “winning pants”
or “money pants”). My grandfather would happily use the downtime in
his office to read German literature and philosophy, sitting cross-legged
in a cloud of cigar smoke, his favorite pastime. Fortunately, my grand-
father’s brother, a Washington department store owner, died in 1935 and
left him some money. But this only slowed the drift toward disaster.
My grandfather’s problem was that he couldn’t adapt to the new
American conception of the doctor that had taken hold a decade before.
In the first half of the nineteenth century, the United States faced an
emerging physician surplus, as almost anyone could call himself or her-
self a doctor. By the second half of the nineteenth century, American
doctors were required to have actual training, but a glut of medical school
graduates left the United States with twice as many doctors per capita as
in England and four times as many as in France or Germany. At root, it
was a physician identity problem, with four competing schools of thought
over what a doctor should be. One school, exemplified by Dr. James
Jackson, cofounder of the Massachusetts General Hospital, said the doc-
tor was a gentleman. Another school, personified by Dr. Jacob Bigelow,
said the doctor was a technician. A third school, associated with educa-
tion reformer Abraham Flexner and the new Johns Hopkins University
Medical School, said the doctor was a scientist. A fourth school, person-
ified by Rev. Henry Spalding of Chicago’s Loyola University, said the
doctor was a benefactor. Each cluster of schools churned out graduates,
flooding the country with doctors and adding to the confusion. In 1910,
the Flexner Report on Medical Education ended the debate by giving rise
to a new vision of what a doctor should be. This new vision was a
compromise of the four schools. Henceforth, an American doctor was
part gentleman, part scientist, part technician, and part benefactor. 2
My grandfather failed in each category. As a scientist, he had fairly
decent medical training in Germany—in fact, one of his professors was
Röntgen, the discoverer of X-rays—but he didn’t look like a scientist.
Most American doctors had switched over to wearing white lab coats by
1915, to advertise their connection with science. My grandfather, howev-
er, continued to wear a dark suit, as doctors had in the nineteenth century.
102 CHA P TER 6
The suit made him look like a clergyman or, worse, a mortician. Prospec-
tive patients didn’t like it.
My grandfather’s office compromised his credentials as a technician.
Most American doctors’ offices were well-planned complexes by the
1930s. They included a reception room, a private office and consulting
room, a dressing room, a business office, a room for physical therapy
treatments, and an examination room. The examination room, in turn,
usually had an examining table, a stool, a floor lamp, an instrument
cabinet, a scale, a sink, and a waste receptacle. 3 My grandfather’s office
was just one room. Instead of an examination table, it had a low-lying
twin bed. There was no stool. To perform a pelvic exam he would inglori-
ously bend down on his knees and then struggle to raise himself up
afterward. A weak overhead light substituted for a floor lamp. The instru-
ment cabinet was poorly stocked and in disarray. The only sink was in the
bathroom. None of this suggested technical competence.
The wooden desk and chair standing in the office corner gave prospec-
tive patients another reason for pause, as did the wooden floor. The
American public had learned the basic principles of antisepsis by this
period. Prospective patients expected medical office furniture and appli-
ances to be made of metal, often with white enamel coating, to allow for
easy cleaning. They expected floors to be linoleum for the same purpose.
The wood in my grandfather’s office was hard to clean and often stained.
Worse, wood was a living thing, like the germs themselves.
My grandfather was an intellectual and not a gentleman—failure
again. He was astute, but his astuteness often degenerated into profundity.
He liked to talk to patients about German philosophy even when they
didn’t want to listen. He also loved mechanical order and would exhibit
an almost mystic fidelity to a plan, making him rigid and inflexible. He
was the stuff out of which idealists are made, but also autocrats. Prospec-
tive patients thought him “too German” or simply weird.
True, my grandfather was a benefactor. He often took care of patients
for free or overlooked their unpaid bills. It is one reason why the family
finances were in such a precarious state. But my grandfather misunder-
stood that to be a doctor-benefactor in the Land of the Dollar, he was
supposed to be a businessman without appearing to be a businessman.
The American doctor’s job was to feign a lack of interest in money while
making money all the same.
My grandmother was poorly equipped to help him. Because the AMA

had erected a ban on physicians advertising, in accordance with the ideal
of the gentleman-doctor, doctors had to be less direct in how they
drummed up business. Many physicians relied on their wives to gain
them patient referrals. At Garfield Hospital, auxiliary organizations were
staffed with doctors’ wives who worked to improve the hospital (their
husbands’ place of business, after all) but also to connect with other
wives to influence their husbands’ referral patterns. My grandmother had
no such social acumen. She had been educated to be the wife of a German
doctor, not an American doctor. She knew how to dance, play the piano,
and cook. She could rush to answer the phone and, with dignity, say, “Let
me see if ‘the Doctor’ can speak with you,” or “No, ‘the Doctor’ cannot
speak with you.” She could tell the neighborhood children to keep quiet,
declaring, “There’s a doctor upstairs who needs his rest.” But that was all.
Her psychology was even less suited to business. She lived on her nerves;
she was quick in emotion and sentiment, a prey alike to hopes and suspi-
cions; she was excitable, but without an excitable person’s saving store of
common sense.
By the late 1930s, my grandparents were close to losing their house.
One day, my mother, then a young girl, went with her father to help him
clean up his office. He sat in his wooden chair and cried.
“I’m sorry. I guess I haven’t been a very good doctor,” he said.
“Oh, Daddy, it’s okay,” my mother replied, trying to reassure him. Old
urine bottles sat on the cupboard behind her.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” my grandfather said repeatedly, his eyes moist.
Fortunately, things ended well. A friend who understood my grand-
father’s personality found him a salaried position as a physician at the
Old Soldiers’ Home in Washington, D.C. 4 By the standards of the day,
my grandfather was a failure as a doctor. The AMA saw “salaries” as an
acceptable method of payment for common laborers or civil servants but
not for gentleman-benefactors. Nor did my grandfather have an office in
his new position. But he did have access to examining rooms with proper
examining tables and linoleum floors. He could take care of patients
without having to hustle for a living. He could be himself and talk Ger-
man philosophy to old American soldiers, who were now his captives. He
was even given a white lab coat to wear, in homage to science. To friends
and family he became a doctor in full.
104 CHA P TER 6
Twenty years later, my mother was vacationing at a Catskills resort. It

was the last day of the season. Lying on her lounge chair at the end of the
afternoon, she watched an ugly woman make one last trip around the pool
to catch a man’s attention before heading into the locker room. It was the
woman’s last chance, her last plea for companionship, my mother
thought. But none of the men looked at her. On the trip’s final leg my
mother observed the woman’s crestfallen face and the silver strands in
her hair. My mother decided that she herself had better get married quick.
A month later, while working as a lab technician, she met my father.
They married the following year, on April Fools’ Day. But the joke was
on them.
Hitler once said that the war in the west, between the Germans and the
British, was a war of conquest, while the war in the east, between the
Germans and the Russians, was a war of annihilation. And so it was with
my mother, the German Jew, and my father, the Russian Jew: their mari-
tal fights were not mere spats, or even shouting matches, but wars of
annihilation. Each tried to destroy the other. Being a busy doctor, my
father had no need of excuses to keep away from home, thereby postpon-
ing the decisive moment, but both knew that one day the moment would
come, that they would have to divorce, although each was equally hesi-
tant to make the break, for their own reasons, even if each knew the break
must come.
One evening in the early 1970s, my father arrived home just as my
sister, her boyfriend, and my sister’s school friend were teasing me in the
living room. I was thirteen. My sister was fifteen. Her boyfriend was
often at the house, usually bringing his big dog with him and tying the
creature up to a sprinkler pipe outside. My father hated both the boyfriend
and the dog. As for my sister’s school friend, southern California’s cul-
ture of sex and drugs had aroused an unhealthy curiosity in the girl when
she was twelve; by the time she was fifteen she had the air of a dissolute,
much too experienced woman. All of us grew up uncontrolled.
“Come here and kiss my cheek,” my sister ordered me. When I com-
plied, she squealed, “Ugh! So wet! No girl’s ever going to want to kiss
you.” Then her friend led me over to a mirror and maliciously said, “Kiss
the mirror until you get it right. There should be no wetness on the glass.”
For five minutes I dutifully did as I was told, until my father came
over and asked me what I was doing. I naively replied, “They said I don’t
know how to kiss, and that if I don’t practice, the girls won’t like me.”
“Do you want the girls to like you?” my father asked me.
“Well, I don’t know,” I replied, uncertain and confused.
My father rolled his eyes. With a cynical, world-weary tone of voice,
he said, “Well, when you do, just wag a dollar bill in front of them.”
My mother overheard the comment and grew angry. When my father
sat down to dinner—alone, as the rest of us had already eaten—she
reached into the oven for two lukewarm burnt lamb chops that had been
cooked that afternoon. She put them on a plate, along with a scoop each
of soggy mashed potatoes and canned peas, and thrust the food in front of
him as if he were a dog.
“Here you are—choke yourself!” she said to my father. She went back
to clean the counter with an expression of disgust.
“I work all day and this is all I get?” my father shouted.
“Maybe if you made more money, you could wag a dollar bill in front
of me. You might get a better dinner,” she hissed.
“I make enough money. A lot more than your father did. He was a—”
“You shut up about my father!” my mother interrupted.
“You shut up! If you threw some parties and got me more patients, I’d
make more money. Why can’t you be like the other doctors’ wives?” His
face grew as red as beetroot. “You lie around all goddamn day like a
martyr, telling me how tired you are from playing tennis!”
“You’re the one who told me to take up tennis!” my mother protested.
“So you could meet people and throw parties!” my father shouted
back. Then he proudly declared, “I’m doing well enough. When my new
office opens I’ll be doing even better.”
“I’m sick of hearing about your damn office!” my mother shouted.
“Well, I’m sick of you!” my father yelled back.
“Fine, go ahead and build your glorious office,” my mother said sar-
castically. She paused before delivering her knockout blow. “A real big
deal, you think you are. A Jew with plans, a Jew with ideas, a Jew who
thinks he’s going places. Ha!” she sneered in a mocking tone, looking at
my father through the derisive slits of her eyes.
A spasm of rage clutched at my father’s throat. He threw the dinner
plate on the floor and stood up, while my mother’s face grew increasingly
purple and distorted. Suddenly the live-in Mexican maid walked into the
106 CHA P TER 6
room. Her presence worked like a cadmium rod in a nuclear reactor and
brought the two people back from the brink of explosion. My sister, her
friend, and her boyfriend dashed into my sister’s bedroom and slammed
the door behind them. I remained behind and turned on the television.
A pleasant warm breeze streamed westward from the desert, reinvigo-

rating the well-trodden grass around our driveway. In the air hovered the
never ceasing buzz of bees and the metallic ringing of sprinklers. The
smell of honeysuckle mixed with the acrid scent of seawater. Quartz
crystals embedded in our house’s facade glittered in the sun.
Inside, while waiting for the party guests to arrive, my father went
over the plans for his new office. He had already purchased space in the
professional building. The complex was to have four examining rooms,
an X-ray suite, a laboratory, a lavishly decorated waiting room, a business
office, a wood-paneled private office with an ocean view, a consulting
room, a library, three bathrooms, and a kitchenette. The furniture was to
be all Duncan Phyfe.
The new office was my father’s dream. It went hand in hand with his
dream of being a doctor. Like my grandfather, my father loved being a
doctor. But unlike my grandfather, my father’s sense of identity as a
doctor was perfectly in sync with the American ideal. As a nod to science,
my father always wore a white lab coat in his office. Indeed, he owned six
white lab coats. As a nod to technology, my father always kept his stetho-
scope in his coat pocket, and always so that it was visible, even on days
when he knew he wouldn’t need the instrument, because he believed it
was part of the doctor’s uniform. Also, my father had specialized and
become a hematologist. In his role as benefactor, my father gave free care
to the poor and never advertised (even after physician advertising became
legal in 1975), but, unlike my grandfather, he hustled, building himself a
nice independent practice. In his role as gentleman, my father talked with
patients without lecturing them (as my grandfather had). He was also
discreet with patients, sometimes even a little mysterious and impassive,
radiating a polished aloofness that he had purposely acquired over the
years to keep patients at a distance, and that patients seemed to appre-
ciate, as it made him seem like a doctor and not just any person off the
street.
Small things, but to my father they summed you up as a doctor.

The décor of his new office was impregnated with all these themes.
The office was to have a library of medical journals, complete with back
issues, to remind patients that there, in science, lay the springs from
whence medicine drew its strength. The examining rooms were to have
the latest equipment, each machine so beautiful that nothing else was
needed in terms of decoration. Indeed, the chastity of the technical style
worked on the principle that the essence of the thing not be spoiled with
anything extraneous; the machines were the objects for which patients
came, so it made sense that only they be there. The waiting room, by
contrast, was faux European gentleman, evoking a blend of old manor
house covered with ivy, transoceanic steamer, and Versailles, and pur-
posely conveying to patients a sense of solidity and gravitas. When talk-
ing with patients in the similarly furnished consulting room, my father
would be as a landed proprietor, walking over his estates and talking with
his tenants, learning the real state of feelings and needs.
What the office was not was a tribute to money. Some business offices
are explicit tributes to money, more specifically to the cleverness, bold-
ness, and ruthlessness that created the fortunes that made the offices
possible. Such offices awe people while also reminding them of the ele-
mental unfairness in life. My father’s office strove for the opposite feel-
ing, to carry people on wings into a world where money is secondary and
to lure them away from capitalist thoughts with allusions to distant times
and places where thoughtful benefactors once existed.
My mother was conflicted about the new office. On the one hand, she
took her identity as a doctor’s wife as seriously as my father took his
identity as a doctor. She volunteered regularly at the hospital. She felt like
an important personage when patients muttered under their breaths as she
passed by, “You see that lady? She’s a doctor’s wife.” Sometimes she
would go to the hospital early, leaving me to get to school on my own.
(As a nine-year-old, before I could tell time, the end of a particular
television show was my cue to depart when my mother was absent.) My
mother also appreciated a nice office. But the memory of her father’s
office sometimes pulled her in the opposite direction. She admired her
father, and if a shabby office was good enough for him, it was good
enough for anyone, she thought. Still, she did admire success.
She also feared that my father wouldn’t get enough patients to fill all
those new examining rooms, and that his investment would go south. She
108 CHA P TER 6
knew my father. She knew he was weird. His jokes were often corny or
silly. He once showed me a slide presentation that he was preparing for
the local medical society. Inserted between two slides of medical data
was a slide of a naked young woman lying on the beach. “Now how did
that get in there?” Dad laughed with mock surprise. When I asked him
why he had put that slide in, he quipped, “Wakes up the audience.” Nor
was my father a back-slapper. He liked classical music more than sports.
The other doctors blackballed him from their local fraternity. To make
matters worse (and unbeknownst to herself), my mother was also weird.
She had a wicked sense of humor that scared the other doctors’ wives,
putting a limit on how much she could coax them to get their husbands to
refer cases to my father. None of this prevented my father from building a
medical practice and making a good living. But filling four examining
rooms with patients, all day, every day, was a stretch given both my
parents’ personalities.
The guests started coming up the walkway, all doctors and their wives.
I was inside the house, lying belly down on the orange-red shag carpet,
vigilantly watching television. I heard a dog bark, then the front door
swing open, followed by a loud “Hello!” but my eyes never left the
screen. A minute later, I overheard one guest telling her husband, “That’s
the Dworkin boy.”
“Hello, Ron, how are you?” she asked me.
“Okay,” I replied, without turning my head.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Outside.”
The woman tried to engage me in conversation. “Your mother told me
that you’re going to be a doctor, just like your father. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I replied reflexively, my eyes still glued to the screen.
“Are you going to be an internist like your father?”
“Yes,” I replied, without moving my head.
From the other side of the room, I heard the screen door slide on its
rudder, followed by a torrent of words that made me shudder.
“Quit watching television and go swim with your sister!” my mother
shrilled with her special mixture of affection and anger, although I also
detected a sliver of anxiety in her tone. I picked myself up off the carpet
and slinked toward the backyard, incapable of offering her any opposi-
tion.
I jumped into the pool. My sister and her boyfriend were kissing each
other in the deep end. More guests arrived. Every few minutes I would
reach for the tray of potato chips and onion dip, tasting the tang of onion,
salt, and chlorine on my fingers as I listened to the conversation around
me.
“You have to raise your rate every year, regardless of whether the
insurance companies pay it,” I overheard an older doctor telling a young-
er one.
“Why?” the younger doctor asked.
“That’s how you keep up your financial profile,” said the older doctor.
“Even if just one insurance company pays your rate, you can tell the other
insurance companies, ‘See, this is what I’m getting. If you don’t pay me
my rate, then at least pay me close to it.’ And raising your rate is good for
all of us. It keeps the financial profile for the whole region high.”
My mother, another doctor, and his wife were talking about my
father’s new office.
“I hear your husband is building a new office,” the doctor asked my
mother.
“Yes,” my mother replied with a snide tone of voice. “That’s all he
ever talks about. As for me, I could care less.” Instinct caused her to look
over toward my father. With a nervous chuckle, she added, “Oops, I think
he overheard me. See? He’s looking over here with his big bug eyes.” She
left to go talk to my father. I listened to more conversation.
“It’s quite an office, I hear,” said the wife.
“Is he breaking through a main wall?” the doctor asked with real
interest.
“I think so,” the wife replied.
“Well, then, it really is a big project. Where did he get the money?”
the doctor wondered.
“I don’t know. At any rate, someone doesn’t spare expense,” the wife
said.
My father was angry because they had run out of ice. He yelled at my
mother as she clawed for cubes in the most remote corners of the freezer.
“Damn you!” he whispered to her, hanging over the top of the freezer
door.
My father had no choice: he had to ask my sister’s boyfriend to go to
the store for more ice. “Sure,” the boyfriend replied dumbly. “I’d do
anything for you guys. I love your daughter.” My father grimaced. The
110 CHA P TER 6
boyfriend hopped on his motorcycle and sped away. Ten minutes later, he
revved up his bike’s engine to announce his return, his dog barking and
competing with the bike’s stuttering, backfiring roar for my father’s at-
tention.
An hour later my father noticed the party was also short on dessert.
Again, my father yelled at my mother, but this time he went to the store
himself. When my father returned, the boyfriend’s dog, which had been
sunning itself on a patch of ground, leaped up and fastened its teeth on
my father’s pant leg. My father howled and thrust the dog off with his
free hand. Endeavoring to keep to his feet, he dragged himself toward the
front door. He stumbled into the house and poured out a torrent of angry
words at my mother.
Later that evening, after the guests had left, my father yelled at my
mother about my sister’s boyfriend, the dog, and the botched party. The
screaming was horrible. “Close the window, or the neighbors will hear,”
my mother said. My father purposely opened the window even more and
shouted into the world, “I don’t give a goddamn if the neighbors hear!”
My mother returned fire. Finally, my father declared, “That’s it! I’m
leaving!” Driven at full speed toward an act predetermined in the depths
of his consciousness, and for over a decade desired in his heart of hearts,
he raced into the bedroom and emptied his drawers in three armfuls,
placing everything onto the bed. Then he opened his side of the closet and
snatched a large suitcase he had been storing for just this moment. He
threw his clothes and shoes into the suitcase, closed it, and grabbed four
suits on their hangers.
“Where are you going?” my mother asked.
“To find happiness,” my father answered.
From behind, my mother shouted caustically, “Find happiness? Good
luck! It’s the same everywhere, stupid!”
My father stormed out of the house. From the open doorway, my
mother shouted, “Why are you leaving? Just because your daughter has a
damned boyfriend?”
Leaning out his car door window, the gray Buick Riviera gliding
slowly in reverse down the driveway, my father declared, “I’m leaving
because killing would be too good for you!”
Life changed little for my mother. A week after my father left, she
played tennis with another doctor’s wife while I sat nearby on a bench.
The two women rallied for thirty minutes, then played a set. My mother
was the better player and should have won, but she lost on purpose (she
later told me) to butter up her opponent. Afterward the two women and I
sat down to lunch.
“Everything okay?” my mother’s opponent asked her. “Seemed like
you were struggling out there.”
“It’s a difficult time,” my mother replied, sounding melancholy. Then
she explained how my father had left the house.
“No! Really?” the tennis partner asked.
“Yes, it’s true,” my mother uttered despondently.
“That rat!” the tennis partner declared.
“My life is lousy right now,” my mother declared in a high nasal wail.
“It’s unfair, isn’t it? My children are fatherless, I’m left all alone, but his
life is untouched.”
“We’ll see about that!” the tennis partner shouted.
Within three months my father had lost 20 percent of his patient vol-
ume. Each of his referral sources gave him the same explanation: “It’s not
me. It’s my wife. She’s mad because you walked out. She won’t let me
send any patients your way—and she works in the office, so she’ll
know!” Even the Catholic sisters at my father’s hospital, who often re-
ceived phone calls from patients asking for the name of a good doctor,
and who would suggest my father, stopped referring to him. “Awful, isn’t
it?” they reacted angrily. “Such a nice family, with three beautiful chil-
dren, and he just ups and leaves.”
A month later, my father could take no more and returned home. On
his first evening back he crawled out of his car and walked toward the
front door. The dog belonging to my sister’s boyfriend was chained to a
pipe nearby. The dog snarled at him, straining at the leash, eager to bite
into his flesh. The animal turned back only when my father opened the
front door. Upon entering the house my father heard my sister’s bedroom
door slam shut, then the pop of his own bedroom door being banged
closed. He went into the kitchen and made dinner for himself. He ate the
meal slowly, blinking moodily. I was engrossed in watching television
ten feet away and never once bothered to say hello.
112 CHA P TER 6
In southern California, a hamburger isn’t just a thing. It’s like a flag or

the Bible. It has spiritual value. The smell itself forms an inescapable
background to life in the region, quite unlike anything smelled elsewhere,
a composite of various odors inextricably mingled with one another.
There is the scent of burned fat and fresh buns. Add to this the aroma of
warm asphalt and burned gasoline, and the odor of pool chlorine and
ocean water, which somehow cling to the hamburgers as they’re served.
Given the high density of hamburger shops in southern California, the
pleasing, pungent flavor pervades the entire region.
About a year after my father returned home he took some of the
Catholic sisters and me out for hamburgers. He would often take the
sisters places—for example, to concerts or to the opera—in part to stay on
their good side and to keep the referrals coming, but also because he truly
liked them and thought it a nice gesture.
I got to know several of the sisters over the years. One tiny sister in
charge of the chapel would waft from room to room like a feather, her
little nose scrunched up in a big smile. Her massive headpiece seemed
unwieldy for her, as her whole upper body swayed in whatever direction
the headpiece leaned, making her look more out of this world than most
sisters. Another sister loved professional football, and she would pass me
newspaper clippings of her favorite players. She admired a good tackle or
a rush up the middle, but when she described them her words rang with a
tender tinkle. A third sister grew up Baptist in the South, later converting
to Catholicism. Her spectacles magnified her round, brown eyes, giving
her an open and honest look, while the crucifix around her neck swayed
in the air whenever she bent down to clasp my forearm with her soft
hand. A fourth sister wore on her habit an image of a crown of thorns
dripping red blood. She often took long walks around the hospital, which
was in a bad neighborhood, and therefore dangerous, but the bloody
crown was probably her best protection, as young hoodlums assumed she
was the den mother of some violent gang, with the crown as its logo, a
hint of the gruesome fate that awaited them if they dared to attack her.
My father both liked and needed the sisters, and he had good reason to
keep them happy. The sisters, in turn, had good reason to keep the doctors
happy, since the latter brought patients to the hospital, and they routinely
fawned over them. A doctor would enter the hospital through a special
entrance. There, every morning, he would be greeted with homemade
rolls and donuts, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and butter rolled into little
balls. A doctor could take as many buns as he wanted, then sit down on a
plush sofa chair and with his free hand pick through the various news-
papers and magazines lying on the coffee table, all neatly arranged by a
sister before dawn. More food made by the sisters would follow him
around the rest of the day—to the dictation room (the sisters’ way of
coaxing him to keep his charts up to date), to the conference room, and to
the special room in the cafeteria reserved for physicians, which also
served free homemade soup.
My father and I walked into the convent to pick up the sisters. For the
first and only time, I saw its insides, including a small eating area. The
cleanliness, the absence of clutter, and the small plates for small portions
all spoke of the absence of men in the sisters’ lives. The sisters moved
around slowly in their habits. It was hard to imagine any of them having
once run around in a child’s body, young and well.
But some of the sisters did have mischievous spirits. On the way to the
restaurant one sister wore a new soft headpiece, and she was glad about it,
complaining that the hard one had kept her from driving all these years. It
wasn’t against the law, she said, but the Department of Motor Vehicles
had told her it was dangerous. The hard headpiece had also kept her from
eating a hamburger because the tight band under her jaw cramped her
mouth, keeping it from opening wide enough to get the hamburger in. “I
haven’t had a hamburger since before I was a Catholic,” she half-joked.
She also said the hard headpiece left a permanent crease on her forehead.
We arrived at the restaurant and ordered. Everyone was so happy with
expectation that it seemed almost sinful. I imagined the devil himself
back in the kitchen, roasting the burgers on the grill. I imagined the grill
with myself frying on it, blistering hot, flames all around, the oil scorch-
ing my skin. A shiver went down my back.
I asked the sisters more questions. I asked them if they ever had
birthday parties. They said the sisters held a party for another sister only
on her namesake’s feast day. Since a sister’s old identity evaporated once
she took her final vows, her actual birthday was ignored. I asked them if
they ever went swimming. They said the company that made their habits
also made special bathing suits for them. I told the sister with the soft
headpiece that I liked it better than the hard one. The sister laughed, “I do
too. Those hard ones make us look like creatures from outer space. They
scare people. I try telling them not to worry, and that we sisters don’t just
grab anybody we bump into. There’s got to be some sin involved. But
114 CHA P TER 6
that just makes them more afraid. You’d think I was going to shoot them
with a ray gun.”
The half-pound cheeseburgers arrived five minutes later, diapered in
wax paper to dam up all the drippings. One of the sisters stared in aston-
ishment. She could have never fit one into her mouth wearing the old stiff
headpiece, she said. She crossed herself hastily so as to separate herself
from animals who simply grub for their food in the wild. Another sister
picked up her cheeseburger gingerly, as though it might explode.
In between bites I asked the sisters why some of them wore long
habits and others wore shorter ones, above the ankles. The sisters grew
silent. Something about my question seemed to bother them. One of them
said it was just the fashion, and then she quickly changed the subject.
Years later, I discovered that the shortening of the habits, along with
softening of the headpieces, the two weeks’ vacation that some sisters
wanted, and the right to live outside the convent and the right to serve a
visitor a cup of coffee without getting permission from the Mother Super-
ior, were all hotly contested issues among Catholic sisters during this
period. Even Pope John Paul II had weighed in, attempting to reverse the
trend toward disintegration in America’s convent communities by reem-
phasizing the importance of wearing the habit, living in the convent, and
practicing the vow of obedience. The sisters were living a centuries-old
system of life, but for the first time they were doing so self-consciously;
they were looking at their lives from the outside, scrutinizing them, judg-
ing them, thinking them hard and a bit unfair, and for this reason the
whole system was rotting and waiting for the jolt that would bring it all
crashing down.
Both the medical profession and the Dworkin family household faced
analogous threats.
The following year, in mid-September, a hot, dry, boisterous Santa

