More than a hundred rural hospitals have stopped delivering babies since 2021 owing to shortages of staff and money.

This article was published on Monday, May 19, 2025 in KFF Health News.

By Arielle Zionts

WINNER, S.D. — Sophie Hofeldt planned to receive prenatal care and give birth at her local hospital, 10 minutes from her house. Instead, she's driving more than three hours round trip for her appointments.

The hospital, Winner Regional Health, recently joined the increasing number of rural hospitals shuttering their birthing units.

"It's going to be a lot more of a stress and a hassle for women to get the healthcare that they need because they have to go so much further," said Hofeldt, who has a June 10 due date for her first child.

Hofeldt said longer drives mean spending more on gas — and a higher risk of not making it to the hospital in time. "My main concern is having to give birth in a car," she said.

More than a hundred rural hospitals have stopped delivering babies since 2021, according to the Center for Healthcare Quality and Payment Reform, a nonprofit organization. Such closures are often blamed on shortages of staff and money.

About 58% of South Dakota counties have no birthing facilities, the second-highest rate among states, after North Dakota, according to March of Dimes. And the South Dakota health department says pregnant women and infants in the state, especially those who are Black or Native American, experience high rates of complications and death.

Winner Regional Health serves rural communities, including parts of the Rosebud Sioux Indian Reservation, in South Dakota and Nebraska. It delivered 107 babies last year, down from 158 in 2021, said CEO Brian Williams.

The nearest birthing hospitals are in rural towns an hour or more from Winner. But several women said driving to those facilities would take them through areas without reliable cellphone service, which could be a problem if they have an emergency along the way.

KFF Health News spoke with five patients from the Winner area who planned to deliver at Avera St. Mary's Hospital in Pierre, about 90 miles from Winner, or at one of the large medical centers in Sioux Falls, 170 miles away.

Hofeldt and her boyfriend drive every three weeks to her prenatal appointments at the Pierre hospital, which serves the small capital city and vast surrounding rural area. She'll have to make weekly trips closer to her due date. Neither of their jobs provides paid time off for such appointments.

"When you have to go to Pierre, you have to take almost the whole day off," said Hofeldt, who was born at the Winner hospital.

That means forfeiting pay while spending extra money on travel. Not everyone has gas money, let alone access to a car, and bus services are scarce in rural America. Some women also need to pay for child care during their appointments. And when the baby comes, family members may need to pay for a hotel.

Amy Lueking, Hofeldt's doctor in Pierre, said when patients can't overcome these barriers, obstetricians can give them home monitoring devices and offer phone- or video-based care. Patients can also receive prenatal care at a local hospital or clinic before connecting with a doctor at a birthing hospital, Lueking said.

However, some rural areas don't have access to telehealth. And some patients, such as Hofeldt, don't want to split up their care, form relationships with two doctors, and deal with logistics like transferring medical records.

During a recent appointment, Lueking glided an ultrasound device over Hofeldt's uterus. The "woosh-woosh" rhythm of the fetal heartbeat thumped over the monitor.

"I think it's the best sound in the whole wide world," Lueking said.

Hofeldt told Lueking she wanted her first delivery to be "as natural as possible."

But ensuring a birth goes according to plan can be difficult for rural patients. To guarantee they make it to the hospital on time, some schedule an induction, in which doctors use medicine or procedures to stimulate labor.

Katie Larson lives on a ranch near Winner in the town of Hamill, population 14. She had hoped to avoid having her labor induced.

Larson wanted to wait until her contractions began naturally, then drive to Avera St. Mary's in Pierre. But she scheduled an induction in case she didn't go into labor by April 13, her due date.

Larson ended up having to reschedule for April 8 to avoid a conflict with an important cattle sale she and her husband were preparing for.

"People are going to be either forced to pick an induction date when it wasn't going to be their first choice or they're going to run the risk of having a baby on the side of the road," she said.

Lueking said it's very rare for people to give birth while heading to the hospital in a car or ambulance. But last year, she said, five women who planned to deliver in Pierre ended up delivering in other hospitals' emergency rooms after rapidly progressing labor or weather made it too risky to drive long distances.

Nanette Eagle Star's plan was to deliver at the Winner hospital, five minutes from home, until the hospital announced it would be closing its labor and delivery unit. She then decided to give birth in Sioux Falls, because her family could save money by staying with relatives there.

Eagle Star's plan changed again when she went into early labor and the weather was too dangerous to drive or take a medical helicopter to Sioux Falls.

