Orthopedic surgeons have raked in billions through ties to medical device companies via consulting deals, royalties or ownership stakes, while patients' injuries mount.
This article was published on Tuesday, February 8, 2022 in Kaiser Health News.
A Texas consulting company that arranges spine surgery and other medical care for people injured in car crashes has come under scrutiny in a widening federal bribery investigation.
How orthopedic surgeons have raked in billions through ties to medical device companies via consulting deals, royalties or ownership stakes, while patients' injuries mount.
Meg Healthcare, run by Dallas personal injury attorney Manuel Green and his wife, Melissa Green, is the focus of a search warrant recently unsealed by a Massachusetts federal court in an alleged healthcare fraud prosecution there. The probe is unusual because it uses a little-known law meant to crack down on organized crime racketeering across state lines.
Investigators alleged in the 2019 affidavit that the Texas company accepted thousands of dollars in bribes from SpineFrontier, a Massachusetts medical device company. SpineFrontier; its CEO, Dr. Kingsley Chin; and its chief financial officer, Aditya Humad, were indicted in September on charges of paying kickbacks to surgeons. All have pleaded not guilty.
No charges have been filed against the Greens or their company, and federal officials declined to discuss the investigation, which is detailed in the now-unsealed 2019 search warrant.
The Greens could not be reached for comment.
Meg Healthcare sets up spine surgery and other medical treatment through "letters of protection," or LOPs, legal contracts in which patients agree to pay medical bills using proceeds from a lawsuit or other claims against the party responsible for their injuries. These contracts are common in personal injury cases when people either lack health insurance or choose not to use it to pay for medical treatments after an accident. The downside is that patients can be left to foot the bill if their cases settle for less than they owe.
On its website, Meg Healthcare says it "represents a group of doctors and hospitals who were tired of seeing injured people without access to medical care they needed after an accident. We hold firm to the belief that under the law, and as a matter of basic decency, the person or business that caused the injury should be held responsible."
According to investigators, Manuel Green steered injured patients with LOPs to a local neurosurgeon who used SpineFrontier implants in surgeries at two Dallas-area hospitals.
"In exchange for attorney Green's referral, SpineFrontier agreed to pay attorney Green forty percent (40%) of the revenue SpineFrontier received in connection with those surgical procedures as a bribe," according to the search warrant affidavit.
Chin and SpineFrontier were the subjects of a KHN investigation published in June that found that manufacturers of hardware for spinal implants, artificial knees, and hip joints had paid more than $3.1 billion to orthopedic and neurological surgeons from August 2013 through 2019.
Government officials have argued for years that payments from device makers to surgeons and other medical providers can corrupt medical decisions, endanger patients, and inflate healthcare costs. The SpineFrontier indictment alleges that the company paid millions of dollars in bogus consulting fees to spine surgeons in exchange for their using its products, often in surgeries paid for by Medicare or other government-funded health insurance plans.
The Texas investigation adds a new dimension to the case by focusing on medical care that is paid for privately, which is not covered under federal anti-kickback statutes. Instead, the search warrant alleges violations of a law called the Travel Act. Enacted by Congress in the early 1960s to combat the mob, the Travel Act makes it a federal offense to commit crimes like bribery, prostitution, and extortion across state lines, including through the mail or by phone or email. Convictions can bring up to five years in prison, more if violence is involved.
Jonathan Halpern, a New York white-collar criminal defense attorney, said that such a use of the Travel Act reflects "an aggressive expansion" of the U.S. government's power to prosecute healthcare fraud.
One of the first healthcare fraud prosecutions under the Travel Act took place in Texas and led to convictions on bribery and kickback charges of 14 people, including six doctors, associated with Forest Park Medical Center in Dallas. They drew a combined sentence of 74 years and were ordered to pay $82.9 million in restitution.
Chris Davis, a Dallas lawyer who specializes in government investigations, said the Travel Act grants federal prosecutors jurisdiction in cases "where you don't have state or federal money involved."
The Meg Healthcare search warrant cites payments of more than $93,000 in 10 checks allegedly sent by SpineFrontier to the Texas company between April 2017 and October 2018. Investigators allege that the money was paid as a bribe for referring patients for surgeries using SpineFrontier products.
Investigators also cited a February 2016 email in which Melissa Green told the device company that a patient's legal case had been settled and asked: "Please let me know when MEG can expect to receive payment per our agreement. Thank you!"
About two months later, the device maker cut the company a check for $3,953.60, according to the search warrant.
Nine of the 10 checks were signed either by Chin, a Fort Lauderdale spine surgeon and SpineFrontier's founder, or Humad, according to the search warrant affidavit. Chin and Humad are the two executives indicted in September. Their lawyers had no comment.
Federal investigators sought the search warrant for Melissa Green's email account at Meg Healthcare in August 2019, arguing that they had "probable cause" to investigate the company for Travel Act violations, court records show. A federal judge in Massachusetts unsealed the warrant and related documents late last year.
Meg Healthcare invites lawyers whose clients have a "significant medical need" to apply to the company, according to its website. If approved, Meg Healthcare schedules an appointment with one of its doctors. "From there, our doctors will handle every aspect of the treatment sought, including surgery (if necessary)," the website says.
In a 2019 court filing in Dallas County, unrelated to the search warrant issued in the Massachusetts case, Manuel Green said he was the "founder and owner" of the company. He said it "assists physicians and medical facilities with reducing their exposure to risk when providing treatments to patients under [a] letter of protection."
He went on to say the company's "business model and the consulting services it provides are unique within the healthcare industry in the state of Texas." The company's website lists medical providers in 11 Texas cities.
According to investigators in the Massachusetts case, Green referred patients with LOPs to Dr. Jacob Rosenstein, an Arlington, Texas, neurosurgeon who used implants that SpineFrontier sold to two hospitals, Pine Creek Medical Center in Dallas and Saint Camillus Medical Center in Hurst, Texas. Pine Creek has since declared bankruptcy.
Neither Rosenstein nor representatives of the hospitals could be reached for comment.
Although proponents say that LOPs may be the only option for uninsured or underinsured crash victims to get medical care, a recent KHN investigation found that doctors and hospitals that accept them often charge much higher rates than Medicare or private insurance would pay for similar care and that the process can saddle patients with medical debt or expose them to safety risks.
Disputes over the size of medical bills and even whether the care was necessary are common in personal injury lawsuits in Texas. In one 2016 Dallas County case, for instance, a spine surgeon billed more than $100,000 for his services, while the hospital charged more than $435,000. By contrast, an expert hired by the defense set a reasonable fee at less than $4,000 for the surgeon and about $25,000 for the hospital, court records show. The case has since been settled.
Christine Dickison, a Texas nurse and medical coding consultant, said she routinely sees "hugely inflated" bills in car-crash lawsuits — and in some cases doubts whether the care was necessary.
"I see people who are undergoing surgery when there are literally no objective findings that support it," Dickison said. "That is very disturbing to me."
Faced with a stream of difficult choices about health and safety during a global pandemic, we may experience a unique kind of burnout that could deeply affect our brains and our mental health.
This article was published on Monday, February 7, 2022 in Kaiser Health News.
Most all of us have felt the exhaustion of pandemic-era decision-making.
Should I travel to see an elderly relative? Can I see my friends and, if so, is inside OK? Mask or no mask? Test or no test? What day? Which brand? Is it safe to send my child to day care?
Questions that once felt trivial have come to bear the moral weight of a life-or-death choice. So it might help to know (as you're tossing and turning over whether to cancel your non-refundable vacation) that your struggle has a name: decision fatigue.