Ana wind blew down from the mountains. The thirsty earth steamed. My
hometown was like a furnace, and one spark in the dry scrub would have
set the whole city aflame. Dogs and cats moped across the bare and
unhappy asphalt. A puddle of rust-colored water on the sidewalk seemed
to them like an oasis. Outside the professional building that housed my
father’s new office, a flag flapped violently on its pole, sounding to
passersby like a great chained bird beating its wings with all its strength,
desperate to get away.
My father and I were on the sixth floor surveying an examination
room in his new office. The machines were beautiful to look at. The EKG
monitor, the diathermy machine, the blood pressure monitor, the scanner,
the microscope, the incubator, and the X-ray machine—all were nickel-
plated and streamlined; some sat on special polished platforms. The con-
trol panels had only a few buttons to press. Machines simply decorated,
but on closer inspection therein lay their distinctiveness. Here were ma-
chines for the rest of your life, machines for the average man, machines
for princes. Never will these machines be out of fashion, I thought. Never
will they grow old, just as diamonds and emeralds never grow old.
My father walked over to his new waiting room and smiled proudly at
the furnishings. A dignified lamp sat atop a cherry wood stand, the legs of
which meandered gracefully toward a Persian carpet on the floor. Fine
red leather sofas and chairs dotted the rugscape. Enormous ficus plants
sat in white marble pots with gold handles. On the wallpaper hung several
elegant paintings with ocean themes, along with a few cozy works
painted by my sister when she was nine. My father saw real handiwork in
his decorating; some doctors might even want to study with him, he said.
He almost seemed to regret that his work, which really ought to be placed
on public view somewhere, was instead going to be seen only by a small
group of people with leukemia and cancer.
My father was smiling for another reason. Although his home life was
as bad as ever, something had changed. He couldn’t quite put his finger
on it, but he had noticed that doctors’ wives had less control in directing
their husbands’ referrals. Something about the new insurance system,
something called “managed care,” where bureaucrats now decided where
patients went. Doctors’ wives had lost power in other ways. He had heard
about a recent hospital board meeting where a businessman had discussed
ways to improve the hospital’s finances. When a doctor’s wife suggested
improving the food in the cafeteria (which had always worked before),
the businessman laughed with derision and dropped fancy abbreviations
that no one had ever heard of, such as PPO, HMO, and ERISA. Then he
mocked the poor woman, announcing to the room that the quality of the
chicken in the cafeteria no longer drove health care.
In the past, for financial reasons, my father had been too afraid to
leave my mother. But now, standing in his waiting room thinking about
116 CHA P TER 6
how much he loved medicine, but also how he had used medicine to
divert his mind from his hatred of my mother, how he had thrown himself
into the task of building a beautiful office, how he had moved the furni-
ture about personally, and yet every evening, as soon as the bustle of the
work day had subsided and the time came to go home, the mere thought
that there, in the bedroom, like a vulture on a grave mound, sat my
mother, frowning and terrible, causing him to feel weak in the pit of his
stomach and all his energy to go out of his movements . . . yes, while
thinking all this he was smiling. He knew he had the courage to leave.
My father and I returned home an hour later for another party. The
doctors and their wives began to arrive. My sister was already treading
water in the pool. The sun stared stubbornly in the sky.
I overheard snippets of conversation.
“Did you hear what happened to [some doctor’s wife] last week?” the
first woman asked a small crowd.
“No, what happened?”
“She was home alone when a burglar came through the side door. She
fled upstairs to the bedroom and got out her husband’s gun. The burglar
followed her upstairs, and she shot him in the leg! Can you believe it?
There was blood all over the marble floor, the police raced over . . .”
“What? They have marble on the second floor?” a second woman
exclaimed.
The first woman telling the story looked stunned by the response, but
others followed the second woman’s lead.
“I’m surprised,” a third woman said, turning up her nose. “I didn’t
think her husband was that successful.”
“I’m sure a rich relative helped them,” added one of the doctors.
“Helped them how? Paid for the marble floor?” interrupted the second
woman.
“Most likely.”
“I don’t know,” a fourth woman said. “They’re adding on, I hear. I
don’t know if a relative would pay for an addition, too.”
Life tensed thirty minutes later when a divorced woman walked
through the door. She had been the wife of a very successful doctor, his
practice a well-stocked hatchery from which to refer patients at will. My
mother often imagined herself a queen, but this doctor’s wife, she had
once told me, was the “queen of the queens.” That was all over now.
Although there was no longer any business reason to invite this woman,
my mother had done so out of pity.
Some of the other guests were less welcoming. Before her marriage,
the divorced woman had been a nurse. As a doctor’s wife she had vaulted
to greater status. After the divorce she had gone back to being a nurse—
and in those days inviting a nurse to a doctors’ party constituted a major
social breach. Although doctors and unmarried nurses stood firmly with
one another on the wards, their social lives never mingled, and neither the
doctors nor their wives thought unmarried nurses were entitled to such
equality. Indeed, at all the parties my parents threw or that my parents
took me to, I never saw an unmarried nurse at any of them except this one
time. A nurse had to be married to a doctor to attain the necessary social
rank.
Many of the guests were rude to this woman. The doctors shunned her.
Some of the wives feared her, for she reminded them of what might
happen to them some day. They treated her the way pack animals aban-
don a wounded comrade in the forest. Other wives gloated, their body
language saying, “Ah, girl, you failed in life.” Already the party atmos-
phere was muted. In southern California, a Santa Ana wind drives people
to water, but it also drives them apart; it makes life unmerciful, and
people start to care only about themselves and how to get cooler. The
presence of the divorced doctor’s wife made the party atmosphere that
much more sullen.
That night my parents had another fight. It was so loud that one of the
teenagers next door yelled, “Shut up!” from over the fence dividing their
house from ours. The party had been a failure, but I don’t think either of
my parents cared about that anymore. “I’m sick of these people!” I heard
my mother shout. The next day my father moved out for good.
Finished, the comforting thought passed through my mind.
Two years later, my father’s medical practice was in deep trouble. He

didn’t have enough patients to pay for his overhead. The office lease
alone was killing him. The insurance industry’s new dominance, in the
form of managed care, was the problem. It affected not only how much
doctors were paid but also whether they had any patients at all. And
managed care had powerful allies, especially in government. Federal leg-
118 CHA P TER 6
islation had earmarked millions of dollars for the development of man-

aged care. Later, in 1982, California state government would make en-
rollment in a managed care program mandatory for all Medicaid patients.
Meanwhile, the federal government had removed all barriers from man-
aged care’s involvement in Medicare. The very mechanism that had al-
lowed my father to leave my mother spelled doom for his career. He had
gained his freedom, but at the price of a world.
Other doctors were in the same boat. And not just doctors were af-
fected. The Catholic sisters also felt their power ebbing away. Once in
charge of their hospital, they increasingly ceded control to professional
businesspeople (often men). When Catholic sisters brought up their long-
standing commitment to the community, businesspeople were usually
milder in their criticism compared to their treatment of the doctors’
wives. They said the sisters, at least, remained a “useful marketing tool”
for the hospital. Yet the old business model—build a professional office
building, entice doctors to come, pamper them, worship them, give them
their own room in the cafeteria to dine in, and they’ll bring the patients—
was dead. It didn’t matter if the sisters put a doctor’s office in the middle
of the chapel; patients weren’t going there unless the insurance compa-
nies let them.
My father was despondent, but on this particular day his troubles
struck him like a piano falling from an open window and crushing him to
the ground. Once a year, his father (my grandfather) came out to Califor-
nia for a visit. The man had emigrated from Russia to Canada in 1912. To
make a living he had owned a small candy shop. He had never finished
high school, while his wife, already dead, had been illiterate. This man
was incredibly proud of his son. During his visits to California, he would
put on his best suit and go sit in the waiting room of my father’s office, all
day, and gaze at the beautiful furnishings, feeling himself to be somehow
connected to them. Whenever patients came in and sat down, he would
find a way to strike up a conversation with them and talk to them about
their problems, and then tell them that his son was their doctor and would
help them. There was something magnificent and touching in the pride of
this old man, worn out by hard work and life in general, yet ready at any
moment to tell someone that his offspring was more than just a speck of
dust in the universe but, on the contrary, a son who had made good. My
father knew how his father felt about him, and the actual truth of his
situation tore at his heart.
That evening my father took me to a meeting of the local medical

society. He was already in a bad mood. The topic of discussion was
“managed care.”
We got off the freeway and drove west along the street toward the
hotel where the meeting was being held. Upon arriving, I noticed anxiety
on the doctors’ faces. Managed care threatened them all alike. In their
daydreams some of them gave managed care a face, picturing it in their
minds as a one-eyed giant marching across town, grabbing doctors, chok-
ing them, squeezing them to death with its cold, unfeeling fingers.
I heard snatches of conversation going on around me.
“Managed care is taking over everywhere,” one doctor moaned.
“Where did you hear that?” another doctor asked through a mouthful
of donut.
“I read it in a magazine,” the first doctor replied. Then he added, “And
they say nurses are going to be running everything. No more doctors.”
“So what do we do?” asked the second doctor, still chewing.
“I don’t know. But we have to fight.”
The guest speaker was an insurance company executive trying to get
the doctors on board with the new order. Tall and immaculately dressed
in a gray suit, with fearless blue eyes, he looked like a colonel, and before
uttering a word he posed in a picture-postcard attitude, his arms crossed,
his face expressing great confidence, as if preparing to give orders with
the expectation of being obeyed. His whole presentation was an indica-
tion of the insurance companies’ might.
He outlined the present situation, touching briefly on rising medical
costs, the inability of employers to pay their insurance premiums, and the
problem of the uninsured. Playing to the crowd, he criticized and mocked
the very idea of socialized medicine. Then he outlined what he called “the
third way”—managed care—that would preempt government interven-
tion, although it would alter how doctors organized their practices and got
paid. This part of the speech was quite technical, filled with such terms as
“preferred provider,” “capitation,” and “point of entry,” and it confused
the doctors, almost as if on purpose. Many of the doctors in the room
grew suspicious. Although only a few of them could grasp the details of
what the speaker was saying, they sensed the main thing, which was a
threat to the old ways of doing things. Almost immediately there was a
shout:
“Explain to us about ‘capitation’!”
120 CHA P TER 6
Hardly had the speaker finished his complicated explanation when

another shout arose:
“We don’t understand what you’re talking about. We’re not econo-
mists here. Use simpler words.”
A howl of scorn arose from the assembly. The speaker’s head turned
this way and that, studying the doctors attentively and waiting until they
were quiet. His first feeling of certainty that the doctors would welcome
managed care to escape the threat of socialized medicine had passed, and,
realizing the doctors’ mood, he knew that a serious fight loomed.
A doctor in the audience attacked him in a personal way, telling him
that he knew nothing about taking care of patients, that empty words were
coming out of his mouth like soap bubbles, and that all he really cared
about was making money. The insurance executive shot back vauntingly,
and with a scornful look, that doctors wanted to make money, too. The
doctors in the room fell silent; some of their faces clouded over. For the
first time in their lives they had seen an insurance man who dared to
insult a doctor in public. Used to deference from businesspeople, they
stared back in astonishment.
The speaker left the podium. As he passed by, the doctors glared at
him, while he, in turn, hid his disdain for them behind a smile. Afterward,
the doctors herded together into clusters to share their contempt and
apprehension with one another.
They could be broken down into three groups according to their shade
of panic.
The first group consisted of foreign doctors who were born in authori-
tarian countries, had fled to America as adults, and were afraid of politics.
Habitually passive in the face of conflict, their instinct was not to fight
but to pray. Many of them wore gold chains around their necks, not to
show off their wealth, but because in their home countries troublemakers
were often jailed or shot; a person might have to flee at a minute’s notice,
and gold chains were a proven way of bribing a border guard. These men
came to America to live in peaceful obscurity, to make as much money as
possible, until the moment the authorities told them they couldn’t make
any more, at which point they would steal away with whatever loot they
had and thank the authorities for sparing their lives. They were easy to
spot in the large room, not because of their accents, but because they
looked like mice, the way their eyes darted and glanced, and their whisk-
ers twitched, suspiciously sniffing the air and looking around the room
carefully, as if to check for the presence of a cat.
The second group consisted mostly of American-born doctors. Unlike
the doctors in the first group, these doctors wanted to fight managed care.
But how to fight? By what means? These doctors had long felt superior to
businessmen, and yet now, when faced with a real threat from business-
men, they were flummoxed. Although each of them had more than a
decade of advanced education and considered themselves privileged
members of the American elite, they were incapable of intrigue, having
never learned it, and even if they had learned it, they would have been
averse to using it, having long had a feeling of fastidiousness about con-
flicts over money and power. These doctors were educated, successful,
and polished; yet in some ways they had never really progressed beyond
childhood—they spoke fighting words, but they were incapable of
clenching their fingers into a fist and striking.
The third group included both American-born and foreign-born doc-
tors. Shrewd men, they felt all the pulses of life and understood politics.
They knew how to fight and how to hit hard, but they also knew when to
fight, especially those doctors from authoritarian countries who had
learned by experience. Had they been faced with such a crisis back home,
they would have carefully maneuvered themselves into positions of pow-
er over the doctors in the first and second groups, not through bluster, but
rather through strategy and cunning. Like the other doctors in the room,
they hated managed care, having grown rich on traditional fee-for-service
medicine. But they did not have the same self-satisfied arrogance about
being doctors as doctors in the second group. On the contrary, rather than
feel contemptuous toward businessmen, they saw themselves as business-
men; whether to fight managed care was purely a financial calculation on
their part, and not a question of defending the medical profession’s so-
called honor. Since managed care appeared inevitable, some of these
doctors were actually thinking of giving into it, joining it—now, before it
was too late—with the goal of running the whole thing in five years.
A doctor from the second group went up to the podium to speak. He
was tall, white, and elegantly dressed, in his late sixties, wearing a navy
blue suit, a white cotton shirt, and an Ivy League tie. With his chest held
high, he declared:
“We don’t want managed care. It only brings shoddy medicine. And
we won’t allow a bunch of businesspeople to take care of our patients, to
122 CHA P TER 6
make a mockery of the Hippocratic Oath, and to desecrate the sanctity of

the doctor-patient relationship.”
The hall broke into thunderclaps. Handsome despite his years, with his
hair a distinguished gray, his posture erect, and his face expressing deter-
mination and pride, the speaker looked like a leader. He went on:
“We have to stand together and fight, not negotiate. I’ll never sign a
managed care contract.” The audience clapped again. It did their hearts
good to look at him. He was an icon, not a doctor. Several shouts were
heard:
“To hell with managed care!”
“Keep things the way they are!”
The speaker continued, many in the audience staring at him in admira-
tion, even envy. He was elected to chair the committee responsible for
fighting managed care. Around eight o’ clock, the meeting broke up and
all the doctors left the room, many of them confident that their fate had
passed into good hands, that this distinguished, elegantly dressed man
with the erect posture would destroy managed care and they could go
back to business as usual.
My father also seemed reassured, as he always had had a feeling of
fluttering respect for WASP physicians. But for some reason, while driv-
ing home, his confidence left him and he began to panic.
“My God,” he moaned, “how everything changes. I finally have my
office, and now this trouble comes along.” Then he yelled at me, “What’s
the name of that fancy college you want to go to?”
“Swarthmore,” I replied.
“Well, it’s too expensive. Who do you think you are? The Prince of
Wales?” he snapped. Then he returned to his own problems, and sighed,
“What’s the point of it all? Maybe nothing matters . . .”
He dropped me off at the old house. Gradually, my mind drifted back
to the image of the tall handsome physician with the noble bearing and
neatly combed gray hair, and I felt better, thinking maybe there was hope
after all.
There was no hope. The tall physician with the gray hair could not
save my father or the medical profession. My father’s practice dwindled
over the next five years, until he was forced to abandon his office alto-
gether and sell its furnishings. Unable to work as a solo practitioner in the
new managed care environment, he applied for full-time salaried posi-
tions but was unable to secure one despite his experience. His odd person-
ality was likely a factor. After working here and there, he retired from
medicine early, which depressed him, as he loved being a doctor. His
back grew bent, as if a stone hung around his neck; he spent most of his
time in a chair. It was sad to see this man, who for decades had stood
ready at the drop of a hat to rush to a patient’s aid, and whose very nature
of life had accustomed him to continual movement, end his days of mo-
tion in the enforced sitting of retirement, marking time in one spot. He
died in 2002 an unhappy man.
My mother suffered through the travails of being an ex-doctor’s wife.
“A dethroned queen,” she called herself. No more party invitations came.
Sometimes she would ask me to drive her past a doctor’s house on an
evening when a party was being held there. I would park the car on the
street and let her stare at the house and listen to the laughter coming from
inside and remember how it all once was. As I pulled away, a strange
force would twist her neck and turn it back in the house’s direction. The
low point came at a wedding reception when she was forced to sit at a
table in the back reserved for ex-doctors’ wives. All the “rejects,” she
moaned pathetically. A kind of mini-leper colony. Fortunately, she was
able to turn her misfortune into a career as a social worker, which she
excelled at.
My grandfather’s career as a physician began in failure and ended in
success. My father’s career began in success and ended in failure. The
pivot around which both men’s lives moved was the American ideal of
the doctor. My grandfather could not adapt to that ideal. My father em-
braced it at the moment it began to unravel.
In the 1970s and 1980s, the physician ideal was attacked from every
angle. As part scientist, the doctor was increasingly viewed as someone
cold and heartless, and more interested in slotting patients into treatment
categories than in listening to them. As part technician, the doctor was
thought to be more interested in gadgetry than in people. Worse, gadgetry
made medicine too expensive. Gadgetry was also something that non-
MDs could master, making it easier for nurses and other health care
professionals to challenge physician control. As part gentleman, the doc-
tor was seen as protecting his monopoly against the intrusion of women
and minorities into the profession. As part benefactor, well, doctors
124 CHA P TER 6
seemed to be as money-hungry as everyone else, and posing as benefac-

tors simply made them look like hypocrites.
As the vision collapsed, professional medicine broke down again into
competing schools, each declaiming on behalf of the scientist, the techni-
cian, the gentleman, or the benefactor. It was a rehash of the same fight
American doctors had a century before. I watched this drama play out as a
resident (described in this book’s first chapter).
The story of my grandfather and father bears directly on the problem
of medical catastrophes.
First, both my grandfather and my father were oddballs. Despite this,
they were still able to practice medicine. In the new order, as doctors
move from being independent practitioners to being dependent employ-
ees, on salary, they have less freedom to be oddballs. Oddball doctors
sometimes even have difficulty finding good jobs. The system today
prefers doctors who are good “company people,” even though good com-
pany people do not necessarily make safe doctors.
Second, the politics of medicine were once quite interesting, even
comical, because all the different players in medicine shared power. The
doctors, the doctors’ wives, the nurses, the Catholic sisters, the hospitals,
and the insurance companies—each group had some power, but no group
held all the power. Along with the silliness, real heartwarming social
behavior flowed out of this way of life—for example, doctors sending
expensive Christmas gifts every year to other doctors, or doctors giving
the children of other doctors their first summer jobs. Some friendships
were true; others were anchored in self-interest, an exchange of favors.
But taken altogether, the silliness and the sweetness, the friendly gestures
and the self-interested ones, humanized the practice of medicine.
Such charm and delicate sentiments waned when doctors became sala-
ried employees. So did any feeling of independence. Immaculately
dressed, clear-thinking businesspeople with all the facts before them took
command. They spoke in geometric terms about human affairs, such as
“the organizational processes affecting the annual case load,” and so
forth. They called doctors “providers.” They threatened those providers
with dismissal if they judged their performance to be inadequate. Health
care itself became organized like a pyramid, with a corporate or hospital
entity employing doctors and nurses, and enjoying the lion’s share of
power. While a pyramidal system is often successful administratively, it
poses risks to patients clinically.
Third, both my father and my grandfather loved being doctors. To

them, doctoring was more than just a job. It was an object of affection
that they feared being torn away from. This attitude is less prevalent
today. Many physicians now do think of doctoring as a job. This de-
creases the risk of medical catastrophes in some ways but in other ways
raises it.
Each of these points will be discussed in the next three chapters.
7
WHEN DOCTORS LOSE CONTROL OF

