Dr. Christopher Travis, an intern in obstetrics-gynecology, has cared for patients with COVID-19 and performed surgery on women suspected of having the coronavirus. But the patient who arrived for a routine prenatal visit in two masks and gloves had a problem that wasn’t physiological.
“She told me, ‘I’m terrified I’m going to get this virus that’s spreading all over the world,'” and worried it would hurt her baby, he said of the March encounter.
Travis, who practices at the Los Angeles County + University of Southern California Medical Center, told the woman he knew she was scared and tried to assure her she was safe and could trust him.
Asking many questions and carefully listening to the answers, Travis was exercising the craft of narrative medicine, a discipline in which clinicians use the principles of art and literature to better understand and incorporate patients’ stories into their practices.
“How do we do that really difficult work during the pandemic without it consuming us so we can come out ‘whole’ on the other end?” Travis said. Narrative medicine, which he studied at Columbia University, has helped him be aware of his own feelings, reflect more before reacting, and view challenging situations calmly, he said.
The first graduate program in narrative medicine was created at Columbia University in 2009 by Dr. Rita Charon, and the practice has gained wide influence since, as evidenced by the dozens of narrative medicine essays published in the Journal of the American Medical Association and its sister journals.
Learning to be storytellers also helps clinicians communicate better with non-professionals, said writer and geriatrician Dr. Louise Aronson, who directs the medical humanities program at the University of California-San Francisco. It may be useful to reassure patients — or to motivate them to follow public health recommendations. “Tell them a story about having to intubate a previously healthy 22-year-old who’s going to die and leave behind his first child and new wife, and then you have their attention.”
“At the same time, telling that story can help the health professional process their own trauma and get the support they need to keep going,” she said.
Teaching Storytelling To Doctors
This fall, Keck School of Medicine of USC will offer the country’s second master’s program in narrative medicine, and the subject also will be part of the curriculum in the new Kaiser Permanente Bernard J. Tyson School of Medicine in Pasadena, which opens its doors July 27 with its first class of 48 students. (KHN, which produces California Healthline, is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.)
Narrative medicine trains physicians to care about patients’ singular, lived experiences — how illness is really affecting them, said Dr. Deepthiman Gowda, assistant dean for medical education at the new Kaiser Permanente school. The training may entail a close group reading of creative works such as poetry or literature, or watching dance or a film, or listening to music.
He said there’s also “real, intrinsic value” for patients because a doctor isn’t only being trained to care about the body and medications.
“Literature in its nature is a dive into the experience of living — the triumphs, the joys, the suffering, the anxieties, the tragedies, the confusions, the guilt, the ecstasies of being human, of being alive,” Gowda said. “This is the training our students need if they wish to care for persons and not diseases.”
Dr. Andre Lijoi, a geriatrician at WellSpan York Hospital in Pennsylvania, recently led a virtual session for 20 front-line nurse practitioners who work in nursing homes. Two volunteers recited Mary Oliver’s 1986 poem “Wild Geese,” which reads, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.”
Sharing the poet’s words helped the nurses relieve their pent-up tensions, enabling them to express their feelings about life and work under COVID-19, Lijoi said.
One participant wrote, “As the world goes on around me I mourn seeing my aging parents, planning my daughter’s wedding, and missing my great niece’s baptism. I wonder, when will life be ‘normal’ again?”
Processing Fear To Provide Better Care
Dr. Naomi Rosenberg, an emergency room physician at Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia, studied narrative medicine at Columbia and teaches it at Temple’s Lewis Katz School of Medicine. The discipline helps her “metabolize” what she takes in while caring for COVID-19 patients, including the fear that comes with having to enter patients’ rooms alone in protective gear, she said.
The training helped her counsel a worried woman who couldn’t visit her sister because the hospital, like others around the country, wasn’t allowing relatives to visit COVID-19-infected patients.
“I’d read stories of Baldwin, Hemingway and Steinbeck about what it feels like to be afraid for someone you love, and recalling those helped me communicate with her with more clarity and compassion,” Rosenberg said. (After a four-day crisis, the sister recovered.)
Close readings can also help students understand the various ways metaphor is used in the medical profession, for good or ill, said Dr. Pamela Schaff, who directs the Keck School’s new master’s program in narrative medicine.
Recently, Schaff led third-year medical students through a critical examination of a journal article that described medicine as a battlefield. The analysis helped student Andrew Tran understand that describing physicians as “warriors” could “promote unrealistic expectations and even depersonalization of us as human beings,” he said.
Something similar happens in the militarized language used to describe cancer, he added: “We say, ‘You’ve got to fight,’ which implies that if you die, you’re somehow a failure.”
In the real world, doctors are often focused narrowly, devoting most of their attention to a patient’s chief complaint. They listen to patients on average for only 11 seconds before interrupting them, according to a 2018 study in the Journal of General Internal Medicine. Narrative medicine seeks to change that.
While listening more carefully may add one more item to a physician’s lengthy “to-do” list, it could also save time in the end, Schaff said.
“If we train physicians to listen well, for metaphor, subtext and more, they can absorb and act on their patients’ stories even if they have limited time,” she said. “Also, we physicians must harness our narrative competence to demand changes in the health care system. Health systems should not mandate 10-minute encounters.”
Telling The Patient’s Whole Story
In practice, narrative medicine has diverse applications. Modern electronic health records, with their templates and prefilled sections, can hamper a doctor’s ability to create meaningful notes, Gowda said. But doctors can counter that by writing notes in language that makes the patient’s struggles come alive, he said.
The school’s curriculum will incorporate a different patient story each week to frame students’ learning. “Instead of, ‘This week, you will learn about stomach cancer,’ we say, ‘This week, we want you to meet Mr. Cardenas,'” Gowda said. “We learn about who he is, his family, his situation, his symptoms, his concerns. We want students to connect medical knowledge with the complexity and sometimes messiness of people’s stories and contexts.”
In preparation for the school’s opening, Gowda and a colleague have been running Friday lunchtime mindfulness and narrative medicine sessions for faculty and staff.
The meetings might include a collective, silent examination of a piece of art, followed by a discussion and shared feelings, said Dr. Marla Law Abrolat, a Permanente Medicine pediatrician in San Bernardino, California, and a faculty director at the new school.
“Young people come to medicine with bright eyes and want to help, then a traditional medical education beats that out of them,” Abrolat said. “We want them to remember patients’ stories that will always be a part of who they are when they leave here.”
Mass protests against police violence across the U.S. have public health officials concerned about an accelerated spread of the coronavirus. But even before the protests began May 26, sparked by the May 25 death of George Floyd in Minneapolis, several states had been recording big jumps in the number of COVID-19 cases.
The head of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Dr. Robert Redfield, registered his concern at a congressional hearing Thursday. He shook his head as a congresswoman showed him photos of throngsof people at the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri over Memorial Day weekend and crowds in Florida that had assembled to watch the May 30 launchof the SpaceX Dragon crew capsule.
"We're very concerned that our public health message isn't resonating," Redfield said. "We continue to try to figure out how to penetrate the message with different groups. The pictures the chairwoman showed me are great examples of serious problems."
