A nation that can map the human genome, transplant a face, and land rovers on Mars somehow cannot guarantee its citizens a timely doctor’s appointment. The official story blames “complex market forces,” “geographic maldistribution,” or the ever-handy “burnout.” But beneath the diagnostic babble lies a simpler, more uncomfortable truth: A powerful medical guild has learned that scarcity pays—and it intends to keep the spigot only half-open.

A cloister in white

Walk the mahogany corridors of our most venerable medical societies and you will find no overt conspiracy, no smoke-filled room. Instead, you’ll hear solemn invocations of “quality,” “patient safety,” and “educational integrity.” These phrases float through the air like incense, masking the musk of economic self-interest.

• The American Medical Association, long the high priest of this temple, routinely lobbies Congress to keep new residency slots on a starvation diet.
• State medical boards slow-roll licenses for qualified international graduates the way customs agents interrogate suspicious luggage.
• Established medical schools warn that opening new campuses will dilute “standards”—a genteel synonym for prestige and tuition dollars.

Publicly, they posture as guardians of the Hippocratic tradition. Privately, they resemble medieval guilds that rationed entry to protect the gold coin purses of their members. In modern parlance: fewer colleagues, fatter paychecks.

The human cost of artificial scarcity

While the gatekeepers polish their “quality” trophies, patients are left stranded in medical deserts that stretch from the hollers of Appalachia to the sun-scorched barrios of the Southwest.

A child in rural Mississippi can wait nine months to see a pediatric neurologist—an eternity when seizures steal a brain’s future one spark at a time.

A veteran in West Texas drives 300 miles for a 15-minute cardiology follow-up, gasoline fumes his only anesthetic for chronic chest pain.

An elderly woman in the South Side of Chicago dies in the back of an ambulance circling full ERs, the stopwatch of myocardial infarction ticking past the golden hour.

These are not rare glitches in an otherwise humming machine; they are the system working exactly as designed. Scarcity is not an accident—it is a policy.

The false idol of “physician oversupply”

Whenever reformers propose expanding medical schools or Medicare-funded residency slots, the guild unfurls a banner of Armageddon: “Beware the doctor glut!” The warning is as hollow as a papier-mâché piñata.

The United States ranks 30th among OECD nations in doctors per 1,000 inhabitants—nestled uncomfortably between Turkey and Latvia. Meanwhile, the Association of American Medical Colleges forecasts a shortage of up to 124,000 physicians by 2034. Calling that landscape “oversupply” is like standing knee-deep in the Sahara and declaring a flood watch.

Bread, circuses, and residency caps

Why, then, does the shortage persist? Because the modern physician’s path runs through a bottleneck deliberately tightened in 1997, when Congress froze Medicare funding for residency positions. The cap was meant to dampen costs; instead, it gifted incumbents a permanent scarcity premium.

Imagine if the federal government limited airline pilot training spots to 1997 levels and then feigned surprise when flight cancellations skyrocketed. That is precisely what we have done with health care—only the grounded flights are human lives.

Toward a prescription of abundance

Rhetoric alone will not lance this boil; policy must cauterize it. Two simple steps, administered together, can shift the balance from guild protectionism to public health:

Uncap residency funding

Index Medicare support for training slots to population growth and disease burden. Tie hospital eligibility to serving underserved regions, not lobbying muscle.

Seed new medical schools—especially in health deserts

Offer federal loan-forgiveness grants and research dollars to institutions that open campuses in rural and inner-city counties. Let geography guide supply, not institutional vanity.

The moral imperative

Opponents will thunder that expansion risks “lowering standards.” Yet the same argument, repurposed almost verbatim, once propped up quotas that excluded women, Black physicians, and DOs from hospital staffs. Excellence and access are not mutually exclusive; Harvard does not get worse because state universities train teachers, nor do Boeing’s engineers slump because community colleges mint mechanics.

Medicine has wrapped itself in a white coat of exceptionalism for so long it forgets that the cloth was meant to signify service, not status. In the algebra of ethics, a credential’s luster cannot outweigh a community’s right to health.

A closing diagnosis

America’s physician shortage is not an epidemiological inevitability or a demographic curse. It is the predictable yield of a quietly tended scarcity orchard, fertilized with lobbying dollars and pruned with regulatory zeal. The harvest is sweet for those inside the walls; it is bitter, and sometimes lethal, for those left outside.

The oath says first do no harm. Yet harm is done—systematically, profitably, and under the false banner of “quality.” The time has come to call the guild what it has become: a cartel by another name. If we believe that a child’s seizure, a veteran’s heart, an elder’s breath are worth more than the tax-subsidized monopoly rents of an elite few, then the prescription is clear.

Flood the gates. Train more healers. Let the white coat be a symbol of service once again, not a velvet rope.

The scarcity is not accidental; it is engineered. And what is engineered can be dismantled.

The author is an anonymous physician.