THEIR OWN PERSONALITIES
Early in my career, I knew an anesthesiologist named Dr. F. In his mid-

fifties, originally from somewhere in the Caucasus, he was short, stout,
and hairy, with a remarkable gift for making people feel warm and happy.
His casual, free-and-easy way came not from any political conviction but
from the simple fact that he liked people more than places, and places
more than ideas. He found everyone interesting, listened attentively to
their problems as if they were worthy of a memoir, and smiled sincerely.
His only defect from the perspective of conventional morality was that he
ogled pretty women. People knew how he was, but they gave him a pass,
in part because he was so likeable but also because he was consistent; it
was mostly change that caught people’s attention and made them ner-
vous. Had Dr. F once been a choirboy who started ogling women only
recently, people would have complained. But his behavior was as it had
always been. With his reputation established quick and early, and having
been at the hospital for over twenty years, he and his antics were viewed
as part of the normal backdrop of life.
One day, I walked into the operating room to give Dr. F a break. A
young woman lay on the operating table half asleep, her strong muscular
legs hanging in stirrups and slightly contracting against the force of grav-
ity, her thin blue gown barely concealing her large bosom, which pro-
truded upward and outward. The gynecologist, a short, weedy, bald man
with a pencil neck, sat on a stool inches away from the patient’s bottom,
127
128 CHA P TER 7
his head framed by the patient’s legs, impatiently waiting to perform a D

and C.
“Ah, young man, a break for me? You’re a good fellow,” Dr. F ex-
pounded, a broad smile tugging at the corners of his mask. “But first let
me put the EKG leads on,” he said, his eyes flickering sparks of lust.
“Is she asleep?” I asked him.
“Well, young man, that’s a good question,” he began, his large hairy
hand moving across the woman’s left breast, his fingers holding an EKG
pad and looking like the talons of a giant prehistoric bird. Dr. F paused
for a moment to concentrate, and then continued:
“Even when a woman is anesthetized, she’ll protect herself down
there, you know? Give her enough Pentothal to close her eyelids and
she’ll still snap her legs together faster than a clam in danger when
touched. Give her some more Pentothal so that she barely breathes. Her
legs drop nice and loose in the stirrups. You think you’re all set, but
watch and see, she’ll knock those legs together the instant she’s touched.
Give her some more Pentothal. Make her stop breathing altogether. Why,
she still shuts her legs—even when she’s turning blue! She’ll die before
opening those legs. Lord in Heaven! You’ve got to inject enough Pento-
thal to drop her blood pressure before she’ll surrender her honor. Amaz-
ing, isn’t it? I call it God’s protective reflex. He gave it to all women,
even the ugly ones—the Lord is just—to prevent men from taking advan-
tage of them. It’s wisdom for life, my boy.”
While Dr. F lectured, the gynecologist applied a sharp instrument to
the patient’s bottom without telling anyone. Suddenly the woman’s heart
rate jumped. Before Dr. F or I could react, the woman, although uncon-
scious, wrapped her legs around the surgeon’s neck and squeezed. Unable
to free himself, he cried for help. The operating room nurse tried to pry
the woman’s legs apart but failed. Things grew serious as the women’s
strong legs threatened to twist the surgeon’s head off its pedicle or choke
off his air supply. Almost by instinct Dr. F injected a slug of Pentothal
into the woman’s intravenous. Within ten seconds her legs relaxed and
the gynecologist escaped.
“Damn you, F!” cried the gynecologist.
“My boy, there you are! Just as I told you!” Dr. F joked, patting me on
the back. The nurse retreated to the back of the room, convulsing with
silent laughter.
WH E N DOC T ORS LOSE CONTROL OF THEIR OW N P ERSONA LITIES 129
The gynecologist shook his head to check for injury and then dove
back into work, too embarrassed to look around the room.
That was Dr. F.
The next day, a drug rep served lunch for the anesthesia department.
Everyone knew it would be a good meal, as catered lunches were once a
way for drug companies to entice doctors to use their products. There was
noticeable animation in the lounge when the rep walked in with four hot
trays wrapped in tin foil. People nimbly jockeyed for position around the
crowded table.
Dr. F ate three helpings. Afterward, fuddled by his heavy meal, he
quietly smiled. He had worked the previous night, and before lunch his
fatigue had been painfully apparent. Shakily had he made his way to the
lounge to eat, stumbling toward the door, moving in little spurts, as if
fighting a heavy wind. Now he sat contentedly in his chair, refreshed and
cheerful. A post-call doctor needs so little. He has only to get a bit farther
away from death and disease as usual, sit in a comfortable chair, eat a
good meal, and up it comes, the fast-ripening doctor’s happiness.
Dr. F’s next patient was waiting for him in the holding area. When he
rose to his feet he looked weary again, but joyfully so, almost giddy. He
wandered over to see his patient, a massively obese woman scheduled for
weight-reduction surgery. His bloodshot eyes looked a bit crazed as he
interviewed her. I listened in while waiting for my own patient to arrive.
“I’ve tried so hard to lose weight,” the woman wept halfway through
the interview.
“I know, dear, I know,” Dr. F cosseted her without restraint, putting
his hairy hand on her arm and stroking it. “But after the surgery, you’ll
look wonderful. You have such a lovely face. Why, when I saw you from
a distance I thought, ‘I don’t know what her name is, but she’s not just a
woman, she’s beauty itself!’” he said with conviction, although his
speech was slightly drunken-sounding.
“Really?” she replied, somewhat embarrassed.
“Now there’s no reason to be modest,” Dr. F went on delightedly, his
wide smile crinkling the dark circles under his eyes. “Why, you’re like
whipped butter! In a few months every man will be trying to spread you
on slices of bread and eat them.”
130 CHA P TER 7
“But I’ll still be big,” she moaned.

“Not big. Strong! That’s very attractive. Why, when I was a young
man I dated a first-class wrestler, in the top grade. Now, I was strong, too,
in those days. It was before I became a doctor. I could carry a rug on each
shoulder anywhere I liked, but even so this woman would get around me,
just above the knee, and by the shoulder, and she would flip me over and
pin me to the mattress. Oh, what a woman! Don’t worry. It was all done
with love. And if it hadn’t been for the war, I would have sat happily on a
branch with her for the rest of my life. We would have been like love
birds. But she found a young lieutenant . . .”
A nurse interrupted their conversation and told them it was time to go
back to the operating room.
Whistling softly to himself, Dr. F helped wheel the woman back to the
operating room and within five minutes had her asleep. With fatigue
creeping back over him, and so much food in his stomach, he grew sleepy
himself. Feeling cold he went out into the hall to get two blankets from
the warmer. He wrapped one around his shoulders and the second around
his waist. Then he nodded off. Toward the end of the case, he woke up
and rushed to catch up on his charting. Absent-mindedly, thinking of
other things, he injected morphine into the intravenous—a drug the pa-
tient had a known allergy to. Within minutes the woman turned beet red,
her blood pressure dropped, and her lungs tightened. Dr. F grew startled
and called for help, but by the time I and another doctor had rushed in, he
had injected adrenalin and remedied the situation.
In the recovery room the woman asked Dr. F why she was so red.
“I’m afraid you had an allergic reaction to the morphine,” he replied
sheepishly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she countered. “I think I told you about that. I’m
allergic to morphine. I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble. I’m so
sorry!”
Dr. F patted her hand and told her there was no need to apologize.
Afterward I whispered to him, “You give her a drug she’s allergic to and
she’s the one who apologizes?” Dr. F winked playfully and said nothing.
On one level, this story says something obvious about catastrophe
prevention: tired doctors are more likely to cause catastrophes than well-
rested ones are, especially in anesthesiology. Dr. F should have gone
home that morning and not put that patient to sleep. Yet this story also
says something important about doctor-patient relationships, and what it

means to be a doctor.
Patients will often accept a few mistakes from their doctors if their
doctors befriend them, as Dr. F befriended his. That’s because there’s
nothing more painful than ending a friendship. An injured patient eagerly
sues his doctor if his doctor treats him like an insignificant nothing. He
gets to turn the tables and treat his doctor with even greater contempt than
he was treated. But when a doctor and a patient are friends, the patient
often wants to forget about his doctor’s mistakes and pretend that they
never happened. Because if they did happen, and the patient sues his
doctor, then he’ll have to call his doctor something other than “friend,”
and nothing is more painful than breaking with a friend. Lawyers will
advise the patient to reconsider, but he won’t. The patient feels his doctor
is his own kind, a kindred spirit. “Yes, you’re right,” the patient will tell
his lawyer. “I’m injured. But that’s just one side of my life . . . what you
don’t see . . . there are other reasons.” And the patient forgives.
Yet being friends is not the same as being equals. This is a mistake
that doctors often make, especially today, as patients have more access to
medical information, thereby narrowing the gap between what doctors
and patients know, while the health care system turns patients into consu-
mers, or even colleagues, with both doctor and patient “working togeth-
er” to fight disease. Lawsuits are more likely in this environment. As
doctors try in every way to be democratic and treat their patients like
respected colleagues, patients almost start to imagine themselves real
doctors, with medical opinions that deserve to be taken seriously. When a
doctor sees this happening, his or her democratic instinct is to think,
“Okay, I’m not proud. I don’t mind if my patient thinks he and I are on
the same level. We’ll both be doctors.” But later, if injured, the patient,
who now imagines himself on a par with real doctors, thinks scornfully of
his doctor, that he (the patient) earned the title of doctor by reading a few
websites, while the doctor went to medical school and yet, despite his
extra education, still made a mistake. The patient sues almost on princi-
ple, to rid his profession of hacks.
Dr. F often befriended his patients, but he never treated them as
equals. At the same time, he never allowed his friendship with patients to
cross over into true intimacy, in part because it was unprofessional, but
also because it would have kept him from reacting properly during a
132 CHA P TER 7
crisis. Dr. F’s relationship with patients existed in its own space: he was
both a friend and a master to his patients.
When patients go to doctors, they entrust the directing of their health
to professionals whose minds they regard as more powerful than their
own. Some patients are more deferential than others, and some patients
argue more than others, but all patients possess a master in their doctor.
They never cease to draw on doctors’ minds, and they do so with a
prejudice in their doctor’s favor. Yet patients also have a friend in their
doctor. That doesn’t mean patients and doctors agree on all subjects.
Sometimes they may disagree entirely on important issues—as friends
do. But doctors and patients do share the same hopes and face the same
disappointments. What doctors and patients enjoy is friendship on a high
level, one that is free of jealousy because they share a common objective.
The doctor works hard for the patient. The patient, in turn, works hard at
getting better. Satisfaction prevails because both are busy and there is
little time for ill feelings to develop. And yet, despite their friendship, the
patient still recognizes the doctor as the moving spirit in the relationship.
For this dynamic to work, doctors must accept patients as they are in
the same way that friends accept their friends in everyday life. This is
why doctors must be more artists than craftspeople. Doctors and patients
do not live together, and therefore doctors lack the opportunity to ap-
praise their patients the way prospective friends appraise each other every
day at the school lunch table or at the officers’ mess hall. Doctors must
innovate to compensate for the lack of time they spend with patients.
Sometimes doctors must apply the methods of the philosopher and the
novelist to understand their patients en route to accepting them.
But patients must also accept their doctors. This is why Dr. F’s odd-
ball personality worked so well. A doctor’s intelligence and scientific
accuracy will not always gain his or her patient’s acceptance. On the
contrary, many patients fear the opinion of a mind that is too lucid. They
prefer to be friends with someone less exacting. They prefer in their
doctors a few amiable weaknesses added to the high qualities. There is
something inhuman in absolute perfection that overwhelms the mind and
heart; it may command respect, but it keeps friendship at a distance
through discouragement and humiliation. Patients are often glad when a
great doctor reassures them of his or her humanity by possessing a few
peculiarities. And peculiarities Dr. F had aplenty.
So did my father and grandfather. Both men were oddballs. My grand-

father’s weirdness hobbled him in private practice because he was weird
in a way that many patients disliked. That doesn’t devalue the importance
of weirdness in doctors. Eventually my grandfather found an audience
that did appreciate him, at the Old Soldiers’ Home. He liked the old
soldiers and they liked him. As for my father, his patients warmed to his
brand of weirdness. I hated his corny jokes, but his patients liked them.
He once asked me in front of a patient if I was “corn-fused” (a play on
“confused). I thought the play on words stupid, but his patient laughed
and laughed.
Friendship works through a hidden fraternity of spirit; the act of
friendship itself is an obscure ordering in which it is impossible to find a
rule or law. This is why tutorials on the doctor-patient relationship are
useless, or worse, downright irritating. They try to transform the miracle
of friendship into an algorithm, to turn sentiment into a program, to
anchor the doctor-patient relationship in “effective methods” and
“achievable measurable goals.” Better to let doctors just be themselves
and for patients to select them on the basis of idiosyncrasies that harmon-
ize with their own. It is why patients hate it when insurance companies
restrict what doctors they can go to. It’s not just that patients fear getting
a lousy doctor; it’s also that they fear getting a doctor whom they are not
in sync with, and who is not weird in the same way they are.
I watched carefully how Dr. F put patients at ease.

One day, while on obstetrics, he helped me get a patient ready for a
cesarean section. The woman was obese, which can complicate place-
ment of a spinal anesthetic. I methodically cleaned the woman’s back
with alcohol, sweeping the series of drenched swabs over her skin in ever
widening circles. The woman bent her fat waist in a bow. Syringe in
hand, I warned her from behind that a small needle stick was coming.
“You’re going to feel a little prick,” I said.
Dr. F, who was facing the woman on the other side, whispered to her,
“A little prick? That’s how you got into this mess. Right?” He chuckled.
The woman outright laughed, her fat back jiggling with emotion. I passed
the larger spinal needle. No cerebrospinal fluid returned. I passed the
needle again and again, but there was no spinal space, no bone, no noth-
134 CHA P TER 7
ing. Dr. F distracted her with more lewd humor. The woman giggled with
each joke, giving me more time to poke around and find the right spot. A
few minutes later, I found it and injected the anesthetic.
We rolled the woman on her back. The nurses prepped her abdomen.
Despite our warnings, the woman kept reaching for her abdomen, threat-
ening the field’s sterility. In all her nervous excitement about having a
baby, she kept forgetting to keep still. By now her husband was sitting
next to her; yet he had no more luck in calming her down than we did.
Finally we taped her arms down against the armboards to keep them from
moving. Because the woman was scared, and slightly claustrophobic, Dr.
F defused the situation with a shameless tease. “Don’t worry, I’m just
tying you down so you don’t reach over and pinch the surgeon’s butt,” he
said. He laughed, while the woman and her husband laughed along with
him. The rest of the surgery was uneventful.
I decided to use Dr. F’s line in the future. And I needed “a good line.”
I wasn’t very good at putting people at ease. Many young doctors lack
this social skill. When they go to a party or meet new people for dinner,
they know that if they talk about their important medical cases or enlarge
on their own decisions that vitally affected a case, people will listen with
rapt attention. They don’t need the social graces to converse, and so those
graces remain underdeveloped. Many young doctors rationalize away
their limitations, thinking that at least people can learn things from them,
compared to everyday banter, where people are left bored after speaking
with someone who talks about everything but only lightly touches on
anything, and people get nothing out of it. Talk with a doctor at least
leaves a person edified, they think. But when caring for patients, a doctor
really does have to be able to charm patients, to put them at ease. That’s
why I wanted “a line.”
Three days later, I was managing another cesarian section on obstet-
rics. My patient was nervous and reaching for her abdomen, as my earlier
patient had. I taped her arms to the armboards and, with her husband
present, frenetically uttered Dr. F’s line about not wanting her to reach
over and pinch the surgeon’s butt. There was gaiety in my tone. I chuck-
led after my delivery and said nothing more so the couple would know it
was the punch line.
I expected laughter. Instead, there was dead silence. The patient stiff-
ened and turned her face away, while afterward her husband complained
that I had been flirting with his wife.
What went wrong?

On one level I had been a bad actor. Sometimes medical practice is a
large stage on which an endless play is going on. Doctors must connect
with their patients in the same way that actors must connect with their
audience. Sometimes actors cannot connect in their roles simply because
of who they are. Dr. F was old and wrinkled, whereas I was young and
succulent; at my age, I should have never used that line with a female
patient. Yet actors can also be bad, especially if they try to connect in a
forcible way as I had. My “line” obviously had a studied, bookish flavor.
I had defeated my own object, as the forced friendliness destroyed the
illusion of friendship the line was intended to create.
Yet the deeper problem was that I had been acting. Dr. F had not.
When Dr. F had uttered the line, he had simply been himself. Instead of
thinking, “This is what a doctor who wants to be my friend says,” his
patient probably thought, “A friend is saying this.” Dr. F was an oddball.
Nevertheless, he was authentic. The feeling of friendship patients experi-
enced with him was also authentic. It’s why patients liked him.
The following week I was on the obstetrics ward again. An overhead

call announced an emergency cesarian section. I rushed into the operating
room. The patient was a young Japanese woman who spoke no English.
She was lying on the operating room table and shivering in fear. No
translators were immediately available in those days, and so it was impos-
sible for me to take a quick medical history. The only thing the obstetri-
cian could tell me was that the woman had a history of angioedema. In
that disease people swell in different parts of their bodies, including in
their airways, in response to an allergen. The airway swelling can be
severe enough to cause suffocation.
“What do you mean by ‘angioedema’?” I asked him with concern
while checking my anesthesia equipment.
“Just what I said. She has a history of angioedema,” the obstetrician
replied matter-of-factly, thinking the information not especially impor-
tant. “Now put her down. I need to get the baby out.”
“Yes, but there are different kinds of angioedema. What kind is hers?”
I asked, rushing to place monitors on the patient.
136 CHA P TER 7
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe she swells when she eats sushi,” the
obstetrician teased. “Now get going.”
“Fine, but why would you even know that? Do you ask every patient if
she swells when she eats sushi?” I asked, connecting my syringes to the
patient’s intravenous and preparing to inject.
“Listen, she’s had angioedema all her life. That’s all I know. I don’t
remember how I know. Maybe her husband told me. I guess they start
eating sushi pretty early over there,” the obstetrician joked. Then, grow-
ing more serious, he barked, “Now let’s go!”
“Hereditary angioedema”—the phrase raced through my mind. She
might have that particular variant of the disease if it had been a problem
all her life. It is the most dangerous kind. Not just allergens trigger swell-
ing; simple instrumentation can also cause it—for example, putting a
laryngoscope in a patient’s mouth when inducing general anesthesia. Nor
can the swelling be treated with epinephrine, unlike other allergic reac-
tions. The disease involves a blood protein deficiency. Airway swelling
must be treated with fresh frozen plasma.
I hesitated for a moment, then decided to forego general anesthesia—
to avoid airway instrumentation—and place a quick spinal anesthetic.
The small delay put the baby at risk, but my first duty was to the mother.
Also, the patient was thin; I felt confident I could get a spinal in her in
less than a minute.
I asked the nurses to help me flip the woman onto her side so I could
get to her back. The obstetrician protested and called me “ridiculous,” but
I ignored him. I tore open the spinal set, cleaned the patient’s back,
inserted the spinal needle, found the right spot on the first pass, and
injected the anesthetic—all in less than a minute. Because it was an
emergency I used lidocaine, a drug with short duration but quick onset.
The obstetrician cut. A healthy baby emerged from the patient’s abdomen
one minute later.
We were home free. Then the obstetrician ran into some bleeding that
kept the case from finishing. Thirty minutes later, the patient moaned in
pain. Since lidocaine should last forty minutes, I decided anxiety was
probably exacerbating her pain, and that she still had some anesthesia
left. The obstetrician said he needed twenty more minutes. I gave the
woman some intravenous sedation to calm her down, but there was a limit
to how much I could give her. She had eaten a full meal two hours before.
If she went to sleep without a breathing tube in place, she might vomit
and aspirate her stomach contents, which could kill her. To go to sleep,
she would require an endotracheal tube—but that risked a bout of angioe-
dema.
Her moaning grew worse. In the most stupid American way, I tried
telling her that we would only be ten more minutes. I spoke English
slowly. I spoke English loudly. It had no effect. She cried and screamed. I
reached for the Pentothal and muscle relaxant and prepared to induce
general anesthesia.
Suddenly, Dr. F walked in. I informed him of the situation. I asked
him to inject the drugs so I could intubate. He motioned me to put the
drugs away. Then he took off his mask and stared directly into the pa-
tient’s eyes. He spoke words that I did not understand.
“Kam hitch um hot ho!” he said to her, harshly, as if giving her an
order.
The woman quieted down and stared back at him.
“Uh-h-h do kee ha ai-raku!” Dr. F declared forcefully.
Transfixed, the woman kept staring at Dr. F. Then she quietly replied,
“Ah so.”
Dr. F continued. “Ne ha so tu,” he said. In a tone that made him sound
very wise, he followed up with “Des ka nu so ha.”
The woman kept staring at Dr. F, her eyes sparkling with amazement.
“Ah so,” she said again.
Their dialogue continued for several more minutes, with the woman
replying “Ah so” each time. She was now quiet and calm.
The obstetrician raced to finish the surgery. He placed the last suture
ten minutes later. As the drapes came down, both he and I thanked Dr. F
profusely for his help.
I went to visit the patient during my postoperative rounds the follow-
ing day. A translator was present. I asked her if she remembered me.
Through the translator she said, “Yes.” I asked her if she had any after-
effects from the spinal anesthetic. She said, “No.”
Then she asked me, “Who was that funny man in the operating room?”
“The man speaking with you? That was Dr. F,” I replied.
“He was a funny man. He spoke words I didn’t understand,” she said.
“What?” I said, a little startled. “He was speaking to you in Japanese,
wasn’t he?”
138 CHA P TER 7
The woman continued, “He must have been speaking a foreign lan-
guage. But I felt I could understand him. I thought he was telling me that I
was all right, and that everything would be all right.”
Speechless, I simply nodded my head and left.
I saw Dr. F later that day. I told him what the woman had said.
“You weren’t speaking Japanese to her, were you?” I asked him.
Dr. F smiled and said nothing.
“You don’t speak Japanese, do you?” I asked, desperate for some kind
of explanation.
Still smiling, he patted me on the shoulder, winked playfully, and
walked on.
His weirdness had averted a potential catastrophe.
Life pushed Dr. F and me onto separate paths. Years later, I heard
about the troubles he had toward the end of his career when he became an
employed physician.
The first salvo came when he told a nurse who had changed her
hairstyle that she looked “sexy.” The nurse, who was angry with Dr. F for
other reasons, complained. The company chastised Dr. F, who was truly
confused, as he thought he was paying the woman a compliment. The
company told him to behave. But now Dr. F was unsure what it meant to
behave. Unfamiliar with the new rules governing corporate America, he
was like a man who moves around without the use of his senses, beset by
traps. He talked less at work. He also avoided social events, such as
Christmas parties, as these were now considered extensions of the work-
place, making them sources of risk.
Although Dr. F self-censored, his unique style nevertheless peeped
through. One day, a technician asked him over the phone to silence a beep
on an anesthesia machine. Dr. F was busy at the time, so he told the
technician to press a certain button. The technician told Dr. F that he had
to do it. Harried, but still in good humor, Dr. F replied, “Okay, but you
know, it’s not rocket science.” The technician complained, accusing Dr. F
of fostering a “hostile work environment.” On another occasion, a nurse
put a small intravenous in a patient going for surgery that would poten-
tially have high blood loss. When Dr. F saw it he humorously corrected
the nurse with the patient nearby, saying, “You couldn’t suck enough
water through that straw to survive in the desert.” While Dr. F placed a
larger intravenous, the nurse complained to Dr. F’s superior, saying Dr. F
shouldn’t have corrected her in front of the patient. The complaint made
its way up through the ranks of officialdom. Again, Dr. F found himself
in trouble. In the end, he decided to retire early. The company was happy
to see him go.
Doctors reading this book may laugh at Dr. F. Part of me laughs at
Dr. F. But such laughter is a sad indication of what doctors have become.
Doctors laugh because they know that in order to avoid trouble these days
one has to be exquisitely sensitive to other people’s feelings. No careless
quips. If one is foolish enough to be weird, one should at least take good
care not to display that weirdness in front of others. The smart person
today follows the rules and displays outward obedience to them, even if
he or she has nothing but contempt for them. The main thing is order and
system. Now is not the time of the weird people. It is the time of the
flexible people, the people who know how to bend at the right moment. It
is the time of the company people who shave off their idiosyncrasies to fit
in and belong. That’s how a doctor today avoids trouble. From that per-
spective, Dr. F was a fool.
My parents trained me to be a company man. They instilled in me
mental radar that let me discern what other people were thinking so that I
could tailor my behavior accordingly. As a child, whenever I asked my
mother what I should do in a particular situation, she would invariably
reply, “Well, what are all the other kids doing?” In solid 1950s fashion I
learned the importance of being liked and fitting in. Later, when I became
a doctor, I decided this education had been unnecessary, since doctors,
unlike company men, had the freedom to be themselves, including the
freedom to be weird. But as doctors increasingly become employees, that
education has proved valuable after all.
The problem for patients is that good company people do not neces-
sarily make good doctors. They do not necessarily prevent catastrophes.
A doctor’s weirdness has nothing to do with his or her ability to practice
medicine well.
I have known several outstanding doctors in my career who were
oddballs.
I knew a German-born anesthesiologist who specialized in putting
children to sleep. Built like a medium-sized bear, he would sit children on
his lap to anesthetize them, while his muscular legs would squeeze their
140 CHA P TER 7
spindly legs to prevent them from kicking. High-minded and stubborn,