The U.S. is still seeing roughly 20,000 new cases a day. The tally ranges widely by state, from one case a day, on average, last week in Hawaii up to 2,614 new cases a day in California. Specific areas in the Golden State have become hot spots, along with certain counties in every Southern state.
The northeastern states of New York, New Jersey and Massachusetts — which accounted for a quarter of all COVID-19 deaths in the U.S. — are seeing a substantial slowing of new cases.
A closer look at these hard-hit areas highlights some of the common and unique challenges states face as they manage protests and begin efforts to reopen the economy amid the risks of more disease and death.
Officials Try To Publicize Cause When Infections Spike
In the South, the timing of new cases appears to be linked to the reopening of restaurants, barbershops and gyms, which started in most states more than a month ago. Figures tracked by NPR show the number of cases in North Carolina and South Carolina this week is up by roughly 60% from two weeks ago. In Tennessee, that increase is 75%.
Georgia and Louisiana look steadier, but they experienced some of the highest case counts and fatalitiesin the region in recent weeks, at the height of the pandemic.
In Southern states that reopened sooner than others, officials sometimes felt the need to explain big increases in case counts on certain days. In Georgia, for example, a state health official said a big one-day increase could be attributed to a backlog of reporting cases from a commercial lab. In Tennessee this week, a daily jump of 800 cases was blamed partially on an ongoing prison outbreak that yielded 350 new positive test results.
Populous Los Angeles County Drove Case Counts In California
In California, counties are continuing to allow businesses to reopen even as newly confirmed coronavirus cases climb. The state experienced a 40% jump in cases over the past week. Large metro areas like Los Angeles and San Francisco have gradually lifted restrictions, and Californians have responded by traveling to beaches and neighboring areas, blurring the effectiveness of the varying degrees of restrictions between adjacent counties.
Los Angeles County, home to more than 10 million people, has the highest number of cases in the state. Numbers tracked by NPR show that, on average, health officials report around 1,300 new cases daily. The county has blamed slow lab results for a backlog, while acknowledging that community transmission has been ticking up, especially among communities of color.
In the Northeast, where New York City became the U.S. epicenter of the pandemic for weeks, there are still thousands of new cases every day, although the rate of increase has slowed. It's down 41% in New Jersey over the past two weeks, down 33% in New York and down 13% in Massachusetts. But health officials caution that doesn't mean the coronavirus is under control in these three states. New York is still seeing more than 1,000 new cases a day; over the past week, Massachusetts averaged just over 500 a day, and New Jersey had close to 800.
Ethnic Disparities Persist Across The Country
In Los Angeles, elderly people, particularly those who live in nursing homes have been disproportionately affected. Almost half the people who have died from COVID-19 in the county were nursing home residents. County health officials were slow to test for the virus in nursing homes, and recent data reported by the health department shows that two-thirds of the Los Angeles County health care workers who died from the virus worked in nursing homes.
People of color have been disproportionately affected in California, as elsewhere: Latinos make up over half of the COVID-19 cases in California, where they are about 40% of the state's population. In Los Angeles County, the highest COVID death rates have been among native Hawaiians, Pacific Islanders and black residents. Minorities have an increased risk of developing underlying health conditions like high blood pressure and diabetes, making them more likely to develop a more severe illness if infected with the virus.
In Tennessee, which has one of the nation's fastest-growing case counts, neighborhoods that are home to large immigrant populations have emerged as persistent hot spots for infection. In partnership with advocacy organizations, Nashville's public health department has hiredcommunity outreach workers with special skills or unique access to immigrant communities to conduct contact tracing and connect families with coronavirus testing.
"We knew we had to do something different, and that's what we're doing now," said Leslie Waller, a city epidemiologist who oversees the project.
Waller acknowledges that many of the people at risk work in jobs that have been deemed essential or own businesses that can't be run remotely. Public health officials also express concern that co-workers in close-knit immigrant communities often carpool to the same jobs, and some work sites have experienced large outbreaks.
But in Southern states, rising case counts have not slowed the momentum for further lifting of restrictions. On Thursday, Tennessee announced an additional loosening of restrictions for community events, allowing fairs, expos and parades. Instead of limiting the number of people who can gather, the focus has shifted to ensuring everyone can maintain social distance.
"Thanks to the continued hard work of Tennesseans and business owners operating responsibly, we're able to further reopen our state's economy," Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee said in a written statement. "These new guidelines provide useful information so that we can enjoy the events that connect us to our neighbors and communities."
There has been virtually no public discussion of reinstating business restrictions, so long as hospitals can handle any uptick in illness.
Northeast States Take A Slower Approach To Reopening
You still can't sit down in a restaurant in New York City or anywhere in Massachusetts and New Jersey. That may be allowed in the coming weeks, but only outdoors. These states are all still in the early stages of reopening, after residents were told to stay home for almost two months and all but the most essential businesses were closed.
While most states do not have broad requirements for face coverings, rules requiring them are more common in the Northeast. In Massachusetts, some kind of face covering is required indoors and outside, if you can't stay at least 6 feet away from other people. In New York and New Jersey, masks are required in public and while riding buses or trains.
Within some states, rules vary by county, which can cause confusion. In Los Angeles County, health officials made cloth face coverings mandatory at all times when outside your home, while San Diego County requires masks only when you are within 6 feet of another person.
Residents everywhere are chafing at the rules, but the hardest-hit states are experiencing wider acceptance of social-distancing rules. A pollout last week found twice as many New York residents were worried about opening too quickly, compared with the number of New Yorkers who were worried about it happening too slowly. Polls in New Jersey and Massachusettsalso have shown better than majority support for gradual, phased openings.
CLEVELAND, Ohio — In late March, Andrea Laquatra began to feel sick. At first, it was an overwhelming fatigue, and the 32-year-old Cleveland mother of two tried to push through it.
A fever, headaches and body aches soon followed. Then she noticed she'd lost her senses of taste and smell.
By March 23, Laquatra could no longer deny the nagging fear she'd had since first falling ill: She might have COVID-19, the disease caused by the novel coronavirus, which by then had been detected in every state. That day, 351 new cases, 83 hospitalizations and three deaths were reported in Ohio.
Andrea Laquatra called MetroHealth Medical Center's COVID-19 hotline in Cleveland after exhibiting symptoms of the coronavirus. The medical staff helped her bypass a trip to the emergency room ― and likely helped keep her and her husband, Tony, from spreading the virus.(Courtesy of the Laquatra family)
MetroHealth's hotline connected the Laquatras to nurses and doctors who assessed their symptoms and checked in daily while they were ill. MetroHealth also took care of all the family's immediate needs — including home delivery of prescriptions, groceries, toiletries and diapers for their 2-year-old — so they could safely stay home until they felt better.
MetroHealth has offered the hotline and home assistance free to any Ohioan since mid-March. It said the hotline, which has fielded more than 11,000 calls, has saved the hospital system from being overwhelmed by a surge of COVID patients. It has also paved the way for a new model of health care delivery, one that brings care where patients are — at home.
It's a model they believe must — and will — last beyond the current crisis, saving money for its health care system and addressing the myriad social needs that keep patients from getting and staying healthy.
The Hotline
It's a Tuesday in mid-May and Dr. David Margolius is in his office on MetroHealth's main campus in Cleveland's Brooklyn Centre neighborhood, keeping an eye on a screen displaying a list of calls to the hotline.