In 2004, psychologist Barry Schwartz wrote an influential book, "The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less." The basic premise is this: Whether picking your favorite ice cream or a new pair of sneakers or a family physician, choice can be a wonderful thing. But too many choices can leave us feeling paralyzed and less satisfied with our decisions in the long run.
And that's just for the little things.
Faced with a stream of difficult choices about health and safety during a global pandemic, Schwartz suggests, we may experience a unique kind of burnout that could deeply affect our brains and our mental health.
Schwartz, an emeritus professor of psychology at Swarthmore College and a visiting professor at the Haas School of Business at the University of California-Berkeley, has been studying the interactions among psychology, morality, and economics for 50 years. He spoke with KHN's Jenny Gold about the decision fatigue that so many Americans are feeling two years into the pandemic, and how we can cope. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Q: What is decision fatigue?
We all know that choice is good. That's part of what it means to be an American. So, if choice is good, then more must be better. It turns out, that's not true.
Imagine that when you go to the supermarket, not only do you have to choose among 200 kinds of cereal, but you have to choose among 150 kinds of crackers, 300 kinds of soup, 47 kinds of toothpaste, etc. If you really went on your shopping trip with the aim of getting the best of everything, you'd either die of starvation before you finished or die of fatigue. You can't live your life that way.
When you overwhelm people with options, instead of liberating them, you paralyze them. They can't pull the trigger. Or, if they do pull the trigger, they are less satisfied, because it's so easy to imagine that some alternative that they didn't choose would have been better than the one they did.
Q: How has the pandemic affected our ability to make decisions?
In the immediate aftermath of the pandemic, all the choices that we faced vanished. Restaurants weren't open, so you didn't have to decide what to order. Supermarkets weren't open, or they were too dangerous, so you didn't have to decide what to buy. All of a sudden your options were restricted.
But, as things eased up, you sort of go back to some version of your previous life, except [with] a whole new set of problems that none of us thought about before.
And the kinds of decisions you're talking about are extremely high-stakes decisions. Should I see my parents for the holidays and put them at risk? Should I let my kid go to school? Should I have gatherings with friends outside and shiver, or am I willing to risk sitting inside? These are not decisions we've had practice with. And having made this decision on Tuesday, you're faced with it again on Thursday. And, for all you know, everything has changed between Tuesday and Thursday. I think this has created a world that is just impossible for us to negotiate. I don't know that it's possible to go to bed with a settled mind.
Q: Can you explain what's going on in our brains?
When we make choices, we are exercising a muscle. And just as in the gym, when you do reps with weights, your muscles get tired. When this choice-making muscle gets tired, we basically can't do it anymore.
Q: We've heard a lot about more people feeling depressed and anxious during the pandemic. Do you think that decision fatigue is exacerbating mental health issues?
I don't think you need decision fatigue to explain the explosion of mental health problems. But it puts an additional burden on people.
Imagine that you decided that, starting tomorrow, you are going to be thoughtful about every decision you make. OK, you wake up in the morning: Should I get out of bed? Or should I stay in bed for another 15 minutes? Should I brush my teeth, or skip brushing my teeth? Should I get dressed now, or should I get dressed after I've had my coffee?
What the pandemic did for a lot of people is to take routine decisions and make them non-routine. And that puts a kind of pressure on us that accumulates over the course of the day, and then here comes tomorrow, and you're faced with them all again. I don't see how it could possibly not contribute to stress and anxiety and depression.
Q: As the pandemic wears on, are we getting better at making these decisions? Or does the compounded exhaustion make us worse at gauging the options?
There are two possibilities. One is that we are strengthening our decision-making muscles, which means that we can tolerate more decisions in the course of a day than we used to. Another possibility is that we just adapt to the state of stress and anxiety, and we're making all kinds of bad decisions.
In principle, it ought to be the case that when you're confronted with a dramatically new situation, you learn how to make better decisions than you were able to make when it all started. And I don't doubt that's true of some people. But I also doubt that it's true in general, that people are making better decisions than they were when it started.
Q: So what can people do to avoid burnout?
First, simplify your life and follow some rules. And the rules don't have to be perfect. [For example:] "I am not going to eat indoors in a restaurant, period." You will miss out on opportunities that might have been quite pleasant, but you've taken one decision off the table. And you can do that with respect to a lot of things the way that, when we do our grocery shopping, we buy Cheerios every week. You know, I'm going to think about a lot of the things I buy at the grocery, but I'm not going to think about breakfast.
The second thing you can do is to stop asking yourself, "What's the best thing I can do?" Instead, ask yourself, "What's a good enough thing I can do?" What option will lead to good enough results most of the time? I think that takes an enormous amount of pressure off. There's no guarantee that you won't make mistakes. We live in an uncertain world. But it's a lot easier to find good enough than it is to find best.
Already strained by the COVID-19 pandemic, hospitals around the country are desperate to staff their facilities as the highly transmissible omicron variant spreads.
This article was published on Monday, February 7, 2022 in Kaiser Health News.
A recent lawsuit filed by one Wisconsin health system that temporarily prevented seven workers from starting new jobs at a different health network raised eyebrows, including those of Brock Slabach, chief operations officer of the National Rural Health Association.
"To me, that signifies the desperation that hospital leaders are facing in trying to staff their hospitals," said Slabach.
His concern is for the smaller facilities that lack the resources to compete.
Already strained by the COVID-19 pandemic, hospitals around the country are desperate to staff their facilities as the highly transmissible omicron variant spreads. Governors in states such as Massachusetts and Wisconsin deployed the National Guard to help hospitals combat the surge. Six hospitals in Cleveland took out a full-page ad in the Sunday Plain Dealer with a singular plea to the community, "Help." CoxHealth is among the medical systems in Missouri to ask its office staff to help out on the front lines.
With no end to the crisis in sight, hospitals have taken to enticing workers from other facilities to fulfill needs. In South Dakota, Monument Health offered signing bonuses up to $40,000 for experienced nurses who would make a two-year commitment to the health system. Job listings for nurses in Maine and Virginia include $20,000 signing bonuses. Montana is offering healthcare workers up to $12,500 in moving expenses to relocate to the state.
The labor market squeeze is affecting more than just healthcare. People are being lured into teaching jobs and the military with $20,000 signing bonuses, while construction and trucking companies are looking everywhere for workers, even within their competitors' ranks.
But in the life-or-death field of medical care, these sorts of bounties have turned an already stressful situation into one that Slabach called "almost combustible." Smaller facilities — particularly rural ones that have struggled for years to stay afloat — are finding it difficult, if not impossible, to compete for healthcare workers in this labor market. If a hospital is unable to maintain safe staffing levels, it could be forced to curtail services or possibly close, a devastating blow for both the patients and economies of those communities. Nineteen rural hospitals closed in 2020 alone.
In Pilot Knob, Missouri, Iron County Medical Center CEO Joshua Gilmore said staffing costs for his 15-bed rural hospital have jumped 15% to 20% during the pandemic after he gave raises across the board to nurses and nursing assistants. He's also offering $10,000 signing bonuses to fill three nursing positions.
Those are big expenses for such a small facility, particularly during a pandemic when spending on supplies like masks and other personal protective equipment has also increased. The hospital has received just under $5 million in federal COVID relief, without which it likely would have closed, Gilmore said.