distrustful of others, angry at the world, and without an ounce of coziness,
he took his woes and burdens with him wherever he went. Few people
liked him; many children feared him. “Do you have any bra-thers?” he
would ask a child in a thick German accent, his painful way of trying to
be pleasant. “Do you like spa-ghet-ti?” he would ask in a guttural tone.
Sometimes the child would wail and struggle, prompting him to tighten
his hold on the child and declare, “Ach, you little brat!” Yet he was an
outstanding doctor. He saved lives.
I knew an anesthesiologist from Latin America with a bad temper. He
would flare up like gunpowder in the face of any patronizing reference to
his origins and rarely controlled himself in time. Most of his anger was
real, although some of it was slightly calculated, like a dog’s snarl, a way
of telling an offender not to go there or to leave things alone. Once begun,
his tantrums stopped only when they ran out of fuel; he yelled, he berated,
and on one occasion he put his fist through a wall and broke a bone.
Curiously, despite the habit of distrust and constant vigilance that had
insinuated itself into his personality, he was at heart a kind individual.
Watching children suffer especially pained him. He was a complex char-
acter. He was also an outstanding doctor. He saved lives.
I knew an anesthesiologist from the Midwest. Straight-laced and re-
served, he had the aura of the scoutmaster about him. He was incredibly
thorough during his patient intakes. Sometimes he would interview
healthy patients for almost an hour before giving them anesthesia, prob-
ing for a history of even minor ailments, such as sexually transmitted
diseases, looking at patients with parental severity, speaking to them in
icy tones, and driving some of them crazy. But even at his most distant,
he was engrossed in his patients, studying them with all-knowing eyes,
while to his colleagues he was cold and sober beyond need simply be-
cause he was complete and didn’t require their society. He didn’t spend
time thinking about what other people thought of him. Yet he was an
outstanding doctor. He saved lives.
These anesthesiologists would have difficulty finding employment to-
day. There are few institutional laws that I can point to as the reason for
their difficulty; it all belongs in the category of unwritten laws of behav-
ior. Their personalities would make them socially undesirable. They
would make bad company people. Nevertheless, they were good doctors.
Many American doctors today are good company people. They all
come from the same incubator; they’re marked with different-colored
inks, but there’s essentially no difference. Their behavior is in exact
conformity with existing prescriptions. No rough edges. At work they
talk like NPR; their words rarely contain a single living emotion. At best,
they are people who avoid revealing the whole of their thought; they are
different from how they are in real life; they are a people constrained and
held in check. Other doctors are company people to their very bones.
They say what is expected of them; they are inconspicuous; they weigh
their words carefully even while joking; they know the importance of
being politically correct; they will never start revolutions; they will never
hurl challenges or level accusations against their bosses; they are easy to
move with carrots and sticks; they are easy to intimidate with threats to
their employment. Because they are paid well they are simultaneously
self-satisfied and scared. In sum, they are completely harmless people.
Corporate America is not to blame for the rise of the company culture
in medicine. Corporate America is what it is. Since the 1950s, it has
preferred to employ company people. The result has been great success.
From cars to toothpaste, corporate America produces vital products at
low cost. Yet taking care of patients is different from making cars or
toothpaste. More risk is involved, and the company personality is not
only irrelevant to the defraying of that risk but also a distraction from the
core elements needed to do so.
The medical profession is to blame for the rise of the company culture
in medicine. That culture filled a void that opened up when the medical
profession no longer knew what a doctor should be.
First, the doctor-as-technician model that replaced the old vision of
what a doctor should be enabled the corporate takeover of medicine.
Before, when doctoring involved a complex set of qualities and attributes,
and not just technical wizardry, the notion that business executives could
“manage” doctors using fixed rules and procedures would have been
inconceivable. It would have been like telling ministers to sermonize with
one or two words, or telling painters to paint with one or two colors.
Doctoring, like preaching and painting, was not merely a craft but also an
art that required a broad grasp of humanity and subtle intelligence. But
technicians are easy to manage. Their tools are predictable. Their think-
ing is predictable. Their output is predictable. Business executives like to
manage workers whose decision trees follow a few simple pathways.
142 CHA P TER 7
When doctors became technicians they paved the way for business execu-
tives to come in and manage them, too.
Second, medical schools began to select for company people among
their applicants. This represents a significant change from the past.
In the 1930s and 1940s, when the company culture cemented itself in
American corporate life, prospective job applicants took personality tests
to show they were loyal, well-adjusted, able to get along with people, and
politically correct (which in those days meant conservative). During this
same period, medical schools focused almost exclusively on their appli-
cants’ scientific aptitude. No personality tests were used to screen future
doctors. In the 1950s, medical schools encouraged applicants to take
classes in the humanities; yet this wasn’t personality screening so much
as a cue to applicants to be both good scientists and well-rounded gentle-
men. In the 1960s, as the technology race between the United States and
the former Soviet Union heated up, medical schools reemphasized scien-
tific aptitude. Indeed, many prospective medical students during this peri-
od applied with the intention of being biomechanical engineers. 1 An ap-
plicant’s personality went largely unknown.
During the 1990s, in the name of “professionalism,” medical schools
began to screen for student attitudes. 2 This was not yet the company
culture. On the contrary, the purpose of such screening was not to gradu-
ate company people but to avoid doing so. Medical schools feared doctors
working under managed care might be more loyal to the companies they
worked for than to their patients. Classes were held to teach students to
put patients first.
But the door was opened for more behavioral modeling. In 2005, the
American Medical Association pushed a new initiative to give a medical
school applicant’s personality more weight in the selection process. Phy-
sicians had a sense that a doctor should be more than just a scientist or a
technician, but they weren’t quite sure what a doctor should be. They
settled on an applicant with excellent social radar, someone who excelled
in getting along with others, who worked well within an organization, and
who embraced popular cultural values. They wanted an applicant who
would pay close attention to the signals he or she received from others,
and who would adjust his or her behavior accordingly; a person who
would be liked by others, and who would want and need to be liked; a
person who would seek the approval of his or her peers, and who, when
getting that approval, would desire more approval; a person who would
be at home anywhere and nowhere, and who was capable of a superficial

intimacy with everyone. In other words, they wanted an applicant with a
certain personality—the same personality sought by American companies
in the 1950s. 3
In 2010, the American Association of Medical Colleges joined the
initiative, publishing a grab bag of virtues, such as compassion, the ability
to function as part of a team, dependability, adaptability, altruism, high
enthusiasm, and conscientiousness—again, the same traits that companies
screened potential employees for in the 1950s. 4 More than half of U.S.
medical schools now screen for one or more personality traits among
their applicants. 5 The medical school entrance exam (or MCAT) was also
adjusted to screen for the company personality. The personality exams of
the 1950s screened for conservative tendencies; today’s MCAT screens
for liberal ones, such as tolerance and political sensitivity, but the princi-
ple is the same. 6
Medical schools push the company personality in a second way. Their
list of desirable personality traits is long and almost impossible to find in
one person. Medical schools want a rose without thorns, an angel without
wings. They want a perfect creature. Instead, they get people who know
how to transcend an application and give examiners what they are look-
ing for; they get people who know how to appear as perfect creatures. In
the 1950s, journalist William Whyte described such people in The Organ-
ization Man. Referring to applicants to corporate training programs, he
wrote, “They are predisposed to read a good bit more between the lines
than many of their elders would like them to.” 7 In medicine today, these
people exist among the thousands of applicants who pay premed consult-
ing companies to help them write the perfect essay to convey all the
desired personality traits.
Sadly, a good company person does not necessarily make a good
doctor. Good company people excel at using the system to protect them-
selves. When a catastrophe occurs, they know the importance in company
warfare of thinking quicker than others, and of getting your blow in first,
before the bureaucracy starts to crank. They know how to show how
seemingly unconnected incidents in their lives fit into a pattern, which,
taken as a whole, is exonerating. They know how an affable personality
works as vital social capital to draw upon when one’s medical abilities
are suddenly called into question. They know all these things because
they excel at knowing what their supervisors are looking for. After all,
144 CHA P TER 7
they started their medical careers by writing a personal statement about

why they wanted to be a doctor, thinking the whole time about the admis-
sions officer who would read that statement, check it against their at-
tached autobiography, compare one answer with another, comb for
contradictions, and put a plus or minus after each sentence. They knew
the application was a game, just as they know that saving their skins is a
game. They know how to play both games. But they do not necessarily
know how to rescue a patient from a catastrophe.
Here is one example: To maximize efficiency and worker productiv-
ity, many hospitals today want their operating rooms to start simultane-
ously. If a hospital start time is, say, 7:45 AM, then a mad rush occurs at
7:43 AM. Employed doctors and nurses desperately push to get their
patient into their particular operating room to avoid being penalized.
Indeed, if they have too many late starts on their record, they risk being
fired. Already at 7:44 AM, the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, the nurse,
and the orderly—all company employees—are plotting how to offload
blame for a potential late start onto someone else.
In one hospital on the West Coast, an anesthesiologist interviewed his
patient at 7:20 AM. He thought his patient, who had recently experienced
some mild chest pain, needed more cardiac workup, including a second
EKG, which would push the operating room start time well past 7:45
AM. He looked on the sheet the hospital gave to doctors and nurses to
justify a late start. There were boxes to be checked if the late start was the
anesthesiologist’s fault, the surgeon’s fault, or the nurse’s fault; there was
a box for when the patient arrived late at the hospital; there was also a box
for a delay in getting the patient’s lab results. But there was no box for
when a second EKG was needed. The anesthesiologist panicked. He
knew that if he delayed the case to perform the second EKG, then his box,
the anesthesiologist’s box, would get checked and he would be blamed.
He had already been associated with several other late starts. Those late
starts had not been his fault; nevertheless, administrators were watch-
ing—they had told him they were watching. He decided to forego the
second EKG and bring the patient in at 7:45 AM.
During surgery the patient suffered a myocardial infarction and almost
died. Afterward, the anesthesiologist tried to weasel out of all blame. He
told the administrators that the need for the second EKG had been ques-
tionable. He downplayed the patient’s chest pain that had spurred him to
seek the second EKG. He gave a thoughtful explanation about how medi-
cine is an inexact science. He was proactive and asked to be on a commit-

tee that would review similar situations going forward. He talked about
formulating new policies. He advocated for more input from nursing and
other departments. He discussed reaching out. The administrators loved
it. He spoke their language, which reassured them; he shared in their
ideas fully. True, they probably knew he was afraid of losing his job; yet
they also knew that fear is what made the 7:45 AM policy work. A scared
anesthesiologist is an efficient anesthesiologist. So they let him off.
I would rather be taken care of by an oddball.
Medical schools may argue that graduating doctors need a company
personality to secure employment in the emerging health care order. Yet
it is not the medical schools’ job to do corporate medicine’s bidding.
Their job is to produce the best and safest doctors they can, even if that
means graduating oddballs. To prevent catastrophes, it is corporate medi-
cine that must adjust, not the medical training programs.
8
WHEN DOCTORS LOSE CONTROL

OF THEIR OWN RULES
Ms. O was a morbidly obese sixty-year-old woman with a history of

reflux and severe asthma needing an emergency hip pinning. In the back
of my mind, I had already decided on spinal anesthesia, since general
anesthesia with a breathing tube risked an asthma attack. But while re-
viewing Ms. O’s labs I noticed that her platelet count was seventy-seven
thousand, which was low, putting her at increased risk of bleeding. Bleed-
ing at the operative site wasn’t the problem so much as bleeding around
her spine from the spinal needle. This rare but dreaded complication,
called an epidural hematoma, can put pressure on the spinal cord and
even cause paralysis. In the past, the rule among anesthesiologists was
that at least a hundred thousand platelets were needed to safely place a
spinal needle. Later studies dropped that number to eighty thousand, es-
pecially if the doctor had good reason to place a spinal—as, for example,
in a patient with severe asthma. A few doctors will insert spinal needles
in patients with fewer than eighty thousand platelets, as the risk of epidu-
ral hematoma increases arithmetically as one drops below eighty thou-
sand, such that a patient with seventy-seven thousand platelets has only
slightly more risk than a patient with eighty thousand platelets. Below
fifty thousand platelets no anesthesiologist will go.
I was in a quandary. I really wanted to use spinal anesthesia, but the
number “77,000” kept staring me in the face. Yes, it was below the magic
“80,000”; then again, maybe the patient’s real number was 80,000, and
147
148 CHA P TER 8
the difference was merely lab error. Even then, 77,000 was close to
80,000.
I must have looked doubtful, as Ms. O asked me, “Is everything all
right, doctor?” Rather than confess the truth, I feigned nonchalance and
said, “Everything is fine.” Why did I hesitate to tell her my concerns at
that moment? Because I saw myself as a scientist, and a scientist hates to
admit ignorance of anything. A scientist thinks himself disgraced if he
has to reply, “I’m not sure.”
My father was less anxious about being caught without an answer. If a
patient asked him a hard question, my father would often put the tip of his
reading glasses in his mouth, ponder the question in silence for several
seconds, and say, “I don’t know,” or “We shall see.” Doing so never
embarrassed him. He readily accepted the notion that doctors cannot have
an answer for everything and must often choose a course with some
doubt. To change his views, to admit to the change, and to appear change-
able was the “gentleman” side to being a doctor, he once told me, com-
pared to the scientific side, where precise laws determine a course of
action.
Many doctors today feel vulnerable when they have no ready answer
to give patients. It makes them feel like bad doctors. It also unnerves
them to have to think individually and to choose a course without the
security of a defined rule to back them up. They hate vagueness. When
learning about a new drug, for example, they will wait for the drug rep to
tell them the drug’s loading dose, the dose frequency, the side effects, and
the cost. They want to know figures and advantages, expressed in num-
bers. There is security in numbers. Other gadgets are sold to them in
similar manner. Nothing abstract. No philosophy. The doctors are told the
numbers. These are the figures. That is understandable. The doctors are
happy with that. The pattern is repeated when they learn new approaches
to disease management. They eagerly await the last slide at a conference
when everything is summed up in the form of a therapeutic algorithm: if
the number is this, then do this; if the number is that, then do that.
Although patients resent being crammed into a treatment algorithm, they
overlook the peace of mind that many doctors enjoy when they know
what to do, at all times and in all cases, based on an algorithm.
I showed another anesthesiologist Ms. O’s lab report. When she saw
the number “77,000,” she froze. The hypnosis of simple figures can act
with remarkable power on doctors. She knew why I wanted to do the
WH E N DOC T ORS LOSE CONTROL OF THEIR OW N RULES 149
spinal, but she was also aware of the “eighty thousand platelet rule.” She
gave me very circumspect and enigmatic advice. “I suppose I would
consider doing a spinal. It’s a reasonable thing to consider,” she said.
I reread the platelet studies, but moved no closer to a decision. I began
to think that some paradox was hidden in the “eighty thousand platelet”
rule. When pondering something intangible, as, for example, the idea of
justice or virtue, the worm of self-doubt naturally crawls into my mind,
and I cannot help asking myself, “Does this mean the same thing to
everybody?” A scientific rule, in contrast, is supposed to mean the same
thing to everyone. And yet the platelet rule could be interpreted in differ-
ent ways and mean different things to different people. This made the rule
useless, even dangerous, for a doctor never knows for sure how much
individual judgment to use when working with a vague rule. The rule
becomes like a map whose contours are confused and whose boundaries
keep shifting; nevertheless one feels obligated to use the map constantly.
A vague rule can befog doctors and make them act counter to their own
consciences.
I asked another colleague. He winced when I gave him the patient’s
history. “I guess you’re screwed either way,” he said, referring to the
inevitable malpractice suit. Ms. O’s platelet count was destined to usher
in a new chapter in my life, it seemed. A glimpse of beggarly destitution,
after my trial, flashed through my head.
I asked a third anesthesiologist. He declared, “No way! Don’t do a
spinal!” I was inclined to agree with him; yet I could see that his instinct
for self-preservation had been aroused, and I wondered how much it was
affecting the integrity of his thought processes. A doctor thinks with his
mind. A doctor also thinks with his body, as when placing an intravenous
or a breathing tube. But sometimes, like an animal, a doctor thinks with
the herd. If panic seizes a flock of sheep, each animal runs with the flock,
not because it understands the reason for the panic but because it has an
instinct that teaches the sheep that if it does not follow the flock, it will be
at the mercy of its enemies. My colleague seemed to be thinking with the
herd and hewing closely to the platelet rule to stay out of danger.
As I thought further about what to do, a nurse anesthetist approached
me and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to decide
whether to put a spinal in a patient with seventy-seven thousand platelets.
The nurse anesthetist haughtily replied, “Maybe you didn’t know this, but
eighty thousand is the limit.” I shot back, “I know the rule.” The nurse
150 CHA P TER 8
anesthetist snickered, “Some doctors don’t. And if you didn’t, now you
do. Because I told you.” I could see how his mind was working. The more
rules he knew, the more on par with doctors he felt himself to be, for, to
his mind, what makes a doctor is knowing the rules, just as, to his mind,
what makes a doctor is knowing how to do procedures.
In the end I asked the most senior anesthesiologist in the department.
“I wish I could tell you the right course,” she responded. “But I can’t. I
think you’re probably okay if you do a spinal, but I can’t say for sure.”
“So I’ll be okay, until the point when I’m not okay,” I replied.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, sheepishly.
Such was her advice and warning: Follow medicine’s rules, but some-
times don’t follow them; sometimes act as if they don’t exist; you’ll never
come to any grief by disregarding them—up to a point, only it’s impos-
sible to fix that point. All doctors learn this eventually. They learn there is
nothing absolutely safe in the world of medical practice, nothing that is
not subject to the law of “up to a point.” Much of medicine is balanced on
that cornerstone. Many doctors follow rules, guidelines, and algorithms,
and by doing so they hope to get through an entire career unscathed. They
want to hear, “It is forbidden to do this,” or “It is the duty of the doctor to
do that”—the kind of straightforward counsel that comes with rules and
guidelines. They prefer not only to be given direction but also to be made
aware of the penalties for not following that direction, and to have the
magnitude of those penalties defined beforehand. Then they discover that
rules and guidelines come with exceptions and gray areas that they are
responsible for navigating through. This scares them.
Practicing medicine is about living in a state of fear, in the knowledge
that rules must be followed but only “up to a point,” and what that point is
a doctor never knows for sure. Doctors hope in their imaginations that
someone will tell them what that point is, that a colleague will say,
“Don’t worry, this is one of those exceptions to the rule. Ignore the rule,”
or “If you follow the rule, you may suffer a penalty, but at most that
penalty will be a small misfortune,” or “On this one you’d better follow
the rule.” But doctors hope in vain. They are sentenced to fear, often, and
at a moment’s notice, for rules exist everywhere in medicine, to guide
them, but also to worry them, to paralyze them, and possibly to ruin them.
Some doctors recognize it is useless to try to define what “up to a point”
means, and that there’s nothing a doctor can do about it other than wallow
in a bog of insecurity. They just ignore the contradiction and let the chips
fall where they may. Some reputable doctors think this way, although so
do many physician-cowboys. Other doctors just live in fear.
I thought about what drug I might use for spinal anesthesia. The case
was scheduled for two hours, so I needed something that lasted longer
than lidocaine. Bupivicaine seemed like the best choice. Because Ms. O
would be lying on her side with her broken hip up during the operation, it
made sense to use a preparation called “normobaric bupivicaine.” When
injected, the drug numbs a patient on both sides, no matter what position
the patient is in, unlike “hyperbaric bupivicaine,” which settles down by
gravity and numbs the down side preferentially. Normobaric spinal bu-
pivicaine exists in the form of straightforward epidural bupivicaine. Curi-
ously, the label on the bottle reads (to this day), “Not to be used for spinal
blocks”; yet I thought for sure I had seen other anesthesiologists use it for
spinal anesthesia. I asked another anesthesiologist about it.
“I’m pretty sure you can use it for a spinal. The label is leftover from
the old days, when they thought these solutions were neurotoxic. They
know that’s not the case now,” he said. 1
“Then why didn’t they change the label?” I asked. I kept staring at the
label and the rule printed on it: “Not to be used for spinal blocks.” I felt
uneasy. Like the platelet rule, it hypnotized me, although it was suppos-
edly no longer a rule.
“I guess the FDA forgot to. Listen, the rule must have been crazy,
even in the old days, because you always risk accidentally injecting some
anesthetic into the spinal canal when placing an epidural. So even when
they thought the drug was neurotoxic, they still allowed it,” he replied.
“This is idiotic,” I complained.
“You’re right. It is idiotic. But there’s nothing you can do about it.
You see, the system is idiotic,” he said.
“Wait, you know the system is idiotic. So then why don’t doctors
change the system?” I asked.
“They can’t,” he said. “But that’s okay, because the system is idiotic
and I live under the system, but it doesn’t oblige me to be an idiot. And
other doctors aren’t idiots, either. Everyone understands everything, but
there’s nothing they can do.”
Eager to elude the more obvious danger, and now flummoxed by a
label, I surrendered to the power of the platelet rule and opted for general
anesthesia.
152 CHA P TER 8
I gave Ms. O two puffs of her asthma inhaler and brought her into the
operating room. While the patient breathed oxygen on her own, the nurse
announced a time-out. Everyone in the room stopped what they were
doing and paid attention, as required during a time-out. Afterward I began
the anesthetic induction.
Because Ms. O had eaten only a few hours before, I could not slowly
breathe for her during the induction to get her deep on gas and in that way
lessen the chance of bronchospasm associated with intubation. Mask ven-
tilation risks churning up a patient’s stomach contents and causing aspira-
tion. Instead, I rapidly injected the anesthetic drugs into her intravenous
and intubated her. Then I connected the breathing tube to the anesthesia
circuit and squeezed the bag.
Tremendous resistance kept me from pushing air into her lungs. I
listened to high-pitched squeaks in Ms. O’s chest with my stethoscope as
I compressed the bag with all my strength. She was in bronchospasm. Her
oxygen saturation dropped. The pressure needed to push air into her lungs
was high enough to risk pneumothorax. I quickly turned on the anesthetic
agent to dilate her bronchi, but it was hard to get air into her lungs, let
alone anesthetic agent. Meanwhile, the nurse announced a second time-
out.
When time-outs were first introduced, some doctors and nurses grum-
bled that they delayed the start of a case. Nevertheless, these providers
adapted, especially when they realized the time-out’s safety benefits.
Some hospitals, however, doubled down on the time-out, or even tripled
down on it. They demanded staff perform two time-outs or even three
time-outs before starting a case, thinking that if one time-out decreased
the rate of medical error, more time-outs would do so even more. In other
words, although doctors invented the idea of the time-out, administrators
took control of the idea and ran with it. Doubling and tripling the number
of time-outs is not illogical, at least theoretically. But it does push against
the law of diminishing returns.
The nurse announcing the second time-out demanded my attention.
During a time-out all staff must stop what they are doing and listen. But I
was busy managing Ms. O’s bronchospasm. The nurse asked me to stop
and pay attention. I told her I was busy. The nurse hesitated over what to
do next. Should she ask me again to stop? Should she skip the second
time-out? Should she continue with the time-out while making an excep-
tion for me? She fidgeted for a few seconds, during which time I recog-
nized the anxiety in her eyes. It was the same anxiety that I had about the
platelet rule. A rule in medicine demands certain conduct; if you violate
that rule, you risk getting into trouble. In my case, I feared a lawsuit; in
her case, she feared being fired. The time-out rule was the rule at most
hospitals, rigidly enforced, “up to a point,” but what that point was she
didn’t know.
I wanted to help her. I wanted to tell her that doctors had invented the
time-out rule, and that because I was a doctor I knew the exact point
when the rule could be overlooked. But we doctors had lost control of the
time-out rule, just as we had lost control of the platelet rule. Hospital
administrators now owned the rule, and there was nothing I could do.
Fortunately, the nurse made the sensible decision and conducted the time-
out without me.
I broke Ms. O’s bronchospasm with inhalers and anesthetic gas. With
difficulty we moved Ms. O onto her side, almost three-quarters prone.
The nurse prepped the patient’s hip and the surgeon started to cut.
An hour into the surgery I noticed the pressure needed to push air into
Ms. O’s lungs rising again. I listened to her chest but heard no wheezing.
The pressure continued to rise. I turned off the ventilator and manually
squeezed air into her lungs with great difficulty. Thinking there might be
an obstruction in the breathing tube itself, I passed a suction catheter
through it. The catheter barely passed. Out through the catheter flowed
thick yellow, gelatinous mucus. The breathing tube’s presence had likely
precipitated these thick secretions.
I needed an extra pair of hands to help me suction out the breathing
tube. I looked over to the circulating nurse, but she was sitting on a stool,
her back toward me, entering data on the computer. She had been enter-
ing data since the start of the case. It wasn’t her fault. New rules nation-
wide demanded that operating room nurses enter enormous amounts of
data, to be collated later by administrators and policymakers to make
more rules. The goal was medical safety. And yet time-consuming data
entry often robs the operating room of a nurse’s observant mind and
skilled hands at a crucial moment. Rather than decrease the risk of catas-
trophe, it sometimes raises it.
A few minutes later the breathing tube obstructed almost completely.
154 CHA P TER 8
“We have to turn the patient back on her back—now! I need to re-
intubate her,” I said excitedly.
“But I’m in the middle of the operation,” pleaded the surgeon.
“I don’t care. We have an airway emergency. Just cover the operative
site with a sterile drape,” I insisted.
The surgeon reluctantly draped the site. The nurse turned her head
away from the computer screen. She looked as though she had only just
been awakened from sleep and opened her eyes wide, trying to grasp the
situation. Quickly she refocused. Since the operating table was too nar-
row for us to maneuver Ms. O back onto her back, the nurse ran out the
door to get the stretcher we had brought her in on. The plan was to jam
the stretcher next to the operating table to give us a larger platform on
which to turn the patient over.
But the stretcher was gone! I was furious. A rescue stretcher was
supposed to sit outside the door for just this problem. The nurse panted
out what had happened: a new rule in the fire code had demanded that all
halls in hospitals be cleared of stretchers. I told the nurse to go find
another stretcher. Ms. O’s oxygen saturation dropped lower. Her color
grew dusky. I had no choice but to remove her breathing tube with her
lying on her side and try to breathe for her with her face half-buried in a
pillow.
It was an almost impossible task. The pillow pressed up against the
side of her face and kept me from securing a tight mask fit. Secretions
poured out of her mouth, wetting both the mask and my gloves, and
causing the mask to slip from my grip. Also, her tongue obstructed her
airway. With my left hand holding the mask, I stretched out with my right
hand toward the instrument table to grab an oral airway. It was there—but
wrapped in plastic. A new rule required all airways to be wrapped in
plastic bags. The rule seemed silly to me, as the airways were run through
a sterilizer and therefore were more sterile than any patient’s mouth. But I
had already been reprimanded once for violating the rule. A rule is a rule,
“up to a point,” but what that point was I never knew, so I just followed
the rule.
I dropped the mask and grabbed the oral airway. Then I used my wet,
gloved hands to tear open the plastic. This took time, during which Ms.
O’s oxygen saturation dropped lower.
I put the oral airway inside Ms. O’s mouth and breathed for her just as
the nurse rushed in with the new stretcher. We tilted Ms. O’s body toward
the stretcher, making it easier for me to mask ventilate her. Her oxygen
level returned to normal. Still, I needed to re-intubate her to keep her
from aspirating her stomach contents. To do so I needed more muscle
relaxant, which sat inside the new anesthesia carts that had mandatory
locks. Before, such drugs had been available in open drawers. Adminis-
trators around the country had decided this was wrong because it meant
drugs could be stolen or go unaccounted for. Carts with locks took over. I
always distrusted the locks for fear they would jam during the worst
possible moment, as during an emergency, and so I got in the habit of
keeping emergency drugs in my scrub shirt pocket. In particular, I would
keep an ampule of Versed on me while working in obstetrics so that I
could treat a patient suffering from an eclamptic seizure. The four min-
utes needed to chase down Versed in a locked cart could be catastrophic
in such an emergency. But the new rule didn’t allow for exceptions, and
rather than test the rules by hiding one or two drugs in my pocket, I went
bare. I had no muscle relaxant on me when the lock jammed in Ms. O’s
case.
A bureaucrat had written the rule on locked carts. And the rule did
have the flavor of truth. Some drugs do go unaccounted for. The bureau-
crat had written the rule in good faith. But there is often a divergence
between words and things; a rule written down on paper fails to represent
with sufficient exactitude the complexity of situations that might arise
and invalidate that rule.
Why would an anesthesiologist follow this insane rule and not keep
emergency drugs in his or her pocket? Because a normal person under-
stands it is dangerous and pointless to oppose universal insanity, and
rational to participate in it. In theory I was a doctor, but in reality I was an
employee who lived in constant awareness that at any time I could be
discovered, discussed, and punished. Doctors sometimes do ignore insane
rules. They observe the rules only outwardly, while in fact living a semi-
underground life. For example, anesthesiologists will write drug names
on syringes but sometimes skip writing the time and date on them, think-
ing it silly to add such data when they’ll be using the syringes a few
minutes later. They will also remove their mandatory goggles before
trying to intubate a patient with a difficult airway, to gain a better view.
Although they do not challenge the authorities openly, they refuse to
observe all accepted rituals, believing that some rules need only be fol-
lowed “up to a point,” with their judgment telling them what that point is.
156 CHA P TER 8
However, most rules they do follow. In the past, doctors would not have
been punished for exercising their judgment. Indeed, there was no one to
punish them, since most doctors were self-employed independent profes-
sionals. Nowadays, most doctors are employed, and so they are punished.
For an employed doctor to openly flout the rules is arguably insane.
I banged hard against the cart with my gloved hands that were wet
with Ms. O’s secretions. A new rule obligated me to change my gloves
before touching the cart to prevent the spread of germs. But I didn’t have
time to change gloves! Worse, my hands were sweaty, and every experi-
enced health care worker knows that putting gloves on wet, sweaty hands
is a difficult and time-consuming process. The glove rule had no known
exceptions. Nevertheless, I said to hell with rules.
I retrieved the drug from the cart. After giving Ms. O a few puffs of
oxygen, I dropped the facemask and used both hands to draw up the
muscle relaxant in a syringe. Then I dropped the syringe to give Ms. O
another puff. Then I exchanged the mask for the syringe and removed the
needle. I looked for a port in the intravenous line to inject the drug. A
small secondary intravenous line occupied the port. I tried twisting it off,
but the nurse had wedged it in too securely. I put the needle back on the
syringe and looked for a port that would accept needles. There was none.
A new rule had banned such ports, thinking such ports encouraged the use
of needles, which were said to be unsafe. A nurse rushed over with a
hemostat to help me twist off the line stuck in the lone port. In the
meantime I gave Ms. O a few extra puffs. Unfortunately, as the nurse
twisted, the line broke off just above the point of insertion, rendering the
port blocked and useless. I gave Ms. O another puff. The nurse and I
rushed to replace the intravenous line with a new one. I gave Ms. O two
more puffs. When the new line was in place I injected the muscle relaxant
and re-intubated Ms. O.
I should have done a spinal.
The rest of the case proceeded uneventfully, until, as we wheeled Ms.
O to the recovery room, I realized that I had failed to relock the an-
esthesia cart. A rule demanded that I do so, and if an inspector had caught
me abandoning an unlocked cart, I risked my job. I knew the inspectors
from a hospital accreditation agency were due for a visit. Were they here
now? I wondered. I stopped in the middle of the hallway; the nurse at the
foot of the stretcher stared at me quizzically while I pondered what to do.
If I abandoned Ms. O for the one minute needed to go back and lock the
cart, I risked violating a rule. If I kept going toward the recovery room
and left the cart unlocked, I risked violating another rule. In the end, I
decided to drop Ms. O off in the recovery room first, and then circle back
to lock the cart. My hand-off to the recovery room nurses was much
faster than usual, though, as I kept worrying about whether the inspectors
were around.
Rules in medicine are the creations of the doctors’ inner selves. Doc-
tors devise them in labs and research centers. They do so to improve
medical safety. But doctors have lost control of their creations. Their
creations have risen up against them. Malpractice lawyers own them.
Hospital administrators own them. Accreditation agencies own them.
Government agencies own them. As a result, doctors today fear their own
creations. When they see a book of rules and guidelines, a mysterious
voice whispers in their ears, “That’s where ‘up-to-a-point’ lives.” The
rules must be followed, except when they should not be followed; only
that critical inflection point is never revealed to them.
More rules and guidelines are written all the time. Almost every activ-
ity in medical practice has been carefully tabulated. Nothing has been
overlooked; nothing has escaped the eye of researchers. There are de-
tailed instructions for everything. But the new owners of these instruc-
tions have less feel for them than the doctors who created them do. They
wrongly see them as information, something with a clear right and wrong,
like an irrefutable math demonstration, something that comes with a sure
path toward success. They do not see that rules and guidelines are only an
approximation of truth, and that at every step they need a doctor’s consid-
ered judgment to make them more exact.
Doctors, for their part, follow the rules, especially employed doctors
who fear being sued and fired. The rules guide their decisions. Yet the
rules also stand in the way of their decisions. Doctors love their rules, but
at the same time they feel as if something terrible has been imposed on
them. It has.
The inspectors from the hospital accreditation agency arrived a week