It's late afternoon, and about 63 people have called that day. Ten have been referred for testing. Nearly all of the callers have symptoms of COVID-19 and have been counseled to self-quarantine.
Margolius calls a young woman who works as a protection officer at a juvenile detention center, and shares his half of the conversation with a reporter via video call. A nurse flagged the detention officer's hotline call for follow-up with a doctor because one of the woman's colleagues had tested positive for the coronavirus that day. While she doesn't have any clear symptoms (just a scratchy throat), she's worried about getting sick and exposing others. After hearing that she's wearing a mask and maintaining social distance at work, Margolius assures her she's probably fine.
"You're on top of it," he tells her. "If things change and you develop symptoms, we're here if you need us."
Dr. Noha Dardir, a family medicine specialist who has fielded about 780 hotline calls, said patients were terrified, but they had few options early on because most of the primary care offices at MetroHealth were closed.
"If we're telling them to call their doctor and not go straight to the emergency room, we had to be there to take those calls. And it had to be 24/7," she said. "I felt obligated to my patients."
MetroHealth was prepared for a surge of 1,000 patients, but at the pandemic's peak in early May, only 13 COVID-positive patients were in intensive care. Only 82 people have been hospitalized with COVID-19 at MetroHealth since the crisis began.
The hotline's peak came much earlier, on March 17, when nearly 700 people called. In the hotline's first three days, staffers advised 200 people to quarantine themselves.
"We just couldn't keep up," said Dr. Nabil Chehade, MetroHealth's senior vice president for population health. "At one point, we had to have 12 physicians working to answer these calls."
"We joked early on that if you had a paper cut, we'd tell you to stay home for two weeks," Allan said. "But that helps to reduce people from potentially being part of the chain of transmission."
As of early June, about 300 of Cuyahoga County's 1.3 million residents had died of COVID-19. While the county, Ohio's second most populous, has had a high proportion of the cases in the state, it has fared much better than hard-hit counties with similar demographics in other parts of the country.
Nine weeks in, call volume has slowed. Now, about 100 people call daily and about three-quarters talk to a doctor. Still, MetroHealth's hotline remains available round-the-clock, and Margolius said it's clearly still needed. The county recently saw its highest rate of infections since the pandemic started, likely due to the partial reopening of Ohio's economy, which began in mid-May.
"This is obviously so far from over," Margolius said.
A New Model
When MetroHealth's doctors told Andrea Laquatra to quarantine at home in late March, she and her husband weren't sure how they'd manage. They were already low on diapers and wipes, and had been grocery shopping for Tony Laquatra's parents.
"We always take care of my mom and dad. We couldn't do nothing for them because we didn't want to get them sick," Tony Laquatra said.
Many others the hospital told to quarantine were in the same boat. So the MetroHealth team added a social worker check-in and same-day delivery of groceries and other basic supplies through the hospital's Institute for H.O.P.E. (health, opportunity, partnership, empowerment), launched last year with the goal of finding and addressing the causes of health disparities in the community.
As of May 22, institute staff members had delivered food and supplies to 620 households. In the early days of the pandemic, as the team scrambled to respond to the influx of calls, even members of the hospital's executive team pitched in on those deliveries. So did some doctors.
The health system also started screening for loneliness and stress and has since referred 700 people for calls from the hospital's behavioral health team, Chehade said.
MetroHealth also connected the Laquatras to a church group that could shop for his their parents.
"I just cried, I was so grateful," Andrea Laquatra said. They have since recovered, and because they were never tested, are among the hundreds of probable COVID cases in the county.
The pandemic proved to be the perfect opportunity for MetroHealth to deliver on a long-discussed but only partly implemented plan to treat patients at home while addressing the basic social needs that sometimes prevent them from staying healthy, Chehade said.
"We were forced to really transform our care overnight," he said.
No Going Back?
The health system has vowed not to return to business as usual when the pandemic eases.
"This is an inflection point in the delivery of health care, and it would be a tragedy if we didn't learn from it," said Dr. Brook Watts, MetroHealth's vice president and chief quality officer. "The health care system will try to go back because there were a lot of incentives for the system to deliver care the way we did. We're not going to go back. I'm not going back."
For now, MetroHealth is paying for this new model of care through donations, its own funds and payment from Medicare and Medicaid, which have expanded reimbursement for telehealth in response to the pandemic. The health system estimates 30% to 60% of its visits in the future will be managed through telehealth, compared with just 0.5% pre-pandemic.
And a new program, Hospital at Home — which delivers Bluetooth-enabled equipment such as heart rate, blood pressure and blood-oxygen monitors to patients with chronic illnesses to manage their recovery at home — could deliver hospital-quality care at 60% of the cost for half of all medical-surgical admissions.
It remains unclear if insurers, including the Centers for Medicaid & Medicare Services, will continue to pay for expanded health care delivered via telephone or video calls after the pandemic eases. If they return to pre-pandemic rules for reimbursement, it could make maintaining the current model difficult, or even impossible.
For the model to be viable and adopted widely, MetroHealth CEO Dr. Akram Boutros said, the nation's health care system will have to reinvest these savings, and redirect the money it wastes on unnecessary tests and procedures, repeated hospitalizations for chronic, manageable diseases and overpriced medications and high-tech devices.
"It may take some shaming of nonprofit medical institutions to bring them to this same area of focus," said Boutros. But if they don't want to do it, he added, they should financially support the health systems that do.
Pneumonia. Heart problems. High cholesterol. Betsy Carrier, 71, and her husband, Don Resnikoff, 79, relied on their primary care doctor in Montgomery County, Maryland, for help managing their ailments.
But after seven years, the couple was surprised when the doctor informed them she was opting out of Medicare, the couple's insurer.
"It's a serious loss," Resnikoff said of their doctor.
Patients can lose doctors for a variety of reasons, including a physician's retirement or when either patient or doctor moves away. But economic forces are also at play. Many primary care doctors have long argued that Medicare, the federal health insurance program for seniors and people with disabilities, doesn't reimburse them adequately and requires too much paperwork to get paid.
These frustrations have prompted some physicians to experiment with converting their practices to more lucrative payment models, such as concierge medicine, in which patients pay a fee upfront to retain the doctor. Patients who cannot afford that arrangement may have to search for a new physician.
The exact number of physicians with concierge practices is unknown, health care experts said. One physician consulting company, Concierge Choice Physicians, estimates that roughly 10,000 doctors practice some form of membership medicine, although it may not strictly apply to Medicare patients.
Shawn Martin, senior vice president of the American Academy of Family Physicians, estimated that fewer than 3% of their 134,000 members use this model but the number is slowly growing.
The move to concierge medicine may be more prevalent in wealthier areas.
Travis Singleton, executive vice president for the medical staffing company Merritt Hawkins, said doctors switching to other payment systems or those charging Medicare patients a higher price for care are likely "in more affluent, well-to-do areas where, frankly, they can get fees."
It is far easier for physicians than hospitals to opt out of taking Medicare patients. Most hospitals have to accept them since they rely on Medicare payments to fund inpatient stays, doctor training and other functions.