Gilmore said he has lost nurses to travel nursing jobs that can pay $10,000 per week. Typical pay for a nurse at Gilmore's facility is about $70,000 per year, he said. The hospital's staffing costs could have risen even higher if he had hired more travel nurses. Not only is their pay rate too expensive, he said, but his hospital lacks an intensive care unit — the area most commonly staffed by temporary nurses.
Two hundred miles to the west in Springfield, Missouri, CoxHealth has invested in training and retaining healthcare workers for years, according to Andy Hedgpeth, its vice president of human resources. Those efforts included increasing the class size at the affiliated nursing school from 250 to 400 students per year. Even so, the health system spent $25.5 million last year to give raises to 6,500 employees in an effort to retain workers.
"What we are seeing right now is the magnification of a critical shortage across the nation," Hedgpeth said. "The way out of that is through workforce development and showing individuals they can have stable careers in their community."
When hospitals do spend the money to hire travel nurses, it often ruffles the feathers of staff nurses, many of whom are already fighting for better working conditions. Hospitals are also losing workers to the very agencies they depend on for help.
In La Crosse, Wisconsin, the travel nursing agency Dedicated Nursing Associates placed a billboard near a Gundersen Health System facility advertising the agency's pay: $91 an hour for registered nurses, $69 for licensed practical nurses, and $41 for certified nursing assistants. Neither Gundersen nor Dedicated Nursing Associates responded to requests for comment.
Shane Johnson took to travel nursing after he was laid off from MU Healthcare in Columbia, Missouri, as part of pandemic cutbacks in May 2020. He said it's hard to see himself going back to being on staff at a hospital given the better pay and flexibility that the temporary assignments afford him. A six-week contract in Chicago allowed him to earn as much in two days as he would have in two weeks at his previous job. A 15-week contract in Louisville, Kentucky, allowed him to be closer to family. His current work with the staffing platform CareRev allows him to choose his assignments on a shift-by-shift basis while still getting health insurance and retirement benefits.
"The question all these nurses are asking is: If they can pay these crisis wages right now, why couldn't they pay us more to do the work we were doing?" Johnson said.
The travel nursing industry has caught the eye of lawmakers. Some states are considering legislation that would cap travel nurses' pay. Federally, more than 200 members of Congress asked the White House Coronavirus Response Team coordinator to investigate possible "anticompetitive activity."
Even in a hiring environment this competitive, the Wisconsin lawsuit filed on Jan. 20 is a new frontier in the staffing battles. ThedaCare, a regional health system in Wisconsin's Fox Valley, filed a temporary injunction attempting to prevent three of its nurses and four of its technicians — all at-will employees — from leaving and joining competitor Ascension Wisconsin until ThedaCare could find replacement workers. A judge temporarily blocked those healthcare workers from starting their new jobs before deciding ThedaCare couldn't force the employees to stay.
The spat is just a small piece of "a much bigger issue," according to Tim Size, executive director of Rural Wisconsin Health Cooperative. Without intervention, he said, the staffing shortages currently attributed to the pandemic could become the new normal.
Case in point, Size said, is a 2021 report by the Wisconsin Council on Medical Education and Workforce that projects the state could be short almost 16,000 nurses by 2035. Even if the reality is only half as bad as the projection, Size said, a shortage of 8,000 nurses in Wisconsin dwarfs the shortages now experienced in the pandemic.
"We have to make a much more substantive investment in our schools of nursing," Size said.
According to Slabach, one missed opportunity was the National Healthcare Workforce Commission created in 2010 by the Affordable Care Act but never funded by Congress. The commission would have been tasked with measuring the scope of the healthcare workforce challenges and proposing solutions, but it has never convened.
"We need to mobilize all of the resources that we have to figure out how we're going to solve this problem, and it starts with a systemic approach," Slabach said. "We can't just pay our way out of this through bonuses and bounties."
In the shorter term, Gilmore said, small hospitals like his could use more federal support. The $5 million that Iron County Medical Center received was critical, Gilmore said, but has already been spent. Now his facility is dealing with the omicron surge and is still reeling from the delta wave over the summer.
"I'm calling my congressman and letting him know that we need help," Gilmore said. "We can't do this on our own."
SACRAMENTO, Calif. — Gov. Gavin Newsom's administration has negotiated a secret deal to give Kaiser Permanente a special Medicaid contract that would allow the healthcare behemoth to expand its reach in California and largely continue selecting the enrollees it wants, which other health plans say leaves them with a disproportionate share of the program's sickest and costliest patients.
The deal, hammered out behind closed doors between Kaiser Permanente and senior officials in Newsom's office, could complicate a long-planned and expensive transformation of Medi-Cal, the state's Medicaid program, which covers roughly 14 million low-income Californians.
It has infuriated executives of other managed-care insurance plans in Medi-Cal, who say they stand to lose hundreds of thousands of patients and millions of dollars a year. The deal allows KP to limit enrollment primarily to its previous enrollees, except in the case of foster kids and people who are eligible for both Medicare and Medi-Cal.
"It has caused a massive amount of frenzy," said Jarrod McNaughton, CEO of the Inland Empire Health Plan, which covers about 1.5 million Medi-Cal enrollees in Riverside and San Bernardino counties. "All of us are doing our best to implement the most transformational Medi-Cal initiative in state history, and to put all this together without a public process is very disconcerting."
Linnea Koopmans, CEO of the Local Health Plans of California, echoed McNaughton's concerns.
Insurance plans got wind of the backroom talks when broad outlines of the deal were leaked days before the state briefed their executives Thursday.
Dr. Bechara Choucair, Kaiser Permanente's chief health officer, argued in a prepared written response on behalf of KP that because it operates both as a health insurer and a healthcare provider, KP should be treated differently than other commercial health plans that participate in Medi-Cal. Doing business directly with the state will eliminate complexity and improve the quality of care for the Medi-Cal patients it serves, he said.
"We are not seeking to turn a profit off Medi-Cal enrollment," Choucair said. "Kaiser Permanente participates in Medi-Cal because it is part of our mission to improve the health of the communities we serve. We participate in Medi-Cal despite incurring losses every year."
His statement cited nearly $1.8 billion in losses in the program in 2020 and said KP had donated $402 million to help care for uninsured people that year.
Kaiser Permanente, the state's largest managed-care organization, is one of Newsom's most generous supporters and close political allies.
The new, five-year contract, confirmed to KHN by administration officials and expected to be announced publicly Friday, will take effect in 2024 pending approval from the legislature — and will make KP the only insurer with a statewide Medi-Cal contract. It allows KP to solidify its position before California's other commercial Medi-Cal plans participate in a statewide bidding process — and after those plans have spent many months and considerable resources developing their bidding strategies.
Other health plans fear the contract could also muddle a massive and expensive initiative called CalAIM that aims to provide social services to the state's most vulnerable patients, including home-delivered meals, housing aid for homeless people, and mold removal from homes. Under its new contract, KP must provide some of those services. But some executives at other health plans say KP will not have to enroll a large number of sick patients who need such services because of how it limits enrollment.
Critics of the deal noted Newsom's close relationship with KP, which has given nearly $100 million in charitable funding and grant money to boost Newsom's efforts against homelessness, COVID response, and wildfire relief since 2019, according to state records and KP news releases. The healthcare giant was also one of two hospital systems awarded a no-bid contract from the state to run a field hospital in Los Angeles during the early days of the COVID pandemic, and it got a special agreement from the Newsom administration to help vaccinate Californians last year.
