As covid-19 has spread from big cities to rural communities, it has overwhelmed morgues, funeral homes and religious leaders, required ingenuity and even changed the rituals of honoring the dead.
This article was published on Monday, January 4, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
Funeral director Kevin Spitzer has been overwhelmed with covid-related deaths in the small city of Aberdeen, South Dakota.
He and his two colleagues at the Spitzer-Miller Funeral Home have been working 12-15 hours a day, seven days a week, to keep up with the demand in the community of 26,000. The funerals are sparsely attended, which would have been unthinkable before the pandemic.
"We had a funeral for a younger man one recent Saturday, and not 20 people came, because most everyone was just afraid," he said.
As covid-19 has spread from big cities to rural communities, it has stressed not only hospitals, but also what some euphemistically call "last responders." The crush has overwhelmed morgues, funeral homes and religious leaders, required ingenuity and even changed the rituals of honoring the dead.
Officials in many smaller cities and towns learned from seeing the overflow of bodies during last spring's first wave of covid deaths in places such as Detroit, where nurses at Detroit Medical Center Sinai-Grace Hospital alerted the media to bodies accumulating in hospital storage rooms. They watched as New York hospitals and funeral homes marshaled refrigerated trucks to store bodies. More than 600 bodies of people who died in the spring covid surge remain in freezer trucks on the Brooklyn waterfront because officials can't find next of kin, or relatives are also sick or unable to pay for burial.
People like Dr. Robert Kurtzman, Montana's chief medical examiner, took heed. Last spring, he worked with funeral directors and others to study the state's morgue capacity. After looking at covid projections, the state arranged with the Montana National Guard to have 13 refrigerated semitrucks ready to dispatch anywhere in the state.
"We are already in a precarious position, and the projections present a scary proposition," he said. "We need to be ready for worst-case scenarios."
Chad Towner, CEO of St. Joseph Health System, which has two hospitals in northern Indiana, ordered two refrigerated semitrailers in April. For a time, things were relatively quiet. But the pandemic has hit.
"I told a friend who was a covid doubter that if my wife needed a bed today, I could not arrange one. That's the dire situation we face here," Towner said. "All our competitors in the area are in the same boat, and we're working together instead of competing."
Although the freezer trucks have not yet been needed, he worries that the sharp increase in cases, and those anticipated from holiday gatherings, will make last-resort measures necessary.
"We recently had four deaths in one afternoon," said Towner. "A priest approached me to say he'd been asked to provide last rites to three patients in one hour."
Moving bodies from the hospital morgue is a slower process than usual, he said. "Morticians and funeral homes are overflowing as well. Families that are sick or quarantined at the time of the loved one's death often can't work with us on a transfer, meaning bodies are here longer. The entire system is stressed to the tipping point," said Towner.
Private enterprise has created a solution for smaller communities. In Bozeman, Montana, a specialty truck company has retrofitted trailers that can be pulled by an SUV or a pickup.
Acela Truck Co. has already sold hundreds of the pull-behind refrigerated units created in response to the covid pandemic. They range from 9 to 53 feet and have racks that each hold four body trays. "We're very busy and have orders in all of the lower 48 states," said CEO David Ronsen. Acela has partnered with Mopec, a Michigan autopsy supply company, to help sell and deliver the new product.
Billings Clinic in Montana also anticipated a flood of deaths last spring by reserving a semitrailer for delivery, if needed. The clinic, which has just two morgue spaces, has dealt with 80 covid deaths, including seven on the weekend after Thanksgiving.
Chief Nursing Officer Laurie Smith said the hospital is at capacity, despite adding beds by converting office space and building an addition. The hospital, which currently has 335 beds, so far has handled the additional deaths through what she calls a "sad partnership" with funeral homes, which have been quickly picking up bodies the hospital cannot store.
The hospital does its best to allow relatives to say goodbye, but that often involves family members standing at an interior window outside the patient's room, using a computer tablet to communicate their last words.
That is just one way in which the rituals of grieving have changed during the covid pandemic.
Typical congregational hymns are pretty much gone, as are choirs.
"We are using mostly recordings, sometimes a soloist," said SpitzerFuneral home directors who pride themselves on spending time comforting grieving families say they are so busy that some days they have to rush out from one funeral to begin the next one.
"Families are being robbed of the whole funeral rite experience and losing the support of having friends and family around them," said Shauna Kjos-Miotke of Fiksdal Funeral Home in Webster, South Dakota.
Native communities have not only been among the hardest hit with covid illnesses and deaths, but their grieving rituals have been among the most seriously disrupted.
"Normally a funeral is a two- or three-day process with hundreds of people," said Josiah Hugs, a Crow tribal member who is the outreach coordinator for Billings Urban Indian Health and Wellness Center. "Now there is no time to tell stories about the person, not a lot of singing and praying. I've been to three recent covid funerals, and everything was at the burial site, with maybe 30 people sitting in their cars and not getting out."
Covid has even affected body disposal. A survey by the National Funeral Directors Association found that more than half of their members reported increased cremation rates due to covid. The NFDA also found that half its members have clients who have postponed services to hold a memorial later.
In the largely impoverished Hidalgo County, a Texas border area, county officials began using covid funds to help cover the burial costs for struggling families. Then they begin hearing of the emotional costs, including the anguish of videoconferenced funerals, such as for a family that had lost a husband, a mother and an aunt in one month. They wondered if there would be interest in an alternative way to honor the dead.
"We sent out a social media post asking if anyone wanted to post a photograph of a relative who died of covid if we created a county memorial page," said county spokesperson Carlos Sanchez, who himself barely survived a bout with covid in July. "Within minutes, we got more than 20 emails. Several sent photos of multiple relatives. They want them to be remembered."
With the world's attention gripped by the spread of the coronavirus, infectious disease experts are redoubling their efforts to show the robust connection between the health of nature, wildlife and humans.
This article was published on Monday, January 4, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
As the covid-19 pandemic heads for a showdown with vaccines it's expected to lose, many experts in the field of emerging infectious diseases are already focused on preventing the next one.
They fear another virus will leap from wildlife into humans, one that is far more lethal but spreads as easily as SARS-CoV-2, the strain of coronavirus that causes covid-19. A virus like that could change the trajectory of life on the planet, experts say.
"What keeps me up at night is that another coronavirus like MERS, which has a much, much higher mortality rate, becomes as transmissible as covid," said Christian Walzer, executive director of health at the Wildlife Conservation Society. "The logistics and the psychological trauma of that would be unbearable."
SARS-CoV-2 has an average mortality rate of less than 1%, while the mortality rate for Middle East respiratory syndrome, or MERS — which spread from camels into humans — is 35%. Other viruses that have leapt the species barrier to humans, such as bat-borne Nipah, have a mortality rate as high as 75%.
"There is a huge diversity of viruses in nature, and there is the possibility that one has the Goldilocks characteristics of pre-symptomatic transmission with a high fatality rate," said Raina Plowright, a virus researcher at the Bozeman Disease Ecology Lab in Montana. (Covid-19 is highly transmissible before the onset of symptoms but fortunately is far less lethal than several other known viruses.) "It would change civilization."
That's why in November the German Federal Foreign Office and the Wildlife Conservation Society held a virtual conference called One Planet, One Health, One Future, aimed at heading off the next pandemic by helping world leaders understand that killer viruses like SARS-CoV-2 — and many other less deadly pathogens — are unleashed on the world by the destruction of nature.
With the world's attention gripped by the spread of the coronavirus, infectious disease experts are redoubling their efforts to show the robust connection between the health of nature, wildlife and humans. It is a concept known as One Health.
While the idea is widely accepted by health officials, many governments have not factored it into policies. So the conference was timed to coincide with the meeting of the world's economic superpowers, the G20, to urge them to recognize the threat that wildlife-borne pandemics pose, not only to people but also to the global economy.
The Wildlife Conservation Society — America's oldest conservation organization, founded in 1895 — has joined with 20 other leading conservation groups to ask government leaders "to prioritize protection of highly intact forests and other ecosystems, and work in particular to end commercial wildlife trade and markets for human consumption as well as all illegal and unsustainable wildlife trade," they said in a recent press release.
Experts predict it would cost about $700 billion to institute these and other measures, according to the Wildlife Conservation Society. On the other hand, it's estimated that covid-19 has cost $26 trillion in economic damage. Moreover, the solution offered by those campaigning for One Health goals would also mitigate the effects of climate change and the loss of biodiversity.
The growing invasion of natural environments as the global population soars makes another deadly pandemic a matter of when, not if, experts say — and it could be far worse than covid. The spillover of animal, or zoonotic, viruses into humans causes some 75% of emerging infectious diseases.
But multitudes of unknown viruses, some possibly highly pathogenic, dwell in wildlife around the world. Infectious disease experts estimate there are 1.67 million viruses in nature; only about 4,000 have been identified.
SARS-CoV-2 likely originated in horseshoe bats in China and then passed to humans, perhaps through an intermediary host, such as the pangolin — a scaly animal that is widely hunted and eaten.