The majority of physicians do still accept Medicare, and most people insured by the federal program for seniors and people with disabilities have no problem finding another health care provider. But that transition can be tough, particularly for older adults with multiple medical conditions.
"When transition of care happens, from one provider to another, that trust is often lost and it takes time to build that trust again," said Dr. Fatima Sheikh, a geriatrician and the chief medical officer of FutureCare, which operates 15 rehabilitation and skilled nursing centers in Maryland.
Shuffling doctors also heightens the risk of mishaps.
A studyof at least 2,200 older adults published in 2016 found that nearly 4 in 10 were taking at least five medications at the same time. Fifteen percent of them were at risk of drug-to-drug interaction.
Primary care providers mitigate this risk by coordinating among doctors on behalf of the patient, said Dr. Kellie Flood, a geriatrician at the University of Alabama-Birmingham.
"You really need the primary care physicians to serve as the quarterback of the health care team," said Flood. "If that's suddenly lost, there's really not a written document that can sum all that up and just be sent" to the new doctor.
Finding a physician who accepts Medicare depends partly on workforce demographics. From 2010 to 2017, doctors providing primary care services to Medicare beneficiaries increased by 13%, according to the Medicare Payment Advisory Commission (MedPAC), a nonpartisan group that advises Congress.
However, the swell of seniors who qualify for Medicare has outpaced the number of doctors available to treat them. Every day, an estimated 10,000 Americans turn 65 and become eligible for the government program, the Census Bureaureported.
The impact: In 2010, MedPAC reported, there were 3.8 primary care doctors for every 1,000 Medicare enrollees. In 2017, it was 3.5.
Authors of a MedPAC report out last June suggested that the number of available primary care providers could be an overestimate. Their calculation assumed all internal medicine doctors provided these services when, in reality, many specialize in certain medical conditions, or accept only a limited number of Medicare patients into their practices.
But MedPAC concluded seniors are not at a disadvantage finding a doctor.
"We found that beneficiaries have access to clinician services that is largely comparable with (or in some cases better) access for privately insured individuals, although a small number of beneficiaries report problems finding a new primary care doctor," the MedPAC researchers wrote.
The coronavirus outbreak has complicated the ability for many Americans to access care, regardless of their insurer. However, many older patients now have an opportunity to connect with their doctors virtually after the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services (CMS) broadened access to telemedicine services under Medicare.
Experts said the long-term effects of the virus on doctors and Medicare remain unknown. But Martin said the shortage of cash that many doctors are experiencing because of the coronavirus epidemic has revealed the shortcomings of how primary care doctors are paid.
"The COVID crisis really brought to life the challenges of fee for service," said Martin.
Despite these challenges, the number of doctors choosing to opt out of Medicare has been on the decline, according to data from CMS.
Singleton, of Merritt Hawkins, said concern about doctors leaving the Medicare system is part of larger workforce issues. Those include the need to recruit more medical students to concentrate on primary care.
One estimatepredicts the nation will face a shortage of 23,600 primary care physicians by 2025. The majority of residents in internal medicine ― those who care for adults — are choosing a subspecialty such as cardiac care or gastroenterology, MedPAC reported.
In 2017, MedPAC reported, the median compensation for all doctors was $300,000 a year. Among primary care doctors, it was $242,000.
Creative business models can make up that difference. Under the concierge model, the doctor charges patients an annual fee — akin to a gym membership ― to access their practice. The provider still bills the insurer ― including Medicare — for all patient care.
Another model ― called direct primary care — charges the patient an annual fee for access and care; doctors do not bill health insurance plans.
Proponents say that the model enables them to take more time with their patients without dealing with the bureaucracy of getting paid by health insurers.
"I think what is most attractive to direct primary care is that they just practice medicine," Martin said.
The size of a physician practice can also determine whether it accepts Medicare. Large practices can better offset the lower Medicare payment rates by leveraging their influence with private insurers to raise those reimbursements, said Paul Ginsburg, director of the USC-Brookings Schaeffer Initiative for Health Policy. But small, independent clinics may not have the same clout.
"If you're a large primary care practice, private insurers are really going to want to have you in their network," he said. "And they're willing to pay more than they might pay an individual solo practitioner who they're not as concerned [with] because it's only one physician."
Luckily, after more than a dozen calls to physicians, Carrier and Resnikoff said they found another primary care doctor. They said she accepts Medicare and impressed them during their meet-and-greet with her knowledge of their medical history. She also met their criteria for age and expertise.
"At this point in our lives, I'd be eager to find somebody who's young enough that they might be in practice for the next 10 years," Carrier said.
The U.S. health care system is famously resistant to government-imposed change. It took decades to create Medicare and Medicaid, mostly due to opposition from the medical-industrial complex. Then it was nearly another half-century before the passage of the Affordable Care Act.
But the COVID-19 pandemic has done what no president or social movement or venture capitalist could have dreamed of: It forced sudden major changes to the nation's health care system that are unlikely to be reversed.
"Health care is never going back to the way it was before," said Gail Wilensky, a health economist who ran the Medicare and Medicaid programs for President George H.W. Bush in the early 1990s.
Wilensky is far from the only longtime observer of the American health care system to marvel at the speed of some long-sought changes. But experts warn that the breakthroughs may not all make the health system work better, or make it less expensive.
That said, here are three trends that seem likely to continue.Bottom of Form
Telehealth For All
Telehealth is not new; medical professionals have used it to reach patients in rural or remote settings since the late 1980s.
But even while technology has made video visits easier, it has failed to reach critical mass, largely because of political fights. Licensing has been one main obstacle – determining how a doctor in one state can legally treat a patient in a state where the doctor is not licensed.
The other obstacle, not surprisingly, is payment. Should a video visit be reimbursed at the same rate as an in-person visit? Will making it easier for doctors and other medical professionals to use telehealth encourage unnecessary care, thus driving up the nation's $3.6 trillion health tab even more? Or could it replace care once provided free by phone?
Still, the pandemic has pushed aside those sticking points. Almost overnight, by necessity, every health care provider who can is delivering telemedicine. A new survey from Gallup found the number of patients reporting "virtual" medical visits more than doubled, from 12% to 27%, from late March to mid-May. That is due, at least in part, to Medicare having made it easier for doctors to bill for virtual visits.
It's easy to see why many patients like video visits ― there's no parking to find and pay for, and it takes far less time out of a workday than going to an office.
Doctors and other practitioners seem more ambivalent. On one hand, it can be harder to examine a patient over video and some services just can't be done via a digital connection. On the other hand, they can see more patients in the same amount of time and may need less support staff and possibly smaller offices if more visits are conducted virtually.
Of course, telemedicine doesn't work for everyone. Many areas and patients don't have reliable or robust broadband connections that make video visits work. And some patients, particularly the oldest seniors, lack the technological skills needed to connect.
Primary Care Doctors In Peril
Another trend that has suddenly accelerated is worry over the nation's dwindling supply of primary care doctors. The exodus of practitioners performing primary care has been a concern over the past several years, as baby boomer doctors retire and others have grown weary of more and more bureaucracy from government and private payers. Having faced a difficult financial crisis during the pandemic, more family physicians may move into retirement or seek other professional options.