later. Because hospitals would go out of business without recertification,
doctors and hospital administrators fear them. Doctors are warned not to
158 CHA P TER 8
argue with them, to be polite and friendly, and to accept all their recom-
mendations.
The inspectors entered my operating room while I set up for my case.
Although neither inspector was a doctor, both looked confident in the
operating room. They were the kind of people who are appointed to
inspect and without a twinge of doubt will inspect firmly and decisively
whatever it is they have been appointed to inspect, whether it be an
operating room, an industry, or a school.
They studied my workspace. A laryngoscope blade lying half outside
its package caught the main inspector’s eye.
“What’s this?” he asked in an icy tone.
“I always keep a blade half open, so as to be available in case of an
airway emergency,” I replied, my left eye twitching from nervousness.
“You don’t keep it lying around all day? Correct?” the inspector asked
sternly.
“Oh, no, of course not,” I replied, although I knew anesthesiologists
had been doing so for fifty years without problems.
Next, an open bottle of drug caught the main inspector’s attention. I
had drawn the drug up for my next patient but had yet to throw the bottle
away, thinking I might need more.
“I assume you will use this bottle for your next patient only?” asked
the inspector.
Although doctors have been using multi-dose vials on different pa-
tients for years, a new rule banned the practice to prevent infection. The
rule was reasonable and I meticulously followed it, except once. I had
needed the drug Pitocin to control hemorrhaging in an obstetrical patient
whose uterus failed to contract after delivery. My anesthesia cart jammed
and kept me from getting a new bottle. The only Pitocin available was in
the bottle that I had used on the previous patient (but which was still
sterile). I wanted to use it, but the rule momentarily hypnotized me. I
hesitated for several seconds while my patient almost bled to death; then I
said to hell with the rule and gave her the Pitocin. The drug saved her life.
Still, I felt uneasy for having violated the rule.
“That’s correct,” I replied nervously. “One bottle, one patient.”
The main inspector saw an unlabeled syringe containing the milky
white drug Diprivan. I had drawn the drug up a few minutes before to use
on my next patient.
“Why isn’t this syringe labeled?” he growled.
“I just drew it up, so I know what it is. Besides, it’s the only milky
white drug we use, you know, so there’s no chance of me confusing it
with another drug, ” I replied with confidence.
I could tell by the inspector’s face that he didn’t find my argument
convincing.
“The drug could be Milk of Magnesia. That’s milky white,” said the
main inspector with a straight face.
“Oh, come on,” I giggled. “We don’t use Milk of Magnesia in the
operating room.”
I looked for an ironic smile on the man’s face, to see whether he was
just pulling my leg. There was none. Instead, he glared at me, as if to say,
“I represent a certain organization well known to you and I don’t recom-
mend you insult it. That would only make your position, bad as it is,
worse.”
“The rule is to label all drugs,” he replied restrainedly, as if somehow
offended. “Is that clear?”
He really was a natural-born predator. A passion lived within him, and
he seemed to harbor the urge to hound and henpeck anyone weaker than
he was. He would be happy to get me fired. The other inspector regarded
me with more sympathy. Still, she expected a kind of respect to which she
felt she was entitled as the representative of her agency. All good things
came from her agency, meaning rules and guidelines that saved people’s
lives, and therefore good things should be given to her agency—in other
words, respect. Although she didn’t want to hurt me, her eyes suggested
that if I continued to resist, I might become the unfortunate victim of
cruel administrative necessity.
I repented and put a label on the syringe.
Some medical writers believe doctors today are so bombarded by
information that they risk overlooking things, resulting in catastrophes. 2
These writers preach rules and protocols that help remind doctors to
check this and remember that. But in my experience, although there is
real value in rules and protocols, medical catastrophes stem less from
doctors being flooded with information than from doctors being flooded
with rules and protocols. Not necessarily with a checklist or a time-out,
not necessarily with the rule to label all syringes, but with the hundreds of
rules and protocols that collectively guide doctors in everyday medical
practice and that should be followed, but only “up to a point.” It is not the
rules and protocols per se that cause catastrophe so much as doctors
160 CHA P TER 8
having lost control of those rules and protocols to higher-ups—to admin-

istrators, to inspectors, to bureaucrats, and to civil servants—who prevent
doctors from judiciously applying them. Those higher-ups lurk in hospital
corridors, fire orders at subordinates at point-blank range, sort out patient
lives with the latest rules and protocols, and then stroll away. Deprived of
an opportunity to use their own judgment about when to enforce the rules,
doctors become little more than clerks. When the inner voice of judgment
does whisper inside of them, they find it hard to think, because they are
afraid; their minds go around and around in a vicious circle; they see a
rule on one side and a threat on the other; they make decisions, some-
times senseless ones, in a state of vertigo. Employed doctors feel the most
pressure.
In one case on the West Coast that I am familiar with, an obstetrician
admitted a patient with gestational diabetes to an intensive care unit.
Employed by the hospital, the intensivist insisted on giving the patient a
flu shot, since a rule mandated that all patients with diabetes get flu shots.
“But it’s not diabetes, it’s gestational diabetes,” the obstetrician pleaded.
“It’s different.” The obstetrician wanted to keep her patient from being
needlessly exposed to the potentially dangerous complications of flu
shots. But the intensivist feared being fired if he ignored the rule.
In a second case, an employed obstetrician rejected an anesthesiolo-
gist’s suggestion that a patient with mild placenta previa be crossmatched
for blood instead of just screened for blood. 3 Only with a crossmatch is
blood immediately available for transfusion in case of severe hemor-
rhage. The obstetrician worried that the more expensive crossmatch
would raise her financial profile and make her a statistical outlier among
other employed obstetricians. The hospital had its protocol for managing
such cases; a bureaucrat had estimated in advance the reasonable cost. If
the obstetrician went outside that protocol and incurred a higher cost per
case, she risked her job.
In a third case, an employed anesthesiologist hesitated to give her
diabetic patient insulin before surgery, worrying that her patient, who was
sensitive to the drug, might suffer a dangerous and undetectable drop in
blood sugar during the operation. The hospital diabetes protocol, working
from a nationwide protocol, had decreed insulin to be given when the
blood sugar reached a certain number. The anesthesiologist hesitated. She
didn’t want to ignore the rule, but she feared losing her job.
Why bureaucracies put doctors in such an uncomfortable position

mystifies physicians. Some doctors see a pernicious ploy to award them
responsibility without authority. The bureaucracy lays down a rule. If
doctors follow the rule and get a bad outcome, they get into trouble
because the rule should have been followed “up to a point,” and they
should have known that point. If doctors ignore the rule and get a bad
outcome, they get into trouble for not having followed the rule.
A more likely explanation lies in the nature of bureaucracy itself. An
analogy is helpful. Imagine sitting in a theater and watching the actions of
others. We are interested in the movie; what unfolds before us is familiar;
the feelings that the actors express are familiar; and after the movie we
talk about what the characters might have done differently. Yet, despite
all that takes place on screen, no decision is required of us. The drama
takes place in an imaginary world, and nothing we say or do has any real
effect on that world. Real patient care is a kind of imaginary world for
bureaucrats. Bureaucrats think and talk about that world. They feel for
people in that world. That world is familiar to them. They may even have
once worked in that world. Yet patient care is still a distant world that
fails to touch them directly. The major difference between a bureaucrat’s
relationship to his imaginary world and a moviegoer’s relationship to his
imaginary world is that, for the bureaucrat, decisions do affect the imagi-
nary world. Sometimes bureaucrats forget this fact. When writing rules
for patient care, they use words, flimsy symbols, and sometimes forget
the terrible consequences that may follow. Their words or phrases fail to
represent with sufficient exactitude what happens in the patient care
world and the consequences of following them. The result can be catas-
trophe.
Ironically, the medical profession is responsible for this bad situation.
Under the old model of doctoring that guided my father, physicians did
not have the same obsession with rules, protocols, and algorithms. True,
my father worked with rules and protocols, and he often followed them.
But for him the underlying difference between doctors was less one of
who knew the rules and more a matter of personal taste. My father be-
lieved that in delicate and difficult matters of patient care, individual
variations of temperament and personality among doctors were really the
dominant elements in any judgment. This was the “gentlemanly,” almost
aristocratic side to medical practice.
162 CHA P TER 8
In contrast, many doctors today fear individual variation among them-

selves as much as they fear not having a ready answer for patients. The
idea that they should manage illness not through universal rules and
protocols but through personal experience and a half-conscious sense of
the vital elements in a situation unnerves some doctors. These doctors
embrace habit. They want to fall into routine. They want to reduce the
effect of human variation among doctors. They want science to smooth
out the fluctuations between them. They want “best practice” guidelines.
They want a rule to tell them what to do.
Their hopes and fears have led to an explosion in the number of rules
and protocols in medicine. Those rules and protocols are now dangerous-
ly under the control of higher-ups.
9
THE PROBLEM OF GOING PART-TIME

AND WHEN TO RETIRE
December. Late at night. Cold and tired. My first year in practice. On the
other side of the ether screen the surgeon sliced off the patient’s appen-
dix. I tickled the roof of my mouth with my tongue to stay awake, a trick I
had learned as an intern. To pass the time, I studied my patient’s face.
An anesthetic-induced sleep does not convey an image of peace. On
the contrary, it conveys an image of fear. The cheeks are pale. The veins
at the temples stick out repugnantly. The bloodshot eyes fasten their gaze
on one spot, unblinkingly, as if aware of some invisible approaching
horror. The hair is busy, hectic, and dank with sweat. Even the nicest nose
is snotty, as if the owner were too harried to wipe it. When watching
someone in real sleep, one has a sense of life reviving, that sleep is a good
thing, that a tired spirit is putting forth fresh shoots. When watching
someone in an anesthetized sleep, one has a sense of life in despair.
Horrible thoughts seem to reveal themselves on the patient’s face. The
damp forehead; the cold, bloodless lips; the tearing eyes; the mouth in the
shape of a groan—all suggest that the world is getting worse and worse to
live in.
When the case finished I went back to my call room to lie down.
Although the day-shift physician had been there only a few hours, the
room looked and smelled as though someone had been living there, sleep-
ing and eating his meals there, for over a year. An unmade bed. A Styro-
foam cup filled with old coffee. From the trashcan came the noxious
smell of rotting tuna salad. Within a few seconds my nose adjusted to the
163
164 CHA P TER 9
bad odor; yet I knew I wouldn’t sleep well in this stale, stuffy room. I sat
down on the unmade bed, took off my cap, then my shoes, giving my feet
a chance to feel their freedom. I unwrapped my stethoscope from around
my neck and put it on the table. I wondered if I should take off my scrubs
before commencing my hours-long stare into the darkness. It seemed
senseless to get undressed for that pleasure—not really to sleep, just to lie
down on a dirty bed and stare.
Lying alone in a call room is a special time for doctors. It is the
moment when the mind is irresistibly attuned to dreams, the heart to all
those sensations that in the light of everyday life seem silly, absurd, even
juvenile. It is also the moment when the doctor ceases to be active, when
boredom lies in wait for him, when he is prey to imaginary worries,
endless self-examination, regret for the past, and fears for the unknown
future.
The memory of my patient’s despairing face set the tone for the eve-
ning. Simply put, I was unhappy with being a doctor. I wasn’t sure why.
It certainly wasn’t the money. Both my father and my grandfather had
loved being doctors, and my father, at least, had earned a good living, but
compared to what I was earning (even in my first year of practice) they
were practically paupers.
Some of my disappointment stemmed from the monotony of an-
esthesia practice. Ninety percent of the time I would give a patient all the
big syringe (the Pentothal), then all the little syringe (the muscle relax-
ant), insert a breathing tube, and turn the knob on the gas canister. In my
early years of training I had a feeling of excited expectation in learning
how to do this. By my last year of residency this cooled considerably.
During the first six months of private practice it came with an ironic
smile. In the second six months it was transformed into indifference.
Overspecialization has caused many doctors today to share in this
feeling of monotony. Wherever they are, the weather outside will have
changed, their watches will have moved ahead, but their day is exactly
the same as the one they had three weeks before. They did all this yester-
day and the day before, and they know they will do the very same thing
tomorrow and after. They grow depressed in spirit; they are overcome at
the assembly line with a daily state of madness that lasts for ten hours,
after which, upon returning home, they rest, eat well, get well, and recu-
perate, in order on the next day again to grow mad for a while.
T H E PROB LE M OF GOI N G P A RT-TIME A ND W HEN TO RETIRE 165
Yet both my father and my grandfather often did the same thing every
day, and they enjoyed being doctors. Indeed, most work is monotonous.
Perhaps my career expectations had been too high, based on fabrications
of television shows. Real medical practice, like real life, was something
different—boring and simpler—and I would simply have to submit to it.
I lay on my bed and listened. The hospital murmured vaguely. I heard
the sound of an elevator opening, the sniff of someone next door, and the
rumble of a toilet flushing down the hall. Then came a severe silence,
waiting to be pierced by a beeper’s staccato ring, that harbinger of disas-
ter, alerting a doctor to some patient in distress. At home, dogs bark, kids
scream, jackhammers pound away in the street, and yet sleep is easy;
while at the hospital, silence is almost total, one can practically hear two
clouds colliding in the sky, and yet sleep is hard—all because of that little
beeper sitting two feet from one’s head, waiting to go off like a time
bomb and putting a tremendous strain on the nerves. Nothing is more
irritating than being awakened by that beeper. It is more painful than
doing the entire case for which one is awakened.
If the position of “doctor” had been more respected, then my discom-
fort might have been more endurable. But it had ceased to be. It had been
respected during my father and grandfather’s time. It is why the two men
never said they were “retired” whenever people asked them during their
final years what they did. Like the general who calls himself a general
long after having left the army, my father and grandfather said they were
doctors long after they had stopped practicing. They clung to the title.
Being a doctor was a high-status position in those days, and they were
proud of it, while society’s respect got them through the long hours. In a
game called Life that I played as a child, the position of doctor was the
highest a player could attain, and came with the highest salary, followed
(in order) by lawyer, journalist, and teacher. Even in the early 1980s,
when I went to medical school, the brightest young people often aspired
to the professions. But later, an entirely new upper stratum came into
being, composed of people in finance, computers, the Internet, media,
entertainment, and high technology. Indeed, in today’s version of Life,
the position of doctor has no high rank, the job of computer consultant or
entertainer comes with more perks, and salaries are awarded at random. A
doctor my age, shell-shocked by the change, once confided in me, “A
doctor is nothing.”
166 CHA P TER 9
A noise outside the room distracted me. I looked at the light coming
from a crack at the bottom of the door to check for any divots of shade
caused by feet, but I saw none. I settled back down once I realized that it
was just the cleaning lady, the wheels on her laundry cart squeaking as
they rolled down the corridor, with the woman herself muttering in bad-
tempered irritation about some injustice that had been done to her.
I felt embarrassed. Obviously, the cleaning lady’s life was harder than
my own. So what if doctoring is just any old job? It brings no glory, but it
also brings no great misery. “Where’s my gratitude?” I had asked. Well,
there was none. I should be satisfied and at peace, as if I had achieved
everything I had dreamed of. I was living a normal life.
I wanted my beeper to go off at that moment. Time to get up, work,
live. But it didn’t. Inevitably my mind drifted toward other complaints.
Professional medicine calls the doctor a master technician. But I wanted
to talk to someone about culture, about higher things, about the eternal.
Technicians don’t talk about such things. Professional medicine calls the
doctor a scientist. That’s a stretch, I thought. As a student I had watched
orthopedic surgery residents perform an experiment that involved break-
ing bunny rabbits’ legs and putting them in slings. When I raised an
eyebrow, the residents said defensively, “Hey, we’re scientists. We’re
MDs.” I replied sarcastically, “So what do the plastic surgery residents
do? Give the bunnies a ‘boob’ job?” Nuclear physicists they were not.
Professional medicine calls the doctor a gentleman. Yet when business
turned medical practice into an assembly line, many doctors no longer
even had time to eat lunch. Some anesthesiologists smuggled food into
their operating rooms as a wretched substitute—not celery or apples,
since the crunching sound might alert the authorities, but candy bars and
bananas. The doctor is a gentleman? Even the lowliest animal in a cage
gets lunch.
Professional medicine calls the doctor a professional. But a profes-
sional is in control of his personality. An employed doctor has no such
control. The company owns his smiles, his demeanor, and his language,
for these have commercial significance; they affect doctor-patient rela-
tions. Alone in the call room at night is the only time when a doctor is not
pretending for anyone.
Professional medicine calls the doctor a benefactor, someone who
sacrifices himself for the good of others. But I didn’t go into medicine to
sacrifice myself. I did think about my happiness: Where’s my happiness?
I asked myself. Something was working against my happiness, and it