While the source of SARS-CoV-2 is uncertain, the animal-to-human pathway for other viral epidemics, including Ebola, Nipah and MERS, is known. Viruses that have been circulating among and mutating in wildlife, especially bats, which are numerous around the world and highly mobile, jump into humans, where they find a receptive immune system and spark a deadly infectious disease outbreak.
"We've penetrated deeper into eco-zones we've not occupied before," said Dennis Carroll, a veteran emerging infectious disease expert with the U.S. Agency for International Development. He is setting up the Global Virome Project to catalog viruses in wildlife in order to predict which ones might ignite the next pandemic. "The poster child for that is the extractive industry — oil and gas and minerals, and the expansion of agriculture, especially cattle. That's the biggest predictor of where you'll see spillover."
When these things happened a century ago, he said, the person who contracted the disease likely died there. "Now an infected person can be on a plane to Paris or New York before they know they have it," he said.
Meat consumption is also growing, and that has meant either more domestic livestock raised in cleared forest or "bush meat" — wild animals. Both can lead to spillover. The AIDS virus, it's believed, came from wild chimpanzees in central Africa that were hunted for food.
One case study for how viruses emerge from nature to become an epidemic is the Nipah virus.
Nipah is named after the village in Malaysia where it was first identified in the late 1990s. The symptoms are brain swelling, headaches, a stiff neck, vomiting, dizziness and coma. It is extremely deadly, with as much as a 75% mortality rate in humans, compared with less than 1% for SARS-CoV-2. Because the virus never became highly transmissible among humans, it has killed just 300 people in some 60 outbreaks.
One critical characteristic kept Nipah from becoming widespread. "The viral load of Nipah, the amount of virus someone has in their body, increases over time" and is most infectious at the time of death, said the Bozeman lab's Plowright, who has studied Nipah and Hendra. (They are not coronaviruses, but henipaviruses.) "With SARS-CoV-2, your viral load peaks before you develop symptoms, so you are going to work and interacting with your family before you know you are sick."
If an unknown virus as deadly as Nipah but as transmissible as SARS-CoV-2 before an infection was known were to leap from an animal into humans, the results would be devastating.
Plowright has also studied the physiology and immunology of viruses in bats and the causes of spillover. "We see spillover events because of stresses placed on the bats from loss of habitat and climatic change," she said. "That's when they get drawn into human areas." In the case of Nipah, fruit bats drawn to orchards near pig farms passed the virus on to the pigs and then humans.
"It's associated with a lack of food," she said. "If bats were feeding in native forests and able to nomadically move across the landscape to source the foods they need, away from humans, we wouldn't see spillover."
A growing understanding of ecological changes as the source of many illnesses is behind the campaign to raise awareness of One Health.
One Health policies are expanding in places where there are likely human pathogens in wildlife or domestic animals. Doctors, veterinarians, anthropologists, wildlife biologists and others are being trained and training others to provide sentinel capabilities to recognize these diseases if they emerge.
The scale of preventive efforts is far smaller than the threat posed by these pathogens, though, experts say. They need buy-in from governments to recognize the problem and to factor the cost of possible epidemics or pandemics into development.
"A road will facilitate a transport of goods and people and create economic incentive," said Walzer, of the Wildlife Conservation Society. "But it will also provide an interface where people interact and there's a higher chance of spillover. These kinds of costs have never been considered in the past. And that needs to change."
The One Health approach also advocates for the large-scale protection of nature in areas of high biodiversity where spillover is a risk.
Joshua Rosenthal, an expert in global health with the Fogarty International Center at the National Institutes of Health, said that while these ideas are conceptually sound, it is an extremely difficult task. "These things are all managed by different agencies and ministries in different countries with different interests, and getting them on the same page is challenging," he said.
Researchers say the clock is ticking. "We have high human population densities, high livestock densities, high rates of deforestation — and these things are bringing bats and people into closer contact," Plowright said. "We are rolling the dice faster and faster and more and more often. It's really quite simple."
A study published in Clinical Infectious Diseases found that 1 in 4 children given antibiotics in U.S. children's hospitals are prescribed the drugs inappropriately.
This article was published on Monday, January 4, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
COLUMBIA, Mo. — A memory haunts Christina Fuhrman: the image of her toddler Pearl lying pale and listless in a hospital bed, tethered to an IV to keep her hydrated as she struggled against a superbug infection.
"She survived by the grace of God," Fuhrman said of the illness that struck her oldest child in this central Missouri city almost five years ago. "She could've gone septic fast. Her condition was near critical."
Pearl was fighting Clostridium difficile, or C. diff, a type of antibiotic-resistant bacteria known as a superbug. A growing body of research shows that overuse and misuse of antibiotics in children's hospitals — which health experts and patients say should know better — helps fuel these dangerous bacteria that attack adults and, increasingly, children. Doctors worry that the covid pandemic will only lead to more overprescribing.
A study published in the journal Clinical Infectious Diseases in January found that 1 in 4 children given antibiotics in U.S. children's hospitals are prescribed the drugs inappropriately — the wrong types, or for too long, or when they're not necessary.
Dr. Jason Newland, a pediatrics professor at Washington University in St. Louis who co-authored the study, said that's likely an underestimate because the research involved 32 children's hospitals already working together on proper antibiotic use. Newland said the nation's 250-plus children's hospitals need to do better.
"It's irresponsible," Fuhrman added. Coupled with parents begging for antibiotics in pediatricians' offices, it's "just creating a monster."
Using antibiotics when they're not needed is a long-standing problem, and the pandemic "has thrown a little bit of gas on the fire," said Dr. Mark Schleiss, a pediatrics professor at the University of Minnesota Medical School.
Although fears of covid-19 mean fewer parents are taking their children to doctors' offices and some have skipped routine visits for their kids, children are still getting antibiotics through telemedicine visits that don't allow for in-person exams. And research shows more than 5,000 children infected with the coronavirus were hospitalized between late May and late September. If symptoms point toward a bacterial infection on top of the coronavirus, Schleiss said, doctors sometimes prescribe antibiotics, which don't work on viruses, until tests rule out bacteria.
At the same time, Newland said, the demands of caring for covid patients take time away from what are known as "stewardship" programs aimed at measuring and improving how antibiotics are prescribed. Often such efforts involve continuing education courses for healthcare professionals on how to use antibiotics safely, but the pandemic has made those more difficult to host.
"There's no doubt: We've seen some extra use of antibiotics," Newland said. "The impact of the pandemic on antibiotic use will be significant."
Habits Drive Superbug Growth
Antibiotic resistance occurs through random mutation and natural selection. Those bacteria most susceptible to an antibiotic die quickly, but surviving germs can pass on resistant features, then spread. The process is driven by prescribing habits that lead to high levels of antibiotic use.
A March study in the journal Infection Control & Hospital Epidemiology found that the rates of antibiotic use on patients at 51 children's hospitals ranged from 22% to 52%. Some of those medications treated actual bacterial infections, but others were given in hopes of preventing infections or when doctors didn't know what was causing a problem.
"I hear a lot about antibiotic use for the 'just in case' scenarios," said Dr. Joshua Watson, director of the antimicrobial stewardship program at Nationwide Children's Hospital in Ohio. "We underestimate the downsides."
Newland said each specialty in medicine has its own culture around antibiotic use. Many surgeons, for example, routinely use antibiotics to prevent infection after operations.
Outside of hospitals, doctors have long been criticized for prescribing antibiotics too often for ailments such as ear infections, which can sometimes go away on their own or can be caused by viruses that antibiotics won't counter.
Dr. Shannon Ross, an associate professor of pediatrics and microbiology at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, said not all doctors have been taught how to use antibiotics correctly.
"Many of us don't realize we're doing it," she said of overuse. "It's sort of not knowing what you're doing until someone tells you."
All this drives the growth of numerous superbugs in the very population served by these hospitals. Numerous studies, including one published in the Journal of Pediatrics in March, cite the rise among kids of C. diff, which causes gastrointestinal problems. A 2017 study in the Journal of the Pediatric Infectious Diseases Society found that cases of a certain type of multidrug-resistant Enterobacteriaceae rose 700% in American children in just eight years. And a steady stream of research points to the stubborn prevalence in kids of the better-known MRSA, or methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus.
Superbug infections can be extremely difficult — and sometimes impossible — to treat. Doctors often must turn to strong medicines with side effects or give drugs intravenously.
"It's getting more and more worrisome," Ross said. "We have had patients we have not been able to treat because we've had no antibiotics available" that could kill the germs.
Doctors say the world is nearing a "post-antibiotic era," when antibiotics no longer work and common infections can kill.
A Monster Unleashed
Superbugs spawned by antibiotic overuse put everyone at risk.
Like her daughter, Fuhrman also suffered through a C. diff infection, getting sick after taking antibiotics following a root canal in 2012. While killing harmful germs, antibiotics can also destroy those that protect against infection. Fuhrman cycled in and out of the hospital for months. When she finally got better, she tried to avoid using antibiotics and never gave them to her daughter.