Jim DeBoo, Newsom's executive secretary, used to lobby for KP before joining the administration. Toby Douglas, a former director of the state Department of Healthcare Services, which runs Medi-Cal, is now Kaiser Permanente's vice president for national Medicaid.
Still, many critics agree that Kaiser Permanente is a linchpin of the state's healthcare system, with its strong focus on preventive care and high marks for quality of care. Many of the public insurance plans upset by the deal subcontract with KP for patient care and acknowledge that their overall quality scores will likely decline when KP goes its own way.
Michelle Baass, director of the state Department of Healthcare Services, said Medi-Cal had risked losing KP's "high quality" and "clinical expertise" altogether had it been required to accept all enrollees, as the other health plans must. But she said KP will have to comply with all other conditions that other plans must meet, including tightened requirements on access, quality, consumer satisfaction, and health equity.
The state will also have greater oversight over patient care, she said.
"This proposal is a way to help ensure Kaiser treats more low-income patients, and that more low-income patients have access to Kaiser's high-quality services," Baass said.
Though Kaiser Permanente has 9 million enrollees, close to a quarter of all Californians, only about 900,000 of them are Medi-Cal members.
Under the current system, 12 of the 24 other managed care insurance plans that participate in Medi-Cal subcontract with KP to care for a subset of their patients, keeping a small slice of the Medi-Cal dollars earmarked for those patients. Under the new contract, KP can take those patients away and keep all of the money.
In its subcontracts, and in counties where it enrolls patients directly, KP accepts only people who are recent Kaiser Permanente members and, in some cases, their family members. It is the only health plan that can limit its Medi-Cal enrollment in this way.
The new contract allows KP to continue this practice, but it also requires Kaiser Permanente to take on more foster children and complex, expensive patients who are eligible for both Medi-Cal and Medicare. It allows KP to expand its geographic reach in Medi-Cal to do so.
Baass said the state expects KP's Medi-Cal enrollment to increase 25% over the life of the contract.
KP defended the practice of limiting enrollment primarily to its previous members, arguing that it provides "continuity of care when members transition into and out of Medi-Cal."
The state has long pushed for a larger KP footprint in Medi-Cal, citing its high quality ratings, its strong integrated network, and its huge role on the broader healthcare landscape.
"Kaiser Permanente historically has not played a very big role in Medi-Cal, and the state has long recognized that we would benefit from having them more engaged because they get better health outcomes and focus on prevention," said Daniel Zingale, a former Newsom administration official and health insurance regulator who now advises a lobbying firm that has Kaiser Permanente as a client.
But by accepting primarily people who have been KP members in the recent past, the health system has been able to limit its share of high-need, expensive patients, say rival health plan executives and former state health officials.
The executives fear the deal could saddle them with even more of these patients in the future, including homeless people and those with mental illnesses — and make it harder to provide adequate care for them. Many of those patients will join Medi-Cal for the first time under the CalAIM initiative, and KP will not be required to accept many of them.
"Awarding a no-bid Medi-Cal contract to a statewide commercial plan with a track record of 'cherry picking' members and offering only limited behavioral health and community support benefits not only conflicts with the intent and goals of CalAIM but undermines publicly organized healthcare," according to an internal document prepared by the Inland Empire Health Plan.
The plan said it stands to lose the roughly 144,000 Medi-Cal members it delegates to KP and about $10 million in annual revenue. L.A. Care, the nation's largest Medicaid health plan, with 2.4 million enrollees in Los Angeles County, will lose its 244,000 KP members, based on data shared by the plan.
The state had been scheduled on Wednesday to release final details and instructions for the commercial plans that are submitting bids for new contracts starting in 2024. But it delayed the release a week to make the KP deal public beforehand.
Baass said the state agreed to exempt KP from the bidding process because the standardized contract expected to result from it would have required the insurer to accept all enrollees, which Kaiser Permanente does not have the capacity to do.
"It's not surprising to me that the state will go to extraordinary means to make sure that Kaiser is in the mix, given it has been in the vanguard of our healthcare delivery system," Zingale said.
Having a direct statewide Medi-Cal contract will greatly reduce the administrative workload for KP, which will now deal with only one agency on reporting and oversight, rather than the 12 public plans it currently subcontracts with.
And the new contract will give it an even closer relationship with Newsom and state health officials.
In 2020, KP gave $25 million to one of Newsom's key initiatives, a state homelessness fund to move people off the streets and into hotel rooms, according to a KHN analysis of charitable payments filed with the California Fair Political Practices Commission. The same year, it donated $9.75 million to a state COVID relief fund.
In summer 2020, when local and state public health departments struggled to contain COVID spread, the healthcare giant pledged $63 million in grant funding to help contract-tracing efforts.
KP's influence extends beyond its massive charitable giving. Its CEO, Greg Adams, landed an appointment on the governor's economic recovery task force early in the pandemic, and Newsom has showcased KP hospitals at vaccine media events throughout the state.
"In California and across the U.S., the campaign contributions and the organizing, the lobbying, all of that stuff is important," said Andrew Kelly, an assistant professor of health policy at California State University-East Bay. "But there's a different type of power that comes from your ability to have this privileged position within public programs."
Because comprehensive data isn't available, the scope and impact of current shortages can't be documented with precision. But anecdotal reports suggest the situation is severe.
This article was published on Thursday, February 3, 2022 in Kaiser Health News.
Frail older adults are finding it harder than ever to get paid help amid acute staff shortages at home health agencies.
Several trends are fueling the shortages: Hospitals and other employers are hiring away home health workers with better pay and benefits. Many aides have fallen ill or been exposed to COVID-19 during the recent surge of omicron cases and must quarantine for a time. And staffers are burned out after working during the pandemic in difficult, anxiety-provoking circumstances.
The implications for older adults are dire. Some seniors who are ready for discharge are waiting in hospitals or rehabilitation centers for several days before home care services can be arranged. Some are returning home with less help than would be optimal. Some are experiencing cutbacks in services. And some simply can't find care.
Janine Hunt-Jackson, 68, of Lockport, New York, falls into this last category. She has post-polio syndrome, which causes severe fatigue, muscle weakness, and, often, cognitive difficulties. Through New York's Medicaid program, she's authorized to receive 35 hours of care each week. But when an aide left in June, Hunt-Jackson contacted agencies, asked friends for referrals, and posted job notices on social media, with little response.
"A couple of people showed up and then disappeared. One man was more than willing to work, but he didn't have transportation. I couldn't find anybody reliable," she said. Desperate, Hunt-Jackson arranged for her 24-year-old grandson, who has autism and oppositional defiant disorder, to move into her double-wide trailer and serve as her caregiver.
"It's scary: I'm not ready to be in a nursing home, but without home care there's no other options," she said.
Because comprehensive data isn't available, the scope and impact of current shortages can't be documented with precision. But anecdotal reports suggest the situation is severe.
"Everyone is experiencing shortages, particularly around nursing and home health aides, and reporting that they're unable to admit patients," said William Dombi, president of the National Association for Home Care & Hospice. Some agencies are rejecting as many as 40% of new referrals, according to reports he's received.
"We're seeing increasing demand on adult protective services as a result of people with dementia not being able to get services," said Ken Albert, president of Androscoggin Home Healthcare and Hospice in Maine and chair of the national home care association's board. "The stress on families trying to navigate care for their loved ones is just incredible."
