Federal health officials will likely reject Montana's request to include work requirements for beneficiaries of its Medicaid expansion program, which insures 100,000 low-income Montana adults, state officials said.
Three years after the Trump administration encouraged states to require proof that adult enrollees are working a certain number of hours or looking for work as a condition of receiving Medicaid expansion benefits, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services has reversed course under Democratic President Joe Biden.
"CMS has communicated to [the Montana Department of Public Health and Human Services] that a five-year extension of the Medicaid expansion waiver will not include work/community engagement requirements," health officials wrote in a Medicaid waiver amendment application out for public review.
It's unclear what that means for the future of the Montana program. In 2019, Montana lawmakers approved extending the 2015 program — the Supreme Court made the Medicaid expansion provision in the Affordable Care Act optional for states — as long as it included work requirements. Those requirements were a key condition for the moderate Republicans who joined Democratic lawmakers to muster enough votes to pass the 2019 bill over the objections of conservative GOP legislators.
The state's position officially remains that it wants "to condition Medicaid coverage on compliance with work/community engagement requirements," according to the amendment application. If state negotiators are proposing an alternative, they have not disclosed it.
If CMS does not approve the waiver with the work or community engagement requirements, the state health department will operate Medicaid expansion according to what is approved and await legislative review of the program, said department spokesperson Jon Ebelt.
The Montana Medicaid expansion program is scheduled to end in 2025 if the legislature doesn't renew it. State lawmakers meet every other year, giving them the 2023 and 2025 sessions to consider changes to the popular program, which enrolls 10% of the state's population.
Meanwhile, Republican-led lawmakers and Republican Gov. Greg Gianforte's administration have proposed other measures designed to trim the Medicaid expansion rolls and defray costs, including raising the premiums some enrollees pay and ending a provision that allows 12 months of continuous eligibility regardless of changes in income. Those proposals are also pending federal approval, and it was in the state's application for the 12-month continuous eligibility waiver that the status of the work requirement negotiations was disclosed.
In June, the number of Montanans enrolled in the expansion program passed 100,000 for the first time in its 5½-year history. The program provides health insurance coverage to adults who earn up to 138% of the federal poverty level, which is $26,500 for a family of four.
The negotiations between state and federal health officials involve what's called a Section 1115 waiver amendment application to CMS, which is made when a state Medicaid program seeks to deviate from federal requirements. CMS' deadline for acting on the application, originally submitted in 2019, was extended to Dec. 31, 2021, because of the COVID-19 pandemic.
The Trump administration approved work requirement waivers in 12 other states, though no states are implementing those requirements, either because of the pandemic or lawsuits, according to research by KFF. (KHN is an editorially independent program of KFF.)
Asked to comment about the Montana negotiations, CMS officials said Medicaid is a lifeline for millions of Americans who would be put at risk by work requirements.
"The pandemic and uncertainty surrounding its long-term social, health, and economic effects exacerbate the risks associated with tying Medicaid eligibility to requirements that have been demonstrated to result in significant coverage losses and substantial harm to beneficiaries," an unattributed CMS statement said.
Montana health department officials said in their waiver application that they expect negotiations with CMS to be finalized in the fall and the Medicaid waiver to be extended for five years starting in January. That Jan. 1, 2027, end date of the waiver, presumably without work requirements, would be subject to the state's own 2025 sunset.
The 2019 state law granting a six-year extension to the Medicaid expansion included the condition that work and community engagement be part of it. The law states beneficiaries must work at least 80 hours each month or be engaged in a job search or volunteer work, unless they are exempt for specific reasons, such as pregnancy, disability or mental illness.
State Rep. Ed Buttrey (R-Great Falls), who sponsored both the 2019 bill and the 2015 bill that created the original Montana Medicaid expansion program, said lawmakers added the 2025 sunset so that they could assess and revise the program, if needed.
"So in a couple sessions we'll have to take another look at the program and the federal rules and find out how things are performing and how we want to move forward." Buttrey said.
He defended work requirements, saying the goal of Medicaid expansion has always been to create a healthy workforce to improve Montana's economy.
State Rep. Mary Caferro (D-Helena) said work requirements can cause unnecessary hurdles for people who qualify for the Medicaid expansion program. She said that 7 in 10 Montanans who gained Medicaid coverage under the expansion are already working and that the rest can't for various reasons, such as they are caregivers, have an illness or are going to school.
"Work requirements don't make sense for our particular population," Caferro said.
The disclosure of the ongoing work requirement negotiations was made in an application that seeks to eliminate 12-month continuous eligibility for Medicaid expansion beneficiaries plus a separate group of Medicaid beneficiaries with severe disabling mental illnesses.
Currently, those people are enrolled in the Medicaid expansion program for a full year regardless of changes in income or assets. The proposed change, included in the state budget passed by lawmakers earlier this year, would kick enrollees out of the program if their income rises — even if only temporarily because of a one-time payment or seasonal work.
The state also proposes increasing premium payments for certain expansion beneficiaries to up to 4% of their household income in the same waiver application that proposes work requirements.
Buttrey said the goal was to offset the costs of Medicaid so that the people benefiting from it bore some of the costs, and hopes CMS will approve the proposal.
The public comment period for the state's waiver applications is open until Aug. 31. A legislative committee is scheduled to meet Tuesday to review the proposals.
The massive spending bill is the first of two likely to at least delay the so-called Medicare rebate rule released at the end of the Trump administration, which has yet to take effect.
This article was published on Thursday, August 5, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
The Senate's release of its bipartisan infrastructure plan signals that lawmakers are poised to throw former President Donald Trump's belated bid to lower Medicare drug prices under the bus — not to mention trains, bridges, tunnels and broadband connections.
That's because the massive spending bill is the first of two likely to at least delay the so-called Medicare rebate rule released at the end of the Trump administration, which has yet to take effect. Congress would use the projected costs of that rule to pay for more than half a trillion dollars in new infrastructure.
What has infrastructure spending got to do with Medicare drug rebates?