That's because antibiotics affect your microbiome by wiping out bad germs and the good germs that protect your body against infections.
Pearl's first symptoms of C. diff arose about three years later, at around 20 months old. Fuhrman noticed her daughter was having lots of bowel movements. The mom eventually found pus and blood in her daughter's stools. One day, Pearl was so pale and weak that Fuhrman took her to the emergency room. She was discharged, then spiked a fever and returned to the hospital.
Doctors treated Pearl with Flagyl, a broad-spectrum antibiotic. But two days after the last dose, she went downhill. The infection had returned. She recovered only after going to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, for a fecal microbiota transplantation, in which she received healthy donor stool from her dad through a colonoscopy.
Since her family's ordeal, Fuhrman has been trying to raise awareness of superbugs and antibiotic overuse. She serves on the board of the Peggy Lillis Foundation, a C. diff education and advocacy organization, and has testified before a presidential advisory committee in Washington, D.C., about superbugs and antibiotic stewardship.
In March, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services began requiring all hospitals to document that they have antibiotic stewardship programs.
One approach, Schleiss said, is to restrict antibiotics by "saving our most magic bullets for the most desperate situations." Another is to stop antibiotics at, say, 72 hours, after reassessing whether patients need them. Meanwhile, doctors are calling for more research into antibiotic use in children.
Fuhrman said hospitals must do all they can to stop superbug infections. The stakes are enormous, she said, pointing toward Pearl, now a 7-year-old first grader who likes to wear a pink hair bow and paint her tiny fingernails a rainbow of pastel colors.
"Antibiotics are great, but they have to be used wisely," Fuhrman said. "The problem of superbugs is here. It's in our backyard now, and it's just getting worse."
Even their COVID outbreaks are different: In Boulder County, the virus swirls around the University of Colorado. In Weld County, some of the worst outbreaks have swept through meatpacking plants.
This article was published on Wednesday, December 30, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
ERIE, Colo. — Whenever Larry Kelderman looks up from the car he’s fixing and peers across the street, he’s looking across a border. His town of 28,000 straddles two counties, separated by County Line Road.
Kelderman’s auto repair business is in Boulder County, whose officials are sticklers for public health and have topped the county website with instructions on how to report COVID violations. Kelderman lives in Weld County, where officials refuse to enforce public health rules.
Weld County’s test positivity rate is twice that of its neighbor, but Kelderman is pretty clear which side he backs.
“Which is worse, the person gets the virus and survives and they still have a business, or they don’t get the virus and they lose their livelihood?” he said.
Boulder boasts one of the most highly educated populations in the nation; Weld boasts about its sugar beets, cattle and thousands of oil and gas wells. Summer in Boulder County means concerts featuring former members of the Grateful Dead; in Weld County, it’s rodeo time. Boulder voted for Biden, Weld for Trump. Per capita income in Boulder is nearly 50% higher than in Weld.
Even their COVID outbreaks are different: In Boulder County, the virus swirls around the University of Colorado. In Weld County, some of the worst outbreaks have swept through meatpacking plants.
It’s not the first time County Line Road has been a fault line.
“I’ve been in politics seven years and there’s always been a conflict between the two counties,” said Jennifer Carroll, mayor of Erie, once a coal mining town and now billed as a good place to raise a family, about 30 minutes north of Denver.
Shortly before the coronavirus hit Colorado, Erie’s board of trustees extended a moratorium on new oil and gas operations in the town. Weld County was not pleased.
“They got really angry at us for doing that, because oil and gas is their thing,” Carroll said.
Most of the town’s businesses are on the Weld side. To avoid public health whiplash, Carroll and other town leaders have asked residents to comply with the more restrictive stance of the Boulder side.
The feud got ugly in a dispute over hospital beds. At one point, the state said Weld County had only three intensive care beds, while Weld County claimed it had 43.
“It made my job harder, because people were doubting what I was saying,” said Carroll. “Nobody trusted anyone because they were hearing conflicting information.”
Weld’s number, it turned out, included not just the beds in its two hospitals, but also those in 10 other hospitals across the county line, including in the city of Longmont.
Longmont sits primarily in Boulder County but spills into Weld, where its suburbs taper into fields pockmarked with prairie dog holes. Its residents say they can tell snow is coming when the winds deliver a pungent smell of livestock from next door. Longmont Mayor Brian Bagley worried that Weld’s behavior would deliver more than a stench: It might also deliver patients requiring precious resources.
“They were basically encouraging their citizens to violate the emergency health orders … with this cowboy-esque, you know, ‘Yippee-ki-yay, freedom, Constitution forever, damn the consequences,’” said Bagley. “Their statement is, ‘Our hospitals are full, but don’t worry, we’re just going to use yours.’”
So, “for 48 hours, I trolled Weld County,” he said. Bagley asked the city council to consider an ordinance that could have restricted Weld County residents’ ability to receive care at Longmont hospitals. Bagley, who retracted his proposal the next day, said he knew it was never going to come to fruition — after all, it was probably illegal — but he wanted to prove a point.
“They’re going to be irresponsible? Fine. Let me propose a question,” he said. “If there is only one ICU bed left and there are two grandparents there — one from Weld, one from Boulder — and they both need that bed, who should get it?”
Weld County commissioners volleyed back, calling Bagley a “simple mayor.” They wrote that the answer to the pandemic was “not to continually punish working-class families or the individuals who bag your groceries, wait on you in restaurants, deliver food to your home while you watch Netflix and chill.”
“I know we’re all trying to get along, but people are starting to do stupid and mean things and so I’ll be stupid and mean back,” Bagley said during a Dec. 8 council meeting.
In another Longmont City Council meeting, Bagley (who suspects the commissioners don’t know what “Netflix and chill” typically means) often referred to Weld simply as “our neighbors to the East,” declining to name his foe. The council shrugged off his statement about withholding medical treatment but demanded that Weld County step up to fight the pandemic.
“We would not deny medical care to anybody. It’s illegal and it’s immoral,” said council member Polly Christensen. “But it is wrong for people to expect us to bear the burden of what they’ve been irresponsible enough to let loose.”
“They’re the reason why I can’t be in the classroom in front of my kids,” said council member and teacher Susie Hidalgo-Fahring, whose school district straddles the counties. “I’m done with that. Everybody needs to be a good neighbor.”
The council decided Dec. 15 to send a letter to Weld County’s commissioners encouraging them to enforce state restrictions and to make a public statement about the benefits of wearing masks and practicing physical distancing. They’ve also backed a law allowing Democratic Gov. Jared Polis to withhold relief money from counties that don’t comply with restrictions.
Weld County Commissioner Scott James said his county doesn’t have the authority to enforce public health orders any more than a citizen has the authority to give a speeding ticket.
“If you want me as an elected official to assume authority that I don’t have and arbitrarily exert it over you, I dare you to look that up in the dictionary,” said James, who is a rancher turned country radio host. “It’s called tyranny.”
James doesn’t deny that COVID-19 is ravaging his community. “We’re on fire, and we need to put that fire out,” he said. But he believes that individuals will make the right decisions to protect others, and demands the right of his constituents to use the hospital nearest them.
“To look at Weld County like it has walls around it is shortsighted and not the way our health care system is designed to work,” James said. “To use a crudity, because I am, after all, just a ranch kid turned radio guy, there’s no ‘non-peeing’ section in the pool. Everybody’s gonna get a little on ’em. And that’s what’s going on right now with COVID.”
The dispute is not just liberal and conservative politics clashing. Bagley, the Longmont mayor, grew up in Weld County and “was a Republican up until Trump,” he said. But it is an example of how the virus is tapping into long-standing Western strife.
“There’s decades of reasons for resentment at people from a distance — usually from a metropolis and from a state or federal governmental office — telling rural people what to do,” said Patty Limerick, faculty director at the Center of the American West at the University of Colorado-Boulder, and previously state historian.
In the ’90s, she toured several states performing a mock divorce trial between the rural and urban West. She played Urbana Asphalt West, married to Sandy Greenhills West. Their child, Suburbia, was indulged and clueless and had a habit of drinking everyone else’s water. A rural health care shortage was one of many fuels of their marital strife.
Limerick and her colleagues are reviving the play now and adding COVID references. This time around, she said, it’ll be a last-ditch marriage counseling session for high school classes and communities to adopt and perform. It likely won’t have a scripted ending; she’s leaving that up to each community.
Earlier this month, U.S. Surgeon General Jerome Adams stood next to Montana's governor in Helena and said he hopes people wear masks because it's the right thing to do — especially as COVID hospitalizations rise
This article was published on Monday, December 28, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
Nine months into the pandemic that has killed more than 320,000 people in the U.S., Kim Larson is still trying to convince others in her northern Montana county that COVID-19 is dangerous.
As Hill County Health Department director and county health officer, Larson continues to hear people say the coronavirus is just like a bad case of the flu. Around the time Montana’s governor mandated face coverings in July, her staffers saw notices taped in several businesses’ windows spurning the state’s right to issue such emergency orders.