In mid-January, the Pennsylvania Homecare Association surveyed its members: Medicare-certified home health agencies, which provide assistance from aides and skilled nursing and therapy services, and state-licensed home care agencies, which provide nonmedical services such as bathing, toileting, cooking, and housekeeping, often to people with disabilities covered by Medicaid. Ninety-three percent of Medicare-certified home health and hospice agencies and 98% of licensed agencies said they had refused referrals during the past year, according to Teri Henning, the association's chief executive officer.
"Our members say they've never seen anything like this in terms of the number of openings and the difficulty hiring, recruiting, and retaining staff," she told me.
Lori Pavic is a regional manager in Pennsylvania for CareGivers America, an agency that provides nonmedical services, mostly to Medicaid enrollees who are disabled. "Our waiting list is over 200 folks at this time and grows daily," she wrote in an email. "We could hire 500 [direct care workers] tomorrow and still need more."
Another Pennsylvania agency that provides nonmedical services, Angels on Call, is giving priority for care to people who are seriously compromised and live alone. People who can turn to family or friends are often getting fewer services, said C.J. Weaber, regional director of business development for Honor Health Network, which owns Angels on Call.
"Most clients don't have backup," she said.
This is especially true of older adults with serious chronic illnesses and paltry financial resources who are socially isolated — a group that's "disproportionately affected" by the difficulties in accessing home healthcare, said Jason Falvey, an assistant professor of physical therapy and rehabilitation science at the University of Maryland School of Medicine.
Many agencies are focusing on patients being discharged from hospitals and rehab facilities. These patients, many of whom are recovering from COVID, have acute needs, and agencies are paid more for serving this population under complicated Medicare reimbursement formulas.
"People who have long-term needs and a high chronic disease burden, [agencies] just aren't taking those referrals," Falvey said.
Instead, families are filling gaps in home care as best they can.
Anne Tumlinson, founder of ATI Advisory, a consulting firm that specializes in long-term care, was shocked when a home health nurse failed to show up for two weeks in December after her father, Jim, had a peripherally inserted central catheter put in for blood cell transfusions. This type of catheter, known as a PICC line, requires careful attention to prevent infections and blood clots and needs to be flushed with saline several times a day.
"No show from nurse on Friday, no call from agency," Tumlinson wrote on LinkedIn. "Today, when I call, this 5 star home health agency informed me that a nurse would be out SOMETIME THIS WEEK. Meanwhile, my 81 year old mother and I watched youtube videos this weekend to learn how to flush the picc line and adjust the oxygen levels."
Tumlinson's father was admitted to the hospital a few days before Christmas with a dangerously high level of fluid in his lungs. He has myelodysplastic syndrome, a serious blood disorder, and Parkinson's disease. No one from the home health agency had shown up by the time he was admitted.
Because her parents live in a somewhat rural area about 30 minutes outside Gainesville, Florida, it wasn't easy to find help when her father was discharged. Only two home health agencies serve the area, including the one that had failed to provide assistance.
"The burden on my mother is huge: She's vigilantly monitoring him every second of the day, flushing the PICC line, and checking his wounds," Tumlinson said. "She's doing everything."
Despite growing needs for home care services, the vast majority of pandemic-related federal financial aid for healthcare has gone to hospitals and nursing homes, which are also having severe staffing problems. Yet all the parts of the health system that care for older adults are interconnected, with home care playing an essential role.
Abraham Brody, associate professor of nursing and medicine at New York University, explained these complex interconnections: When frail older patients can't get adequate care at home, they can deteriorate and end up in the hospital. The hospital may have to keep older patients for several extra days if home care can't be arranged upon discharge, putting people at risk of deteriorating physically or getting infections and making new admissions more difficult.
When paid home care or help from family or friends isn't available, vulnerable older patients may be forced to go to nursing homes, even if they don't want to. But many nursing homes don't have enough staffers and can't take new patients, so people are simply going without care.
Patients with terminal illnesses seeking hospice care are being caught up in these difficulties as well. Brody is running a research study with 25 hospices, and "every single one is having staffing challenges," he said. Without enough nurses and aides to meet the demand for care, hospices are not admitting some patients or providing fewer visits, he noted.
Before the pandemic, hospice agencies could usually guarantee a certain number of hours of help after evaluating a patient. "Now, they really are not able to guarantee anything on discharge," said Jennifer DiBiase, palliative care social work manager at Mount Sinai Health System in New York City. "We really have to rely on the family for almost all hands-on care."
We're eager to hear from readers about questions you'd like answered, problems you've been having with your care and advice you need in dealing with the healthcare system. Visit khn.org/columnists to submit your requests or tips.
Therapists are concerned about a price transparency provision that requires most licensed medical practitioners to give patients detailed upfront cost estimates.
This article was published on Thursday, February 3, 2022 in Kaiser Health News.
Groups representing a range of mental health therapists say a new law that protects people from surprise medical bills puts providers in an ethical bind and could discourage some patients from care.
The therapists take no issue with the main aim of the legislation, which is to prevent patients from being blindsided by bills, usually for treatment received from out-of-network medical providers who work at in-network facilities. Instead, they are concerned about another part of the law — a price transparency provision — that requires most licensed medical practitioners to give patients detailed upfront cost estimates, including a diagnosis, and information about the length and costs involved in a typical course of treatment. That's unfitting for mental healthcare, they say, because diagnoses can take time and sometimes change over the course of treatment.
Finally, if they blow the estimate by at least $400, the law says uninsured or self-pay patients can challenge the bills in arbitration.
Arguing that the rule is burdensome and unnecessary, mental health providers wrote a Jan. 25 letter to the Department of Health and Human Services, seeking an exemption from the "good faith" estimates for routine mental and behavioral health services. The letter was signed by 11 groups, including the American Psychological Association, the National Association of Social Workers, the American Psychiatric Association, and the Psychotherapy Action Network.
Some also worry that the law will allow insurance companies to play a larger role in dictating what even non-network mental health therapists can charge, although policy experts say it isn't clear how that could happen. Although exact figures are not available, it's estimated that one-third to one-half of psychologists are not in-network with insurers, the psychologists' association said. And those numbers do not include other practitioners, such as psychiatrists and licensed clinical social workers, who are also out of network.
"We got thrown into this bill, but the intention [of the law] was not mental health but high-cost medical care," said Jared Skillings, chief of professional practice with the American Psychological Association. "We're deeply concerned that this [law] inadvertently would allow private insurance companies to set regional rates across the country that, for independent practitioners, would be a race to the bottom."
Therapy costs vary widely around the U.S. and by specialty, but generally range from $65 an hour to $250 or more, according to the website GoodTherapy.
The good faith estimates must be given this year to uninsured or self-pay patients for medical or mental healthcare services. They were included in the No Surprises Act as part of a broader effort to give patients a good idea of cost, both per visit and for a course of treatment, in advance.
Therapists say their professional codes of ethics already require disclosure to patients of per-visit costs. Requiring diagnostic billing codes in the estimate before even seeing a patient — as they interpret the rule — is unethical, they argue, and tallying up what might be weeks or even months of treatment costs could keep some patients from undergoing care.
"If people see a large dollar amount, they might be intimidated or scared into not getting help at all," said Linda Michaels, a private practice therapist in Chicago and co-chair of the Psychotherapy Action Network.
The counterargument, though, is that one of the law's aims was to provide patients with pricing information — for mental health services or medical care — that is less opaque and more similar to what they're used to when shopping for other types of goods or services.
Benedic Ippolito, an economist at the American Enterprise Institute, said he is sympathetic to medical providers' concerns about the extra administrative burden. But "giving consumers a better sense of financial obligation they are exposed to and imposing some cost pressure on providers are both reasonable goals," he said.