made me angry. Nature was rising up within me, seeking to reassert some
universal rule that had been violated. I had read philosophers who said
that all happiness is built on empty space, a feeling that had no basis. I
disagreed. Everyone wants to be happy. Can’t they understand? No one
can rid himself of the want, I thought.
Frightened by my own discontent, I switched on the light and picked
up a journal. Then I felt sleepy. I knew that if I put down the journal and
turned off the light, the feeling would be gone. I switched on the televi-
sion. I half-watched a documentary, then decided you either watch a
documentary properly or not all, and turned it off. I lay there and dreamed
of dancing and singing. Don’t be impatient, happiness will come, I said to
myself. You won’t be in this call room forever. When the time comes,
happiness will come. Happiness is everywhere, in everything.
Then I stood up and looked in the mirror. At first glance I looked like
an anesthetized patient, pale and despairing. Then I studied my face more
carefully. I had the pallor of the person whose working day is not regulat-
ed and too often goes beyond midnight, of the person who has no time for
indulgence in sports, of the person who eats any old way. I was unshaved;
my hair was uncombed. In a word, here was a man who worked too hard,
who no longer cared for anything at all, and who merely continued to
drag out his existence. A tired man—tired of his work, himself, his
thoughts, his doubts. And yet I was only thirty-one years old.
My youth had been lost somewhere in the smoke of time, never to
return, never to come to life again in the green grass and sunshine. Even
now, precious minutes were flying. Something turned over inside me, the
last barrier, the last thread attaching me to a conventional medical career.
I decided that very soon I would go part-time.
I met Dr. B while in training. In his early forties, he had gone part-
time at a young age to enjoy life and see the world. A part-time doctor
was a rarity in those days. It was also frowned upon. Many doctors called
being part-time childish. Some said it showed a lack of dedication to the
profession. A few said it was dangerous. But Dr. B didn’t care. When he
saw some female doctors going part-time to raise their children, he de-
168 CHA P TER 9
cided to go part-time for no other purpose than to escape medicine’s

hellish work hours and live a balanced life.
We were paged to the emergency room, where an elderly man was
diagnosed with a leaking abdominal aortic aneurysm. It was the ultimate
vascular emergency. The great vessel leaving the man’s heart had a defect
in its wall as it descended through the abdominal cavity. The wall now
had a hole in it. Blood was leaking out. If the aneurysm ruptured, the man
would hemorrhage to death in two minutes.
Dr. B looked nervous. His eyes darted like a lemur’s. He had just
come off a two-month stint hiking in Europe, and he hadn’t done a surgi-
cal case in all that time. When the patient arrived on the operating table
he raced to apply the blood pressure cuff and EKG pads. He was keyed
up, but also distracted and rough. He seemed to want to be done with this
operation, to be sitting upstairs in the cafeteria and laughing about the
final resolution to this nightmare, which was still open-ended and in the
future. It was almost as if he resented the patient for having ruined his
afternoon.
Dr. B injected two drugs into the man’s intravenous. Twenty seconds
passed between the moment of injection and the man’s loss of conscious-
ness, during which time the whole room fell quiet and still. Dr. B placed
the breathing tube, then listened to the characteristic sound in the man’s
chest as he squeezed air into it.
Thirty seconds later an alarm went off on the machine. No blood
pressure was obtainable. Dr. B cycled the machine again, his eyes grow-
ing wider with concern. Again the alarm sounded.
“Everything all right?” asked the surgeon.
“Yeah, just wait a minute,” Dr. B replied impatiently. “I think some-
thing’s wrong with the machine.”
“Should I do anything?” asked the surgeon.
“No, just wait a minute, will you?” Dr. B barked nervously. A shrewd
nurse quietly paged another anesthesiologist to come help.
The patient’s pallor had turned a ghostly white; his lips were barely
distinguishable from the rest of his skin. A third attempt at getting a blood
pressure proved futile. Now terrified, his pupils enormous, Dr. B reached
for a drug to artificially raise the man’s pressure. He was about to inject it
when another anesthesiologist, Dr. V, burst into the room. When she saw
everyone standing around flummoxed, and then saw the patient’s deathly
pallid face, she instinctively knew what had happened.
“Cut him!” she shouted.

“What?” asked the surgeon.
“Cut him!”
Dr. V saw the patient’s bare, unprepped abdomen.
“Dr. B!”
Dr. B stood still, frozen in place by fear, his eyes fixed attentively on
Dr. V, the gaze of a frightened animal. He dared not even to blink.
“Dr. B! Get the iodine solution!” Dr. V raced past him, grabbed the
bottle of orange-brown iodine, and squirted it furiously over the man’s
abdomen. Then she lunged past Dr. B to grab two large-bore intravenous
catheters from the anesthesia cart. Dr. B stood aside, paralyzed, unsure
what to do, although eager to defend his actions to Dr. V.
“I didn’t give that much Pentothal. If his blood pressure dropped from
the Pentothal, it’s not my fault,” Dr. B whispered intensely. He stared at
Dr. V with entreaty and hatred in his eyes.
“It wasn’t the Pentothal, you numbskull. He’s hemorrhaging,” whis-
pered Dr. V with equal intensity, making sure no one else could hear.
“You think this guy drove two hours to the hospital, made it to the
emergency room, made it to the elevator, made it to the operating room,
and then, just by coincidence, lost his blood pressure the moment you
started giving anesthesia? No, your muscle relaxant weakened the outside
pressure containing the aneurysm, causing it to explode. The patient
should have been prepped and draped, with blood units already in the
room, before you even started.” Then Dr. V shouted, “Someone, call for
blood!”
“When you grab hold of his aorta, squeeze tight until we get some
blood into him! Just clamp it and pray!” she yelled at the surgeon.
The race began. The surgeon began slicing the patient’s abdomen with
deep strokes, as if he were a butcher hacking meat, the patient’s intestines
pouring out of the wound, an intertwined mass still steaming with bodily
heat but abnormally pale, limp, and bloodless, without the usual stirring
and swelling motions of the bowel. A tongue of blood spurted out lizard-
like from underneath the mass, and then blood began to ooze out all over.
Large dark clots floating in a red current streamed over the sides of the
wound onto the surgeon’s feet and beyond onto the floor, leaving puddles
for us to step in.
We placed two more intravenous catheters. Blood spread over my
ungloved hands and fingernails, emitting a sickly sweet smell. As the
170 CHA P TER 9
surgeon hacked his way deeper into the man’s belly, blood spattered
everywhere, including onto the uncovered part of my face and neck.
The nurse called out, “The patient has no blood available. The speci-
men sent to the blood bank clotted, and so they couldn’t do the cross-
match.”
“Are you serious?” the surgeon shouted, working furiously. “Come
on! What the hell is going on here? No blood available for a major
vascular case? Who forgot to check . . . ?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dr. V interrupted, knowing it was probably Dr. B
who had failed to follow up. Perhaps desiring to shield him from another
blow, she told the surgeon, “We’re going to need more blood than they
would have typed for.” Then she told the nurse, “Just send for as much
Type O blood as they can give us.”
Dr. B seemed to understand what Dr. V had done on his behalf. He
slightly resented his weakness and Dr. V’s reminder of it but said noth-
ing, for he knew he had made another mistake.
Several minutes later the orderly lugged into the room a large box
containing blood units. We transfused each unit as fast as we could.
Fifteen minutes later the patient’s blood pressure returned to measur-
able levels, although his color still hovered menacingly between white
and ash-gray. The surgeon held on to the patient’s aorta as if it were a
wriggling snake, waiting for more transfused blood to fill up the patient’s
vascular system. Still, the suction canisters roared, inhaling blood into
their gaping maws. The blood pressure disappeared again—this time for
good. The patient bled to death. We could not resuscitate him.
Part-time doctors are a new phenomenon in medicine. Before the
1990s, they were rare. By 2005, 7 percent of male doctors and 29 percent
of female doctors were part-time. In 2011, 22 percent of male doctors and
44 percent of female doctors were part-time. 1 A doctor’s desire to go
part-time today is understandable. Medical training is longer than ever.
Subspecialties such as cardiology and orthopedic surgery now need as
many as eight years of postgraduate work, up from five years in 1970. 2
Many doctors today don’t start living adult lives, with real salaries, until
their late thirties. Naturally they feel impatience and regret, as I had in my
call room. They want another life, and so they go part-time.
Other statistics hint at what is happening: In a 2014 survey, 60 percent
of physicians older than forty-five had negative views toward being a
doctor; yet almost 50 percent of physicians younger than forty-five
shared the same negative views. 3 Young doctors today are surprisingly
cynical and jaded about their profession. Their inward cursing and brood-
ing inevitably leads many of them to go part-time; it’s as if they want to
remedy the mistake they made by going into medicine in the first place.
Indeed, many older full-time doctors have left independent practice to
become hospital employees, not because they like being employed, but
because they are unable to find young doctors willing to join their prac-
tices and take night and weekend call, so determined are young doctors
these days to live their lives.
Professional medicine remains quiet on this issue. It shouldn’t. Part-
time doctoring has the potential to increase the risk of catastrophes, as it
affects a doctor’s ability to retain vital instincts. Dr. B was a case in point.
Being a creature of habit is a bad thing in a physician. A doctor who
follows rules and protocols unthinkingly can make bad decisions. Yet
being a creature of habit is also a good thing in a physician. It helps turn
conscious decision making into instinct. This makes a doctor safe.
A surgeon, for example, is often a creature of habit. He will often eat
the same breakfast at the same time every morning and stand on the same
side of the operating table every day because he prefers to work reflexive-
ly, almost without thinking, with no new feeling in his mind, his hands,
his stomach, or his bladder to perturb him. It is why a surgeon can work
after being awake for forty hours; too tired to think, he works by habit,
which is how he works best. Even a surgeon’s lashing out in anger is
more of a habit than an action, as a rude surgeon is typically rude to
everyone.
When the surgeon cuts, the choice of where and how to cut is some-
times not even conscious. The surgeon thinks with his fingers and his
scalpel. This is vital to being a good surgeon. It is analogous to the boxer
who thinks with his body. The boxer never has time to say to himself,
“Since my opponent is doing this, I will do that.” Instead, the boxer
thinks with his arms and his gloves. If there is the smallest break in the
motion, if it pauses only slightly while the boxer hesitates and reasons,
the rhythm breaks down and the exercise becomes impossible. It is the
same with a surgeon, who establishes a direct communication between
his eyes fixed on the patient and his fingers holding the knife.
In medicine, the art of thinking is often the art of making thought
instinctive. Instinctive thoughts have narrow limits, but they can be infal-
lible—and lifesaving. It is through instinct, born of the thousands of cases
172 CHA P TER 9
he or she has observed, that a doctor acquires the flashing rapidity of

decision that medical events sometimes require.
Part-time doctoring threatens such instincts. In Dr. B, principles that
would have percolated quickly and naturally to the surface of conscious-
ness in a full-time doctor were repressed. Had he been given time, he
might have been able to conjure them up—for example, the need to prep
and drape a patient with a leaking aneurysm before inducing anesthesia.
But conjuring takes time, and he had none. Knowledge is a doctor’s only
if, at the moment of need, it offers itself to the mind without the need for
long meditation, for which there is no time.
Anesthesiologists are also creatures of habit. When shown a new drug,
an anesthesiologist sometimes thinks, “Let me not know about it; then I
will be happy.” This is a bad habit, as it prevents the anesthesiologist
from learning new things. Yet vigilance to the point of suspicion is also a
habit, and a good one. In the surgical theater every funny-looking face
suggests to the anesthesiologist a difficult intubation, every operating
room an ambush; every morbidly obese patient sends an unpleasant shud-
der down his spine. He looks at the patient and his first instinct is to think,
“How can this patient ruin me?” An anesthesiologist learns during train-
ing that another person will leave you in the lurch, and not to trust any-
one—that, for example, if a technician says the oxygen is turned on, look
yourself to make sure it is turned on—and that such suspicion will never
let you down; it will see you through everything and help you avoid
getting into trouble. Such suspicion goes hand in hand with attention to
detail, which helps prevent catastrophes. Dr. B had lost this habit, forget-
ting, for example, to check whether the blood bank had performed the
necessary crossmatch.
Anesthesiologists often work on instinct more than on scientific
knowledge. It is instinct that gets them through a tense situation when
panic threatens to blot out their knowledge base. Anesthesiologists who
work sporadically risk losing this instinct, much the way an animal, once
domesticated, loses the instinct to survive in the wild. Not all part-time
doctors, but some.
The result is a characteristic personality. Creeping into an operating
room after having been away for many weeks, part-time anesthesiologists
anxiously put their patients to sleep. When they succeed and everything
goes smoothly, they are lulled into thinking that everything is easy, that
they can put anyone to sleep, that their work is a no-brainer. Then, when
catastrophe approaches, they swing to the opposite side and panic, think-
ing everything is impossible. Anesthesiologists with healthy instincts
manage an impending catastrophe in stages, with each stage getting their
attention—for example, in a trauma case, first take care of the airway,
then take care of the breathing, then take care of the patient’s circulation.
They do not look further than each stage while concentrating on a particu-
lar stage; they are like the mountain climber who cuts steps in the ice and
focuses on the level he is at, refusing to look up at the heights or down
into the depths because the sight of either might distract him. Part-time
anesthesiologists, however, are sometimes petrified by the enormity of
the situation they face. They look at the whole situation, all at once,
instead of trying to build themselves a path to safety, step by step; they
look up and they look down, and grow terrified and paralyzed.
One solution to the problem of the part-time doctor is to prevent
doctors from going part-time in the first place. But this is impossible. My
father and grandfather saw being a doctor as something special. With the
collapse of that vision, today’s physicians look at being a doctor as a job.
And once doctoring becomes a job, the lure of part-time is often too
strong to resist.
Can anyone blame them? Many young doctors want to save them-
selves from a hellish life made up of long work hours and few happy
moments. Some people try to make them feel guilty for wanting to go
part-time, only why should they feel guilty? Yes, they’re a little to blame,
because of their strong sense of entitlement, but life itself is also to blame.
They slave away at their jobs. Suddenly temptation comes their way. It
sucks and sucks at them, drawing all the time, and they’re supposed to
turn it aside? That’s the right turn in life? But how can that be? How can
it be not to want to have a family and see that family grow up, or not to
have time to read, or to think about something beyond medicine, or to
bend down and smell the flowers? Many doctors in the past, including my
father, took a half-day off every week. They often took their staff out for
lunch. They didn’t need to go part-time because medical practice in those
days allowed them some wiggle room. Such civilities went by the way-
side long ago. No, if a doctor’s life is all work, monotonous work, little-
respected work, and employed work, then life is just as much to blame for
a doctor’s desire to go part-time.
The only solution to the problem of the part-time doctor is to make
sure that the doctor never goes part-time in his or her mind. Even when a
174 CHA P TER 9
part-time anesthesiologist is away from work, he must constantly run

scenarios of difficult cases in his mind. Whether he’s hiking in Europe or
sailing on the bay, he must take time out from his activity to imagine
what he might do in a particular case. He must give that case his full
attention. He must be so in the moment of his daydream that his heart
races with expectation when he imagines injecting the life-saving drug,
while his fingers twitch as he imagines inserting an emergency intrave-
nous. When out in the everyday world, he must look at passersby and
study their facial anatomy and imagine how he might care for them if
they arrived for surgery, and whether he might intubate them awake or
asleep. He must carry his art with him wherever he goes during his time
off. Like a shadowboxer who spars with an imaginary opponent, he must
use his art constantly, daily, in his mind, so that when hospital life re-
turns, his instincts and reflexes are ready to go.
I know this because I have been part-time now for more than twenty
years.
An anesthesiologist lives a good life and earns quite a bit of money,

but his life is overshadowed by fear. And for good reason. Odds are that
sooner or later, no matter what, he’ll kill a patient by accident. When he
does, he is often traumatized, both by the death and by the inevitable
lawsuit. This risk causes some anesthesiologists to dream of the day when
they no longer have to go into a cold operating room and put patients to
sleep, but instead can teach or do administrative work. Sometimes they
dream of suffering the perfect injury—left arm weakness—that will put
them on disability without sidelining them from tennis or golf.
An anesthesiologist’s fear intensifies when he’s handed the operating
room schedule for the day. He quickly surveys it to see if he’s posted to
work in a room with sick patients, where the chance of killing someone is
high. If so, his heart is gripped with fear of the impending clash; he has an
inexplicable feeling of savage agitation, the kind that a soldier feels in the
trenches, before the captain’s whistle blows, sending him over the top and
into battle. Sure enough, the surgical nurse will often shout over the
lounge intercom, “We’re going in!” to tell the anesthesiologist as he waits
anxiously in his chair that his patient is being wheeled back to the operat-
ing room, and that the test of nerves is about to begin.
In the healthy anesthesiologist there is usually a period of inward

transformation when he steels himself against what is to come and re-
minds himself that he can only do what he thinks is right. He goes over
his plan again and feels himself equipped to carry it out. His fear starts to
dissipate; he goes back to acting as if there are no dangers in medicine, or,
if there are, he has never come to any grief by disregarding them. He
walks toward the operating room with a clear mind.
An anesthesiologist who is about to retire—or who needs to retire—
finds it hard to control such fear.
Dr. P was such a physician. In his early sixties, he had been a good
anesthesiologist with a solid safety record, a pleasant colleague, and a
happy man. But his partners began to notice a change in his personality.
Something was bothering him. He grew less social. He would eat lunch in
silence, as if afraid to look at others, afraid to reveal his inner thoughts.
He became indifferent to everything, interested in nothing, and only
wanted to be left in peace.
His behavior in the operating room also changed. He grew supersti-
tious. After learning his room assignment he would hesitate to switch
rooms with another doctor, as if thinking, “Perhaps the disastrous case to
come is in my partner’s room, and had I only stayed in the room that fate
had decreed for me, I would have been fine. Then again, maybe the
disastrous case to come is in my room, and if only I had done my partner
a favor and switched, I would have avoided it.” He would wrestle in his
mind with what to do, go back and forth between the two different pos-
sibilities, and begin to hate the doctor who asked to make the switch,
thinking him some kind of devil put on earth to trick him. Later, when
setting up his workspace in the operating room, he would draw up every
emergency drug in his cart as if it were insurance against needing them. It
was as though he were playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game with
destiny. When inducing anesthesia he would demand that everyone in the
operating room be quiet. Staring angrily at the surgeon and nurse as they
talked to each other about their weekend, he would mutter to himself,
“Death is staring us in the eyes, and here you are chattering away about
some trip to the beach.”
The habits of a lifetime were disintegrating, and he was uncertain as
he had never been before. Soon he began to have problems clinically. He
was unable to intubate some easy patients. Maybe the light on the laryn-
goscope was dim, or maybe he was too fidgety, or maybe he took his eyes
176 CHA P TER 9
off the windpipe at the last minute, but in any event he couldn’t get the
tube in. Once, when another anesthesiologist came in to do it for him, he
sent his stool flying, kicked it toward the cabinet, and flung the scope to
the floor. Both the surgeon and the nurse in the room drew back in fright.
Then Dr. P grew quiet, as though the violent behavior had released some
pent-up truth from his heart.
One day, Dr. P was assigned to put a child to sleep for a tonsillectomy.
Although I had just finished my shift, he asked me to stay a few extra
minutes to talk about something. I shrugged my shoulders and agreed.
Once we were in the operating room he picked up a few syringes and a
laryngoscope and presented them to me, implying that I was expected to
participate in this anesthetic and not simply listen to him talk. I grew
suspicious and slightly resentful, but I grabbed the laryngoscope and
began to breathe the child down with gas without bothering to ask Dr. P if
that had been his plan. I had no doubts. Dr. P seemed relieved to have the
instrument removed from his hand, and his face relaxed even more as I
took over the case.
After the child was asleep, I looked over at Dr. P and asked, “Okay,
what did you want to talk about?”
“Talk about?” asked Dr. P. He seemed confused.
“Yes, you said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
Dr. P suddenly remembered his deception, and he replied, “Oh, well,
it’s late, why don’t we just talk about it tomorrow?”
“Wait a minute. You said you wanted to talk.”
Whatever relief Dr. P had felt from my presence passed into embar-
rassment, then into anger at having been found out. Suddenly he
thundered:
“I said we’ll talk about it tomorrow! I’m too tired to talk about it
now!”
I flinched in surprise. “What are you boiling over like that for? You’re
the one who asked me. . . . Oh, forget it. Good-bye.” I turned away in
open dissatisfaction and walked out, angry at having been cheated out of
a half-hour of time off.
I should have been more understanding. Dr. P needed to retire. If he
continued working, he risked injuring a patient or even a catastrophe.
This phenomenon is not new in medicine, but changes in medicine
have made it more of an issue. In my father and grandfather’s time, a
physician like Dr. P would have retired. The problem with older physi-
cians in those days was different. Doctors then often loved being doctors.
They loved all the trappings that went with being a doctor, from the free
food at the hospital to the free pens given to them by drug company reps
(indeed, after graduating medical school, a doctor need not buy a pen for
the next fifty years). Doctoring defined their identities. Since doctors
were typically independent professionals in those days, and since doctors
often “covered” for one another, an impaired physician could cling to
medical practice and continue working long after it was safe for him or
her to do so, and risk causing a catastrophe. I know of two physicians in
the 1980s, one with Parkinson’s disease, another with early Alzheimer’s,
who severely injured patients because they refused to stop practicing
medicine and no real mechanism existed to make them stop.
This is less of a problem now. Physicians increasingly are employed,
and employers have no problem firing an impaired employee. In the past,
hospitals were almost proud of their old doctors the way zookeepers are
proud of their old lions. This is less the case now. For their part, physi-
cians increasingly view their work as a job. They love doctoring less and
are often happy to get out when they can.
Still, the indelicate subject of money will likely rear its ugly head in
the future. With doctors employed and making less in salary, the question
remains whether a doctor will have enough money to stop practicing
when his or her career has begun its downward arc—in other words,
when he or she has started to get scared of taking care of patients.
Some jobs recognize that workers cannot necessarily continue into
their seventies without endangering the public. For example, firefighters
are often pensioned off at fifty-five, since no one wants an elderly fire-
fighter carrying them down a ladder from a burning window. Pilots face
mandatory retirement at sixty-five. Already in their sixties, pilots must
often be paired with younger copilots and undergo intensive medical
screening. Still, these jobs force retirement because of presumed physical
decline. Doctors, however, can be healthy physically while still showing
important psychological signs of decline, especially fear, putting them at
increased risk of causing a catastrophe. Nervous doctors who need to
retire but who stick it out another five or ten years because they can’t
afford to do so present a new and ill-defined problem.
Dr. P retired shortly after our case together. I saw him several years
later looking happy and like his old self again. When I asked him how his
life had changed, he smiled and said, “Whenever I need a new pen now, I
178 CHA P TER 9
have to buy one. Otherwise, I’m fine.” He winked at me, and I under-
stood.
10
I COME FULL CIRCLE
My patient was a forty-year-old obese man with a thick neck and an