For a while, the county with a population of 16,000 along the Canadian border didn’t see much evidence of the pandemic. It had only one known COVID case until July. But that changed as the nation moved into its third surge of the virus this fall. By mid-December, Hill County had recorded more than 1,500 cases — the vast majority since Oct. 1 — and 33 people there had died.
When Larson hears people say pandemic safety rules should end, she talks about how contagious the COVID virus is, how some people experience lasting effects and how hospitals are so full that care for any ailment could face delays.
“In public health, we’ve seen the battle before, but you typically have the time to build your evidence, research showing that this really does save lives,” Larson said. “In the middle of a pandemic, you have no time.”
Public health laws typically come long after social norms shift, affirming a widespread acceptance that a change in habits is worth the public good and that it’s time for stragglers to fall in line. But even when decades of evidence show a rule can save lives — such as wearing seat belts or not smoking indoors — the debate continues in some places with the familiar argument that public restraints violate personal freedoms. This fast-moving pandemic, however, doesn’t afford society the luxury of time. State mandates have put local officials in charge of changing behavior while general understanding catches up.
Earlier this month, U.S. Surgeon General Jerome Adams stood next to Montana’s governor in Helena and said he hopes people wear masks because it’s the right thing to do — especially as COVID hospitalizations rise.
“You don’t want to be the reason that a woman in labor can’t get a hospital bed,” Adams said, adding a vaccine is on the way. “It’s just for a little bit longer.”
He spoke days after state lawmakers clashed over masks as a majority of Republican lawmakers arrived for a committee meeting barefaced and at least one touted false information on the dangers of masks. As of Dec. 15, the Republican majority hadn’t required masks for the upcoming legislative session, set to begin Jan. 4.
And now a group opposed to masks from Gallatin and Flathead counties has filed a lawsuit asking a Montana judge to block the state’s pandemic-related safety rules.
Public health laws typically spark political battles. Changing people’s habits is hard, said Lindsay Wiley, director of the health law and policy program at American University in Washington, D.C. Despite the misconception that there was universal buy-in for masks during the 1918 pandemic, Wiley said, some protesters intentionally built rap sheets of arrests for going maskless in the name of liberty.
She said health officials realize any health restrictions amid a pandemic require the public’s trust and cooperation for success.
“We don’t have enough police to walk around and force everyone to wear a mask,” she said. “And I’m not sure we want them to do it.”
Local officials have the best chance to win over that support, Wiley said. And seeing elected leaders such as President Donald Trump rebuff his own federal health guidelines makes that harder. Meanwhile, public shaming like calling unmasked people selfish or stupid can backfire, Wiley said, because if they were to give in to mask-wearing, they would essentially be accepting those labels.
In the history of public health laws, even rules that have had time to build widely accepted evidence weren’t guaranteed support.
It’s illegal in Montana to go without a seat belt in a moving car. But, as in 13 other states, authorities aren’t allowed to pull people over for being unbuckled. Every few years, a Montana lawmaker, backed by a collection of public health and law enforcement organizations, proposes a law to allow seat belt traffic stops, arguing it would save lives. In 2019, that request didn’t even make it out of committee, squelched by the arguments of personal choice and not giving too much power to the government.
Main opposition points against public health laws — whether it’s masks, seat belts, motorcycle helmets or smoking — can sound alike.
When Missoula County became the first place in Montana to ban indoor smoking in public spaces in 1999, opponents said the change would destroy businesses, be impossible to enforce and violate people’s freedom of choice.
“They are the same arguments in a lot of ways,” said Ellen Leahy, director of the Missoula City-County Health Department. “Public health was right at that intersection between what’s good for the whole community and the rights and responsibilities of the individual.”
Montana adopted an indoor smoking ban in 2005, but many bars and taverns were given until 2009 to fall in line. And, in some places, debate and court battles continued for a decade more on how the ban could be enforced.
Amid the COVID pandemic, Missoula County was again ahead of much of the state when it passed its own mask ordinance. The county has two hospitals and a university that swells its population with students and commuters.
“If you have to see it to believe it, you’re going to see the impact of a pandemic first in a city, most likely,” Leahy said.
Compliance hasn’t been perfect and she said the need for strict enforcement has been limited. As of early December, out of the more than 1,500 complaints the Missoula health department followed up on since July, it sent closure notices to four businesses that flouted the rules.
In Hill County, when the health department gets complaints that a business is violating pandemic mandates, two part-time health sanitarians, who perform health inspections of businesses, talk with the owners about why the rules exist and how to live by them. Often it works. Other times the complaints keep coming.
County attorney Karen Alley said the local health officials have reached out to her office with complaints of noncompliance on COVID safety measures, but she has not seen enough evidence to bring a civil case against a business. Unlike other health laws, she said, mask rules have no case studies yet to offer a framework for enforcing them through the Montana courts. (A handful of cases against businesses skirting COVID rules were still playing out as of mid-December.)
“Somebody has to be the test case, but you never want to be the test case,” said Alley, who is part of a team of three. “It’s a lot of resources, a lot of time.”
Larson, with the Hill County Health Department, said her focus is still on winning over the community. And she’s excited about some progress. The town’s annual live Nativity scene, which typically draws crowds with hot cocoa, turned into a drive-by event this year.
She doesn’t expect everyone to follow the rules — that’s never the case in public health. But Larson hopes enough people will to slow down the virus. That could be happening. By mid-December, the county’s tally of daily active cases was declining for the first time since its spike began in October.
“You just try to figure out the best way for your community and to get their input,” Larson said. “Because we need the community’s help to stop it.”
Vaccinating such vulnerable species against the disease is important not only for the animals’ sake, experts say, but potentially for the protection of people.
This article was published on Wednesday, December 23, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
In late summer, as researchers accelerated the first clinical trials of COVID-19 vaccines for humans, a group of scientists in Colorado worked to inoculate a far more fragile species.
About 120 black-footed ferrets, among the most endangered mammals in North America, were injected with an experimental COVID vaccine aimed at protecting the small, weasel-like creatures rescued from the brink of extinction four decades ago.
The effort came months before U.S. Department of Agriculture officials began accepting applications from veterinary drugmakers for a commercial vaccine for minks, a close cousin of the ferrets. Farmed minks, raised for their valuable fur, have died by the tens of thousands in the U.S. and been culled by the millions in Europe after catching the COVID virus from infected humans.
Vaccinating such vulnerable species against the disease is important not only for the animals’ sake, experts say, but potentially for the protection of people. Some of the most pernicious human diseases have originated in animals, including the new coronavirus, which is believed to have spread from bats to an intermediary species before jumping to humans and sparking the pandemic.
The worry when it comes to animals like farmed minks, which are kept in crowded pens, is that the virus, contracted from humans, can mutate as it spreads rapidly in the susceptible animals, posing a new threat if it spills back to people. Danish health officials in November reported detecting more than 200 COVID cases in humans that had variants associated with farmed minks, including a dozen with a mutation scientists feared could undermine the effectiveness of vaccines. However, officials now say that variant appears to be extinct.
In the U.S., scientists have not found similar COVID mutations in the domestic farmed mink populations, though they recently noted with concern the discovery of the first case of the virus in a wild mink in Utah.
“For highly contagious respiratory viruses, it’s really important to be mindful of the animal reservoir,” said Dr. Corey Casper, a vaccinologist and chief executive of the Infectious Disease Research Institute in Seattle. “If the virus returns to the animal host and mutates, or changes, in such a way that it could be reintroduced to humans, then the humans would no longer have that immunity. That makes me very concerned.”
For the newly vaccinated ferrets, the main risk is to the animals themselves. They’re part of a captive population at the National Black-footed Ferret Conservation Center outside Fort Collins, Colorado, where there have been no cases of COVID-19 to date. But the slender, furry creatures — known for their distinctive black eye mask, legs and feet — are feared to be highly vulnerable to the ravages of the disease, said Tonie Rocke, a research scientist at the National Wildlife Health Center who is testing the ferret vaccine. They’re all genetically similar, having come from a narrow breeding pool, which weakens their immune systems. And they likely share many of the features that have made the disease so deadly to minks.
“We don’t have direct evidence that black-footed ferrets are susceptible to COVID-19, but given their close relationship to minks, we wouldn’t want to find out,” Rocke said.
Rocke began working on the experimental vaccine in the spring, as she and Pete Gober, black-footed ferret recovery coordinator for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, watched reports about the new coronavirus with growing alarm. An exotic disease is “the biggest nemesis for ferret recovery,” said Gober, who has worked with black-footed ferrets for 30 years. “It can knock you right back down to zero.”
The ferrets are a native species that once roamed vast areas of the American West. Their ranks declined precipitously over many decades as populations of prairie dogs, the ferrets’ primary source of food and shelter, were decimated by farming, grazing and other human activity.