"It happened so fast, in the middle of a snowstorm," she said.

Eagle Star delivered at the Winner hospital after all, but in the ER, without an epidural pain blocker since no anesthesiologist was available. It was just three days after the birthing unit closed.

The end of labor and delivery services at Winner Regional Health isn't just a health issue, local women said. It also has emotional and financial impacts on the community.

Eagle Star fondly recalls going to doctor appointments with her sisters when she was a child. As soon as they arrived, they'd head to a hallway with baby photos taped to the wall and begin "a scavenger hunt" for Polaroids of themselves and their relatives.

"On both sides it was just filled with babies' pictures," Eagle Star said. She remembers thinking, "look at all these cute babies that were born here in Winner."

Hofeldt said many locals are sad their babies won't be born in the same hospital they were.

Anora Henderson, a family physician, said a lack of maternity care can lead to poor outcomes for infants. Those babies may develop health problems that will require lifelong, often expensive care and other public support.

"There is a community effect," she said. "It's just not as visible and it's farther down the road."

Henderson resigned in May from Winner Regional Health, where she delivered vaginal births and assisted on cesarean sections. The last baby she delivered was Eagle Star's.

To be designated a birthing hospital, facilities must be able to conduct C-sections and provide anesthesia 24/7, Henderson explained.

Williams, the hospital's CEO, said Winner Regional Health hasn't been able to recruit enough medical professionals trained in those skills.

For the last several years, the hospital was only able to offer birthing services by spending about $1.2 million a year on temporary physicians, he said, and it could no longer afford to do that.

Another financial challenge is that many births at rural hospitals are covered by Medicaid, the federal and state program serving people with low incomes or disabilities. The program typically pays about half of what private insurers do for childbirth services, according to a 2022 report by the U.S. Government Accountability Office.

Williams said about 80% of deliveries at Winner Regional Health were covered by Medicaid.

Obstetric units are often the biggest financial drain on rural hospitals, and therefore they're frequently the first to close when a hospital is struggling, the GAO report said.

Williams said the hospital still provides prenatal care and that he'd love to restart deliveries if he could hire enough staff.

Henderson, the physician who resigned from the Winner hospital, has witnessed the decline in rural maternity care over decades.

She remembers tagging along with her mother for appointments before her sister was born. Her mother traveled about 100 miles each way after the hospital in the town of Kadoka shuttered in 1979.

Henderson practiced for nearly 22 years at Winner Regional Health, sparing women from having to travel to give birth like her mother did.

Over the years, she took in new patients as a nearby rural hospital and then an Indian Health Service facility closed their birthing units. Then, Henderson's own hospital stopped deliveries.

"What's really frustrating me now is I thought I was going to go into family medicine and work in a rural area and that's how we were going to fix this, so people didn't have to drive 100 miles to have a baby," she said.

Arielle Zionts: azionts@kff.org, @Ajzionts

Pharmacists find themselves on the front lines of a tariff storm.

This article was published on Friday, May 16, 2025 in KFF Health News.

By Jackie Fortiér and Arthur Allen

In the dim basement of a Salt Lake City pharmacy, hundreds of amber-colored plastic pill bottles sit stacked in rows, one man's defensive wall in a tariff war.

Independent pharmacist Benjamin Jolley and his colleagues worry that the tariffs, aimed at bringing drug production to the United States, could instead drive companies out of business while raising prices and creating more of the drug shortages that have plagued American patients for several years.

Jolley bought six months' worth of the most expensive large bottles, hoping to shield his business from the 10% across-the-board tariffs on imported goods that President Donald Trump announced April 2. Now with threats of additional tariffs targeting pharmaceuticals, Jolley worries that costs will soar for the medications that will fill those bottles.

In principle, Jolley said, using tariffs to push manufacturing from China and India to the U.S. makes sense. In the event of war, China could quickly stop all exports to the United States.

"I understand the rationale for tariffs. I'm not sure that we're gonna do it the right way," Jolley said. "And I am definitely sure that it's going to raise the price that I pay my suppliers."

Squeezed by insurers and middlemen, independent pharmacists such as Jolley find themselves on the front lines of a tariff storm. Nearly everyone down the line — drugmakers, pharmacies, wholesalers, and middlemen — opposes most tariffs.

Slashing drug imports could trigger widespread shortages, experts said, because of America's dependence on Chinese- and Indian-made chemical ingredients, which form the critical building blocks of many medicines. Industry officials caution that steep tariffs on raw materials and finished pharmaceuticals could make drugs more expensive.