overbite, going for nasal surgery. I thought he might be a little hard to
intubate, but I decided to put him to sleep in the routine way rather than
place a breathing tube while he was still awake. I injected the Pentothal,
then the short-acting muscle relaxant succinylcholine. Still, I was uneasy.
I felt those brief seconds of inward tension that precede a tough intuba-
tion, when the pulse quickens in an anesthesiologist no matter how many
patients he has put to sleep. The anesthesiologist feels an icy chill of
loneliness, for once the drugs are given, only he stands between the
patient and suffocation.
After the patient lost consciousness and stopped breathing, I looked
into his mouth with my laryngoscope and searched for the windpipe. I
saw nothing. I removed the scope and anxiously tossed it on my cart.
Then I pressed the mask tightly against the patient’s face with my left
hand while my right hand squeezed the bag at my side. The patient’s
chest failed to rise. I pressed the mask harder. With the enormous tension
in my fingers invisible, I looked like an anesthesiologist doing something
completely natural, especially with my right hand collapsing the breath-
ing bag every two seconds like clockwork. The nurse watching me prob-
ably thought my movements were directed by a cold, unemotional reason,
so assured and confident they seemed. But my hand hurt and my palm
sweated, while inside I experienced a premonition of disaster.
Grabbing the scope back, I tried to imagine the sudden crisis away. I
peered into the patient’s throat again, thinking, I’m sure to reach the
179
180 CHA P TER 10
airway this time. Then everything will be fine, and I will go home like I do
every day. But I saw nothing. I removed the scope, inserted an oral
airway, put the mask back on the patient’s face, and squeezed the bag
again with my right hand, furiously, as though I were squeezing a bellows
to start a fire. I tried to calm myself down. I thought, Things are fine
every day when I squeeze this bag, so if I squeeze this bag, things will be
fine. Still, the patient’s chest failed to rise.
For a brief moment I imagined myself somewhere else, magically
transported to another world without trouble. But the dream passed on
when I heard the deepening pitch of the pulse oximeter tone. When a
patient’s oxygen level is normal, the pulse oximeter twitters with a high,
merry pitch and sounds like a bird happily trilling on a branch. But as a
patient’s oxygen level falls, so, too, does the pitch, ominously, as though
the bird were being slowly strangled. When I heard the change, my mind
raced: Why did I go down this path? You fool!
“Suffocation!” The thought darted through my mind. The sound of the
pulse oximeter grew distinct and menacing, a low and throbbing rumble,
like approaching thunder. The craft of anesthesia sometimes consists of
making oneself strongest at a certain point; one must choose a point of
attack and concentrate one’s forces there. I inserted the laryngoscope and
lifted with all my strength, using both my arms, searching frantically for
the windpipe. Still, I saw nothing. Panic took deeper root.
I made two more attempts at intubation. The patient’s face flowed
with blood and saliva. It felt to my fingers as though it were a stream of
melting tar flowing toward the patient’s chest. I tried the mask again. I
held the mask so tightly against the patient’s face that my hand started to
cramp. The pain traveled up to the tense muscles of my forearm, but I
endured it without so much as moving my fingers, so desperate was I to
get even a smidgeon of air into the patient’s lungs. Still, no air made its
way in.
My mind was frozen. Everything was frozen now, except for my right
hand, which just kept squeezing the bag.
Mournfully, I realized I had reached a major decision point, for unless
the muscle relaxant wore off in the next minute, and the patient started to
breathe again on his own, the patient would suffer serious brain damage
or die. It is the most serious step in the career of any anesthesiologist: to
tell a surgeon to perform a tracheotomy under emergency conditions,
which, at the very least, will leave a permanent testament to the crisis in
I COM E FU LL C I RC LE 181
the form of an ugly scar on the patient’s neck. Yet there may be no other
way to get air into a patient before the muscle paralytic wears off.
I looked at the staff. The nurse’s eyes were popping. The surgical
tech’s mouth was wide open. The surgeon was agitated. His resident
assistant was pale. The moment of reckoning was at hand.
“Should I call another anesthesiologist to come help?” asked the
nurse. I said nothing. “Yes, I’ll go ahead and call,” she panted with
agitation. Deep down I knew it would accomplish nothing, because the
other anesthesiologist would likely have the same problem I had. In the
meantime, the patient would go that much longer without oxygen.
“I don’t want to do a trach if I don’t have to. Let’s wait a couple more
minutes. I bet the succinylcholine will wear off any second now,” said the
surgeon with pretended self-assurance. I said nothing.
I had known all during my training that this moment would come; yet
I had always planned on having a serious conversation with myself about
what I would do, and somehow the time to do so had vanished into thin
air, like smoke escaping from a chimney. Nobody knew about this
planned conversation but me, and even I hadn’t thought about it very
often, occasionally at night, during a bout of insomnia. Yet I had counted
on it, and now it was too late; there was no more time.
My hair fell over my brow, and with my dirty palm I brushed it back,
causing my cap to come off. I glanced at the blank, dying gaze of the
patient’s bloodshot eyes. Blood and saliva ran from the patient’s mouth
onto the pillow. I knew death was imminent; yet I deluded myself into
agreeing with the nurse, thinking that the right thing to do was to wait for
help, as well as with the surgeon, thinking that while we waited the
patient would probably start to breathe again on his own. Hope against
hope—the unreasonable hope of the panic-stricken mind. Then I thought
about what people would say about me if they found out my patient
needed a trach. It would be an embarrassing admission of failure on my
part. Perhaps I should try intubating him one more time? Bit by bit, panic
and fear were pushing me down a path, beaten out by many feet before
me, ending in impenetrable underbrush where even the smartest doctor
gets lost.
Suddenly, flashing through my head with the rapidity of lightning was
the image of the attending who had told me as a resident that I would
have to learn to eat shit and enjoy the taste of it, the one who had said that
a doctor cannot be afraid. Next came the image of the cowboy-doctor
182 CHA P TER 10
who had called me a “chicken.” A doctor cannot fear what other people
say when doing what he or she thinks is right, I thought. Then came the
image of Dr. C, the monkey-turned-ass who had kept trying to intubate a
patient, almost killing her. No, a doctor does more than just keep trying to
intubate, I thought. Then came the image of BSN, MSN, who had called
the management of a medical crisis a “team activity” that demanded
“input from all parties,” who had talked like a senator, all while failing to
produce the one thing that everyone wanted: a positive outcome. No, in a
crisis someone must take command, I thought. Then followed the image
of the patients who had tried to dictate their care to me—of the doctor’s
wife, in particular, who would have been furious to be left with a trache-
otomy scar on her perfect neck. Well, that’s too bad, I thought. An imper-
fect plan put into action at the right time is better than a perfect one
accomplished too late.
My heart beat loud but evenly, driving through my body a new sense
of concentrated energy. Only to get air in! I thought. The one idea pos-
sessed me. I stared at the surgeon and ordered him to perform the trache-
otomy. The nurse seemed surprised. “What?” she asked. But the surgeon
sensed my determination and jumped into action. Within thirty seconds
the tracheotomy was in place. Air moved into the patient’s lungs.
We strained our ears waiting for the pulse oximeter’s pitch to rise in
sweetness. Ten seconds of painful suspense. It did rise, slowly. After
thirty seconds, it returned to normal. A happy, trilling chirp. So dear to
the heart was the sound that all of us avidly listened without stirring, our
faces still lime-white with residual fear.
The patient woke up and started breathing on his own five minutes
later. He was fine and had suffered no brain damage. Five short minutes,
and yet it might have made all the difference between a future life enjoy-
ing his children and grandchildren, and brain death.
But then the doubts returned. I kicked myself for having put the pa-
tient to sleep without a breathing tube in the first place. And I had regrets
about his neck scar. My spirits had gone from being satisfied to being as
foul and low as if I had been caught doing something awful. That night, I
had a bad dream. I dreamed that I had paralyzed a patient with a muscle
relaxant, and then, as I reached for the anesthesia bag to breathe for the
patient, I discovered that my hands were too heavy to do so, as though
they had been filled with lead. Then I saw that the bag itself was missing.
The patient turned blue while I looked on helplessly. I called out indis-
tinctly in my sleep and tried to jump up.
The day after my near catastrophe a senior doctor approached me. I
had never liked him very much. He was always a little cold and stiff. I
feared he was going to berate me for what had happened. Instead, he said,
“I heard what happened yesterday. Good job, doctor.” Usually he ad-
dressed me by my first name, but this time he called me “doctor.” That,
plus his friendly tone, took me aback.
“But I blew it,” I shrugged. “My patient needed a trach.”
The senior doctor shook his head. “Being a doctor doesn’t mean being
perfect. All doctors make mistakes. And being a doctor isn’t about know-
ing the most science or being the best at procedures. Being a doctor
means knowing how to make decisions and take responsibility for them.
It means admitting that you and everyone else in the room are on the
wrong path, and getting them all back on the right path. It means giving a
command and sticking to your guns. That’s what you did, doctor. Good
job,” he said.
I was still a little confused, but I was coming around. He knew I was
feeling better. He comfortably patted me on the back and said, “Don’t
worry. You know too much, you grow old too soon.” Then he walked
away. What an enormous part of a person’s nature is unknown to others,
I thought as I watched him pass out of sight.
In fact, I did feel better, much better. When I left for home that eve-
ning, I felt for the first time in my life that I was a doctor. The feeling was
infinitely satisfying; it wound itself pleasantly around me. I forgot about
the monotony of medical practice. I forgot about being so harried at work
that I had missed lunch again. I forgot about the fights I had had over the
years with other doctors, nurses, patients, and hospital administrators. At
that moment nothing mattered to me anymore. I looked through the car
window. In spite of the darkness, the air seemed to be shot through with
moonlight; in spite of the slow traffic and loud city noises, nature seemed
eager to be set free. Yes, I knew I was a doctor, and I knew what a doctor
was, and I knew where I was going, and I knew why I was going there.
My chest expanded, my heart pounded, and contentment raced at a gallop
through my veins.
184 CHA P TER 10
DEATH
I was in my last year of training. My patient was an eighty-year-old man

with terminal cancer, congestive heart failure, and a bowel obstruction,
now septic. In physiology, everything is coupled and connected, every
organ system hangs, lies, touches, and rubs, one piece on another. This
man’s organ systems were collapsing. When I met him in the holding area
he lacked the strength to speak, instead just gazing out onto the world
with sorrowful eyes. We wheeled him into the operating room and moved
him onto the table. I injected the drugs. Before losing consciousness, he
looked up into my eyes, while I stared down into his. A flash of aware-
ness seemed to register on the man’s face. Each of us recognized the vital
import of what was about to happen. Then a black, noiseless emptiness
closed over the man, and the tie was broken.
More tumor had caused the bowel obstruction. The surgeon tried to
de-bulk it. An hour into the case, the EKG alarm went off. Tall, wild,
random markings tore the screen into jagged, angry pieces. A minute
later, I heard the inexpressibly mournful tone of an EKG gone flatline. I
watched the surgeon hovering above the man bring his clenched hands
down on the patient’s chest. CPR. The room heard the sickening scrunch
of breaking ribs. The operating room team was unable to revive him.
I stared anxiously at the dead man’s body. Through the blue mesh cap,
I could see the patches of bald on the back of his head. I spotted the
wrinkled arm with its blood pressure cuff still squeezing in a futile search
for a blood pressure. I stared at the man’s bloodless lips gleaming in the
operating room lights, and the worn toenails.
In the dead “O” of his toothless mouth a savage groan was frozen stiff.
I tried to convince myself that it was really astonishment, not horror, that
lay on the man’s face, that having just died he had seen the face of God.
But his glassy eyes stared out with seemingly sorrowful pensiveness, and
I realized that no one would look like that if they had seen God.
Sickness in a child evokes more sympathy than sickness in an old
man, as an old man has already lived his life. But the appearance of death
is as terrible in an old man as in a child. The mouth moves no more, the
nose twitches no more—all this in someone who had once been dream-
ing, talking, and laughing.
We covered the man so as little of death as possible would peep out. A

strange, hushed mood reigned in the room—the mood that comes at sig-
nificant moments sensed by all, if not entirely understood by all.
I went back to the anesthesia lounge, sat down, and shut my eyes. It’s
not often that a person sees the life of another finish its long arc in his
own hands. I thought about how the man had stared up into my face
before losing consciousness. I somehow felt honored, having formed one
of the two boundaries of the man’s life. His first image may have been of
the world before the age of the automobile; his last image had been of me.
Factual details, but vital; they hold a life together. It was as if fate had
been guiding the man toward me all these years, every event in his life
moving him inexorably closer toward me, to its predestined endpoint.
Still, I didn’t really know the man. A beginning and end define a line, but
not a life.
A patient death is a tragedy and never something that a doctor gets
used to. Yet even as late as the 1970s, when a patient died under an-
esthesia, it was reportedly not uncommon for anesthesiologists to have
said, “The patient took a bad anesthetic,” or “It was God’s will.” Such
doctors were distinguished by a certain emotional—no, not deafness, that
would be too strong—by a certain emotional imprecision; it was as if
some vaguely anxious thought about the dead patient had dawned on the
threshold of their consciousness but didn’t quite dawn. The attitude in
those days seems to have been that sometimes an unexpected patient
death comes just as it is, without any obligation for blame attached, or at
least without any obligation to blame in any particularly cumbersome
fashion. Today, of course, an unexpected patient death automatically trig-
gers blame and a lawsuit. People no longer assume that death comes just
as it is.
It’s hard to comprehend the detached sensibility of that earlier era. For
anesthesiologists of the past, maybe the fact that their patients were al-
ready asleep let them adjust more easily to the passage from life to death,
given how they were already predisposed to accept death as a common
occurrence. Frightful is the moment of passage from life to death—in an
awake patient. The dying person falls or sputters or fights for air; there is
a final struggle; and only afterward does the end come. Anesthetized
patients, by contrast, are already still.
Yet this grudging acceptance of death seems to have existed beyond
anesthesiology and even beyond medicine. Elderly people have told me
186 CHA P TER 10
stories of how family members died under anesthesia in the middle of the
last century. When I ask for details, they confess ignorance, as no investi-
gation was ever conducted. Growing angry on their behalf, I offer to
review any old operating room records to see what went wrong. Instead
of thanking me, these people stare at me quizzically and say, “Why both-
er? You can’t change anything anyway. These things just happen.” I
assume the angry feeling in me is also inside them, absolutely invisible
from the outside, but still there. Yet it is not there. To this day, in my
effort to gauge the significance of their blunted feeling toward the death
of a loved one, it is hard for me to know whether to pity or admire them.
I’ve never had a healthy patient die unexpectedly in the operating
room. But I know that if such a thing happened, I would be numb with
horror, with my own imaginings, and with what I would see as my own
guilt, my guilt alone. Compared to anesthesiologists of the past, or at least
anesthesiologists of legend, I would behave like a neurotic idiot. Col-
leagues of mine have admitted they would behave similarly. Perhaps the
rarity of death in the operating room these days has sensitized doctors to
the event. The death rate from anesthesia was 1 in 2,500 cases in the
1950s. Today it is 1 in 500,000 cases, even though far sicker patients are
operated on now than before. A world where people rationalize an unex-
pected operating room death with the phrase “He took a bad anesthetic”
has vanished forever into limbo.
I look upon my nervous anxiety toward death as a serious weakness in
a doctor. Indeed, one reason I went into anesthesiology instead of surgery
was that surgeons are usually responsible for breaking any bad news to
family members. I once gave anesthesia to a teenage boy who had been
rushed to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the head. He had bright
red hair that fell to the ground when shaved off for surgery. Barely cling-
ing to life even before the operation, he died afterward in the recovery
room. When leaving the floor I saw a woman who must have been the
boy’s mother, waiting anxiously in the hall. She had the same red hair.
Thankfully, I was spared from having to tell her the awful news.
This book is a journey of self-discovery. Over time I learned what a
doctor is. But to this day, I have never really learned how to cope with
patient death or to communicate a death to a family member. I consider it
a failure on my part. That I have yet to be tested is no proof against this
deficiency. It is not events or successes that produce good doctors, but
rather a state of mind that can endow events with its own quality; a good
doctor must possess a particular state of mind rather than trust to the
recurrence of luck to keep its absence from being exposed.
My father had this necessary state of mind. Suffering usually passes
through a doctor. He learns to ignore it so that he can work. But some-
times it catches on something inside and strongly affects him. My father
was like that. He was quiet and sullen whenever a patient he liked and
had been taking care of for years died. At such moments he preferred to
be left alone in his study. While he eventually moved on, the deaths over
time got to him, sometimes in odd ways. I think his obsession with tennis
or travel, for example, came in part from the urge to seize hold of his life
and not to put things on hold, given how life can vanish so quickly into
thin air. Still, no matter where he went or what he did, he seemed to carry
death on his back. Behind his happiness, somewhere, always lurked a
haunting, undefined anxiety, of which he was never entirely free. Even at
his happiest moments, there was a tinge of doubting sadness, as though he
thought his happiness was not really justified. Living means remember-
ing. My father told a lot of people they were dying. He told a lot of family
members that their loved ones were dying. He saw a lot of death. That, to
him, was part of being a doctor.
This grim acceptance of the facts of life is vital to the doctor’s state of
mind. A doctor must be able to witness death, to handle death, and to
accept death. Even if death happens under his watch, he must be able to
say, “Perhaps I acted unwisely; I might have been wrong, but I did my
best,” and then go back to work. I do not think I could do that. Indeed,
when catastrophe looms in the operating room, I work feverishly to save
my patient, not just for my patient’s sake but also for my own. If a patient
died by my own hand, I would be crushed. I’d probably quit medicine. I
lack this vital ingredient of the good doctor. I lack a mature outlook on
death.
This mature outlook is not the unique possession of the doctor, by the
way. Why some people have it while others do not has always mystified
me. As a teenager, while working as a hospital orderly, I saw my first
dead body. It bothered me tremendously. One of the janitors saw this.
Although largely uneducated, he gave me wiser counsel than anything I
learned later on in medical school. He said, “Everyone is afraid of dead
people. Only, if you work in a hospital, you have to tell yourself not to be
afraid. And you can’t act afraid. Sort of like giving yourself orders. And
188 CHA P TER 10
that’s all that matters.” Then he added, “But you’re still afraid.” He had
the right outlook.
There is nothing constant in the world of medicine but sorrow. Death
doesn’t stop. No, death never stops for doctors, even for doctors who
know what being a doctor means. It just haunts their souls and appears
without invitation and absorbs their joys, their little human joys. Such is
the construction of the world.
11
WHAT IS A DOCTOR?
A doctor is neither a scientist nor a technician nor a benefactor nor a

jobholder. A doctor is a fighter. A doctor has spine. A doctor doesn’t fear
being called bad names. A doctor is flexible but sticks to his or her guns
when necessary. A doctor is an authentic individual. A doctor has imagi-
nation and a sense of other people’s lives. A doctor knows how to use the
minds of others. A doctor commands, but also smoothes over controver-
sies, motivates reluctant subordinates, and knows the limits of those sub-
ordinates. A doctor is not an elitist; he or she knows that even stupid
people must have their say. A doctor has a passion for his or her profes-
sion, but recognizes the importance of other worlds beyond his or her
profession. The doctor calmly assimilates other worlds, not just to broad-
en his or her consciousness but also to clear his or her mind. The doctor
knows how to put the medical profession aside and take it up again. What
is a doctor?
A doctor is a leader. These are the qualities of a leader.
A doctor’s mind has successive coatings—science, technique, com-
passion, and instinct. A doctor is made of all these coatings. But at bot-
tom he or she must be a leader. A sound doctor has his or her foundation
deep in this inner coating. The rest are just the pediments and columns
that rise up into the bright regions of the mind. If they form the only
coatings, catastrophe looms. A scientist obsesses about rules; a technician
obsesses about the craft of medicine; the benefactor obsesses about pleas-
ing the patient; the jobholder obsesses about time off. Each gives rise to
its own genre of medical catastrophe.
189
190 CHA P TER 11
Without a doctor in command, the whole of medicine lacks an essen-