In 1979, black-footed ferrets were declared extinct — until a small population was discovered on a ranch in Wyoming. Most of those rare animals were then lost to disease, including sylvatic plague, the animal version of the Black Death that has plagued humans. The species survived only because biologists rescued 18 ferrets to form the basis of a captive breeding program, Gober said.
With the threat of new disease looming, Gober doubled-down on the strict infection prevention precautions at the center, which houses more than half of the 300 black-footed ferrets in captivity. An additional 400 have been reintroduced to the wild. Then he called Rocke, who previously created a vaccine shown to protect ferrets from sylvatic plague. It uses a purified protein from Yersinia pestis, the bacterium that causes the disease.
Would the same technique work against the virus that causes COVID-19? Under the research authority granted by the Fish and Wildlife Service, the scientists were free to try.
“We can do these sorts of things experimentally in animals that we can’t do in humans,” Rocke noted.
Rocke acquired purified protein of a key component of the SARS-CoV-2 virus, the spike protein, from a commercial producer. She mixed the liquid protein with an adjuvant, a substance that enhances immune response, and injected it under the animals’ skin.
The first doses were given in late spring to 18 black-footed ferrets, all male, all about a year old, followed by a booster dose a few weeks later. Within weeks of getting the second shots, tests of the animals’ blood showed antibodies to the virus, a good — and expected — sign.
By early fall, 120 of the 180 ferrets housed at the center were inoculated, with the rest remaining unvaccinated in case something went wrong with the animals, which generally live four to six years in captivity. So far, the vaccine appears safe, but there’s no data yet to show whether it protects the animals from disease. “I can tell you, we have no idea if it will work,” said Rocke, who plans to conduct efficacy tests this winter.
But Rocke’s effort makes sense, said Casper, who has created several vaccines for humans. Rocke’s approach — introducing an inactivated virus in an animal to stimulate an immune response — is the basis for many common vaccines, such as those that prevent polio and influenza.
Vaccines containing inactivated virus to prevent COVID-19 have been tested in certain animals — and in human vaccines, including CoronaVac, created by the Chinese firm Sinovac Life Sciences. But the effort in Colorado may be among the first aimed at preventing COVID-19 in a specific animal population, Rocke said.
Gober said he is optimistic that the ferrets are protected, but it will take a well-designed study to settle the question. Until then, he’ll work to keep the fragile ferrets free of COVID-19. “The price of peace is eternal vigilance, they say. We can’t let our guard down.”
The tougher task is doing the same for people, Gober observed.
“We’re just holding our breath, hoping we can get all the humans vaccinated in the country. That will give us all a sigh of relief.”
WOLF POINT, Mont. — Fallen pine cones covered 16-year-old Leslie Keiser’s fresh grave at the edge of Wolf Point, a small community on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation on the eastern Montana plains.
Leslie, whose father is a member of the Fort Peck Assiniboine and Sioux Tribes, is one of at least two teenagers on the reservation who died by suicide this summer. A third teen’s death is under investigation, authorities said.
Leslie’s mother, Natalie Keiser, was standing beside the grave recently when she received a text with a photo of the headstone she had ordered.
She looked at her phone and then back at the grave of the girl who took her own life in September.
“I wish she would have reached out and let us know what was wrong,” she said.
In a typical year, Native American youth die by suicide at nearly twice the rate of their white peers in the U.S. Mental health experts worry that the isolation and shutdowns caused by the COVID-19 pandemic could make things worse.
“It has put a really heavy spirit on them, being isolated and depressed and at home with nothing to do,” said Carrie Manning, a project coordinator at the Fort Peck Tribes’ Spotted Bull Recovery Resource Center.
It’s not clear what connection the pandemic has to the youth suicides on the Fort Peck reservation. Leslie had attempted suicide once before several years ago, but she had been in counseling and seemed to be feeling better, her mother said.
Keiser noted that Leslie’s therapist canceled her counseling sessions before the pandemic hit.
“Probably with the virus it would have been discontinued anyway,” Keiser said. “It seems like things that were important were kind of set to the wayside.”
Tribal members typically lean on one another in times of crisis, but this time is different. The reservation is a COVID hot spot. In remote Roosevelt County, which encompasses most of the reservation, more than 10% of the population has been infected with the coronavirus. The resulting social distancing has led tribal officials to worry the community will fail to see warning signs among at-risk youth.
So tribal officials are focusing their suicide prevention efforts on finding ways to help those kids remotely.
“Our people have been through hardships and they’re still here, and they’ll still be here after this one as well,” said Don Wetzel, tribal liaison for the Montana Office of Public Instruction and a member of the Blackfeet Nation. “I think if you want to look at resiliency in this country, you look at our Native Americans.”
Poverty, high rates of substance abuse, limited health care and crowded households elevate both physical and mental health risks for residents of reservations.
“It’s those conditions where things like suicide and pandemics like COVID are able to just decimate tribal people,” said Teresa Brockie, a public health researcher at Johns Hopkins University and a member of the White Clay Nation from Fort Belknap, Montana.
Montana has seen 231 suicides this year, with the highest rates occurring in rural counties. Those numbers aren’t much different from a typical year, said Karl Rosston, suicide prevention coordinator for the state’s Department of Public Health and Human Services. The state has had one of the highest suicide rates in the country each year for decades.
As physical distancing drags on, fatality numbers climb and the economic impacts of the pandemic start to take hold of families, Rosston said, and he expected to see more suicide attempts in December and January.
“We’re hoping we’re wrong in this, of course,” he said.
For rural teenagers, in particular, the isolation caused by school closures and curtailed or canceled sports seasons can tax their mental health.
“Peers are a huge factor for kids. If they’re cut off, they’re more at risk,” Rosston said.
Furthermore, teen suicides tend to cluster, especially in rural areas. Every suicide triples the risk that a surviving loved one will follow suit, Rosston said.
On average, every person who dies by suicide has six survivors. “When talking about small tribal communities, that jumps to 25 to 30,” he said.
Maria Vega, a 22-year-old member of the Fort Peck Tribes, knows this kind of contagious grief. In 2015, after finding the body of a close friend who had died by suicide, Vega attempted suicide as well. She is now a youth representative for a state-run suicide prevention committee that organizes conferences and other events for young people.
Vega is a nursing student who lives six hours away from her family, making it difficult to travel home. She contracted COVID-19 in October and was forced to isolate, increasing her sense of removal from family. While isolated, Vega was able to attend therapy sessions through a telehealth system set up by her university.
“I really do think therapy is something that would help people while they’re alone,” she said.
But Vega points out that this is not an option for many people on rural reservations who don’t have computers or reliable internet access. The therapists who offer telehealth services have long waitlists.
Other prevention programs are having difficulties operating during the pandemic. Brockie, who studies health delivery in disadvantaged populations, has twice had to delay the launch of an experimental training program for Native parents of young children. She hopes the program will lower the risk of substance abuse and suicide by teaching resiliency and parenting skills.
At Fort Peck, the reservation’s mental health center has had to scale down its youth events that teach leadership skills and traditional practices like horseback riding and archery, as well as workshops on topics like coping with grief. The events, which Manning said usually draw 200 people or more, are intended to take teenagers’ minds away from depression and allow them to have conversations about suicide, a taboo topic in many Native cultures. The few events that can go forward are limited now to a handful of people at a time.
Tribes, rural states and other organizations running youth suicide intervention and prevention initiatives are struggling to sustain the same level of services. Using money from the federal CARES Act and other sources, Montana’s Office of Public Instruction ramped up online prevention training for teachers, while Rosston’s office has beefed up counseling resources people can access by phone.
On the national level, the Center for Native American Youth in Washington, D.C., hosts biweekly webinars for young people to talk about their hopes and concerns. Executive Director Nikki Pitre said that on average around 10,000 young people log in each week. In the CARES Act, the federal government allocated $425 million for mental health programs, $15 million of which was set aside for Native health organizations.
Pitre hopes the pandemic will bring attention to the historical inequities that led to lack of health care and resources on reservations, and how they enable the twin epidemics of COVID-19 and suicide.
“This pandemic has really opened up those wounds,” she said. “We’re clinging even more to the resiliency of culture.”
In Wolf Point, Natalie Keiser experienced that resiliency and support firsthand. The Fort Peck community has come together to pay for Leslie’s funeral.
Lorraine Rogge says she was surprised to receive such a high bill for lab work. "I thought there was some mistake," she says. "They ran numerous tests that not only did I not authorize, they didn't apply to me."
This article was published on Wednesday, December 23, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
Lorraine Rogge and her husband, Michael Rogge, travel the country in a recreational vehicle, a well-earned adventure in retirement. This spring found them parked in Artesia, New Mexico, for several months.
In May, Rogge, 60, began to feel pelvic pain and cramping. But she had had a total hysterectomy in 2006, so the pain seemed unusual, especially because it lasted for days. She looked for a local gynecologist and found one who took her insurance at the Carlsbad Medical Center in Carlsbad, New Mexico, about a 20-mile drive from the RV lot.