Even among providers, there is no universal agreement on how burdensome the estimates will be.
"It's not an unreasonable thing, frankly, for psychiatrists, not just plastic surgeons or podiatrists, to say, 'If you want me to do this and you're not covered by insurance or whatever, it will cost you X amount for the whole episode of care and this is what you get in return,'" said Dr. Robert Trestman, chair of psychiatry and behavioral medicine at the Virginia Tech Carilion School of Medicine. Although he serves on an American Psychiatric Association committee, he was voicing his own opinion.
The Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services said mental health providers are not exempt from the rules about good faith estimates, in a written statement to KHN. It added, however, that the agency is working on "technical assistance geared toward mental health providers and facilities." Federal agencies often issue additional clarification of rules, sometimes in the form of FAQs.
The No Surprises Act took effect on Jan. 1. Its thrust was to bar medical providers from sending what are called surprise or "balance" bills to insured patients for out-of-network care provided in emergencies or for nonemergency situations at in-network facilities. Common before the law passed, such bills often amounted to hundreds or thousands of dollars, representing the difference between the amount insurers paid toward out-of-network care and the often much higher amounts charged.
Now, insured patients in most cases will pay only what they would have been billed for in-network care. Any additional amount must be worked out between their insurer and the provider. Groups representing emergency doctors, anesthesiologists, air ambulance providers, and hospitals have filed lawsuits over a Biden administration rule that outlines the factors independent arbitrators should consider when deciding how much an insurer must pay the medical provider toward disputed bills.
Most mental health services, however, aren't directly touched by this part of the directive because treatment is not typically performed in emergency situations or in-network facilities.
Instead, the complaint from mental health providers focuses on the good faith estimates.
Additional rules are expected soon that will spell out how upfront estimates will be handled for people with health coverage. In their letter to HHS, the behavioral health groups say they fear the estimates will then be used by insurers to limit treatment for insured patients, or influence pay negotiations with therapists.
Several policy experts say they do not think the law will affect mental health reimbursement in most cases.
"Mental health professionals will have the exact same ability to bill out-of-network, to have patients agree to whatever market price is for their services," said Loren Adler, associate director of the USC-Brookings Schaeffer Initiative for Health Policy, who has long studied balance billing issues. "Nothing about the No Surprises Act restricts that."
Some of the therapy groups' concerns may stem from misreading the law or rules implementing it, say policy experts, but they still reflect the confusion providers share surrounding the rollout of the law.
As for how to handle pre-treatment diagnoses that are needed to deliver good faith estimates, CMS said in its email to KHN that providers could estimate costs for an initial screening, then follow up with an additional estimate after a diagnosis.
"No one is going to be forced to make a diagnosis of a patient they have not met," Adler said.
Just before my son's 9-month checkup, my wife and I debated whether to postpone it. It was a "well baby visit," but the potential threats to his health felt real. The last time he went to the pediatrician, in November, the air inside the office was stuffy, and the waiting room was crowded with children from schools in and around St. Louis, all waiting to get their COVID shots.
By showing up to get their children vaccinated, the families were all following the guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for children ages 5 to 11. But we were trying to follow the CDC guidance too, and for children too young for the vaccine. That means avoiding crowded or poorly ventilated places — like the pediatrician's waiting room.
As we grappled with the decision, the news was bleak: COVID-19 positivity rates, and hospitalizations, were reaching record levels in St. Louis and across the country.
We decided to go ahead with the visit after my wife called the office and learned that the COVID testing had moved outside to the parking lot and that we could complete the check-in process over the phone, instead of in the waiting room.
These are the risk analyses we constantly must do while waiting to hear when our baby will be eligible for a vaccine. The latest crumb of hope is the news that the Pfizer vaccine may be available for children under 5 as soon as the end of February.
Meanwhile, it feels as though many other Americans are impatient to move on. The omicron surge means safety precautions and mask rules have been rolled back into place, and that has left many people frustrated.
Compliance has always been a problem in many parts of the U.S. Where I live in Missouri, I often see people without masks in public indoor spaces despite the contagiousness of omicron. There's a particular grocery store clerk whose checkout line we try to avoid. At our neighborhood butcher, a guy behind the counter also refuses to mask up. Not to mention all the shoppers who choose to flaunt the mask guidance on any given day.
During a recent trip to the pharmacy, my wife, Emma, spent 20 minutes in line in front of a man whose mask was dangling from one ear. She wanted to simply turn around and say, "Hey, do you mind putting on your mask? I have a baby at home who's unvaccinated." But that type of request hasn't been well received in our experience: A washer repairman tried to refuse to wear a mask in our house, as did the dishwasher delivery team. (We've had bad luck with our appliances recently.)
To be the parent of an unvaccinated kid these days is to feel constantly at the mercy of the whims of strangers. That's why our son has been inside only seven buildings since the day he was born. That I can count them on two hands surprises me. I also worry about the experiences and interactions he's never had — all the little things in life he's missing.
Laura Swofford is another St. Louis-area parent and the mother of two kids, ages 4 and 6. For a brief moment last spring, she felt OK taking her kids out, for trips to Target, the library, or other everyday destinations that adults might find mundane but are still "shiny" and exciting to young kids.
"It's a really big deal, and it gives you sanity in your day," Swofford said of those little outings and errands.
But that era of freedom was short-lived. Swofford started feeling uncomfortable again in May, after the CDC released guidance that said the fully vaccinated could stop masking indoors. There was no enforcement, and masks seemed to swiftly disappear from most faces — even though vaccination rates in Missouri were lowat the time (and remain in the bottom third nationwide).
Then the delta variant arrived, and cases surged again. Next came omicron. Health officials in Missouri urged everyone to be more vigilant about wearing masks, but a lot of residents ignored them. Missouri has never had a statewide mask mandate, and Missouri Attorney General Eric Schmitt has filed a series of lawsuits against cities, counties, and school districts that issue their own.
Swofford said she often wishes she could stand up in the middle of a crowd, wave her arms, and remind people that there are parents who can't vaccinate their children.
In a January 2022 survey of parents with children younger than 5, the share who said they would get their child vaccinated "right away" was similar to the share who said they would "wait and see" how the vaccine works for other young children.
That latest survey from the KFF COVID-19 Vaccine Monitor showed an increase in the percentage of the most willing parents. Thirty-one percent said they'd seek out the vaccination as soon as possible after it is authorized for children younger than 5, up from 23% in September 2021.
Friends and relatives usually understand our plight, but any kind of socializing typically involves questions about vaccine statuses and detailed negotiating about safety protocols. I got an invitation to the karaoke bar. Sounded fun, but I'm not comfortable with that yet. Play date with old friends and their kids? Well, maybe we could do something outside, weather permitting.
The arrival of winter made it that much harder: For those who want to socialize indoors, it's amazing how quickly rapid tests for adults can add up to $500. To have another couple over for dinner requires at least four tests. For a guest list of 10 adults for Christmas, that's 10 tests. And at $12 a pop, the costs add up quickly. That's assuming rapid tests are in stock to purchase.
The federal government recently launched a website where Americans can order four free at-home tests. I wish that had been an option over the holidays.
As omicron surges pummeled communities and hospitals, the sense of being forgotten intensified. More specific guidance from officials for parents like us, with kids younger than 2, would be nice.