"Big ships don't change course overnight," said Robin Feldman, a UC Law San Francisco professor who writes about prescription drug issues. "Even if companies pledge to bring manufacturing home, it will take time to get them up and running. The key will be to avoid damage to industry and pain to consumers in the process."

Trump on April 8 said he would soon announce "a major tariff on pharmaceuticals," which have been largely tariff-free in the U.S. for 30 years.

"When they hear that, they will leave China," he said. The U.S. imported $213 billion worth of medicines in 2024 — from China but also India, Europe, and other areas.

Trump's statement sent drugmakers scrambling to figure out whether he was serious, and whether some tariffs would be levied more narrowly, since many parts of the U.S. drug supply chain are fragile, drug shortages are common, and upheaval at the FDA leaves questions about whether its staffing is adequate to inspect factories, where quality problems can lead to supply chain crises.

On May 12, Trump signed an executive order asking drugmakers to bring down the prices Americans pay for prescriptions, to put them in line with prices in other countries.

Meanwhile, pharmacists predict even the 10% tariffs Trump has demanded will hurt: Jolley said a potential increase of up to 30 cents a vial is not a king's ransom, but it adds up when you're a small pharmacy that fills 50,000 prescriptions a year.

"The one word that I would say right now to describe tariffs is ‘uncertainty,'" said Scott Pace, a pharmacist and owner of Kavanaugh Pharmacy in Little Rock, Arkansas.

To weather price fluctuations, Pace stocked up on the drugs his pharmacy dispenses most.

"I've identified the top 200 generics in my store, and I have basically put 90 days' worth of those on the shelf just as a starting point," he said. "Those are the diabetes drugs, the blood pressure medicines, the antibiotics — those things that I know folks will be sicker without."

Pace said tariffs could be the death knell for the many independent pharmacies that exist on "razor-thin margins" — unless reimbursements rise to keep up with higher costs.

Unlike other retailers, pharmacies can't pass along such costs to patients. Their payments are set by health insurers and pharmacy benefit managers largely owned by insurance conglomerates, who act as middlemen between drug manufacturers and purchasers.

Neal Smoller, who employs 15 people at his Village Apothecary in Woodstock, New York, is not optimistic.

"It's not like they're gonna go back and say, well, here's your 10% bump because of the 10% tariff," he said. "Costs are gonna go up and then the sluggish responses from the PBMs — they're going to lead us to lose more money at a faster rate than we already are."

Smoller, who said he has built a niche selling vitamins and supplements, fears that FDA firings will mean fewer federal inspections and safety checks.

"I worry that our pharmaceutical industry becomes like our supplement industry, where it's the wild West," he said.

Narrowly focused tariffs might work in some cases, said Marta Wosińska, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution's Center on Health Policy. For example, while drug manufacturing plants can cost $1 billion and take three to five years to set up, it would be relatively cheap to build a syringe factory — a business American manufacturers abandoned during the covid-19 pandemic because China was dumping its products here, Wosińska said.

It's not surprising that giants such as Novartis and Eli Lilly have promised Trump they'll invest billions in U.S. plants, she said, since much of their final drug product is made here or in Europe, where governments negotiate drug prices. The industry is using Trump's tariff saber-rattling as leverage; in an April 11 letter, 32 drug companies demanded European governments pay them more or face an exodus to the United States.

Brandon Daniels, CEO of supply chain company Exiger, is bullish on tariffs. He thinks they could help bring some chemical manufacturing back to the U.S., which, when coupled with increased use of automation, would reduce the labor advantages of China and India.

"You've got real estate in North Texas that's cheaper than real estate in Shenzhen," he said at an economic conference April 25 in Washington, referring to a major Chinese chemical manufacturing center.

But Wosińska said no amount of tariffs will compel makers of generic drugs, responsible for 90% of U.S. prescriptions, to build new factories in the U.S. Payment structures and competition would make it economic suicide, she said.

Several U.S. generics firms have declared bankruptcy or closed U.S. factories over the past decade, said John Murphy, CEO of the Association for Accessible Medicines, the generics trade group. Reversing that trend won't be easy and tariffs won't do it, he said.

"There's not a magic level of tariffs that magically incentivizes them to come into the U.S.," he said. "There is no room to make a billion-dollar investment in a domestic facility if you're going to lose money on every dose you sell in the U.S. market."

His group has tried to explain these complexities to Trump officials, and hopes word is getting through. "We're not PhRMA," Murphy said, referring to the powerful trade group primarily representing makers of brand-name drugs. "I don't have the resources to go to Mar-a-Lago to talk to the president myself."