The doctor asked if Rogge was sexually active, and she responded yes and that she had been married to Michael for 26 years. Rogge felt she made it clear that she is in a monogamous relationship. The doctor then did a gynecological examination and took a vaginal swab sample for laboratory testing.
The only lab test Rogge remembered discussing with the doctor was to see whether she had a yeast infection. She wasn’t given any medication to treat the pelvic pain and eventually it disappeared after a few days.
Then the bill came.
The Patient: Lorraine Rogge, 60. Her insurance coverage was an Anthem Blue Cross retiree plan through her husband’s former employer, with a deductible of $2,000 and out-of-pocket maximum of $6,750 for in-network providers.
Total Bill: Carlsbad Medical Center billed $12,386.93 to Anthem Blue Cross for a vaginosis, vaginitis and sexually transmitted infections (STI) testing panel. The insurer paid $4,161.58 on a negotiated rate of $7,172.05. That left Rogge responsible for $1,970 of her deductible and $1,040.36 coinsurance. Her total owed for the lab bill was $3,010.47. Rogge also paid $93.85 for the visit to the doctor.
Service Provider:Carlsbad Medical Center in Carlsbad, New Mexico. It is owned by Community Health Systems, a large for-profit chain of hospital systems based in Franklin, Tennessee, outside Nashville. The doctor Rogge saw works for Carlsbad Medical Center and its lab processed her test.
Medical Service: A bundled testing panel that looked for bacterial and yeast infections as well as common STIs, including chlamydia, gonorrhea and trichomoniasis.
What Gives: There were two things Rogge didn’t know as she sought care. First, Carlsbad Medical Center is notorious for its high prices and aggressive billing practices and, second, she wasn’t aware she would be tested for a wide range of sexually transmitted infections.
The latter bothered her a lot since she has been sexually active only with her husband. She doesn’t remember being advised about the STI testing at all. Nor was she questioned about whether she or her husband might have been sexually active with other people, which could have justified broader testing. They have been on the road together for five years.
“I was incensed that they ran these tests, when they just said they were going to run a yeast infection test,” said Rogge. “They ran all these tests that one would run on a very young person who had a lot of boyfriends, not a 60-year-old grandmother that’s been married for 26 years.”
Although a doctor doesn’t need a patient’s authorization to run tests, it’s not good practice to do so without informing the patient, said Dr. Ina Park, an associate professor of family community medicine at the University of California-San Francisco School of Medicine. That is particularly true with tests of a sensitive nature, like STIs. It is doubly true when the tests are going to costs thousands of dollars.
Park, an expert in sexually transmitted infections, also questioned the necessity of the full panel of tests for a patient who had a hysterectomy.
Beyond that, the pricing for these tests was extremely high. “It should not cost $12,000 to get an evaluation for vaginitis,” said Park.
“Quite frankly, the retail prices on [the bill] are ridiculous, they make no sense at all,” said Root. “Those are tests that cost about $10 to run.”
In fall 2019, The New York Times and CNN investigated Carlsbad Medical Center and found the facility had taken thousands of patients to court for unpaid hospital bills. Carlsbad Medical Center also has higher prices than many other facilities — a 2019 Rand Corp. study found that private insurance companies paid Carlsbad Medical Center 505% of what Medicare would pay for the same procedures.
The bundled testing panel run on Rogge’s sample was a Quest Diagnostics SureSwab Vaginosis Panel Plus. It included six types of tests. Quest Diagnostics didn’t provide the cost for the bundled tests, but Kim Gorode, a company spokesperson, said if the tests had been ordered directly through Quest rather than through the hospital, it was likely “the patient responsibility would have been substantially less.”
According to Medicare’s Clinical Laboratory Fee Schedule, Medicare would have reimbursed labs only about $40 for each test run on Rogge’s sample. And Medicaid would reimburse hospitals in New Mexico similarly, according to figures provided by Russell Toal, superintendent of New Mexico’s insurance department.
But hospitals and clinics can — and do — add substantial markups to clinical tests sent out to commercial labs.
Although private health insurance doesn’t typically reimburse hospitals at Medicare or Medicaid rates, Root said, private insurance reimbursement rates are rarely much more than 200% to 300% of Medicare’s rates. Assuming a 300% reimbursement rate, the total private insurance would have reimbursed for the six tests would have been $720.
That $720 is less than what Carlsbad Medical Center charged Rogge for her chlamydia test alone: $1,045. And for several of the tests, the medical center charged multiple quantities — presumably corresponding to how many species were tested for — elevating the cost of the yeast infection test to over $4,000.
Toal, who reviewed Rogge’s bill, called the prices “outrageous.”
Resolution: Rogge contacted Anthem Blue Cross and talked to a customer service representative, who submitted a fraud-and-waste claim and an appeal contending the charges were excessive.
The appeal was denied. Anthem Blue Cross told Rogge that under her plan the insurance company had paid the amount it was responsible for, and that based on her deductible and coinsurance amounts, she was responsible for the remainder.
Anthem Blue Cross said in a statement to KHN all the tests run on Rogge were approved and “paid for in accordance with Anthem’s pre-determined contracted rate with Carlsbad Medical Center.”
By the time Rogge’s appeal was denied, she had researched Carlsbad Medical Center and read the stories of patients being brought to court for medical bills they couldn’t pay. She had also gotten a notice from the hospital that her account would be sent to a collection agency if she didn’t pay the $3,000 balance.
Fearing the possibility of getting sued or ruining her credit, Rogge agreed to a plan to pay the bill over three years. She made three payments of $83.63 each in September, October and November, totaling $250.89.
After a Nov. 18 call and email from KHN, Carlsbad Medical Center called Rogge on Nov. 20 and said the remainder of her account balance would be waived.
Rogge was thrilled. We “aren’t the kind of people who have payment plans hanging over our heads,” she said, adding: “This is a relief.”
“I’m going to go on a bike ride now” to celebrate, she said.
The Takeaway: Particularly when visiting a doctor with whom you don’t have a long-standing trusted relationship, don’t be afraid to ask: How much is this test going to cost? Also ask for what, exactly, are you being tested? Do not be comforted by the facility’s in-network status. With coinsurance and deductibles, you can still be out a lot.
If it’s a blood test that will be sent out to a commercial lab like Quest Diagnostics anyway, ask the physician to just give you a requisition to have the blood drawn at the commercial lab. That way you avoid the markup. This advice is obviously not possible for a vaginal swab gathered in a doctor’s office.
Patients should always fight bills they believe are excessively high and escalate the matter if necessary.
Rogge started with her insurer and the provider, as should most patients with a billing question. But, as she learned: In American medicine, what’s legal and in accordance with an insurance contract can seem logically absurd. Still, if you get no satisfaction from your initial inquiries, be aware of options for taking your complaints further.
Every state and U.S. territory has a department that regulates the insurance industry. In New Mexico, that’s the Office of the Superintendent of Insurance. Consumers can look up their state’s department on the National Association of Insurance Commissioners website.
Toal, the insurance superintendent in New Mexico, said his office doesn’t (and no office in the state does that he’s aware of) have the authority to tell a hospital its prices are too high. But he can look into a bill like Rogge’s if a complaint is filed with his office.
“If the patient wants, they can request an independent review, so the bill would go to an independent organization that could see if it was medically necessary,” Toal said.
That wasn’t needed in this case because Rogge’s bill was waived. And after being contacted by KHN, Melissa Suggs, a spokesperson with Carlsbad Medical Center, said the facility is revising their lab charges.
“Pricing for these services will be lower in the future,” Suggs said in a statement.
Bill of the Month is a crowdsourced investigation by KHN and NPR that dissects and explains medical bills. Do you have an interesting medical bill you want to share with us? Tell us about it!
WASHINGTON — Even before there was a vaccine, some seasoned doctors and public health experts warned, Cassandra-like, that its distribution would be “a logistical nightmare.”
After Week 1 of the rollout, “nightmare” sounds like an apt description.
Dozens of states say they didn’t receive nearly the number of promised doses. Pfizer says millions of doses sat in its storerooms, because no one from President Donald Trump’s Operation Warp Speed task force told them where to ship them. A number of states have few sites that can handle the ultra-cold storage required for the Pfizer product, so, for example, front-line workers in Georgia have had to travel 40 minutes to get a shot. At some hospitals, residents treating COVID patients protested that they had not received the vaccine while administrators did, even though they work from home and don’t treat patients.
The potential for more chaos is high. Dr. Vivek Murthy, named as the next surgeon general under President-elect Joe Biden, said this week that the Trump administration’s prediction — that the general population would get the vaccine in April — was realistic only if everything went smoothly. He instead predicted wide distribution by summer or fall.
The Trump administration had expressed confidence that the rollout would be smooth, because it was being overseen by a four-star general, Gustave Perna, an expert in logistics. But it turns out that getting fuel, tanks and tents into war-torn mountainous Afghanistan is in many ways simpler than passing out a vaccine in our privatized, profit-focused and highly fragmented medical system. Gen. Perna apologized this week, saying he wanted to “take personal responsibility.” It’s really mostly not his fault.