"Unfortunately, there's nothing revolutionary," said Dr. Rachel Orscheln, a pediatric infectious disease specialist at St. Louis Children's Hospital. The guidance for families like ours remains the same: To protect unvaccinated kids, try to form a cocoon of safety around them. The surrounding adults need to get vaccinated, get a flu shot, wear a mask, socialize outdoors when possible, and avoid contact with sick people. Collectively, we could all advocate for policies that reduce transmission.
Day care can be a particularly brutal puzzle for parents. Orscheln said that when cases surge, families are forced into a game of balancing risk and benefits.
Throughout the pandemic, most kids with COVID have had mild cases, although there are very real, if rare, complications that require hospitalization. Some infected children have developed a post-viral illness known as multisystem inflammatory syndrome. Other kids have shown symptoms of long COVID.
Those risks have to be balanced against other concerns and needs, Orscheln said, like the developmental benefits of socializing or whether parents can alter their child care plans.
Another parent I spoke to, Dr. Ashish Premkumar, works as an OB-GYN in Chicago. He has a 4-year-old in day care and a 1-year-old at home with a nanny. He and his wife considered pulling the 4-year-old out of day care until the omicron case count eased, but before they could even decide, COVID swept through the family.
Another obstacle is at-home testing. Both BinaxNOW and QuickVue tests are intended for people 2 and older. So if parents suspect a child younger than 2 might have COVID, they must go to the pediatrician or a clinic for a test. Many parents don't have the time or the job flexibility to arrange that.
"The whole process just is not friendly," Premkumar said. "And this far into a pandemic, it should just be simple: I need a COVID test, can it just be sent to my house? And can I get a result back in a timely fashion to be able to organize my life?"
Families all over the country have struggled with long waits at community testing sites. Maria Aguilar of Los Banos, California, recently spent four hours in line getting a test for her 4-year-old daughter, after the girl's Head Start program closed for two weeks because of a COVID outbreak. Aguilar works as a community health worker in Merced, doing door-to-door canvassing and outreach. Her job allowed her to take time off to care for her daughter, but many of the people she serves don't have that flexibility.
Is an infected child really that big of a deal? I've encountered that question many times. It's true that most kids who get sick from COVID do not die. They survive. And the symptoms of omicron are supposed to be mild — or at least milder than those of the delta variant. Plus, many people point out that an infection could have a silver lining: It would give the kid some natural immunity while waiting for the vaccine, no?
I find myself answering these questions again and again. Meanwhile, many Americans seem to be shrugging their shoulders, saying that getting infected with the coronavirus is inevitable for us all.
My wife and I are not ready to give up the fight. We're not going to shrug off the risks for our baby, however rare they may be. As we enter the third year of this pandemic, we will keep fighting to keep the virus away from him until he can get vaccinated. We continue to take precautions, and we continue to wait. And it seems he might be unprotected for a while still.
More nursing homes are waiting longer for COVID-19 test results for residents and staffers, according to federal data, making the fight against record numbers of omicron cases even harder.
The double whammy of slower turnaround times for lab-based PCR tests and a shortage of rapid antigen tests has strained facilities where quickly identifying infections is crucial for keeping a highly vulnerable population safe.
A KHN analysis of data from the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services finds that 25% of nursing homes that sent tests to a lab waited an average of three or more days for results as of Jan. 16. In early December, that number was 12%.
At Lutheran Life Villages in Fort Wayne, Indiana, the long wait for results renders PCR tests "useless," President Alex Kiefer said. "If we send somebody off to get a PCR test, sometimes it takes two days for them to get an appointment. And then it takes two, three, four days to get a read."
So Kiefer's organization mainly relies on rapid antigen tests. But on Jan. 12, long-term care sites in the state were alerted to shortages of Abbott Laboratories' rapid BinaxNOW antigen tests, according to the Indiana Department of Health. Lutheran Life Villages was using 125 rapid tests a day, including on vaccinated people. Now as transmission rates remain high, "we are scrounging to try to find enough," Kiefer said. He called the state shipments sporadic. "The scariest thing is, if we get to a point where we can't get those, we will have to rely on PCRs, and the timing of that is just really challenging," Kiefer said.
Federal officials require the country's 15,000 nursing homes to submit data on COVID in their facilities; KHN's analysis of testing speeds is based on reports of turnaround times in early December and mid-January from about 10,900 homes. Nursing home residents have high vaccination rates — more than 87% are fully inoculated, and 67% have received boosters. Still, experts warn, delays can pose significant safety risks. For one, in the time it takes to receive results, outbreaks can emerge undetected. And with omicron, breakthrough infections appear to cause more severe symptoms for older people.
This many nursing homes haven't waited three or more days for test results since March 2021, CMS data show.
Broadly, PCR tests are considered the gold standard for accuracy and are more likely to be used for regular surveillance testing because rapid tests can miss asymptomatic cases. The drawback is that labs can take days to return PCR results under normal circumstances, let alone when testing demand and staffing shortages delay processing.
Dr. Naveen Patil, deputy state health officer of the Arkansas Department of Health, said the state recommended that long-term care facilities shift to PCR tests during COVID outbreaks because they are more reliable, even when plenty of antigen tests are available.
"But now," he said, "most of them are doing PCR because they don't have adequate supply of antigens."
The Biden administration, which is sending 1 billion rapid COVID tests to U.S. households, has been shipping long-term care facilities 2.5 million tests a week. But that supply has proved measly against omicron's winter surge, which has fueled even greater infections among nursing home residents, according to CDC data.
The American Healthcare Association, which lobbies for nursing homes and assisted living facilities, recently said the administration plans to send the sector an additional 5 million rapid tests in the coming weeks, but the industry says that's not nearly enough. A spokesperson for the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services did not respond to questions about the new shipments.
Two years into the pandemic, nursing homes are still managing a crisis. Testing is "a bit of a mess," said David Grabowski, a long-term care expert and health policy professor at Harvard Medical School. "It's déjà vu all over again."
Industry workers say rapid test shortages also complicate their efforts to honor residents' right to receive visitors while ensuring the virus doesn't come in with them.
A survey in early January by LeadingAge, which lobbies for nonprofit nursing homes and other care providers for older adults, found that 76% of nursing homes had adequate testing supplies, but facilities said restocking was getting harder. The American Healthcare Association asked the Biden administration to increase the sector's testing supplies and related equipment. The group estimates the sector needs 5 million tests per week.
Dr. Swati Gaur, medical director for New Horizons Nursing Facilities in Georgia, said some facilities "are having to kind of pivot to PCR" tests because of antigen test shortages.
Before omicron arrived, Tina Sandri, CEO of Forest Hills of DC in Washington, would get PCR test results back in about a day. In January, that turnaround time increased to two or three days. Sandri's company, which operates skilled nursing and assisted living facilities, relies on PCR testing to have more confidence that they'll catch asymptomatic cases.
"Those antigen test kits are really hard to get," she added. "We would need hundreds of them every single day, and there just aren't enough of them for us to use as a practical solution." Their most valuable use, Sandri said, would be for employees to test themselves at home after an exposure or infection before returning to work.
COVID infections among nursing home residents and staff members have begun to decline nationally, but the total in the week ending Jan. 23 — 42,584 resident cases — surpasses the numbers from last winter's surge, when initial doses of the COVID vaccine were becoming available. In the past month, the number of resident deaths has increased each week — and was 1,298 for the week ending Jan. 23. That is well below the 4,100 deaths reported in the same week a year ago, CDC data shows.
Long-term care facilities that aren't worried about COVID testing say they can reliably get test results in less than a day or two. And they have ample supplies of rapid antigen tests from federal shipments.