Bear with us as we explain the mad logic of how Congress intends to pay for a spending program with money that doesn't really exist. Tossing Trump's reform under the steamroller to offset other costs offers a window into the convoluted process of congressional budgeting: Senators say the plan will provide billions of dollars of savings, even though the federal government has never spent a dime on the rebate rule. And it focuses attention on the intractable problem of bringing down drug prices: The rule would take money from drug industry brokers and provide refunds to consumers, which would suggest it was saving them and Medicare money. Yet budget analysts said the process would cost the government billions of dollars.
Let's start with the Medicare drug rebates.
The way things work now, pharmacy benefit managers, which are often owned by insurance companies, negotiate with drugmakers to get significant reductions on a drug's list price. They pass the bulk of that savings along to Medicare and the insurers, who can pocket some of it and use it to lower overall premiums for customers who buy drug plans in Medicare Part D.
While customers benefit from a lower premium, it doesn't mean they actually get a better price for their drugs, said Gerard Anderson, a professor of health policy at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health.
That's because a patient's price is not based on the rebate but on a share of the original list price of the drug. If a drug costs $100, and a patient's share is 25%, they pay $25, regardless of how big a rebate the PBM got for the insurer.
It thus serves the interest of the PBM for the drugmaker to raise prices. "When the list price goes up, your patient responsibility goes up, so the patient ends up paying more," Anderson said. "The PBM makes money because, when the list price goes up, the rebate is larger. But the patient loses, because their cost sharing is based often on the list price."
Since the PBM controls the formulary that says which drugs are covered in a given plan, Anderson and others point out, it is also in the interest of a drug company to raise list prices if it wants the PBM to give its drugs preferential treatment.
"If you've got two drugs that are available to take care of some heart disease, the PBM wants the drug that's going to pay them the most money, and the money is the difference between the list price and the actual transaction price," Anderson said. "So the higher the list price, the higher the profit margin for the PBM. So the drug company who wants their drug on the formulary has to raise their price in order to give the PBM a greater profit."
A wrinkle in federal law allows that to happen. Typically in federal contracting, if someone sets a high price to give the buyer a cut, it's considered a bribe or a kickback, and it's illegal. But the law that created the Part D drug program carved out what's known as a safe harbor to allow such deals in the hope that negotiations would lower overall costs.
The Trump administration's rule attempts to end the perverse incentive by taking the safe harbor away from the PBMs and giving the rebate to customers at the pharmacy counter. Then-Health and Human Services Secretary Alex Azar said costs would fall by about 30%.
But the effort had two major problems. First, the rule was challenged in court by the PBMs on procedural grounds. Second, the Congressional Budget Office predicted that, rather than save money, it would end up costing the federal government $177 billion over 10 years because drugmakers would be less likely to provide as many discounts, causing a spike in Medicare drug coverage premiums.
The Biden administration delayed the rule, and could scrap it, making that $177 billion cost more theoretical than real. But that's where congressional budgeting comes in.
A chief selling point of the infrastructure proposal is that it is "paid for," meaning it taps new revenue streams or ends other things that cost money so that the $550 billion in new spending in the plan doesn't add to the federal deficit.
Even though Trump's rebate rule has already been delayed and is likely to be killed, it is, at this moment, on the books. Since the infrastructure bill would delay the rule and its costs until 2026, the savings get counted as offsetting the new spending. Confused yet?
Delaying the rule, instead of killing it outright, means there's still another $130 billion on the books that can be used to offset other spending — almost certainly likely to help fund the even bigger budget reconciliation measure that Senate Democrats intend to pursue as soon as the Senate passes the bipartisan infrastructure bill.
Sen. Bill Cassidy (R-La.), who liked Trump's rule and also supports the bipartisan infrastructure bill, explained the reasoning to reporters shortly before the infrastructure legislation was released.
"The Medicare rebate rule — you know, I actually agree with the policy, but it was a $182 billion cost to the Treasury," Cassidy said, citing a slightly different figure for the savings. "And so, it's been signaled that it was going to be used for something. … Just speaking practically, if something's going to score that high, and here with a party, Democrats, that don't like it, it's going to go away, right? So that was just a good take."
The move is essentially painless in congressional budget terms, and PBMs are thrilled. They argue they do not actually profit from the rebates they negotiate in Part D and pass all the rebate cash along to Medicare and plan sponsors already.
They say their ability to negotiate those rebates is part of what makes them valuable, and the rule interferes. "That's sort of the bread and butter of the work that our companies do, and undermining the ability to provide that value is obviously a real challenge," Pharmaceutical Care Management Association CEO JC Scott said in a call with KHN and PCMA spokesperson Charles Coté.
They favor not just delaying it but spiking it completely. "From our perspective, that is the action that's needed," said Coté. "To create certainty for Part D and for beneficiaries, it should just be fully repealed."
Repealing Trump's rebate rule is not painless for people who have high drug costs, though, because, as Johns Hopkins professor Anderson explained, the 10% or so of people who would get significant rebates at the pharmacy counter would be better off.
"It helps the people that have the large bills; it harms the most the people that don't have the large bills," Anderson said.
Benefiting from Trump's rule would be drugmakers, according to the CBO data and other sources. In a statement from the Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America, the industry's lobby group, spokesperson Debra DeShong cast ending the rule as a windfall for PBMs and a cynical raid on cash meant for sick, older Americans.
"Lawmakers are threatening to gut a rule that would provide patients meaningful relief," DeShong said. "This would be an unconscionable move that robs patients of the prescription drug savings they deserve to help fill potholes and fund other infrastructure projects."
Senate lawmakers were hoping to pass the infrastructure bill by Thursday, then move quickly on the reconciliation bill, both paid for in part with the ill-fated rebate rule. The legislation would then go to the House when it returns from its August recess.
America's COVID-19 vaccination rate is around 60% for ages 12 and up. That's not enough to reach so-called herd immunity, and in states like Missouri — where a number of counties have vaccination rates under 25% — hospitals are overwhelmed by serious outbreaks of the more contagious delta variant.