"I've been trying to raise the alarm about the kind of perilous future of primary care," said Farzad Mostashari, a top Health and Human Services Department official in the Obama administration. Mostashari runs Aledade, a company that helps primary care doctors make the transition from fee-for-service medicine to new payment models.
The American Academy of Family Physicians reports that 70% of primary care physicians are reporting declines in patient volume of 50% or more since March, and 40% have laid off or furloughed staff. The AAFP has joined other primary care and insurance groups in asking HHS for an infusion of cash.
"This is absolutely essential to effectively treat patients today and to maintain their ongoing operations until we overcome this public health emergency," the groups wrote.
One easy way to help keep primary care doctors afloat would be to pay them not according to what they do, but in a lump sum to keep patients healthy. This move from fee-for-service to what's known as capitation or value-based care has unfolded gradually and was championed in the Affordable Care Act.
But some experts argue it needs to happen more quickly and they predict that the coronavirus pandemic could finally mark the beginning of the end for doctors who still charge for each service individually. Mostashari, who spends his time helping doctors make the transition, said in times like these, it would make more sense for primary care doctors to have "a steady monthly revenue stream, and [the doctor] can decide the best way to deliver that care. Unlimited texts, phone calls, video calls. The goal is to give you satisfactory outcomes and a great patient experience."
Still, many physicians, particularly those in solo or small practices, worry about the potential financial risk ― particularly the possibility of getting paid less if they don't meet certain benchmarks that the doctors may not be able to directly control.
But with many practices now ground to a halt, or just starting to reopen, those physicians who get paid per patient rather than per service are in a much better position to stay afloat. That model may be gain traction as doctors ponder the next pandemic, or the next wave of this one.
Hospitals On The Decline?
The pandemic also might lead to less emphasis on hospital-based care. While hospitals in many parts of the country have obviously been full of very sick COVID patients, they have closed down other nonemergency services to preserve supplies and resources to fight the pandemic. People with other ailments have stayed away in droves even when services were available, for fear of catching something worse than what they already have.
Many experts predict that care won't just snap back when the current emergency wanes. Dr. Mark Smith, former president of the California Health Care Foundation, said among consumers, a switch has been flipped. "Overnight it seems we've gone from high-touch to no-touch."
Which is not great for hospitals that have spent millions trying to attract patients to their labor-and-delivery units, orthopedic centers and other parts of the facility that once generated lots of income.
Even more concerning is that hospitals' ability to weather the current financial shock varies widely. Those most in danger of closing are in rural and underserved areas, where patients could wind up with even less access to care that is scarce already.
All of which underscores the point that not all these changes will necessarily be good for the health system or society. Financial pressures could end up driving more consolidation, which could push up prices as large groups of hospitals and doctors gain more bargaining clout.
But the changes are definitely happening at a pace few have ever seen. Said Wilensky, "When you're forced to find different ways of doing things and you find out they are easier and more efficient, it's going to be hard to go back to the old way."
The tally includes doctors, nurses and paramedics, as well as crucial health care support staff such as hospital janitors, administrators and nursing home workers.
This story was first published on Saturday, June 6, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
Nearly 600 front-line health care workers appear to have died of COVID-19, according to Lost on the Frontline, a project launched by The Guardian and KHN that aims to count, verify and memorialize every health care worker who dies during the pandemic.
The tally includes doctors, nurses and paramedics, as well as crucial health care support staff such as hospital janitors, administrators and nursing home workers, who have put their own lives at risk during the pandemic to help care for others. Lost on the Frontline has now published the names and obituaries for more than 100 workers.
A majority of those documented were identified as people of color, mostly African American and Asian/Pacific Islander. Profiles of more victims, and an updated count, will be added to our news sites twice weekly going forward.
There is no other comprehensive accounting of U.S. health care workers' deaths. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has counted 368 COVID deaths among health care workers, but
The Guardian and KHN are building an interactive, public-facing database that will also track factors such as race and ethnicity, age, profession, location and whether the workers had adequate access to protective gear. The database — to be released this summer — will offer insight into the workings and failings of the U.S. health care system during the pandemic.
In addition to tracking deaths, Lost on the Frontline reports on the challenges health care workers are facing during the pandemic. Many were forced to reuse masks countless times amid widespread equipment shortages. Others had only trash bags for protection. Some deaths have been met with employers' silence or denials that they were infected at work.
The number released today reflects the 586 names currently in the Lost on the Frontline internal database, which have been collected from family members, friends and colleagues of the deceased, health workers unions, media reports, unions, among other sources. Reporters at KHN and The Guardian are independently confirming each death by contacting family members, employers, medical examiners and others before publishing names and obituaries on our sites. More than a dozen journalists across two newsrooms — as well as student journalists ― are involved in the project.
Many of the health care workers included here studied physiology and anatomy for years. They steeled themselves against the long hours they'd endure. Emergency medical technicians raced by ambulance to help. Others did the cleanup, maintenance, security or transportation jobs needed to keep operations running smoothly.
They undertook their work with passion and dedication. They were also beloved spouses, parents, friends, military veterans and community activists.
None started 2020 knowing that simply showing up to work would expose them to a virus that would kill them.
This project aims to capture the human stories, compassion and heroism behind the statistics. Among those lost were Dr.Priya Khanna, a nephrologist, who continued to review her patients' charts until she was put on a ventilator. Her father, a retired surgeon, succumbed to the disease just days after his daughter.
Susana Pabatao, one of thousands of Philippine health providers in the United States, became a nurse in her late 40s. Susana died just days after her husband, Alfredo, who was also infected with COVID-19.
Dr. James Goodrich, a renowned pediatric neurosurgeon, acclaimed for separating conjoined twins, was also remembered as a renaissance man who collected antique medical books, loved fine wines and played the didgeridoo.
Some of the first to die faced troubling conditions at work. Rose Harrison, 60, a registered nurse, wore no mask while taking care of a COVID-19 patient at an Alabama nursing home, according to her daughter. She felt pressured to work until the day she was hospitalized. The nursing home did not respond to requests for comment.
Thomas Soto, 59,a Brooklyn radiology clerk faced delays in accessing protective gear, including a mask, even as the hospital where he worked was overwhelmed with COVID-19 patients, his son said. The hospital did not respond to requests for comment.
The Lost on the Frontline team is documenting other worrying trends. Health care workers across the U.S. said failuresin communication left them unaware they were working alongside people infected with the virus. And occupational safety experts raised alarms about CDC guidance permitting workers treating COVID patients to wear surgical masks ― which are far less protective than N95 masks.
The Occupational Safety and Health Administration, the federal agency responsible for protecting workers, has launched dozens of fatality investigations into health workers' deaths. But recent agency memos raise doubts that many employers will be held responsible for negligence.
As public health guidelines have largely prevented traditional gatherings of mourners, survivors have found new ways to honor the dead: In Manhattan, a medical resident played a violintribute for a fallen co-worker; a nurses union placed 88 pairs of shoesoutside the White House commemorating those who had died among their ranks; fire departments have lined up trucks for funeral processions and held "last call" ceremonies for EMTs.
The Lost on the Frontline death toll includes only health care workers who were potentially exposed while caring for or supporting COVID-19 patients. It does not, for example, include retired doctors who died from the virus but were not working during the pandemic.