tial core, in the absence of which catastrophes occur. This is my argu-
ment. The catastrophes themselves are political in origin. Politics is about
relationships, but at root it is about how people see their place in the
world. Today, many doctors are unsure of their place because they do not
know what a doctor is. Competing models vie for their attention, but each
has a downside. The public hates the cold scientist; the doctor as techni-
cian is too easily emulated by non-MDs; the doctor as benefactor can
barely make a living; the doctor as gentleman seems too elitist in a demo-
cratic age. There are even worse downsides—for patients—as each of
these models carries with it the risk of catastrophe.
The confusion that doctors feel about their identities inevitably
spawns real politics. The most important quality in a leader is that of
being acknowledged as such. Today, doctors are not so acknowledged.
Patients want to control medicine. So, too, do hospital administrators,
bureaucrats, nurses, and insurance executives. With doctors confused
about who they are, no one seems to be in control, and others want to step
in and take control. Fighting ensues, putting the patient at risk. True,
doctors still have power and say, but not enough to quell the fighting. The
situation in medicine today is analogous to a country split by factions,
where the dominant group represents only a little over half the voters. If
the other groups feel anything like hatred for the leading group, the situa-
tion is dangerous. This is medicine today. Patient care proceeds in doubt
and disagreement, as doctors lack the confidence of the other parties.
The doctors’ confusion has spawned not only politics but also ideolo-
gy. Patient activists push “rights” and “patient-centered care.” Nurse acti-
vists push “team medicine.” Administrators push “quality of care” and
“accountable care.” All these aspirational ideas have a noble purpose. But
when taken to the extreme they raise the risk of catastrophe. Whenever
people are required to act together, there must be a chief. By pushing
doctors aside, these ideologies throw medical decision making into disar-
ray. That disarray is often more the fault of the ideology’s practitioners
than the ideology itself, which should not surprise. Although reform
movements are often necessary, the reformers themselves can be unat-
tractive, obnoxious, fanatical people. Doctors complain about these peo-
ple. And yet their very existence stems from the doctors’ own identity
confusion. Doctors have only themselves to blame for their coming into
being.
WH AT I S A DOCT OR? 191
Much attention has been paid in the last decade to catastrophes and
near catastrophes in medicine. The bulk of that attention has been focused
on physician error and how to correct for it. Drs. Atul Gawande and Peter
Pronovost push checklists, time-outs, and protocols to address the prob-
lem. These modalities have real value. But at some point more protocols
yield less return. They reach for the high-hanging fruit; they try to make
an already rare medical catastrophe even more rare. They even turn
counterproductive as medical personnel focus more on complying with
the new protocols than on caring for patients.
Yet my purpose is not to belittle these important reforms but to call
attention to an altogether different source of trouble. A doctor’s judgment
is often swayed by other side considerations that have nothing to do with
medicine. It is not just error or forgetfulness that causes catastrophes but
also politics. Many doctors today fear their colleagues; they fear their
employers; they worry about crossing the nurses; they worry about antag-
onizing their patients; they even fear themselves. All this can cause catas-
trophe. Today, a parallel world of catastrophes rooted in politics sits
alongside a world of catastrophe rooted in error.
The fix begins with the medical profession itself. The American Asso-
ciation of Medical Colleges predicts a shortage of a million doctors in the
United States by 2025, with a third of that shortage in primary care. 1 To
lessen that shortage, more medical schools are being built. The shortage
is based on current models of doctoring—for example, the doctor as
scientist, or technician, or caregiver. But if medical schools were to pro-
duce leaders, then the shortage would evaporate, as other professionals
would take over the doctors’ traditional roles, necessitating fewer doctors.
For example, the doctor-as-technician model has doctors performing
most procedures and writing most prescriptions, and fighting nurses and
other professionals to keep it that way. This notion once made sense.
Decades ago, nurses were unevenly trained. Many drugs on formulary
had a low therapeutic index, meaning the difference between a drug’s
therapeutic dose and its toxic dose was small, demanding a physician’s
education and experience to be prescribed safely. This is not the case
today. Nurses are better trained. They must meet higher education stan-
dards. Drugs on formulary are much safer. Nurses and other professionals
also have technology to help them, whether in the form of computers to
assist in diagnosis and treatment or machines to help them safely perform
small procedures. Moreover, when they do these procedures over and
192 CHA P TER 11
over again, they get good at them—even better than some doctors. Nurses
and other non-MD professionals function well as highly skilled techni-
cians.
None of this should threaten doctors who see themselves as leaders,
for this is what doctors must become. Being technicians is no longer how
doctors add value. Doctors add value through supervising, governing, and
coordinating, whether in the care of a single patient or a large demograph-
ic group. They legitimate a patient plan and give it binding force, not just
for the obvious reason that they give the orders but also because their
broad consciousness is a unique source of power. In the future, when a
conflict arises between parties in a patient’s care or during a medical
crisis, doctors will be presumed to have all the facts, to be supplied with
the best available intelligence of all kinds, and to have the diplomatic
skills needed to get all the parties on the same track. This will make
doctors the real arbiters among the many well-thought-out therapeutic
options presented to them by nurses, computers, and robots.
Such a system requires fewer doctors, especially in primary care,
where much of the physician shortage is expected. The days of doctors
fighting nurses over every inch of turf must end. Doctors must cede more
of their turf. Health care costs alone demand this. True, this plan works
less well in surgery than in medicine. Surgery, by definition, is procedure
focused, and the tight connection between a surgeon’s advanced cogni-
tive skills and his or her procedural skills forestalls a serious off-loading
of technical tasks onto nurses and computers. Indeed, a fundamental di-
vide once existed between medicine and surgery, one that waned during
the twentieth century, but one that will likely return for the next few
decades—at least until robots become as proficient as computers. When
that happens, non-MDs armed with robots may be as useful as non-MDs
armed with computers. Still, the doctors’ leadership role will remain vital.
This change should excite doctors, not scare them. The natural tenden-
cy of technicians is to do more of the same, which is dull. Doctors who
are leaders will move beyond such thinking. Instead, they will have an
overall view of everything that is going on in the patient care setting.
Even if they have relatively less power over day-to-day patient matters,
doctors will be thought to have the best knowledge of the entire situation.
People will tend to believe in them. They will enjoy more respect. Their
days will grow less monotonous. It is a work of art to lead people, and as
the routine technical side of doctoring is offloaded, doctors will enjoy a
higher share of interesting work. For nurses and other non-MDs, work
will expand to include technical and decision-making responsibilities that
have largely been denied to them. For the health care system as a whole,
fewer doctors will be needed as nurses and other non-MD professionals,
computers, and robots fill roles that doctors vacate.
This plan will also reduce the risk of medical catastrophe. Catastrophe
arises from disorder and conflict as doctors, nurses, administrators, regu-
lators, and patients fight one another. They fight because, at root, they
don’t know where they stand. They don’t know who has the right to
command and who must obey. They rebel in their hearts against what
they perceive to be an unjust usurpation of their own prerogatives. A
secret internal warfare pervades the entire field, with patients suffering
most of all. By transforming doctors into leaders, the other players in
medicine, including patients, will enjoy stable turf they can control, giv-
ing them a sense of dignity and the feeling of productive activity. The
result will be a safer system for patients, analogous to what prevailed in
my father and grandfather’s era, when all the players in medicine lived
together in order and peace.
Some doctors will disagree with this plan. They want to resurrect the
old, for which they pine. They want to put the pieces back together and
re-create the vision of doctoring that prevailed during much of the twenti-
eth century—part scientist, part technician, part benefactor, and part gen-
tleman. However, this dream is not only impossible and undesirable but
also misplaced. That vision itself was the product of erroneous thinking,
made possible by a sudden explosion in scientific knowledge during the
second half of the nineteenth century, and the subsequent doctors’
monopoly on that knowledge during the first half of the twentieth centu-
ry. It was a short moment in history, when doctors were scientists and
technicians first. In the millennium before, most doctors added value to
medicine not as scientists or technicians or benefactors but as leaders.
Medical historian Nancy Siraisi’s account of the physician Bartholo-
meus managing the care of Peter the Venerable in the twelfth century
provides an example. 2 Although a layman, Peter was confident in his
medical knowledge. During a bout of flu-like symptoms he accepted the
advice of local caregivers and postponed his routine bloodletting, since
they told him he risked losing his voice if he underwent the procedure. A
few months later, he went ahead with the bloodletting, thinking his care-
givers wrong. Still, his flu-like symptoms persisted. And he lost his voice.
194 CHA P TER 11
His caregivers then recommended hot and moist remedies. But the well-
educated Peter disagreed. According to his reading, hot and dry remedies
were called for. Frustrated with his care, he wrote to Bartholomeus, who,
with artful diplomacy, managed the ticklish situation. Bartholomeus gen-
erally agreed with the local caregivers but tactfully avoided directly
contradicting Peter, so as not to antagonize any of the parties involved.
He also used his extra knowledge to dress up the routine therapies pre-
scribed by the local caregivers and lend them weight, at least in Peter’s
mind. By today’s standards, Bartholomeus was a poor scientist and tech-
nician; yet he was the consummate leader, resolving a conflict between a
headstrong patient and the caregivers the patient had lost faith in, while
steering the patient toward what professional medicine at the time be-
lieved to be right course.
For eighty years, American doctors saw themselves as a mixture of
scientist, technician, benefactor, and gentleman. For two thousand years
before that, doctors saw themselves as leaders. The latter vision wins by
weight alone. A person may be wrong, and so may several generations,
but humanity rarely makes mistakes.
Medicine has changed, although it is easier to see this now, thirty

years after most of the events in this book occurred, and when the change
actually began. For older doctors, medicine did not change especially
fast, but gradually medical practice has become strange and unfamiliar to
them. Many of them embrace the new ways unwillingly, clumsily, and
halfheartedly. In fact, in their hearts they do not accept the new system,
and instead have contempt for it. Never surrendering fully, they only
pretend they have. Younger doctors never knew the old way. Still, some
of them have heard legends, and when they encounter the reality of medi-
cal practice rather than the charmed life they had imagined, they are
disappointed. They go from a time in their lives when they can neither
think about evil nor believe in its existence to their first years of practice,
when they work against the system and grow cynical and frustrated. Day
after day goes by in battling against the obstinacy of some official or
repairing the blunders of a fool. They imagine nothing can be done; to
have an immense plan for health care would be useless, and even after
just a few years in practice they know it.
To cause people to be disgusted by their own work is a serious error

on the part of organized medicine. What could be more natural than
doctors liking what they do? But many of them don’t like it.
What bothers many doctors is the loss of their independence. They
dislike being employed, by whatever institution, although they do like
having their malpractice insurance paid for by an institution, as well as
having an institution’s clerks do their billing. Lawyers have analogous
complaints. They like the security and convenience of employment, but
they resent their loss of autonomy. For both groups, there has been a
change. In the nineteenth century, law and medicine were typically re-
ferred to as the “free professions” because lawyers or doctors could set up
shop anywhere and be their own bosses. Today, law and medicine remain
professions, but they are increasingly less free, with lawyers and doctors
working as dependent, salaried employees.
Still, such griping will probably wane over the years. When I started
my training, most medical students aspired to be small businesspeople
and run their own shops, a mentality out of sync with employed work.
Today’s students seem less interested in being businesspeople.
Yet even if most doctors grow comfortable with being employed,
dependent employment raises the risk of medical catastrophe. Sometimes
doctors feel trapped between employers who demand one course of ac-
tion and patients who insist on another. They feel barred from choosing
what they think is the wisest course of action. The patient suffers.
The risk of catastrophe is so great that this author, who has always
supported private practice medicine, is tempted to choose national health
insurance as the second option rather than the emerging model of depen-
dent employment in the private sector. Although Medicare-for-all would
pay doctors less, doctors would keep much of their autonomy, at least in
theory. Compare this with the plight of an employed physician who re-
cently complained to me that she couldn’t even choose her own recep-
tionist. The company that employs her does the hiring and firing, and
when it hired someone who was nasty to her patients, causing many of
them to leave, there was nothing she could do. Then again, the benefits of
Medicare-for-all are only theoretical. In reality, Medicare pays too little
to allow most independent doctors’ offices to survive. In addition, Medi-
care’s regulators can be as intrusive as private-sector bosses—for exam-
ple, by fighting with physicians over what drug they can prescribe. Nei-
ther the second option nor the third fixes the problem.
196 CHA P TER 11
Doctors today find themselves in a difficult situation. Still, the blame

for their situation lies not with government or corporate America but with
the doctors themselves. When doctors ceased to be leaders, they opened
themselves up to being employed, and not just because their technical
approach to medicine lent itself to an employment model. They also
refused to make the tough decisions about who would get care that
government and corporate America now make. If I were a corporate
executive confronting a physician whining about his or her loss of auton-
omy, I would yell right back at that physician:
“You know why corporate America took over medicine? It’s because
we provided a solution to the doctors’ spinelessness. Everyone knows
that unlimited high-quality medical care is a pipedream for now. Tough
decisions have to be made, gut-wrenching decisions. Decisions that may
cost some people their lives! And who’s going to make them? Who’s
going to say, ‘Sorry, you still want something from life, but you can’t
have it, because there’s not enough money’? Do you want government
making those decisions? Everyone’s afraid of government; even the poli-
ticians worry about getting too involved. Do you want ‘the people’ mak-
ing these decisions? Ah, yes, ‘the people,’ always the people. Why,
they’re the source of all this trouble, whipped up by those pie-in-the-sky
activists, those seekers of truth, those fighters for justice, those represen-
tatives of the insulted and the injured who peddle ridiculous expectations
about health care being a right, but who know nothing about how to run a
business. ‘The people’ are in no position to make these decisions. And so
everyone hoped the doctors would make them—those wise, thoughtful
professionals, those learned men and women gifted with nuance and sub-
tlety. Everyone secretly hoped the doctors would make the hard deci-
sions, although no one said so in public, since the notion of health care as
a universal right was still official ideology. But you know what the doc-
tors did? They balked, the little cowards! We had counted on them to take
the power, to be wise and judicious fathers, but they were too afraid!
They said, ‘We don’t have the stomach for this. Our forefathers may
have, but we’re different. Our consciences, our precious consciences . . .
why, we have to deal with patients face to face! Find a way to spread the
burden of deciding, so that the consequences won’t fall on any one of us
individually.’ And in response to that pathetic, weak-kneed plea, corpo-
rate American’s health care bureaucracy was born: layers and layers of
utilization review specialists, insurance regulators, practitioners, secretar-
ies, and switchboard operators, all playing their role in gumming up the
process, keeping people from getting care, holding down costs, and each
one, along with the doctors taking for themselves a tiny slice of the blame
for a patient’s death—not enough to keep anyone awake at night with a
bad conscience but enough to do what’s necessary to keep the system
solvent.”
This is the ugly truth. In an environment of sparse resources and high
demand, corporate America and government took over when doctors ab-
dicated the position they held in days when health care was considered a
“privilege” rather than a “right.” As the final arbiters of who would get
care, doctors once carried a heavy burden. By deciding to treat someone
based on ability to pay, doctors held the power of life and death. Doctors
no longer play this leadership role, and they would not want it back if
offered to them. The public also prefers it this way. Doctors are human
beings, and for a human being to be complicit in a decision about re-
sources that causes another person’s death is called “murder.” Alterna-
tively, when an institution makes such decisions, the human element
disappears. Bad outcomes arise from the “system’s limitations.” Al-
though people compose a system, the public conveniently overlooks the
fact that a system is composed of people.
Today’s system no longer asks doctors to make decisions about re-
sources. Yet it still demands leadership from doctors, even employed
doctors, to prevent catastrophes. Such leadership requires protections for
doctors. In theory, leaders shouldn’t need protections. Leaders are fear-
less. They stand firm. They do not put their pleasures above their respon-
sibilities. But let’s be honest: most doctors aren’t leaders. They went into
medicine to enjoy interesting work, make a good living, and do some-
thing worthwhile for humanity in the process. And so most doctors are
not fearless. To make the right decisions for patients, they need protection
from fear. I suggest a tenure system for employed physicians, analogous
to what reigns in academia: after five years an employed physician enjoys
more job security, so that he or she feels less afraid when making tough
decisions that benefit patients.
The doctor as leader is a vision and, for the time being, a fantasy. Yet
if I were asked what is the one thing missing from medicine today, caus-
ing doctors to hate their work and patients to complain about their care, I
would say it is the disappearance of fantasy from medicine. The history of
American medicine is worth separating into fact and dream. This book
198 CHA P TER 11
focuses on fact. Yet there is something in the dream that still touches
patients and those who care for them, and remains worthwhile because it
resonates with them as much as fact does: the dream of people wholly
absorbed in a struggle to save a person’s life, fused within a collective
group and yet still separate parts. It was the dream of my father and
grandfather’s eras, when doctors and their spouses, nurses, Catholic sis-
ters, and administrators each played their own special role in the drama,
replete with special uniforms, giving the hospital the feel of a magic
country, and the experience of being sick almost an inexpressible charm.
Patients today cling to this legend and are loath to give it up. In their
bewildered state they search in their imaginations for something to com-
fort them while ill, and they mix the realities of their caregivers with a
little bit of fairy tale.
The dream brings to mind a symphony, where different instruments
that might otherwise play a separate melody come together to create a
perfectly harmonized hymn. Perhaps the music today is outdated, but it
was beautiful, and who doesn’t love beauty? A dying patient would rather
die in his sleep, but if he can’t, how much better to fall unconscious with
that tender, beautiful music in his ears; how much better to die to that
music than to do so in a cacophonous modern facility staffed by anony-
mous “providers”?
If a terminally ill patient once dreamed of dying to that music, the
doctor, the nurse, the doctor’s spouse, and the Catholic sister once lived
for it. Amid that great intangible melody, these caregivers not only fanta-
sized about each other but also fantasized about themselves, as each had
something special about them, each had something the others could ad-
mire but not share in. Perhaps that special ingredient was an unattainable
ideal—a legend in dreams that could never become a legend in fact—but
through it, each person working in the hospital imagined his or her life
unrolling itself on a grand, almost mythical level. How proud to be the
doctor, the nurse, or the Catholic sister of legend! How proud to do things
with ceremony, gravity, drama, and solemnity! How wonderful to fire
another’s imagination—and one’s own! How wonderful to be special,
honored, respected, and even worshipped! And how much better to be a
part of a magnificent symphony than to be a generic “provider” in a
modern facility, humming a stupid tune or, worse, creating a clamor
through discord, for what unique passions and excitement could a provid-
er possibly have with which to create music? The provider is like every-
one else. He or she dresses like all the other providers; he or she has the
same strengths, the same worries, and the same weaknesses as the other
providers. The new order in health care may be efficient. It is certainly
more advanced than in my father and grandfather’s time. But there are no
distinctive parts to the orchestra, and so there is no symphony. None of its
music stirs the blood.
Change begins with doctors. Once they change, the rest of medicine
will fall into place and the music will begin again. Doctors must become
leaders.
NOTES
1. THE POLITICS OF A CATASTROPHE
1. Barron Lerner, “A Case That Shook Medicine,” Washington Post, No-

vember 28, 2006.
2. IMPATIENCE AND THE URGE

TO BE MACHO
1. Roni Rabin, “You’re on the Clock: Doctors Rush Patients out the Door,”
USA Today, April 20, 2014.
3. THE TRAP OF OVERSPECIALIZATION
1. George Weisz, Divide and Conquer: A Comparative History of Medical

Specialization (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 138–39, 145, 197,
231, 249.
2. “2014 Survey of America’s Physicians: Practice Patterns and Perspec-
tives,” The Physicians Foundation, September 16, 2014, accessed April 1, 2016,
http://www.physiciansfoundation.org/news/survey-of-20000-us-physicians-
shows-80-of-doctors-are-over-extended-or-at.
201
202 NOTES
4. WHEN NO ONE IS IN COMMAND
1. Bachelor of Science in Nursing and Master of Science in Nursing.

2. Dilation (of the cervix) and curettage (scraping) of the uterus.
5. WHEN PATIENTS BECOME CONSUMERS
1. Kristine Crane, “Should You ‘Friend’ Your Doctor?” U.S. News and
World Report, May 22, 2014.
2. In my own practice, I once had a mother panic when her child coughed
and sputtered while going under anesthesia. The mother refused to leave the
room, requiring the nurses to attend to her, which delayed us in our efforts to
help her child.
3. Donald Berwick, “Stepping into Power, Shedding Your White Coat”
(graduation speech at Yale Medical School commencement ceremony, May 24,
2010).
4. Dorothy Wertz et al., “Has Patient Autonomy Gone Too Far?” American
Journal of Bioethics 2, no. 4 (2002): 1–25.
5. Donald Berwick, “What ‘Patient-Centered’ Should Mean: Confessions of
an Extremist,” Health Affairs 28, no. 4 (July/August 2009): w555–w565.
6. A TALE OF TWO OFFICES
1. Now Medstar Washington Hospital Center.

2. For further discussion of these schools, see Ronald W. Dworkin, “Re-
imagining the Doctor,” National Affairs 18 (Winter 2014): 63–77.
3. See Melnick Medical Museum, “1930 Doctor’s Office,” accessed April
16, 2016, https://melnickmedicalmuseum.com/exhibits/doctors-and-dentists-
offices/.
4. Now the Armed Forces Retirement Home.
7. WHEN DOCTORS LOSE CONTROL OF THEIR OWN

PERSONALITIES
1. Sanford Brown, Getting into Medical School (New York: Barron’s Educa-
tional Series, 1997), 7.
N OT E S 203
2. Kenneth Ludmerer, “Instilling Professionalism in Medical Education,”

JAMA 282, no. 9 (1999): 881.
3. See Initiative to Transform Medical Education, the final report of the
2007 conference of the American Medical Association, accessed April 10, 2016,
http://med2.uc.edu/Libraries/Medical_Education_Documents/AMA_ITME_
Project.sflb.ashx.
4. See Report of the Council on Medical Education, American Medical As-
sociation, accessed April 16, 2016, http://www.ama-assn.org/assets/meeting/
2011a/tab-ref-comm-c-addendum.pdf.
5. Veritas Prep, “Medical Schools Value Personal Qualities of Applicants,”
U.S. News and World Report, January 16, 2012.
6. Brian Joondeph, “Politically Correct Medical Schools,” Washington Ex-
aminer, June 18, 2015.
7. William Whyte, The Organization Man (New York: Anchor Books,
1957), 134.
8. WHEN DOCTORS LOSE CONTROL

OF THEIR OWN RULES
1. Richard Baumgarten, “Spinal Anesthesia Research: Let’s Not Be Hasty,”

in “Letters to the Editor” Section, Anesthesia and Analgesia 105, no. 6 (Decem-
ber 2007): 1862.
2. See, for example, Atul Gawande, The Checklist Manifesto (New York:
Metropolitan Books, 2009), and Peter Pronovost and Eric Vohr, Safe Patients,
Smart Hospitals (New York: Hudson Street Press, 2010).
3. In a placenta previa, the placenta covers the opening of the birth canal and
risks rupture during delivery.
9. THE PROBLEM OF GOING PART-TIME AND WHEN TO RETIRE
1. AMGA/Cejka Search 2011 Physician Retention Survey, cited in Dike

Drummond, “Part Time Doctor: Physician Schedule Flexibility and the New
Normal,” The Happy MD (blog), accessed April 16, 2016, http://www.
thehappymd.com/blog/bid/290765/Part-Time-Doctor-Physician-Schedule-
Flexibility-and-the-New-Normal.
2. Robert Grossman and Steven Abramson, “Wanted: A Three-Year Medical
Degree,” Wall Street Journal, February 17, 2016.
204 NOTES
3. “2014 Survey of America’s Physicians,” The Physicians Foundation, sur-

vey conducted by Merritt Hawkins, 2014, accessed on April 16, 2016, http://
www.physiciansfoundation.org/uploads/default/2014_Physicians_Foundation_
Biennial_Physician_Survey_Report.pdf.
11. WHAT IS A DOCTOR?
1. “Physician Supply and Demand through 2025: Key Findings,” American

Association of Medical Colleges, 2015 Report, accessed April 16, 2016, https://
www.aamc.org/download/426260/data/physiciansupplyanddemandthrough
2025keyfindings.pdf.
2. Nancy Siraisi, Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine (Chicago: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1990), 115.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Baumgarten, Richard. “Spinal Anesthesia Research: Let’s Not Be Hasty.” In “Letters to the
Editor” Section, Anesthesia and Analgesia 105, no. 6 (December 2007).
Berwick, Donald. “What ‘Patient-Centered’ Should Mean: Confessions of an Extremist.”
Health Affairs 28, no. 4 (July/August 2009): w555–w565.
Brown, Sanford. Getting into Medical School. New York: Barron’s Educational Series, 1997.
Dworkin, Ronald W. “Re-imagining the Doctor.” National Affairs 18 (Winter 2014): 63–77.
Gawande, Atul. The Checklist Manifesto. New York: Metropolitan Books, 2009.
Janvier, W. Ed, et al. The Story of Garfield Memorial Hospital: 1881–1951. Washington, DC:
Washington College Press, 1951.
Ludmerer, Kenneth. “Instilling Professionalism in Medical Education.” JAMA 282, no. 9
(1999): 881–82.
Pronovost, Peter, and Eric Vohr. Safe Patients, Smart Hospitals. New York: Hudson Street
Press, 2010.
Riesman, David. The Lonely Crowd. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1950.
Siraisi, Nancy. Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1990.
Weisz, George. Divide and Conquer: A Comparative History of Medical Specialization. New
York: Oxford University Press, 2005.
Wertz, Dorothy, et al. “Has Patient Autonomy Gone Too Far?” American Journal of Bioethics
2, no. 4 (2002): 1–25.
Whyte, William. The Organization Man. New York: Anchor Books, 1957.
205
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ronald W. Dworkin, MD, works as an anesthesiologist while also

teaching political philosophy in the George Washington University Hon-
ors Program. His essays on medicine, and on American culture and poli-
tics, have appeared in such publications as the Wall Street Journal, Na-
tional Affairs, Policy Review, The New Atlantis, and The Public Interest.
He lives in Maryland.
207

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M E D ICAL C ATAS TROPHE

Also by Ronald W. Dworkin

ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD

Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB

Copyright © 2017 by Rowman & Littlefield

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Dworkin, Ronald William, author.

Printed in the United States of America

1 The Politics of a Catastrophe 1

I would like to thank Suzanne Staszak-Silva, my editor at Rowman &

THE POLITICS OF A CATASTROPHE

One night in the 1980s, during my anesthesiology training, I was sitting

catastrophes seemingly caused by a lack of vigilance, a missed detail, or

“Consider”—what could be more ineffectual than that absurd and

“The hospital doesn’t care about your call schedule,” he grumbled.

Having received a good general education in college, I imagined a

being readied, the anesthesiologist, nurse, or respiratory therapist manual-

Thirty minutes passed. Anger turned to boredom. I vaguely hoped for

her back. In truth, rods do make placement of a spinal or epidural diffi-

feared their iron tenacity might be interpreted as arrogance. They feared

IMPATIENCE AND THE URGE

Impatience is raw material for catastrophe in medicine. Sometimes in

wake-up, and non-narcotic pain substitutes that shorten recovery room

We arrived in the recovery room. Upon discovering it was full and

THE TRAP OF OVERSPECIALIZATION

After the case I went back to my small on-call room, removed my

his machine. A bourgeois needs a pretty office; a proletarian can live

lucinations. I imagined a pretty woman alone, standing amid Vermont’s

Then came darkness, deep and impenetrable, weighing heavily on her

This mind-set is especially dangerous when it involves intubations.

WHEN NO ONE IS IN COMMAND

After I finished my training, I spent time at a hospital on the East Coast.

I had heard about Nurse X. She reportedly sat in a large office at a

even a little fear among subordinates to get them to respond quickly

a sequential one. It did not have to be reprogrammed after magnet place-

decision to get the saline on my own, to be the bigger person, would

accomplished technician, he may even represent the future of medicine.

Several days later, I drove downtown to a hotel for a medical confer-

“But why?” interjected an ENT surgeon, defiantly. “Even a patient

what kind of doctor I was. I told him I was an anesthesiologist. As the

WHEN PATIENTS BECOME CONSUMERS

medical training, which tries to humanize doctors and strengthen their

The following week, I took care of a sixty-five-year-old man, Mr. D,

century, began marketing their products directly to patients—now viewed

to risk seizures. Yet I couldn’t treat Mr. D aggressively with sodium

The courage to say “no” is a part of being a doctor. But it is only a

perform a TURP. So it would be safer for you to have a spinal.” It might

The doctor went on to confess how he had ignored patient desires in

“But it wasn’t,” I replied.

patient-centered care movement, writes in his manifesto that patients to-

A situation analogous to what has happened in medicine has happened

A TALE OF TWO OFFICES

that scratched at their belief in an omnipotent God, while visitors sensed

spirits imprisoned in enchanted dungeons, her words depriving them of