The vaccine resisters offer all kinds of reasons for refusing the free shots and for ignoring efforts to nudge them to get inoculated. Campaigns urging Americans to get vaccinated for their health, for their grandparents, for their neighbors, or to get free doughnuts or a free joint haven't done the trick. States have even held lotteries with a chance to win millions or a college scholarship.
And yet there are still huge numbers of unvaccinated people. Federal, state and municipal governments as well as private businesses continue to largely avoid mandates for their employees out of fears they will provoke a backlash.
So, how about an economic argument? Get a COVID shot to protect your wallet.
Getting hospitalized with COVID in the United States typically generates huge bills. Those submitted by COVID patients to the NPR-Kaiser Health News "Bill of the Month" project include a $17,000 bill for a brief hospital stay in Marietta, Georgia (reduced to about $4,000 for an uninsured patient under a "charity care" policy); a $104,000 bill for a 14-day hospitalization in Miami for an uninsured man; and a bill for possibly hundreds of thousands for a two-week hospital stay — some of it on a ventilator — for a foreign tourist in Hawaii whose travel health insurance contained a "pandemic exclusion."
Even though insurance companies negotiate lower prices and cover much of the cost of care, an over $1,000 out-of-pocket bill for a deductible — plus more for copays and possibly some out-of-network care — should be a pretty scary incentive.
In 2020, before COVID vaccines, most major private insurers waived patient payments — from coinsurance to deductibles — for COVID treatment. But many if not most have allowed that policy to lapse. Aetna, for example, ended that policy Feb. 28; UnitedHealthcare began rolling back its waivers late last year and ended them by the end of March.
More than 97% of hospitalized patients last month were unvaccinated. Though the vaccines will not necessarily prevent you from catching the coronavirus, they are highly effective at assuring you will have a milder case and are kept out of the hospital.
For this reason, there's logic behind insurers' waiver rollback: Why should patients be kept financially unharmed from what is now a preventable hospitalization, thanks to a vaccine that the government paid for and made available free of charge? It is now in many drugstores, it's popping up at highway rest stops and bus stops, and it can be delivered and administered at home in parts of the country.
A harsher society might impose tough penalties on people who refuse vaccinations and contract the virus. Recently, the National Football League decreed that teams will forfeit a game canceled because of a COVID outbreak among unvaccinated players — and neither team's players will be paid.
But insurers could try to do more, like penalizing the unvaccinated. And there is precedent. Already, some policies won't cover treatment necessitated by what insurance companies deem risky behavior, such as scuba diving and rock climbing.
The Affordable Care Act allows insurers to charge smokers up to 50% more than what nonsmokers pay for some health plans. Four-fifths of states follow that protocol, though most employer-based plans do not do so. In 49 states, people caught driving without auto insurance face fines, confiscation of their car, loss of their license and even jail. And reckless drivers pay more for insurance.
The logic behind the policies is that the offenders' behavior can hurt others and costs society a lot of money. If a person decides not to get vaccinated and contracts a bad case of COVID, they are not only exposing others in their workplace or neighborhoods; the tens or hundreds of thousands spent on their care could mean higher premiums for others as well in their insurance plans next year. What's more, outbreaks in low-vaccination regions could help breed more vaccine-resistant variants that affect everyone.
Yes, we often cover people whose habits may have contributed to their illness — insurance regularly pays for drug and alcohol rehab and cancer treatment for smokers.
That's one reason, perhaps, that insurers too have so far favored carrots, not sticks, to get people vaccinated. Some private insurers are offering people who get vaccinated a credit toward their medical premiums, or gift cards and sweepstakes prizes, according to America's Health Insurance Plans, an industry organization.
Tough love might be easier if the Food and Drug Administration gives vaccines full approval, rather than the current emergency use authorization. Even so, taxpayer-financed plans like Medicaid and Medicare must treat everyone the same and would encounter a lengthy process to secure federal waivers to experiment with incentives, according to Larry Levitt, executive vice president of KFF, a nonprofit focusing on health issues. (Kaiser Health News, where Rosenthal is editor-in-chief, is one program under KFF.) These programs cannot charge different rates to different patients in a state.
KFF polling shows such incentives are of limited value, anyway. Many holdouts say they will be vaccinated only if required to do so by their employers.
But what if the financial cost of not getting vaccinated were just too high? If patients thought about the price they might need to pay for their own care, maybe they would reconsider remaining unprotected.
Madison Cano knew she wanted to breastfeed her son, Theo. But breastfeeding was painful for her. The skin on her breasts was chafed and blistered last July when she returned home from the hospital. And Theo sometimes screamed during feedings.
Cano, 30, realized she needed help to get the short- and long-term health benefits of breastfeeding for moms and babies. New studies also have shown that covid-vaccinated mothers pass protective antibodies on to their newborns. However, Cano lives in Montrose in western Colorado, 60 miles away from her lactation counselor, Ali Reynolds, in Grand Junction — and it was during the thick of the pandemic.
She messaged Reynolds on Facebook and took photos and recorded videos of herself breastfeeding so Reynolds could offer advice and encouragement from afar. It worked. She no longer had pain. Cano is still breastfeeding Theo, who just turned 1.
“I don’t think I would have understood what was happening and been able to work through it without that resource,” said Cano.
Support for breastfeeding was upended last year, when it no longer seemed safe to take a baby class at the hospital or invite a nurse into one’s home. Hospitals, lactation counselors and support groups turned to virtual platforms like Zoom or phone calls. That made lactation support accessible to struggling families during the pandemic, said Danielle Harmon, executive director of the United States Lactation Consultant Association.
Today, although lactation specialists have more options to safely meet in person with families after their covid-19 vaccinations, many are choosing to continue virtual classes, keeping alive the online communities they created and relying on the technology that worked for many families. Virtual options especially help those in remote areas or those with limited transportation access, breastfeeding experts say.