Many of the active ingredients in American drugs are imported. Fresenius Kabi, a German company with facilities in eight U.S. states to produce or distribute sterile injectables — vital hospital drugs for cancer and other conditions — complained in a letter to U.S. Trade Representative Jamieson Greer that tariffs on these raw materials could paradoxically lead some companies to move finished product manufacturing overseas.

Fresenius Kabi also makes biosimilars, the generic forms of expensive biologic drugs such as Humira and Stelara. The United States is typically the last developed country where biosimilars appear on the market because of patent laws.

Tariffs on biosimilars coming from overseas — where Fresenius makes such drugs — would further incentivize U.S. use of more expensive brand-name biologics, the March 11 letter said. Biosimilars, which can cost a tenth of the original drug's price, launch on average 3-4 years later in the U.S. than in Canada or Europe.

In addition to getting cheaper knockoff drugs faster, European countries also pay far less than the United States for brand-name products. Paradoxically, Murphy said, those same countries pay more for generics.

European governments tend to establish more stable contracts with makers of generics, while in the United States, "rabid competition" drives down prices to the point at which a manufacturer "maybe scrimps on product quality," said John Barkett, a White House Domestic Policy Council member in the Biden administration.

As a result, Wosińska said, "without exemptions or other measures put in place, I really worry about tariffs causing drug shortages."

Smoller, the New York pharmacist, doesn't see any upside to tariffs.

"How do I solve the problem of caring for my community," he said, "but not being subject to the emotional roller coaster that is dispensing hundreds of prescriptions a day and watching every single one of them be a loss or 12 cents profit?"

Jackie Fortiér: jfortier@kff.org, @JackieFortier

Arthur Allen: aallen@kff.org, @ArthurAllen202

Years of Republican and Democratic administrations have tried to fix the nation's broadband woes.

This article was published on Wednesday, May 14, 2025 in KFF Health News.

By Sarah Jane Tribble and Holly K. Hacker

BRANCHLAND, W.Va. — Ada Carol Adkins lives with her two dogs in a trailer tucked into the timbers off Upper Mud River Road.

"I'm comfortable here, but I'm having health issues," said the 68-year-old, who retired from her job as a school cook several years ago after having a stroke. "Things are failing me."

Her trailer sits halfway up a ridge miles from town and the local health clinic. Her phone and internet are "wacky sometimes," she said. Adkins — who is fiercely independent and calls herself a "Mountain Momma" — worries she won't be able to call for help if service goes out, which happens often.

To Frontier Communications, the telecommunications company that owns the line to her home, Adkins says: "Please come and hook me right."

But she might be waiting years for better service, frustrated by her internet provider and left behind by troubled federal grant programs.

A quarter of West Virginia counties — including Lincoln, where the Mud River bends its way through hollows and past cattle farms — face two barriers to health care: They lack high-speed internet and have a shortage of primary care providers and behavioral health specialists, according to a KFF Health News analysis.

Years of Republican and Democratic administrations have tried to fix the nation's broadband woes, through flawed attempts. Bad mapping, weak standards, and flimsy oversight have left Adkins and nearly 3 million other rural Americans in dead zones — with eroded health care services and where telehealth doesn't reach.

It was launched before it was ready, he said, using unreliable federal maps and a reverse-auction process to select internet carriers. Locations went to the lowest bidder, but the agency failed to ensure winners had the knowledge and resources to build networks, said Levin, who is now an equity analyst with New Street Research.

The fund initially announced awards of $9.2 billion to build infrastructure in 49 states. By 2025, $3.3 billion of those awards were in default and, as a result, the program won't connect 1.9 million homes and businesses, according to a recent study.

A $42 billion Biden-era initiative still may not help Adkins and many others shortchanged by earlier federal broadband grants. The new wave of funding, the Broadband Equity, Access, and Deployment Program, or BEAD, has an anti-waste provision and won't provide service in places where previous grants were awarded — even if companies haven't delivered on their commitments.

The use of federal money to get people connected is "really essential" for rural areas, said Ross DeVol, CEO and chairman of the board of Heartland Forward, a nonpartisan think tank based in Bentonville, Arkansas, that specializes in state and local economic development.

"Internet service providers look at the economics of trying to go into some of these communities and there just isn't enough purchasing power in their minds," DeVol said, adding that broadband expansion is analogous to rural electrification. Without high-speed internet, "you're simply at a distinct disadvantage," he added. "I'll call it economic discrimination."