The number of reported deaths is expected to grow. But as reporters work to confirm each case, individual deaths may not meet our criteria for inclusion — and, therefore, may be removed from our count.
Nearly 600 front-line health care workers appear to have died of COVID-19, according to Lost on the Frontline, a project launched by The Guardian and KHN that aims to count, verify and memorialize every health care worker who dies during the pandemic.
The tally includes doctors, nurses and paramedics, as well as crucial health care support staff such as hospital janitors, administrators and nursing home workers, who have put their own lives at risk during the pandemic to help care for others. Lost on the Frontline has now published the names and obituaries for more than 100 workers.
A majority of those documented were identified as people of color, mostly African American and Asian/Pacific Islander. Profiles of more victims, and an updated count, will be added to our news sites twice weekly going forward.
There is no other comprehensive accounting of U.S. health care workers’ deaths. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has counted 368 COVID deaths among health care workers, but acknowledges its tally is an undercount. The CDC does not identify individuals.
The Guardian and KHN are building an interactive, public-facing database that will also track factors such as race and ethnicity, age, profession, location and whether the workers had adequate access to protective gear. The database — to be released this summer — will offer insight into the workings and failings of the U.S. health care system during the pandemic.
In addition to tracking deaths, Lost on the Frontline reports on the challenges health care workers are facing during the pandemic. Many were forced to reuse masks countless times amid widespread equipment shortages. Others had only trash bags for protection. Some deaths have been met with employers’ silence or denials that they were infected at work.
The number released today reflects the 586 names currently in the Lost on the Frontline internal database, which have been collected from family members, friends and colleagues of the deceased, health workers unions, media reports, unions, among other sources. Reporters at KHN and The Guardian are independently confirming each death by contacting family members, employers, medical examiners and others before publishing names and obituaries on our sites. More than a dozen journalists across two newsrooms — as well as student journalists ― are involved in the project.
Many of the health care workers included here studied physiology and anatomy for years. They steeled themselves against the long hours they’d endure. Emergency medical technicians raced by ambulance to help. Others did the cleanup, maintenance, security or transportation jobs needed to keep operations running smoothly.
They undertook their work with passion and dedication. They were also beloved spouses, parents, friends, military veterans and community activists.
None started 2020 knowing that simply showing up to work would expose them to a virus that would kill them.
This project aims to capture the human stories, compassion and heroism behind the statistics. Among those lost were Dr. Priya Khanna, a nephrologist, who continued to review her patients’ charts until she was put on a ventilator. Her father, a retired surgeon, succumbed to the disease just days after his daughter.
Susana Pabatao, one of thousands of Philippine health providers in the United States, became a nurse in her late 40s. Susana died just days after her husband, Alfredo, who was also infected with COVID-19.
Dr. James Goodrich, a renowned pediatric neurosurgeon, acclaimed for separating conjoined twins, was also remembered as a renaissance man who collected antique medical books, loved fine wines and played the didgeridoo.
Some of the first to die faced troubling conditions at work. Rose Harrison, 60, a registered nurse, wore no mask while taking care of a COVID-19 patient at an Alabama nursing home, according to her daughter. She felt pressured to work until the day she was hospitalized. The nursing home did not respond to requests for comment.
Thomas Soto, 59, a Brooklyn radiology clerk faced delays in accessing protective gear, including a mask, even as the hospital where he worked was overwhelmed with COVID-19 patients, his son said. The hospital did not respond to requests for comment.
The Lost on the Frontline team is documenting other worrying trends. Health care workers across the U.S. said failures in communication left them unaware they were working alongside people infected with the virus. And occupational safety experts raised alarms about CDC guidance permitting workers treating COVID patients to wear surgical masks ― which are far less protective than N95 masks.
The Occupational Safety and Health Administration, the federal agency responsible for protecting workers, has launched dozens of fatality investigations into health workers’ deaths. But recent agency memos raise doubts that many employers will be held responsible for negligence.
As public health guidelines have largely prevented traditional gatherings of mourners, survivors have found new ways to honor the dead: In Manhattan, a medical resident played a violin tribute for a fallen co-worker; a nurses union placed 88 pairs of shoes outside the White House commemorating those who had died among their ranks; fire departments have lined up trucks for funeral processions and held “last call” ceremonies for EMTs.
The Lost on the Frontline death toll includes only health care workers who were potentially exposed while caring for or supporting COVID-19 patients. It does not, for example, include retired doctors who died from the virus but were not working during the pandemic.
The number of reported deaths is expected to grow. But as reporters work to confirm each case, individual deaths may not meet our criteria for inclusion — and, therefore, may be removed from our count.
Their widespread use in recent weeks while an infectious disease — for which there is no vaccine — continues to spread across the U.S., has stunned experts and physicians.
This article was first published on Friday, June 5, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
In nationwide demonstrations sparked by the killing of George Floyd in police custody, protesters have been frequently pepper-sprayed or enveloped in clouds of tear gas. These crowd-control weapons are rarely lethal, but in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic, there are strong calls for police to stop using these chemical irritants because they can damage the body in ways that can spread the coronavirus and increase the severity of COVID-19.
Even before the coronavirus pandemic, some experts said additional research was needed on the risks of tear gas — an umbrella term for several chemical “riot-control agents” used by law enforcement. It’s known that the chemicals can have both immediate and long-term health effects.
Their widespread use in recent weeks while an infectious disease — for which there is no vaccine — continues to spread across the U.S., has stunned experts and physicians. The coronavirus that causes the disease COVID-19 is highly contagious, spreads easily through the air via droplets, and can lead to severe or fatal respiratory illness. Deploying these corrosive, inhalable chemicals could harm people in several ways: exposing more people to the virus, compromising the body’s ability to fight off the infection and even causing mild infections to become more severe illnesses.
“This is a recipe for disaster,” said associate professor Sven Eric Jordt, a researcher at the Duke University School of Medicine who studies the effects of tear gas.
Jordt refers to these chemicals as “pain gases” because they activate certain pain-sensing nerves on the skin and in the mucous membranes of the eyes, mouth and nose.
“You have this excruciating pain, sneezing, coughing, the production of a lot of mucus that obstructs breathing,” Jordt said.
People who have been exposed describe a burning and stinging sensation, even a sense of asphyxiation and drowning. Sometimes the chemicals cause vomiting or allergic reactions. In law enforcement, officers generally use two types of chemicals for crowd control: CS gas and pepper spray.
The active ingredient in pepper spray, called capsaicin, is derived from chiles. It is often sprayed from cans at close quarters or lobbed into crowds in the form of “pepper balls.”
CS gas (o‐chlorobenzylidene malononitrile) is a chlorinated, organic chemical that can induce “very strong inflammation” and “chemical injury” by burning the skin and airways when inhaled, Jordt said.
“Using it in the current situation with COVID-19 around is completely irresponsible,” he added. “There are sufficient data proving that tear gas can increase the susceptibility to pathogens, to viruses.”
Jordt said research on the harms of tear gas has not kept up with its escalating use in the U.S and around the world in recent years. Many of the safety studies that law enforcement officials rely on date to the 1950s and ’60s, he said.
But a 2014 study from the U.S. Army offers an alarming glimpse into how the chemical could escalate the pandemic. The study found that recruits who were exposed to tear gas as part of a training exercise were more likely to get sick with respiratory illnesses like the common cold and the flu.