Right before the pandemic, for example, Sandrine Druon typically had one or two moms attend in-person meetings she held for La Leche League of Longmont at the First Evangelical Lutheran Church or at a Ziggi’s Coffee shop. But because they could no longer meet in person, last June she launched two monthly virtual meetings. Now, an online meeting will typically include nine or 10 moms. She started an online Spanish-speaking meeting in May and parents joined from their homes in several states and even from other countries. She hopes eventually to have a mix of online and in-person meetings.
The virtual switch hasn’t worked for everyone. Harmon said the logistics of video support remain difficult, along with privacy concerns on platforms that could be hacked. Other lactation experts noted Black and Hispanic mothers are sometimes still left behind. So lactation specialists are trying to learn from the pandemic on what worked — and what didn’t — to reach all kinds of new parents.
Before the pandemic, 84% of U.S. mothers breastfed at least initially, according to 2019 data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, while Colorado had a 93% rate.
The pandemic hasn’t seemed to change the picture, said Stacy Miller, Colorado’s breastfeeding coordinator for the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants and Children, shorthanded as WIC. Citing state birth certificate data, Miller said preliminary breastfeeding rates among families discharged from Colorado hospitals remained similar in the first quarter of 2021 to rates from 2020 or 2019.
Throughout the pandemic, lactation specialists have tried to offer convenient options for parents. St. Joseph Hospital in Denver launched virtual breastfeeding support groups that still occur today, in addition to breastfeeding help during families’ hospital stays, said Katie Halverstadt, the hospital’s clinical nurse manager of lactation and family education.
Last year in North Carolina, experts adapted an in-person prenatal breastfeeding program to an interactive video platform in English and Spanish. A separate effort on New York’s Long Island successfully converted in-person breastfeeding support to phone and video calls in 2020.
To help support parents in Grand Junction, Colorado, Reynolds expanded her private practice, Valley Lactation, by offering virtual appointments while continuing to see some clients in their homes. That hybrid model continues today, although Reynolds said the demand for virtual or phone appointments has decreased lately as the country reopens.
Paying out-of-pocket for appointments is a hurdle her clients face, said Reynolds, but she encourages them to submit claims for telehealth or in-person visits to their health insurance companies for reimbursement. Early in the pandemic, telehealth rules were relaxed to encourage more telephone and virtual appointments — many of which have been covered by insurance.
But insurance coverage for lactation support will likely continue to be an issue independent of whether pandemic telehealth rules expire, USLCA’s Harmon said. While the Affordable Care Act mandates that insurance companies cover lactation support and supplies, such as breast pumps, Harmon said reimbursement is often spotty. Mirroring Medicaid, insurance providers often cover services only from licensed providers, she said, but just four states — Georgia, New Mexico, Oregon and Rhode Island — license lactation consultants.
Experts such as Jennifer Schindler-Ruwisch, an assistant professor at Fairfield University in Connecticut, found the pandemic may have exacerbated breastfeeding barriers for those without access to online technology or translation services, among other things. She published one of the first studies in the U.S. to examine covid’s effect on lactation services by collecting experiences from lactation support providers in Connecticut, including many working in WIC programs. For income-eligible WIC families, all breastfeeding classes, peer groups and one-on-one consultations are free.
Birdie Johnson, a doula who provides breastfeeding and other postpartum support to Black families as part of Sacred Seeds Black Doula Collective of Colorado, said virtual support groups during the pandemic also did not meet her clients’ needs for connection and interaction. Social media built communities online, particularly by normalizing breastfeeding struggles among Black parents, she said, but obstacles remained.
“Covid brought our community together and at the same time destroyed it,” Johnson said.
Black parents in the U.S. already had lower rates of breastfeeding than Asian or white parents, according to 2017 CDC data, and both Black and Hispanic parents have had lower rates of exclusively breastfeeding their babies at 6 months, which is what the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends. Socioeconomics and lack of workplace support have been found to contribute to the gap. Research also has found Black mothers are more likely than white moms to be introduced to infant formula at hospitals.
A scarcity of Black health care providers in lactation, women’s health and pediatrics is a continuing concern, Johnson said. In Colorado last year, the Colorado Breastfeeding Coalition, the Center for African American Health, Elephant Circle and Families Forward Resource Center held three training sessions for people of color to become lactation specialists, said Halverstadt, who chairs the coalition.
Jefferson County, which encompasses much of Denver’s western suburbs, is now training at least a dozen Spanish-speaking community members for lactation certification. In addition to classes, the trainees log clinical hours in breastfeeding support, sometimes during virtual meetings of a Spanish-speaking support group called Cuenta Conmigo Lactancia.
“You are more confident and more at ease with someone who knows your language, your culture and who is part of the community,” said Brenda Rodriguez, a dietitian and certified lactation consultant for Jefferson County Public Health, which reaches roughly 400 breastfeeding families each month through its WIC programs.
Angelica Pereda, a maternal and child health registered nurse, is part of that training program. Pereda, who is Hispanic and bilingual, gave birth to son Ahmias in April 2020 and struggled with breastfeeding because he could not latch on to her breasts. A lactation consultant could not come into her home during the pandemic, and she was skeptical of virtual consultations because of privacy concerns. So she pumped her breast milk and bottle-fed it to her son.
Her experience gave her newfound empathy for families, and she wants to help other Spanish-speaking parents find solutions — whether in person or virtually.
“There is just not enough breastfeeding support in general, but especially when that support is in a different language,” said Pereda.
A tsunami of restrictive abortion regulations enacted by Republican-led legislatures and governors across the South have sent women who want or need an early end to a pregnancy fleeing in all directions.
This article was published on Tuesday, August 3, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
MEMPHIS, Tenn. — Just a quick walk through the parking lot of Choices-Memphis Center for Reproductive Health in this legendary music mecca speaks volumes about access to abortion in the American South. Parked alongside the polished SUVs and weathered sedans with Tennessee license plates are cars from Mississippi, Arkansas, Florida and, on many days, Alabama, Georgia and Texas.