"I maybe get two or three shipments a week" of rapid tests, said Karen Venis, CEO of Sayre Christian Village in Lexington, Kentucky. The lab that processes Sayre's PCR test samples — which they use for routine surveillance — sends staffers to test residents and workers twice a week. Results are typically provided within 24 hours, and Venis estimated they use about 100 antigen tests a week, saving them mostly for people with symptoms.
"We've got the support that we need," she said.
For Kiefer in Indiana, though, using more PCR tests isn't tenable.
"That's how we were making decisions early on in the pandemic," he said. "It was difficult to do everything."
At least with rapid tests, he said, "we can take action right away."
On Jan. 1, Americans woke up with some new protections from giant medical bills.
Healthcare — and how much it costs — is scary. But you're not alone with this stuff, and knowledge is power. "An Arm and a Leg" is a podcast about these issues, and is co-produced by KHN.
Meet the No Surprises Act. It's a new law that protects patients from one of the worst experiences the U.S. healthcare system has to offer — surprise out-of-network hospital bills. That's when a person gets hit with a bill from an out-of-network provider at an in-network hospital. Under the new law, if a person visits an in-network hospital and is seen by an out-of-network provider, that provider and the insurer have to work it out for themselves. Patients are only on the hook for what they would've paid an in-network provider. That's a big deal.
But there are some caveats (because, of course). For instance: These protections apply only to care in a hospital. Then there's the deceptively named Surprise Billing Protection form that patients might be asked to sign, waiving these newly won rights. And there's more.
This episode of "An Arm and a Leg" breaks down what you need to know about your rights under this new law, what traps to look out for, and who to call if something smells fishy.
Actually, here: The federal hotline for reporting No Surprises Act violations is at 1-800-985-3059.
Early in his first quarter at the University of California-Davis, Ryan Manriquez realized he needed help. A combination of pressures — avoiding COVID-19, enduring a breakup, dealing with a disability, trying to keep up with a tough slate of classes — hit him hard.
"I felt the impact right away," said Manriquez, 21.
After learning of UC-Davis' free counseling services, Manriquez showed up at the student health center and lined up an emergency Zoom session the same day. He was referred to other resources within days and eventually settled into weekly group therapy.
That was September 2020. Manriquez, now president of the student union, considers himself lucky. It can take up to a month to get a counseling appointment, he said, and that's "at a school that's trying really hard to make services available."
Across the country, college students are seeking mental health therapy on campus in droves, part of a 15-year upswing that has spiked during the pandemic. U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy in December issued a rare public health advisory noting the increasing number of suicide attempts by young people.
Colleges and universities are struggling to keep up with the demand for mental health services. Amid a nationwide shortage of mental health professionals, they are competing with hospital systems, private practices, and the burgeoning telehealth industry to recruit and retain counselors. Too often, campus officials say, they lose.
At UC-Davis, Dr. Cory Vu, an associate vice chancellor, said the campus is competing with eight other UC system universities, 23 California State universities, and multiple other health systems and practices as it tries to add 10 counselors to its roster of 34.
"Every college campus is looking for counselors, but so is every other health entity, public and private," he said.
According to data compiled by KFF, more than 129 million Americans live in areas with a documented shortage of mental healthcare professionals. Roughly 25,000 psychiatrists were working in the U.S. in 2020, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. The KFF data indicates that more than 6,500 additional psychiatrists are needed to eliminate the shortfall.
On campuses, years of public awareness campaigns have led to more students examining their mental health and trying to access school services. "That's a very good thing," said Jamie Davidson, associate vice president for student wellness at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas. The problem is "we don't have enough staff to deal with everyone who needs help."
About three years ago, administrators at the University of Southern California decided to respond aggressively to the skyrocketing demand for student mental health services. Since then, "we've gone from 30 mental health counselors to 65," said Dr. Sarah Van Orman, the university's chief medical officer for student health.
The result? "We're still overwhelmed," Van Orman said.
Van Orman, past president of the American College Health Association, said the severity of college students' distress is rising. More and more students come in with "active suicidal ideation, who are in crisis, with such severe distress that they are not functioning," Van Orman said. For counselors, "this is like working in a psychiatric ER."
As a result, wait times routinely stretch into weeks for students with nonemergency needs like help dealing with class-related stress or the transition to college. Professionals at campus counseling centers, meanwhile, have seen both their workloads and the serious nature of individual cases rise dramatically, prompting some to seek employment elsewhere.
"This is an epidemic in its own right," Van Orman said, "and it has exploded over the last two years to the point that it is not manageable for many of our campuses — and, ultimately, our students."
The pandemic has exacerbated the challenges students face, said UNLV's Davidson. Lockdown measures leave them feeling isolated and disconnected, unable to establish crucial relationships and develop the sense of self that normally comes with campus life. They also lose out on professional opportunities like internships and fall behind on self-care like going to the gym.
A study by the Center for Collegiate Mental Health at Pennsylvania State University found that among 43,000 students who sought help last fall at 137 campus counseling centers, 72% said the pandemic had negatively affected their mental health. An online survey of 33,000 students last fall found that half of them "screened positive for depression and/or anxiety," according to Boston University researcher Sarah Ketchen Lipson.
Even before the pandemic, university counseling center staff members were overwhelmed, Northwestern University staff psychiatrist Bettina Bohle-Frankel wrote in a recent letter to The New York Times. "Now, overburdened, underpaid and burned out, many therapists are leaving college counseling centers for less stressful work and better pay. Many are doing so to protect their own mental health."
On average, a counselor position at UC-Davis requiring a master's or doctorate degree pays $150,000 a year in salary and benefits, but compensation can vary widely based on experience, Vu said. Even at that rate, Vu said, "we sometimes cannot compete with Kaiser [Permanente], other hospital settings, or private practice."
Tatyana Foltz, a licensed clinical social worker in San Jose, California, spent three years as a mental health services case manager at Santa Clara University. "I absolutely enjoyed working with the college students — they're intelligent, dynamic, and complex, and they are working things out," Foltz said. But she left the university a few years ago, lured by the flexibility of private practice and frustrated by a campus system that Foltz felt did not reflect the diverse needs of its students.
Foltz returned to campus in December to support Santa Clara students as they protested what they said were inadequate services on campus, including insufficient numbers of diverse counselors representing Black, Indigenous, and LGBTQ+ communities and other people of color. The protests followed the deaths of three students during the fall quarter, two by suicide.
"It should not be taking student deaths to get us better mental health resources," said junior Megan Wu, one of the rally's organizers. After the rally, the chair of Santa Clara's board of trustees pledged several million dollars in new funding for campus counseling.
Replacing therapists who leave universities is difficult, Davidson said. UNLV currently has funding for eight new counselors, but the salaries it can offer are limiting in a competitive hiring market.
Universities are getting creative in their attempts to spread mental health resources around on their campuses, however. UC-Davis embeds counselors in student-utilized groups like the Cross-Cultural Center and the LGBTQIA Resource Center. Stanford University's Bridge Peer Counseling Center offers anonymous counseling 24/7 to students who are more comfortable speaking with a trained fellow student.
Mental health services that can be accessed online or by phone, which many schools did not offer before the pandemic, may become a lifeline for colleges and universities. Students often prefer remote to on-site counseling, Davidson said, and campuses likely will begin offering their counselors the option to work remotely as well — something that private practices and some medical systems have done for years.
"You have to work hard and also smart," Foltz said. "You need numbers, but you also need the right mix of counselors. There is a constant need to have culturally competent staff members on a university campus."