A family member was just recently in the hospital for 5 days with a life-threatening illness that defied diagnosis by the treating physician (a graduate of a Caribbean medical school, but certainly certified an expert in something, so no matter). Finally, blood test results came back - they'd been delayed by the holiday, as though illness recognizes the Georgian calendar, and a diagnosis was made. The patient was released, he made his way to his real doctor in NYC and that physician was outraged that anyone claiming to be a physician could interpret the tests the way Greenwich Hospital had. Alternative treatment is being implemented.
This same hospital twice mis-diagnosed Pal Nancy, once removing a perfectly healthy appendix - oops! - before the only competent doctor in the place, Dr. Sabetta, was called in and discovered a blood infection that, had it continued to go untreated would have killed her. Another time her lung had collapsed due to scar tissue inside her chest, which they decided was diverticulitis.
A decade ago, my mother was in that hospital, wasting away and days from death which, a doctor assured us, was just the normal course of events for older patients: "it's like a sweater unraveling," he said, "pull one string and the whole thing goes." He should have stuck to his knitting: my younger brother Anthony took it upon himself to make a list of all 18 drugs various doctors were feeding the patient, all without consulting another, and Googled them - 5 of those drugs were known to have deadly effect when combined with the others on the list. Those were discontinued, mother recovered in three days and lived another ten years.
Not to worry, though: the hospital leadership is on the job, addressing the real concern of patients: the gender gap between male and female physicians.
Of course, they do have a piano bar in the lobby, so there's that.