Choices is one of two abortion clinics in the Memphis metro area, with a population of 1.3 million. While that might seem a surprisingly limited number of options for women seeking a commonplace medical procedure, it represents a wealth of access compared with Mississippi, which has one abortion clinic for the entire state of 3 million people.
A tsunami of restrictive abortion regulations enacted by Republican-led legislatures and governors across the South have sent women who want or need an early end to a pregnancy fleeing in all directions, making long drives or plane trips across state lines to find safe, professional services. For many women, that also requires taking time off work, arranging child care and finding transportation and lodging, sharply increasing the anxiety, expense and logistical complications of what is often a profoundly difficult moment in a woman’s life.
“Especially for women coming from long distances, child care is the biggest thing,” said Sue Burbano, a patient educator and financial assistance coordinator at Choices. “They’re coming all the way from Oxford, Mississippi, or Jackson. This is a three-day ordeal. I can just see how exhausted they are.”
The long drives and wait times could soon spread to other states, as the U.S. Supreme Court prepares this fall to consider a Mississippi ban on nearly all abortions after 15 weeks of pregnancy, with no allowances for cases of rape or incest. Under a law enacted in 2018 by the Republican-led legislature, a woman could obtain a legal abortion only if the pregnancy threatens her life or would cause an “irreversible impairment of a major bodily function.”
Mississippi’s ban was promptly challenged by abortion rights activists and put on hold as a series of lower courts have deemed it unconstitutional under the Supreme Court’s landmark Roe v. Wade decision. That 1973 ruling, in concert with subsequent federal case law, forbids states from banning abortions before “fetal viability,” the point at which a fetus can survive outside the womb, or about 24 weeks into pregnancy.
Tennessee, Texas, Mississippi and several other states have since passed laws that would ban abortions after six weeks. That legislation is also on hold pending legal review.
Groups opposed to abortion rights have cheered the court’s decision to hear the Mississippi case, believing the addition of Justice Amy Coney Barrett gives the court’s conservative bloc enough votes to overturn Roe, or at least vastly expand the authority of individual states to restrict abortion.
But, for supporters of reproductive rights, anything but a firm rejection of the Mississippi ban raises the specter of an even larger expanse of abortion service deserts. Abortion could quickly become illegal in 21 states — including nearly the entire South, the Dakotas and other stretches of the Midwest — should the court rescind the principle that a woman’s right to privacy protects pregnancy decisions.
“If we end up with any kind of decision that goes back to being a states’ rights issue, the entire South is in a very bad way,” said Jennifer Pepper, executive director of Choices in Memphis.
The decades-long strategy by conservative white evangelical Christians to chip away at abortion access state by state has flourished in the South, where hard-right Republicans hold a decisive advantage in state legislatures and nearly all executive chambers.
Though details vary by state, the rules governing abortion providers tend to hit similar notes. Among them are requirements that women seeking abortions, even via an abortion pill, submit to invasive vaginal ultrasounds; mandatory waiting periods of 48 hours between the initial consultation with a provider and the abortion; and complex rules for licensing physicians and technicians and disposing of fetal remains. Some states insist that abortion providers require women to listen to a fetal heartbeat; other providers have been unable to obtain admitting privileges at local hospitals.
“Everything is hard down here,” said Pepper.
The rules also have made some doctors reluctant to perform the procedure. While obstetricians and gynecologists in California, New York, Illinois and elsewhere routinely perform abortions at their medical offices — the same practices where they care for women through pregnancy and delivery — their peers in many Southern states who perform more than a small number of abortions a year must register their practices as abortion clinics. None has done so.
Texas offers an example of how targeted legislation can disrupt a patient’s search for medical care. In 2012, 762 Texans went out of state for abortions, according to researchers at the University of Texas-Austin. Two years later, after then-Gov. Rick Perry signed into law the nation’s most restrictive abortion bill, shuttering about half the state’s abortion facilities, 1,673 women left Texas to seek services. In 2016, 1,800 did so.
Similarly, in March 2020, as the coronavirus pandemic took hold, Gov. Greg Abbott issued an order prohibiting all abortions unless the woman’s life was in danger, deeming the procedure “not medically necessary.” The month before the order, about 150 Texans went out of state to seek abortion services. In March and April, with the order in effect, nearly 950 women sought care outside Texas.
There can also be an unsettling stigma in some parts of the South.
Vikki Brown, 33, who works in education in New Orleans, said she initially tried to end her pregnancy in Louisiana, calling her gynecologist for advice, and was told by a receptionist that she was “disgusted” by the request.
She sought out the lone abortion clinic operating in New Orleans but found it besieged with both protesters and patients. “I knew but didn’t understand how difficult it was to get care,” said Brown, who moved to Louisiana in 2010 from New York City. “The clinic was absolutely full. People were sitting on the floor. It was swamped.” It took her six hours to get an ultrasound, which cost $150, she said.
A friend in Washington, D.C., counseled Brown that “it didn’t have to be like that” and the pair researched clinics in the nation’s capital. She flew to Washington, where she was able to get an abortion the same day and for less than it would have cost her in New Orleans, even including airfare.
“No protesters, no waiting period,” she said. “It was a wildly different experience.”
Atlanta, a Southern transportation hub, has also become a key piece in the frayed quilt of abortion care in the region.
Kwajelyn Jackson, executive director of Feminist Women’s Health Center in Atlanta, said the clinic regularly sees patients from other states, including Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky and the Carolinas.
These visits often involve long drives or flights, but rarely overnight stays because the state-mandated 24-hour waiting period can begin with a phone consultation rather than an in-person visit. Georgia has many of the same laws other states employ to make clinical operations more burdensome — requirements to cremate fetal remains, for instance, and that abortion providers adhere to the onerous building standards set for outpatient surgical centers — but its urban clinics so far have weathered the strategies.
Jackson said staffers at her clinic are aware of its role as a refuge. “We’ve had patients who were able to get a ride from Alabama, but they weren’t able to get a ride home,” she said. “We had to help them find a ride home. It is so much simpler to go 3 or 4 miles from your home and sleep in your bed at night. That is a luxury that so many of our patients can’t enjoy.”