'I Got Books Full'

Adkins keeps spiral-bound notebooks and calendars filled with handwritten records of phone and internet outages.

In January, while bean soup warmed on the stove, she opened a notebook: "I got books full. Hang on."

Her finger traced the page as she recounted outages that occurred about once a month last year. Adkins said she lost connectivity twice in November, again in October, and in July, May, and March. Each time she went for days without service.

Adkins pays Frontier Communications $102.13 a month for a "bundle" that includes a connection for her house phone and wireless internet access on her cellphone. Frontier did not respond to requests for comment on Adkins' and other customers' service.

Adkins, a widow, spends most of her time at home and said she would do video calls with her doctors if she could. She said she still has numbness on one side of her body after the stroke. She also has high blood pressure and arthritis and uses over-the-counter pain patches when needed, such as after she carries 30-pound dog food bags into the house.

She does not own a four-wheel-drive truck and, for three weeks in January, the snow and ice were so severe she couldn't leave. "I'm stranded up here," she said, adding that neighbors check in: "'Do you have electric? Have you got water? Are you OK?'"

The neighbors have all seen Adkins' line. The pale-yellow cord was tied off with green plastic ties around a pole outside her trailer. As it ran down the hill, it was knotted around tree trunks and branches, frayed in places, and, finally, collapsed on the ground under gravel, snow, and ice at the bottom of the hill.

Adkins said a deer stepping on the line has interrupted her phone service.

David and Billi Belcher's double-wide modular home sits near the top of the ridge past Adkins' home. Inside, an old hunting dog sleeps on the floor. Belcher pointed out a window toward where he said Frontier's cable has remained unrepaired for years: "It's laying on the ground in the woods," he said.

Frontier is West Virginia's legacy carrier, controlling most of the state's old landlines since buying them from Verizon Communications in 2010. Twelve years later, the company won nearly $248 million to install high-speed internet to West Virginia through the Rural Digital Opportunity Fund, an initiative launched during President Donald Trump's first term.

"Big Daddy," as local transit driver Bruce Perry called Trump, is popular with the people of Lincoln County. About 80% of the county's voters picked the Republican in the last election.

The Trump administration awarded Frontier money to build high-speed internet to Upper Mud River Road residents, like Adkins, according to state mapping. Frontier has until Dec. 31, 2028, to build.

But the Belchers needed better internet access for work and could afford to pay $700 for a Starlink satellite internet kit and insurance, they said. Their monthly Starlink bill is $120 — a price many cannot manage, especially since Congress sunset an earlier program that helped offset the cost of high-speed plans for consumers. 

Meanwhile, the latest broadband program to connect rural Americans is ensnared in Trump administration policy shifts.

The National Telecommunications and Information Administration, which administers the program, in April announced a 90-day extension for states to finalize their plans during a "comprehensive review" of the program.

West Viriginia Gov. Patrick Morrisey, a Republican, announced his state would take an extension. The move, though, doesn't make a lot of sense, said Evan Feinman, who left the agency in March after directing the broadband program for the past three years.

Calling the work already done in West Virginia an "incredible triumph," Feinman said the state had completed the planning, mapping, and the initial selection of companies. The plan that was in place would have brought high-speed fiber lines to homes ahead of schedule and under budget, he said.

"They could be building today, and it's just deeply disappointing that they're not," Feinman said.

When Feinman resigned in March, he sent a lengthy email stating that the new administration wants to take fiber away from homes and businesses and substitute it with satellite connections. The move, he said, would be more expensive for consumers and hurt rural and small-town America.

Morrisey, whose office declined to respond to requests for comment, said in his announcement that he wants to ensure West Virginia spends the money in a manner "consistent with program changes being proposed by the Trump Administration" and "evaluate a broader range of technology options."

Commissioners from Grant County responded with a letter supporting fiber-optic cables rather than satellite-based connections like those provided by Elon Musk's Starlink. Nationwide, 115 lawmakers from 28 states sent a letter to federal leaders stating that changes could "delay broadband deployment by a year or more."

For Adkins and others, the wait has been long enough.

While legislators in Washington and across the country bickered over the broadband program, Adkins went without phone and internet. By late March, she said, her 42-year-old son was increasingly worried, noting "you're getting up in age." He told her: "Mom, move out, get off of that hill."

Worst-Case Scenario

A few miles from Upper Mud River Road, past the McDonald's and across the road from the local library, Brian Vance sat in his downtown Hamlin, West Virginia, office. He said his company has been trying to "build up there for a while."