“We have a lot of antiviral defenses that can inactivate viruses and prevent them from entering cells,” he said. “These are depleted by inhalation of tear gas and also compromised.”
The findings of the Army study led the U.S. military to significantly reduce how much recruits were being exposed to the chemical.
“Even the Army realized they had done something wrong and that this was more toxic than they thought before,” Jordt said.
Even though there is a limited amount of research on this new coronavirus, there are studies from China and Italy about how other irritants, such as smoking and air pollution, affect COVID-19. These studies indicate that tear gas could also make people more likely to develop severe illness, said Dr. John Balmes, a pulmonologist at the University of California-San Francisco and an expert with the American Thoracic Society.
“I actually think we could be promoting COVID-19 by tear-gassing protesters,” said Balmes. “It causes injury and inflammation to the lining of the airways.”
Balmes said this period of inflammation sets back the body’s defenses, and makes it more likely that someone who already harbors the virus will become sick.
“It’s adding fuel to the fire,” said Balmes. “These exposures to tear gas would increase the risk of progression from the asymptomatic infection, to a symptomatic disease.”
Growing evidence shows many people who have the coronavirus are asymptomatic and don’t know they are infected, or are “presymptomatic” — infected with the virus and able to infect others, but not yet showing symptoms.
With thousands of people jammed together at mass protests, the demonstrations are already primed to be “superspreading events,” which can lead to an explosion of new cases. Outdoor gatherings typically decrease the chance of spreading the coronavirus. But activities like singing and yelling can increase the risk.
Tear gas and pepper spray can also sow confusion and panic in a crowd. People may rip off their masks and touch their faces, leading to more contamination.
Dr. Amesh Adalja, with Johns Hopkins University, said the body’s reaction to the chemicals causes people to shed more of the virus.
“If they’re coughing, the particles actually emanate and are projectiles that travel about 6 feet or so and could land on other people,” said Adalja, who is also a spokesperson for the Infectious Diseases Society of America.
“This is a way to almost induce the virus to be expelled from people when they are exposed to these agents.”
Adalja anticipates the protests will inevitably lead to a spike in infections.
“We know that any kind of social unrest, especially in the midst of an outbreak, is only going to make things worse,” he said.
He said the most recent example would be bombings in Yemen that exacerbated a cholera outbreak.
Dr. Rohini Haar, an emergency physician in Oakland, California, has studied the use of riot-control agents around the world.
“These weapons don’t actually deescalate tensions in peaceful community policing,” said Haar who is a lecturer at the University of California-Berkeley.
Haar has also been treating COVID-19 patients. She recognizes there is a danger of spreading the virus at these gatherings, but she would not discourage people from attending the protests and exercising their right to free speech.
“It’s a really tough situation,” said Haar. “I think the irony is that people are rightfully and justifiably protesting police violence and are being met with violence that is worsening the pandemic conditions we’re living under right now.”
This week, more than a thousand physicians and health care professionals signed an open letter in support of the demonstrations.
Dr. Jade Pagkas-Bather, an infectious disease expert at the University of Chicago, is one of them. She said it will be difficult to determine whether any spike in cases was a direct result of the protests, because they’re happening at a time when many states are also allowing businesses to reopen.
“In everyday life, we weigh the risks and benefits of our actions. People who are going out to protests are clearly at a critical juncture where they are saying this state-sanctioned violence is unacceptable, and I am willing to put myself and others potentially at risk,” she said.
The open letter she signed recommends ways that protesters, police and local officials can reduce the transmission of the virus. Among the major recommendations: Police should not use tear gas or pepper spray.
A new report, released Thursday by the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, aims to pinpoint the reasons so many women aren’t getting the care they need.
This article was first published on Thursday, June 4, 2020 in Kaiser Health News.
U.S. public health officials are closer to identifying a road map for curbing the rising rates of syphilis infections in newborn babies, but with so many resources diverted to stopping the spread of COVID-19, many fear the rate of deadly infections will only get worse.
Congenital syphilis — the term used when a mother passes the infection to her baby during pregnancy — is often a devastating legacy, potentially leaving babies blind or in excruciating pain or with bone deformities, blood abnormalities or organ damage. It’s one of the most preventable infectious diseases, experts say. Prevention, which means treating Mom so she doesn’t pass it on to her baby, requires just a few shots of penicillin.
Yet rates of infection and death from congenital syphilis have been on the rise for years. In 2018, 1,306 babies acquired syphilis from their mothers, a 40% increase over 2017 and the largest number since 1995. Nearly 100 were stillborn or died soon after birth. Federal researchers say 2019 data will show yet another jump.
A new report, released Thursday by the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, aims to pinpoint the reasons so many women aren’t getting the care they need. It found that nationally 28% of women who gave birth to a baby with syphilis in 2018 had no prenatal care and weren’t tested in time for treatment. Nearly a third of the mothers were diagnosed but didn’t receive timely or thorough treatment.
How women slip through the cracks of the public health system varies by race and geography. Syphilis rates are highest in the South and West but have been rising across the nation, particularly in rural areas of the Midwest and West.
The burden of the disease falls disproportionately on African American women and families. Nearly 40% of moms who gave birth to babies with syphilis in 2018 were black, even though they made up about 15% of deliveries.
“That falls on public health as an institution,” said Matthew Prior, communications director for the National Coalition of STD Directors. “We need to think about why we do what we do, and we need to hear from the voices we are trying to serve.”
The CDC researchers identified four core reasons that mothers who gave birth to babies with syphilis weren’t treated: lack of prenatal care; prenatal care that did not include testing; improper treatment after a positive diagnosis; and getting infected during pregnancy.
In the South, a lack of prenatal care was the most common reason white women who gave birth to infected babies didn’t get treatment, while black women tended to have been diagnosed but not treated. In the West, 41% of women of all races who gave birth to infected babies had no prenatal care.
The CDC study provides clues for how to prevent infections, but taking advantage of that information will be a challenge for many local health departments. The COVID-19 pandemic has strained the nation’s frayed public health system.
In many communities, the same people who work on preventing the spread of sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis have been called on to help prevent the spread of COVID-19. Departments are reporting mass interruptions in STD care and prevention services.
“COVID-19 is an obstacle to a lot of the interventions that we will try to roll out,” said Rebekah Horowitz, a senior program analyst with the National Association of County and City Health Officials (NACCHO).
In mid-March, the National Coalition of STD Directors surveyed a panel of its members; 83% of responding STD programs said they had deferred services. Nearly two-thirds said they cannot keep up with their HIV and syphilis caseloads.
“A lot of our enhancement projects have been scaled back,” said Amanda Reich, congenital syphilis coordinator for Texas. “Our staff are doing the best that they can do.”
Shuttered clinics and delayed prenatal care — yet another consequence of COVID-related shutdowns — are likely to exacerbate rates of congenital syphilis and sexually transmitted diseases in general. Testing for syphilis is key since there’s often a lag between contracting the disease and developing symptoms, said Dr. Anne Kimball, a pediatrician in the Epidemic Intelligence Service of the CDC and lead author of the study. “You can have it and give it to your unborn child without knowing you have it,” she said.