Many women embarking on a search for a safe abortion are also confronting serious expenses. State Medicaid programs in the South do not pay for abortions, and many private insurers refuse to cover the procedure. In addition, the longer a woman’s abortion is delayed, the more expensive the procedure becomes.
Becca Turchanik, a 32-year-old account manager for a robotics company in Nashville, Tennessee, drove four hours to Atlanta for her abortion in 2019. “We got an appointment in Georgia because that was the only place that had appointments,” she said.
Turchanik said her employer’s health insurance would not cover abortion, and the cost of gas, food, medications and the procedure itself totaled $1,100. Her solution? Take on debt. “I took out a Speedy Cash loan,” she said.
Turchanik had a contraceptive implant when she learned she was six weeks pregnant. She said she was in an unhealthy relationship with a man she discovered to be dishonest, and she decided to end her pregnancy.
“I wish I had a child, but I’m glad it wasn’t his child,” she said. “I have accomplished so much since my abortion. I’m going to make my life better.”
But the emotions of the ordeal have stayed with her. She’s angry that she had to call around from state to state in a panic, and that she was unable to have her abortion close to home, with friends to comfort her.
Others turn to nonprofit groups for financial and logistical support for bus and plane tickets, hotels, child care and medical bills, including the National Abortion Federation, which operates a hotline to help women find providers. Last year, the federation received 100,000 calls from women seeking information, said its president, the Very Rev. Katherine Hancock Ragsdale.
Access Reproductive Care-Southeast, an abortion fund based in Atlanta, has trained over 130 volunteers who pick women up at bus stations, host them at their homes and provide child care. A study published this year in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health examined 10,000 cases of women seeking assistance from ARC-Southeast: 81% were Black, 77% were uninsured or publicly insured, 77% had at least one child, and 58% identified as Christian.
“It’s amazing to see the scope of the people we work with,” said Oriaku Njoku, ARC-Southeast’s co-founder. “The post-Roe reality that y’all are afraid of is the lived reality for folks today in the South.”
A Texas law targets precisely this kind of help, allowing such organizations or individuals to be sued by anyone in the state for helping a woman get an abortion. It could go into effect Sept. 1, though abortion rights advocates are suing to stop the new law.
Despite the controversy surrounding abortion, Choices makes no effort to hide its mission. The modern lime-green building announces itself to its Memphis neighborhood, and the waiting room is artfully decorated, offering services beyond abortion, including delivery of babies and midwifery.
Like other clinics in the South, Choices has to abide by state laws that many abortion supporters find onerous and intrusive, including performing transvaginal ultrasounds and showing the women seeking abortions images from those ultrasounds.
Nonetheless, the clinic is booked full most days with patients from almost all of the eight states that touch Tennessee, a slender handsaw-shaped state that stretches across much of the Deep South. And Katy Deaton, a nurse at the facility, said few women change their minds.
“They’ve put a lot of thought into this hard decision already,” she said. “I don’t think it changes the fact that they’re getting an abortion. But it definitely makes their life harder.”
We wanted to know whether there was any truth to the idea that the CDC was removing its test because it is faulty and cannot tell one virus from another. So we consulted several laboratory testing experts.
This article was published on Friday, July 30, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
Posts circulating on Facebook and Instagram claim the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention will stop using its covid-19 test because it cannot differentiate between the covid virus and flu viruses.
“CDC has just announced they will revoke the emergency use authorization of the RT-PCR tests first introduced in 2/20,” reads a July 25 post, which goes on to quote from the agency’s lab directive: “CDC encourages laboratories to consider adoption of a multiplexed method that can facilitate detection and differentiation of SARS CoV-2 and influenza viruses.” It continues: “Translation: They’ve been adding flu cases to Covid cases when using that test.”
Mike Huckabee, a former Fox News host who was also a Republican presidential candidate and governor of Arkansas, similarly claimed on Facebook that the CDC test cannot tell the difference between coronaviruses and flu viruses.
A July 24 Instagram post went further: “The FDA announced today that the CDC PCR test has failed its full review. Emergency Use Authorization has been REVOKED.”
The posts were flagged as part of Facebook’s efforts to combat false news and misinformation on its news feed. (Read more about PolitiFact’s partnership with Facebook.)
We wanted to know whether there was any truth to the idea that the CDC was removing its test because it is faulty and cannot tell one virus from another. So we consulted several laboratory testing experts.
It is standard practice for the Food and Drug Administration to issue temporary emergency use authorizations for tests and other medical products that have not yet undergone the FDA’s full approval process but need to be used in an emergency to diagnose, treat or prevent serious diseases.
The FDA issued the EUA for the CDC’s 2019-nCoV RT-PCR in February 2020. At that time, no other tests were available in the U.S. to determine whether someone had covid.
But it’s important to remember that what the CDC developed and submitted for its EUA request was not a tangible product but rather a protocol for how to test for covid, said Susan Whittier, a professor of pathology and cell biology at Columbia University Irving Medical Center. That means the CDC wrote out directions specifying which reagents were needed to test the laboratory samples for the presence of the covid virus. The CDC does not distribute covid tests.
“It’s not like they have a test that laboratories can purchase. We borrow their protocol and use the reagents that they say,” said Whittier, who recently retired as director of the clinical microbiology lab at Columbia. So withdrawing the EUA request just “means that protocol will no longer be available.”
In the lab alert, the CDC said it was withdrawing the EUA request because, rather than testing only for the covid virus, it wants labs to test people for multiple viruses simultaneously, using what is known as a “multiplexed method.” The CDC’s 2019-nCoV RT-PCR panel tests only for the covid virus.
“Such assays can facilitate continued testing for both influenza and SARS-CoV-2 and can save both time and resources as we head into influenza season,” noted the alert regarding the multiplexed method.
Dr. Christopher Polage, an associate professor of pathology at Duke University, said his take on the CDC’s message is that, because flu season is on the horizon, a patient might come in with respiratory symptoms that could be attributed to either covid or the flu. Laboratories need to start testing for both covid and various flu viruses.