Vance is a general manager for Armstrong Telephone and Cable, a regional telecommunications provider that competes with Frontier. He grew up in the community, and parents of a high school friend live off Upper Mud River. But he said "it's very difficult" to build fiber along the rocky terrain to homes where "you are hoping that people will hook up, and if they don't, well, you've lost a lot of money."

A 2022 countywide broadband assessment found that stringing fiber-optic lines along telephone poles would cost more than $5,000 per connection in some areas — work that would need big federal subsidies to be feasible.

Yet Vance said Armstrong cannot apply for the latest BEAD funding to help finance connections. And while he likes that the federal government is "being responsible" by not handing out two federal grants for the same area, Vance said, "we want to see people deliver on the grants they have."

If Frontier hadn't already gotten federal funds from the earlier Trump program, "we definitely would have applied to that area," Vance said.

The 2022 assessment noted the community's economy would not be sustainable without "ubiquitous broadband."

High-speed internet brings more jobs and less poverty, said Claudia Persico, an associate professor at American University. Persico, who is also a research associate with the National Bureau of Economic Research, co-authored a recent paper that found increased broadband internet leads to a reduction in the number of suicides as well as improvements in self-reported mental and physical health.

More than 30% of Lincoln County's population reports cases of depression, according to data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The rate of opioid prescriptions dispensed in Lincoln County is down about 60% from 2014 to 2024 — but still higher than the state average, according to the West Virginia Board of Pharmacy.

Twenty percent of the county's population lives below the poverty line, and residents are also more likely than the national average to experience heart disease, diabetes, and obesity.

Lincoln Primary Care Center offers telehealth services such as electronic medical records on a patient portal and a pharmacy app, said Jill Adkins, chief quality and risk officer at Southern West Virginia Health System, which operates the clinic.

But because of limited access, only about 7% of patients use telehealth, she said.

Della Vance was a patient at the clinic but said she has never used a patient portal. If she could, Vance said, she would check records on the baby she is expecting.

"You can't really get on if you don't have good service and no internet," she said. "It makes me angry, honestly."

Vance and her husband, Isaiah, live off a gravel road that veers from Upper Mud River. There is a tall pole with black wires dangling across the road from their small home. Pointing to the cables, Isaiah Vance said he couldn't get phone service anymore.

Verizon announced plans last year to buy Frontier for an estimated $20 billion. The deal, which must be approved by federal and state regulators, is expected to be completed in early 2026, according to an investor's press release.

In its federal merger application, Frontier stated that it had taken on too much debt after emerging from bankruptcy and that debt would make it difficult to finish the work of installing fiber to customers in 25 states.

In West Virginia, Frontier's Allison Ellis wrote in March 3 testimony, seeking approval for the merger from state regulators, that Verizon will honor the rural program commitments. The previous month, in February, Frontier filed a motion with the state public service commission to keep the number of customers using copper lines and the faster fiber-optic lines confidential.

Kelly Workman, West Virginia's broadband director, said during a November interview that her office has asked federal regulators for "greater visibility" into Frontier's rural program construction, particularly because those locations cannot win the Biden-era infrastructure money when it's available.

"The worst-case scenario would be for any of these locations to be left behind," Workman said.

'Money Cow'

Frontier's progress installing fiber-optic lines and its unreliable service have frustrated West Virginians for years. In a 2020 letter to the FCC, U.S. Sen. Shelley Capito (R-W.Va.) cited "the failure of Frontier to deliver on promises to federal partners" and its "mismanagement" of federal dollars, which forced the state to pay back $4.7 million because of improper use and missed deadlines.

Michael Holstine, a longtime member of the West Virginia Broadband Enhancement Council, said the company has "just used West Virginia as a money cow." Holstine has been fighting for the construction of fiber-optic lines in Pocahontas County for years. "I really just hope I get it before I die."

Across the state, people like Holstine and Adkins are eager for updated networks, according to interviews as well as letters released under a public records request.

Chrissy Murray, vice president of Frontier's external communications, acknowledged that the company was "building back our community efforts" in West Virginia after a bankruptcy filing and reorganization. She said there has been a "notable decline" in consumer complaints, though she did not provide specific numbers.

Murray said Frontier built fiber-optic cables to 20% of its designated rural funds locations as of the end of 2024. It has also invested in other infrastructure projects across the state, she said in a January email, adding that the company donated high-speed fiber internet to West Virginia University's rural Jackson's Mill campus.