Throughout the COVID pandemic, the U.S. health care system has shown that it is not built for a coordinated pandemic response (among many other things). States took wildly different COVID prevention measures; individual hospitals varied in their ability to face this kind of national disaster; and there were huge regional disparities in test availability — with a slow ramp-up in availability due, at least in some part, because no payment or billing mechanism was established.
Why should vaccine distribution be any different?
In World War II, toymakers were conscripted to make needed military hardware airplane parts, and commercial shipyards to make military transport vessels. The Trump administration has been averse to invoking the Defense Production Act, which could help speed and coordinate the process of vaccine manufacture and distribution. On Tuesday, it indicated it might do so, but only to help Pfizer obtain raw materials that are in short supply, so that the drugmaker could produce — and sell — more vaccines in the United States.
Instead of a central health-directed strategy, we have multiple companies competing to capture their financial piece of the pandemic health care pie, each with its patent-protected product as well as its own supply chain and shipping methods.
Add to this bedlam the current decision-tree governing distribution: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has made official recommendations about who should get the vaccine first — but throughout the pandemic, many states have felt free to ignore the agency’s suggestions.
Instead, Operation Warp Speed allocated initial doses to the states, depending on population. From there, an inscrutable mix of state officials, public health agencies and lobbyists seem to be determining where the vaccine should go. In some states, counties requested an allotment from the state, and then they tried to accommodate requests from hospitals, which made their individual algorithms for how to dole out the precious cargo. Once it became clear there wasn’t enough vaccine to go around, each entity made its own adjustments.
Some doses are being shipped by FedEx or UPS. But Pfizer — which did not fully participate in Operation Warp Speed — is shipping much of the vaccine itself. In nursing homes, some vaccines will be delivered and administered by employees of CVS and Walgreens, though issues of staffing and consent remain there.
The Moderna vaccine, rolling out this week, will be packaged by the “pharmaceutical services provider” Catalent in Bloomington, Indiana, and then sent to McKesson, a large pharmaceutical logistics and distribution outfit. It has offices in places like Memphis, Tennessee, and Louisville, which are near air hubs for FedEx and UPS, which will ship them out.
Is your head spinning yet?
Looking forward, basic questions remain for 2021: How will essential workers at some risk (transit workers, teachers, grocery store employees) know when it’s their turn? (And it will matter which city you work in.) What about people with chronic illness — and then everyone else? And who administers the vaccine — doctors or the local drugstore?
In Belgium, where many hospitals and doctors are private but work within a significant central organization, residents will get an invitation letter “when it’s their turn.” In Britain, the National Joint Committee on Vaccination has settled on a priority list for vaccinations — those over 80, those who live or work in nursing homes, and health care workers at high risk. The National Health Service will let everyone else “know when it’s your turn to get the vaccine ” from the government-run health system.
In the United States, I dread a mad scramble — as in, “Did you hear the CVS on P Street got a shipment?” But this time, it’s not toilet paper.
Combine this vision of disorder with the nation’s high death toll, and it’s not surprising that there is intense jockeying and lobbying — by schools, unions, even people with different types of preexisting diseases — over who should get the vaccine first, second and third. It’s hard to “wait your turn” in a country where there are 200,000 new cases and as many as 2,000 new daily COVID deaths — a tragic per capita order of magnitude higher than in many other developed countries.
So kudos and thanks to the science and the scientists who made the vaccine in record time. I’ll eagerly hold out my arm — so I can see the family and friends and colleagues I’ve missed all these months. If only I can figure out when I’m eligible, and where to go to get it.
Workers at Garfield Medical Center in suburban Los Angeles were on edge as the pandemic ramped up in March and April. Staffers in a 30-patient unit were rationing a single tub of sanitizing wipes all day. A May memo from the CEO said N95 masks could be cleaned up to 20 times before replacement.
Patients showed up COVID-negative but some still developed symptoms a few days later. Contact tracing took the form of texts and whispers about exposures.
By summer, frustration gave way to fear. At least 60 staff members at the 210-bed community hospital caught COVID-19, according to records obtained by KHN and interviews with eight staff members and others familiar with hospital operations.
The first to die was Dawei Liang, 60, a quiet radiology technician who never said no when a colleague needed help. A cardiology technician became infected and changed his final wishes — agreeing to intubation — hoping for more years to dote on his grandchildren.
Few felt safe.
Ten months into the pandemic, it has become far clearer why tens of thousands of health care workers have been infected by the virus and why so many have died: dire PPE shortages. Limited COVID tests. Sparse tracking of viral spread. Layers of flawed policies handed down by health care executives and politicians, and lax enforcement by government regulators.
All of those breakdowns, across cities and states, have contributed to the deaths of more than 2,900 health care workers, a nine-month investigation by over 70 reporters at KHN and The Guardian has found. This number is far higher than that reported by the U.S. government, which does not have a comprehensive national count of health care workers who’ve died of COVID-19.
The fatalities have skewed young, with the majority of victims under age 60 in the cases for which there is age data. People of color have been disproportionately affected, accounting for about 65% of deaths in cases in which there is race and ethnicity data. After conducting interviews with relatives and friends of around 300 victims, KHN and The Guardian learned that one-third of the fatalities involved concerns over inadequate personal protective equipment.
Many of the deaths occurred in New York and New Jersey, and significant numbers also died in Southern and Western states as the pandemic wore on.
Workers at well-funded academic medical centers — hubs of policymaking clout and prestigious research — were largely spared. Those who died tended to work in less prestigious community hospitals like Garfield, nursing homes and other health centers in roles in which access to critical information was low and patient contact was high.
Garfield Medical Center and its parent company, AHMC Healthcare, did not respond to multiple calls or emails regarding workers’ concerns and circumstances leading to the worker deaths.
So as 2020 draws to a close, we ask: Did so many of the nation’s health care workers have to die?
New York’s Warning for the Nation
The seeds of the crisis can be found in New York and the surrounding cities and suburbs. It was the region where the profound risks facing medical staff became clear. And it was here where the most died.
As the pandemic began its U.S. surge, city paramedics were out in force, their sirens cutting through eerily empty streets as they rushed patients to hospitals. Carlos Lizcano, a blunt Queens native who had been with the New York City Fire Department (FDNY) for two decades, was one of them.
He was answering four to five cardiac arrest calls every shift. Normally he would have fielded that many in a month. He remembered being stretched so thin he had to enlist a dying man’s son to help with CPR. On another call, he did chest compressions on a 33-year-old woman as her two small children stood in the doorway of a small apartment.
“I just have this memory of those kids looking at us like, ‘What’s going on?’”
After the young woman died, Lizcano went outside and punched the ambulance in frustration and grief.
The personal risks paramedics faced were also grave.
More than 40% of emergency medical service workers in the FDNY went on leave for confirmed or suspected coronavirus during the first three months of the pandemic, according to a study by the department’s chief medical officer and others.
In fact, health care workers were three times more likely than the general public to get COVID-19, other researchers found. And the risks were not equally spread among medical professions. Initially, CDC guidelines were written to afford the highest protection to workers in a hospital’s COVID-19 unit.
Yet months later, it was clear that the doctors initially thought to be at most risk — anesthesiologists and those working in the intensive care unit — were among the least likely to die. This could be due to better personal protective equipment or patients being less infectious by the time they reach the ICU.
Instead, scientists discovered that “front door” health workers like paramedics and those in acute-care “receiving” roles — such as in the emergency room — were twice as likely as other health care workers to be hospitalized with COVID-19.
For FDNY’s first responders, part of the problem was having to ration and reuse masks. Workers were blind to an invisible threat that would be recognized months later: The virus spread rapidly from pre-symptomatic people and among those with no symptoms at all.
In mid-March, Lizcano was one of thousands of FDNY first responders infected with COVID-19.
At least four of them died, city records show. They were among the 679 health care workers who have died in New York and New Jersey to date, most at the height of the terrible first wave of the virus.
“Initially, we didn’t think it was this bad,” Lizcano said, recalling the confusion and chaos of the early pandemic. “This city wasn’t prepared.”
Neither was the rest of the country.
An Elusive Enemy
The virus continued to spread like a ghost through the nation and proved deadly to workers who were among the first to encounter sick patients in their hospital or nursing home. One government agency had a unique vantage point into the problem but did little to use its power to cite employers — or speak out about the hazards.
Health employers had a mandate to report worker deaths and hospitalizations to the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.
When they did so, the report went to an agency headed by Eugene Scalia, son of conservative Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia who died in 2016. The younger Scalia had spent part of his career as a corporate lawyer fighting the very agency he was charged with leading.
Its inspectors have documented instances in which some of the most vulnerable workers — those with low information and high patient contact — faced incredible hazards, but OSHA’s staff did little to hold employers to account.
Beaumont, Texas, a town near the Louisiana border, was largely untouched by the pandemic in early April.
