During a recent evening on call in the hospital, I was asked to see an elderly woman with a failing kidney. She'd come in feeling weak and short of breath and had been admitted to the cardiology service because it seemed her heart wasn't working right. Among other tests, she had been scheduled for a heart-imaging procedure the following morning; her doctors were worried that the vessels in her heart might be dangerously narrowed. But then they discovered that one of her kidneys wasn't working, either. The ureter, a tube that drains urine from the kidney to the bladder, was blocked, and relieving the blockage would require minor surgery. This presented a dilemma. Her planned heart-imaging test would require contrast dye, which could only be given if her kidney function was restored—but surgery with a damaged heart was risky.
I went to the patient's room, where I found her sitting alone in a reclining chair by the window, hands folded in her lap under a blanket. She smiled faintly when I walked in, but the creasing of her face was the only movement I detected. She didn't look like someone who could bounce back from even a small misstep in care. The risks of surgery, and by extension the timing of it, would need to be considered carefully.
I called the anesthesiologist in charge of the operating room schedule to ask about availability. If the cardiology department cleared her for surgery, he said, he could fit her in the following morning. I then called the on-call cardiologist to ask whether it would be safe to proceed. He hesitated. "I'm just covering," he said. "I don't know her well enough to say one way or the other." He offered to pass on the question to her regular cardiologist.
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https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2018/05/the-burnout-crisis-in-health-care/559880/