According to data tracked by a federal agency, Frontier has connected 6,100 — or fewer than 10% — of the more than 79,000 locations it was awarded in the Rural Digital Opportunity Fund program.

The FCC oversees the rural fund. The agency did not respond to a request for comment. Frontier expects to receive $37 million annually from the agency through 2032, according to a federal filing.

In April, a new batch of letters from West Virginia residents filed as "support" for Frontier's merger with Verizon appeared in the state regulatory docket:

"My support for this case depends on whether Verizon plans to upgrade or replace the existing Frontier infrastructure," wrote one customer in Summers County, in the far southern corner of the state, adding, "West Virginians in my neck of the woods have been held hostage by Frontier for a generation now because no other providers exist."

A customer from Hardy County, in the state's northeastern corner, wrote: "This is [a] move by frontier to to [sic] escape its responsibility to continue services."

'Deep-Rooted'

Adkins moved to Upper Mud River with her husband, Bobby, decades ago.

For years, Bobby and Ada Carol Adkins ran a "carry-out" on Upper Mud River Road. The old building is still at the rock quarry just down the hill and around the curve from where her trailer sits.

It was the type of store where locals kept a tab — which Bobby treated too much like a "charity," Adkins said. They sold cigarettes, beer, bread, bags of chips, and some food items like potatoes and rice. "Whatever the community would want," she said.

Then, Bobby Adkins' "health started deteriorating and money got tighter," Adkins said. He died at 62 years old.

Now, Adkins said, "I'm having kidney problems. I got arthritis, they're treating me for high blood pressure."

Her doctor has begun sending notes over the internet to refill her blood pressure medicine and, Adkins said, "I love that!"

But Adkins' internet was out again in early April, and she can't afford Starlink like her neighbors. Even as Adkins said she is "deep-rooted," her son's request is on her mind.

"I'm having health problems," Adkins said. "He makes a lot of sense."

Sarah Jane Tribble: sjtribble@kff.org, @sjtribble

Holly K. Hacker: hhacker@kff.org, @hollyhacker

Lydia Zuraw: lzuraw@kff.org, @lydiazuraw

The U.S. already faces a deep shortage of inpatient mental health services.

This article was published on Monday, May 12, 2025 in KFF Health News.

By Tony Leys

SPENCER, Iowa — This town's hospital is a holdout on behalf of people going through mental health crises. The facility's leaders have pledged not to shutter their inpatient psychiatric unit, as dozens of other U.S. hospitals have.

Keeping that promise could soon get tougher if Congress slashes Medicaid funding. The joint federal-state health program covers an unusually large share of mental health patients, and hospital industry leaders say spending cuts could accelerate a decades-long wave of psychiatric unit closures.

At least eight other Iowa hospitals have stopped offering inpatient mental healthcare since 2007, forcing people in crisis to seek help in distant facilities. Spencer Hospital is one of the smallest in Iowa still offering the service.

CEO Brenda Tiefenthaler said 40% of her hospital's psychiatric inpatients are covered by Medicaid, compared with about 12% of all inpatients. An additional 10% of the hospital's psychiatric inpatients are uninsured. National experts say such disparities are common.

Tiefenthaler vows to keep her nonprofit hospital's 14-bed psychiatric unit open, even though it loses $2 million per year. That's a significant loss for an organization with an overall annual budget of about $120 million. But the people who use the psychiatric unit need medical care, "just like people who have chest pains," Tiefenthaler said.

Medicaid covers healthcare for about 72 million Americans with low incomes or disabilities. Tiefenthaler predicts that if some of them are kicked off the program and left without insurance coverage, more people would delay treatment for mental health problems until their lives spin out of control.

"Then they're going to enter through the emergency room when they're in a crisis," she said. "That's not really a solution to what we have going on in our country."

Republican congressional leaders have vowed to protect Medicaid for people who need it, but they also have called for billions of dollars in cuts to areas of the federal budget that include the program.

The U.S. already faces a deep shortage of inpatient mental health services, many of which were reduced or eliminated by private hospitals and public institutions, said Jennifer Snow, director of government relations and policy for the National Alliance on Mental Illness. At the same time, the number of people experiencing mental problems has climbed.

"I don't even want to think about how much worse it could get," she said.

The American Hospital Association estimates nearly 100 U.S. hospitals have shuttered their inpatient mental health services in the past decade.

Such closures are often attributed to mental health services being more likely to lose money than many other types of healthcare. "I'm not blaming the hospitals," Snow said. "They need to keep their doors open."