But the lab alert does not mean the CDC’s test cannot differentiate between covid and the flu.
In fact, the CDC’s 2019-nCoV RT-PCR test was developed to look for the presence of a nucleic acid found only in the covid virus, said Kelly Wroblewski, director of infectious disease programs at the Association of Public Health Laboratories.
“It is not remotely accurate that the CDC test doesn’t differentiate between flu and SARS-CoV-2. It doesn’t detect influenza. It only detects SARS-CoV-2,” said Wroblewski. “If flu and covid are both circulating, you would be able to detect only SARS-CoV-2 and not flu.”
How the CDC’s 2019-nCoV RT-PCR test (or any other PCR test) works, Wroblewski said, is that primers, which are little bits of a genetic material, are used to identify specific viruses. In this case, the primer is built to identify a nucleic acid found only in the covid virus.
If the covid virus is present in the sample, the primer will attach to the virus’s nucleic acid and make many copies of it. A chemical in the test will then fluoresce, which the polymerase chain reaction, or PCR, machine will interpret as a positive result. If the covid virus is not present, the primer will have nothing to attach to.
When asked about the CDC withdrawing its EUA request, FDA spokesperson Jim McKinney told us PCR tests are considered the “gold standard” for covid diagnosis. He pointed us to data that illustrated the specificity and exclusivity of the CDC’s test. That data shows test results came back negative for samples that contained similar viruses, including different types of flu and other coronaviruses.
All of this means the CDC’s 2019-nCoV RT-PCR test would not erroneously detect flu viruses. Thus, the Facebook posts’ assertions that the test cannot differentiate between covid and flu are demonstrably false.
Even though the CDC is withdrawing its EUA request for this specific test, Wroblewski pointed out, it still has an EUA for a second PCR test, a multiplex one that simultaneously tests for covid and influenza types A and B.
The FDA has issued EUAs to many laboratories and testing companies for hundreds of covid tests that use the same PCR technology the CDC uses — which experts said essentially made the CDC testing protocol moot, since similar tests will still be available.
So, while it is true the CDC is withdrawing its EUA request for its test that tests solely for covid, it is not for the reasons given by the Facebook posts. The assertion that covid case counts were inflated because the test was faulty and was counting flu cases as covid cases is false.
“They didn’t withdraw the EUA because the test wasn’t working,” said Whittier. “They just wanted people to look for other viruses as well.”
Polage agreed.
“The CDC is pulling their test ‘off the market’ as a gesture to encourage labs to use tests that include reagents (primers and probes) for both SARS-CoV-2 and Influenza so providers, labs, states, and CDC will have better data this fall and winter to estimate how much of clinical influenza-like illness is due to SARS-CoV-2 and how much is due to seasonal influenza,” Polage said in an email.
Our Ruling
Social media posts claimed the CDC was revoking its emergency use authorization request for its covid test because it couldn’t differentiate between the covid virus and flu viruses. While the CDC is withdrawing its EUA request for the 2019-nCoV RT-PCR test, it is not because the test is faulty.
Rather, it’s because the agency is concerned that, with flu season approaching, patients with respiratory illness symptoms should be screened for both the flu and covid. The patients shouldn’t be tested for covid alone, because flu cases might be missed.
The statements made in these Facebook posts are not accurate. We rate this claim False.
SACRAMENTO, Calif. — Californians upset with Gov. Gavin Newsom’s pandemic rules — which shuttered businesses, kept schoolkids at home and mandated masks — helped fuel the September recall election that could spell the end of his political career.
But among the allies rushing to Newsom’s defense are doctors, nurses, dentists and other health care interests who credit those pandemic measures for protecting them as front-line workers and saving the lives of countless Californians.
Their unions and trade associations have written checks totaling more than $4.8 million as of 10 a.m. Friday to keep the first-term Democrat in office, according to a KHN analysis of campaign finance filings with the California secretary of state’s office.
Even before covid-19, Newsom had been a steadfast health care advocate and ally, adopting policies that expanded health benefits and coverage to hundreds of thousands of Californians — and lined the pockets of the industry in the process.
“He’s done so much so broadly within the health care sector in California to the benefit of patients and providers of all sorts,” said Andrew Kelly, an assistant professor in the Department of Health Sciences at California State University-East Bay. “That is good for the health care business, as well as our community — improving access to care and outcomes.”
Californians will decide Sept. 14 whether to recall Newsom on a ballot that also asks them to pick his replacement from a list of 46 candidates. If more than 50% of voters choose “yes” to recall Newsom, the candidate who wins the most votes will replace him.
The recall election offers Republicans in blue California — where Democrats hold all statewide offices and control the legislature — their best shot at winning the governor’s office. The GOP candidates with the highest name recognition are businessman John Cox, conservative talk show host Larry Elder, former San Diego Mayor Kevin Faulconer, reality TV star and former Olympian Caitlyn Jenner, suburban Sacramento state Assembly member Kevin Kiley and former congressman Doug Ose.
A poll released Tuesday by the University of California-Berkeley Institute of Governmental Studies found that 47% of likely voters said they favor recalling Newsom, compared with 50% who said they oppose recalling the governor.
Newsom’s supporters have given more than $40 million to fight the recall, compared with nearly $12 million by recall backers, which includes $5 million from Cox for his own campaign.
The health care contributions to fight the recall make up a fraction of the total, but they’re far-reaching: Health care worker unions, dentists, physicians, pharmacists, insurance companies, at least one hospital and others have made big contributions to independent campaign committees created by Newsom’s supporters that can accept unlimited donations.
The health care group that has given the most — $2.25 million — is the union representing California’s nursing home workers and in-home caregivers, Service Employees International Union 2015. Other contributions included $150,000 from the Union of American Physicians and Dentists (whose members include doctors and dentists employed by the state and some counties) and $500,000 from the California Dental Association. These groups either declined telephone interviews or did not respond to requests for comment.