That’s when a 56-year-old physical therapy assistant at Christus Health’s St. Elizabeth Hospital named Danny Marks called in sick with a fever and body aches, federal OSHA records show.
He told a human resources employee that he’d been in the room of a patient who was receiving a breathing treatment — the type known as the most hazardous to health workers. The CDC advises that N95 respirators be used by all in the room for the so-called aerosol-generating procedures. (A facility spokesperson said the patient was not known or suspected to have COVID at the time Marks entered the room.)
Marks went home to self-isolate. By April 17, he was dead.
The patient whose room Marks entered later tested positive for COVID-19. And an OSHA investigation into Marks’ death found there was no sign on the door to warn him that a potentially infected patient was inside, nor was there a cart outside the room where he could grab protective gear.
The facility did not have a universal masking policy in effect when Marks went in the room, and it was more than likely that he was not wearing any respiratory protection, according to a copy of the report obtained through a public records request. Twenty-one more employees contracted COVID by the time he died.
“He was a beloved gentleman and friend and he is missed very much,” Katy Kiser, Christus’ public relations director, told KHN.
OSHA did not issue a citation to the facility, instead recommending safety changes.
The agency logged nearly 8,700 complaints from health care workers in 2020. Yet Harvard researchers found that some of those desperate pleas for help, often decrying shortages of PPE, did little to forestall harm. In fact, they concluded that surges in those complaints preceded increases in deaths among working-age adults 16 days later.
One report author, Peg Seminario, blasted OSHA for failing to use its power to get employers’ attention about the danger facing health workers. She said issuing big fines in high-profile cases can have a broad impact — except OSHA has not done so.
“There’s no accountability for failing to protect workers from exposure to this deadly virus,” said Seminario, a former union health and safety official.
Desperate for Safety Gear
There was little outward sign this summer that Garfield Medical Center was struggling to contain COVID-19. While Medicare has forced nursing homes to report staff infections and deaths, no such requirement applies to hospitals.
More 'Lost on the Frontline' Stories
Yet as the focus of the pandemic moved from the East Coast in the spring to Southern and Western states, health care worker deaths climbed. And behind the scenes at Garfield, workers were dealing with a lack of equipment meant to keep them safe.
Complaints to state worker-safety officials filed in March and April said Garfield Medical Center workers were asked to reuse the same N95 respirator for a week. Another complaint said workers ran out of medical gowns and were directed to use less-protective gowns typically provided to patients.
Staffers were shaken by the death of Dawei Liang. And only after his death and a rash of infections did Garfield provide N95 masks to more workers and put up plastic tarps to block a COVID unit from an adjacent ward. Yet this may have been too late.
The coronavirus can easily spread to every corner of a hospital. Researchers in South Africa traced a single ER patient to 119 cases in a hospital — 80 among staff members. Those included 62 nurses from neurology, surgical and general medical units that typically would not have housed COVID patients.
By late July, Garfield cardiac and respiratory technician Thong Nguyen, 73, learned he was COVID-positive days after he collapsed at work. Nguyen loved his job and was typically not one to complain, said his youngest daughter, Dinh Kozuki. A 34-year veteran at the hospital, he was known for conducting medical tests in multiple languages. His colleagues teased him, saying he was never going to retire.
Kozuki said her father spoke up in March about the rationing of protective gear, but his concerns were not allayed.
The PPE problems at Garfield were a symptom of a broader problem. As the virus spread around the nation, chronic shortages of protective gear left many workers in community-based settings fatally exposed. Nearly 1 in 3 family members or friends of around 300 health care workers interviewed by KHN or The Guardian expressed concerns about a fallen workers’ PPE.
Health care workers’ labor unions asked for the more-protective N95 respirators when the pandemic began. But Centers for Disease Control and Prevention guidelines said the unfitted surgical masks worn by workers who feed, bathe and lift COVID patients were adequate amid supply shortages.
Mary Turner, an ICU nurse and president of the Minnesota Nurses Association, said she protested alongside nurses all summer demanding better protective gear, which she said was often kept from workers because of supply-chain shortages and the lack of political will to address them.
“It shouldn’t have to be that way,” Turner said. “We shouldn’t have to beg on the streets for protection during a pandemic.”
At Garfield, it was even hard to get tested. Critical care technician Tony Ramirez said he started feeling ill on July 12. He had an idea of how he might have been exposed: He’d cleaned up urine and feces of a patient suspected of having COVID-19 and worked alongside two staffers who also turned out to be COVID-positive. At the time, he’d been wearing a surgical mask and was worried it didn’t protect him.
Yet he was denied a free test at the hospital, and went on his own time to Dodger Stadium to get one. His positive result came back a few days later.
As Ramirez rested at home, he texted Alex Palomo, 44, a Garfield medical secretary who was also at home with COVID-19, to see how he was doing. Palomo was the kind of man who came to many family parties but would often slip away unseen. A cousin finally asked him about it: Palomo said he just hated to say goodbye.
Palomo would wear only a surgical mask when he would go into the rooms of patients with flashing call lights, chat with them and maybe bring them a refill of water, Ramirez said.
Ramirez said Palomo had no access to patient charts, so he would not have known which patients had COVID-19: “In essence, he was helping blindly.”
Palomo never answered the text. He died of COVID-19 on Aug. 14.
And Thong Nguyen had fared no better. His daughter, a hospital pharmacist in Fresno, had pressed him to go on a ventilator after seeing other patients survive with the treatment. It might mean he could retire and watch his grandkids grow up. But it made no difference.
“He definitely should not have passed [away],” Kozuki said.
Nursing Homes Devastated
During the summer, as nursing homes recovered from their spring surge, Heather Pagano got a new assignment. The Doctors Without Borders adviser on humanitarianism had been working in cholera clinics in Nigeria. In May, she arrived in southeastern Michigan to train nursing home staffers on optimal infection-control techniques.
Federal officials required worker death reports from nursing homes, which by December tallied more than 1,100 fatalities. Researchers in Minnesota found particular hazards for these health workers, concluding they were the ones most at risk of getting COVID-19.
Pagano learned that staffers were repurposing trash bin liners and going to the local Sherwin-Williams store for painting coveralls to backfill shortages of medical gowns. The least-trained clinical workers — nursing assistants — were doing the most hazardous jobs, turning and cleaning patients, and brushing their teeth.
She said nursing home leaders were shuffling reams of federal, state and local guidelines yet had little understanding of how to stop the virus from spreading.
“No one sent trainers to show people what to do, practically speaking,” she said.
As the pandemic wore on, nursing homes reported staff shortages getting worse by the week: Few wanted to put their lives on the line for $13 an hour, the wage for nursing assistants in many parts of the U.S.
The organization GetusPPE, formed by doctors to address shortages, saw almost all requests for help were coming from nursing homes, doctors’ offices and other non-hospital facilities. Only 12% of the requests could be fulfilled, its October report said.
And a pandemic-weary and science-wary public has fueled the virus’s spread. In fact, whether or not a nursing home was properly staffed played only a small role in determining its susceptibility to a lethal outbreak, University of Chicago public health professor Tamara Konetzka found. The crucial factor was whether there was widespread viral transmission in the surrounding community.
“In the end, the story has pretty much stayed the same,” Konetzka said. “Nursing homes in virus hot spots are at high risk and there’s very little they can do to keep the virus out.”
The Vaccine Arrives
From March through November, 40 complaints were filed about the Garfield Medical Center with the California Department of Public Health, nearly three times the statewide average for the time. State officials substantiated 11 complaints and said they are part of an ongoing inspection.
For Thanksgiving, AHMC Healthcare Chairman Jonathan Wu sent hospital staffers a letter thanking “frontline healthcare workers who continue to serve, selflessly exposing themselves to the virus so that others may cope, recover and survive.”
The letter made no mention of the workers who had died. “A lot of people were upset by that,” said critical care technician Melissa Ennis. “I was upset.”
By December, all workers were required to wear an N95 respirator in every corner of the hospital, she said. Ennis said she felt unnerved taking it off. She took breaks to eat and drink in her car.
Garfield said on its website that it is screening patients for the virus and will “implement infection prevention and control practices to protect our patients, visitors, and staff.”
On Dec. 9, Ennis received notice that the vaccine was on its way to Garfield. Nationwide, the vaccine brought health workers relief from months of tension. Nurses and doctors posted photos of themselves weeping and holding their small children.
At the same time, it proved too late for some. A new surge of deaths drove the toll among health workers to more than 2,900.
And before Ennis could get the shot, she learned she would have to wait at least a few more days, until she could get a COVID test.
She found out she’d been exposed to the virus by a colleague.
Shoshana Dubnow and Anna Sirianni contributed to this report.
Video by Hannah Norman; Web production by Lydia Zuraw.
This story is part of “Lost on the Frontline,” an ongoing project from The Guardian and Kaiser Health News that aims to document the lives of health care workers in the U.S. who die from COVID-19, and to investigate why so many are victims of the disease. If you have a colleague or loved one we should include, please share their story.