Medicaid generally pays hospitals lower rates for services than they receive from private insurance or from Medicare, the federal program that mostly covers people 65 or older. And Medicaid recipients are particularly likely to need mental healthcare. More than a third of nonelderly Medicaid enrollees have some sort of mental illness, according to a report from KFF, a nonprofit health policy organization that includes KFF Health News. Iowa has the highest rate of mental illness among nonelderly Medicaid recipients, at 51%.

As of February, just 20 of Iowa's 116 community hospitals had inpatient psychiatric units, according to a state registry. Iowa also has four freestanding mental hospitals, including two run by the state.

Iowa, with 3.2 million residents, has a total of about 760 inpatient mental health beds that are staffed to care for patients, the state reports. The Treatment Advocacy Center, a national group seeking improved mental healthcare, says the "absolute minimum" of such beds would translate to about 960 for Iowa's population, and the optimal number would be about 1,920.

Most of Iowa's psychiatric beds are in metro areas, and it can take several days for a slot to come open. In the meantime, patients routinely wait in emergency departments.

Sheriff's deputies often are assigned to transport patients to available facilities when treatment is court-ordered.

"It's not uncommon for us to drive five or six hours," said Clay County Sheriff Chris Raveling, whose northwestern Iowa county includes Spencer, a city of 11,000 people.

He said Spencer Hospital's mental health unit often is too full to accept new patients and, like many such facilities, it declines to take patients who are violent or charged with crimes.

The result is that people are held in jail on minor charges stemming from their mental illnesses or addictions, the sheriff said. "They really shouldn't be in jail," he said. "Did they commit a crime? Yes. But I don't think they did it on purpose."

Raveling said authorities in many cases decide to hold people in jail so they don't hurt themselves or others while awaiting treatment. He has seen the problems worsen in his 25 years in law enforcement.

Most people with mental health issues can be treated as outpatients, but many of those services also depend heavily on Medicaid and could be vulnerable to budget cuts.

Jon Ulven, a psychologist who practices in Moorhead, Minnesota, and neighboring Fargo, North Dakota, said he's particularly worried about patients who develop psychosis, which often begins in the teenage years or early adulthood. If they're started right away on medication and therapy, "we can have a dramatic influence on that person for the rest of their life," he said. But if treatment is delayed, their symptoms often become harder to reverse.

Ulven, who helps oversee mental health services in his region for the multistate Sanford Health system, said he's also concerned about people with other mental health challenges, including depression. He noted a study published in 2022 that showed suicide rates rose faster in states that declined to expand their Medicaid programs than in states that agreed to expand their programs to cover more low-income adults. If Medicaid rolls are reduced again, he said, more people would be uninsured and fewer services would be available. That could lead to more suicides.

Nationally, Medicaid covered nearly 41% of psychiatric inpatients cared for in 2024 by a sample of 680 hospitals, according to an analysis done for KFF Health News by the financial consulting company Strata. In contrast, just 13% of inpatients in those hospitals' cancer programs and 9% of inpatients in their cardiac programs were covered by Medicaid.

If Medicaid participants have mental crises after losing their coverage, hospitals or clinics would have to treat many of them for little or no payment. "These are not wealthy people. They don't have a lot of assets," said Steve Wasson, Strata's chief data and intelligence officer. Even though Medicaid pays hospitals relatively low rates, he said, "it's better than nothing."

Birthing units, which also have been plagued by closures, face similar challenges. In the Strata sample, 37% of those units' patients were on Medicaid in 2024.

Spencer Hospital, which has a total of 63 inpatient beds, has maintained both its birthing unit and its psychiatric unit, and its leaders plan to keep them open. Amid a critical shortage of mental health professionals, it employs two psychiatric nurse practitioners and two psychiatrists, including one providing care via video from North Carolina.

Local resident David Jacobsen appreciates the hospital's efforts to preserve services. His son Alex was assisted by the facility's mental health professionals during years of struggles before he died by suicide in 2020.

David Jacobsen knows how reliant such services are on Medicaid, and he worries that more hospitals will curtail mental health offerings if national leaders cut the program. "They're hurting the people who need help the most," he said.

People on Medicaid aren't the only ones affected when hospitals reduce services or close treatment units. Everyone in the community loses access to care.

Alex Jacobsen's family saw how common the need is. "If we can learn anything from my Alex," one of his sisters wrote in his obituary, "it's that mental illness is real, it doesn't discriminate, and it takes some of the best people down in its ugly swirling drain."

Tony Leys: tleys@kff.org, @tonyleys