Because syphilis is so easy to test for, treat and prevent, it’s often seen as the canary in the coal mine, signaling a warning about what’s happening with other infectious diseases. Cases of syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia combined reached an all-time national high in 2018.
“It is a symptom of under-supporting public health and STD programs for decades,” Prior said. “It’s not surprising.”
Even before the global coronavirus pandemic, many health departments around the country were working with bare-bones staffing and aggressively tracking and treating syphilis only among pregnancy-age women. Men who have sex with men have the highest rate of the disease nationally.
Arkansas reorganized its disease investigation unit after a spike in cases in 2018, assigning one person to follow up with all pregnant women with syphilis, said Brandi Roberts, the state’s STD Prevention Program Manager. She said the reorganization has been successful, and even as resources have been redeployed to COVID-19, that employee’s assignment hasn’t changed. But like many states, Arkansas has seen a decrease in reported STD cases, which Roberts believes is likely a sign of reduced testing, not a drop in cases.
NACCHO and the CDC are helping to fund and evaluate programs at six health departments — ranging from New York City to rural Tulare County, California — that they hope will offer further clues for how to curb the spread of disease.
But their success will rely on resources, said Horowitz.
“This was true two years ago, it is true now, and it will be true in the future: These missed opportunities will continue as long as we are not investing in a robust way in our public health infrastructure,” she said.
In late March, Marcell's girlfriend took him to the emergency room at Henry Ford Wyandotte Hospital, about 11 miles south of Detroit.
"I had [acute] paranoia and depression off the roof," said Marcell, 46, who asked to be identified only by his first name because he wanted to maintain confidentiality about some aspects of his illness.
Marcell's depression was so profound, he said, he didn't want to move and was considering suicide.
"Things were getting overwhelming and really rough. I wanted to end it," he said.
Marcell, diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder seven years ago, had been this route before but never during a pandemic. The Detroit area was a coronavirus hot spot, slamming hospitals, attracting concerns from federal public health officials and recording more than 1,000 deaths in Wayne County as of May 28. Michigan ranks fourth among states for deaths from COVID-19.
The crisis enveloping the hospitals had a ripple effect on mental health programs and facilities. The emergency room was trying to get non-COVID patients out as soon as possible because the risk of infection in the hospital was high, said Jaime White, director of clinical development and crisis services for Hegira Health, a nonprofit group offering mental health and substance abuse treatment programs. But the options were limited.
Still, the number of people waiting for beds at Detroit's crisis centers swelled. Twenty-three people in crisis had to instead be cared for in a hospital.
This situation was hardly unique. Although mental health services continued largely uninterrupted in areas with low levels of the coronavirus, behavioral health care workers in areas hit hard by COVID-19 were overburdened. Mobile crisis teams, residential programs and call centers, especially in pandemic hot spots, had to reduce or close services. Some programs were plagued by shortages of staff and protective supplies for workers.
At the same time, people battling mental health disorders became more stressed and anxious.
"For people with preexisting mental health conditions, their routines and ability to access support is super important. Whenever additional barriers are placed on them, it could be challenging and can contribute to an increase in symptoms," said White.
After eight hours in the emergency room, Marcell was transferred to COPE, a community outreach program for psychiatric emergencies for Wayne County Medicaid patients.
"We try to get patients like him into the lowest care possible with the least restrictive environment," White said. "The quicker we could get him out, the better."
Marcell was stabilized at COPE over the next three days, but his behavioral health care team couldn't get him a bed in one of two local residential crisis centers operated by Hegira. Social distancing orders had reduced the beds from 20 to 14, so Marcell was discharged home with a series of scheduled services and assigned a service provider to check on him.
However, Marcell's symptoms ― suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, auditory hallucinations, poor impulse control and judgment ― persisted. He was not able to meet face-to-face with his scheduled psychiatrist due to the pandemic and lack of telehealth access. So, he returned to COPE three days later. This time, the staff was able to find him a bed immediately at a Hegira residential treatment program, Boulevard Crisis Residential in Detroit.
Residents typically stay for six to eight days. Once they are stabilized, they are referred elsewhere for more treatment, if needed.
Marcell ended up staying for more than 30 days. "He got caught in the pandemic here along with a few other people," said Sherron Powers, program manager. "It was a huge problem. There was nowhere for him to go."
Marcell couldn't live with his girlfriend anymore. Homeless shelters were closed and substance abuse programs had no available beds.
"The big problem here is that all crisis services are connected to each other. If any part of that system is disrupted you can't divert a patient properly," said Travis Atkinson, a behavioral consultant with TBD Solutions, which collaborated on a survey of providers with the American Association of Suicidology, the Crisis Residential Association and the National Association of Crisis Organization Directors.
White said the crisis took a big toll on her operations. She stopped her mobile crisis team on March 14 because, she said, "we wanted to make sure that we were keeping our staff safe and our community safe."
Her staff assessed hospital patients, including Marcell, by telephone with the help of a social worker from the emergency room.
People like Marcell have struggled during the coronavirus crisis and continue to face hurdles because emergency preparedness measures didn't provide enough training, funds or thought about the acute mental health issues that could develop during a pandemic and its aftermath, said experts.
"The system isn't set up to accommodate that kind of demand," said Dr. Brian Hepburn, a psychiatrist and executive director of the National Association of State Mental Health Program Directors.
"In Detroit and other hard-hit states, if you didn't have enough protective equipment you can't expect people to take a risk. People going to work can't be thinking 'I'm going to die,'" said Hepburn.
For Marcell, "it was bad timing to have a mental health crisis," said White, the director at Hegira.
At one time Marcell, an African American man with a huge grin and a carefully trimmed goatee and mustache, had a family and a "pretty good job," Marcell said. Then "it got rough." He made some bad decisions and choices. He lost his job and got divorced. Then he began self-medicating with cocaine, marijuana and alcohol.
By the time he reached the residential center in Detroit on April 1, he was at a low point. "Schizoaffective disorder comes out more when you're kicked out of the house and it increases depression," said Powers, the program manager who along with White was authorized by Marcell to talk about his care. Marcell didn't always take his medications and his use of illicit drugs magnified his hallucinations, she said.
While in the crisis center voluntarily, Marcell restarted his prescription medications and went to group and individual therapy. "It is a really good program," he said while at the center in early May. "It's been one of the best 30 days."
Hepburn said the best mental health programs are flexible, which allows them more opportunities to respond to problems such as the pandemic. Not all programs would have been able to authorize such a long stay in residential care.
Marcell was finally discharged on May 8 to a substance abuse addiction program. "I felt good about having him do better and better. He had improved self-esteem to get the help he needed to get back to his regular life," Powers said.
But Marcell left the addiction program after only four days.
"The [recovery] process is so individualized and, oftentimes, we only see them at one point in their journey. But, recovering from mental health and substance use disorders is possible. It can just be a winding and difficult path for some," said White.
Seeking Help
If you or someone you know is in immediate danger, call 911. Below are other resources for those needing help:
— National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
— Disaster Distress Helpline: 1-800-985-5990 or text TalkWithUs to 66746.
Correction: This story was updated on June 4 at 7:50 a.m. ET to correct an attribution. It was Marcell who said that he had a family and a "pretty good job" before his illness got severe.