In an emailed statement, SEIU 2015 did not address its sizable contributions but said it intended to mobilize “our mostly black, brown and immigrant caregivers who have been on the front lines of this pandemic to make their voices heard as we go door-to-door, over the phone and online encouraging a vote against the recall.”
An emailed statement from the California Dental Association said its political action committee “puts a great deal of consideration into supporting candidates who are interested in solving the challenges experienced by the dental profession and their patients.”
Republican candidates haven’t received any big donations — defined by the California Fair Political Practices Commission as $1,000 or more — from organized health care groups, which gubernatorial hopeful Kiley said shows just how cozy the governor is with the industry.
“You have vested interests that do whatever it takes to get the governor to do what they want,” said Kiley, one of two Assembly members who sued Newsom last year for using his emergency powers during a pandemic. “He’s taking money from all of them.”
The diverse field of health care interests defending Newsom aren’t always on the same side politically. In fact, they’re often at odds.
But if you’re in health care or public health, the prospect of Newsom being booted from office is worrisome, especially if you want the state to continue combating the pandemic, said Mark Peterson, a professor of public policy and political science at UCLA.
“I don’t think anyone who would be replacing the governor in the recall would be anywhere near as aggressive and might actually put in reverse the public health actions that have been taken,” Peterson said.
Sal Rosselli, president of the National Union of Healthcare Workers, which represents nurses, drug rehab counselors, pharmacists and others, said his union’s 15,000 members are grateful for Newsom’s leadership in the pandemic — citing his first-in-the-nation statewide stay-at-home order, his directive to hospitals last winter to test workers for covid, and other workplace orders that protected essential workers.
“These are all examples of real leadership,” Rosselli said.
In January, the union created a ballot committee to urge Californians not to sign the recall petition — chipping in just over $100,000 of its own money and collecting $10,000 apiece from state Senate leader Toni Atkins and Assembly Speaker Anthony Rendon, among others, to help pay for political ads praising Newsom’s leadership during the pandemic.
Nathan Click, a Newsom campaign spokesperson, did not address the money Newsom has received from the health care industry, but said Californians have a clear choice for governor.
“On one side, you have a governor who has expanded health care for Californians and fought to lower health care costs for families,” Click said via email. “On the other side are a bunch of Trump lackeys who want to repeal Obamacare and take away health care from those who need it most.”
When Newsom campaigned for governor in 2018, he called for a government-backed, single-payer health system at a time when the Trump administration and many Republican lawmakers were trying to dismantle the Affordable Care Act.
He hasn’t delivered on his single-payer pledge, citing insurmountable federal hurdles. But he has signed legislation and advocated for policies that insured more Californians or boosted their benefits, policies that also enrich insurers and providers by bringing them more patients.
For instance, low-income undocumented immigrants ages 19 to 25 became eligible for full benefits under Medi-Cal, California’s Medicaid program for poor residents, last year. Next year, people 50 and older will become eligible regardless of their immigration status.
For the more than 13 million Californians already in the program, Newsom and legislators agreed last year to restore dental, vision and other optional health care benefits that had been cut during the Great Recession. And they boosted the rates the program pays physicians and dentists.
Qualified Californians can also tap into state subsidies to reduce the cost of health insurance premiums sold through Covered California, a benefit approved by Newsom in 2019.
The recall has handed the unions an opportunity to pressure Newsom to act on his single-payer pledge, arguing that the pandemic has laid bare deadly disparities in health care. For example, Latinos in California not only were exposed to covid at much higher rates but also died at 1.5 times the rate of white Californians, according to researchers at Stanford University.
“We trust that Gavin Newsom is the person to lead” on single-payer, said Rosselli, who has known Newsom since he got into politics nearly 20 years ago. “To make California the first state in the nation as an example for the rest of the country on ending these inequities in health care.”
Methodology
Gov. Gavin Newsom is facing a recall election Sept. 14. To find out which health care interests are contributing for and against the recall effort, KHN analyzed campaign finance reports filed with the California secretary of state’s office through 10 a.m. Friday, July 30. Each candidate and campaign committee participating in the recall is required to report how much money they’ve raised and spent. Any donation of $1,000 or more must be reported within 24 hours.
We downloaded and analyzed campaign records from two committees created to support the recall, committees run by the leading Republican candidates, and five committees created to oppose the recall.
The message from Big Bend Regional Medical Center was stark: The only hospital in a sparsely populated region of far West Texas notified local physicians last month that because of a nursing shortage its labor and delivery unit needed to temporarily close its doors and that women in labor should instead be sent to the next closest hospital — an hour’s drive away.
That is, unless the baby’s arrival appears imminent, and the hospital’s unit is shut down at that point. In that case, a woman would deliver in the emergency room, said Dr. Jim Luecke, who has practiced 30-plus years in the area.
But that can be a tough call, he added. Luecke described his concerns for two patients, both nearing their due date, who had previously given birth, boosting the chance of a faster delivery. “They can go from 4 centimeters dilated to completely dilated within a few minutes,” said the family physician, who estimates he’s delivered 3,000 babies.
Some pregnant women already travel an hour and a half or longer to reach the 25-bed Big Bend Regional in Alpine, said Dr. Adrian Billings, another family physician who delivers babies there. “Now to divert these ambulances at least another 60 miles away, it’s asking for more deliveries to happen en route to the hospital, and potentially poor maternal or neonatal outcomes.”
Luecke can’t recall a time when the obstetrics unit at Big Bend Regional has closed.
But it’s happening in other parts of the state: Ten rural hospitals have stopped delivering babies in the past five years or so, leaving 65 out of 157 that still do, according to the Texas Organization of Rural & Community Hospitals.
Hiring and retaining rural nurses has become even more challenging amid the pandemic as nurses have been recruited to work in urban covid-19 hot spots and sometimes don’t return to their communities, said John Henderson, chief executive officer at TORCH. More recently, some Texas hospitals have offered signing bonuses of $10,000 or more as they jockey for nurses, he said. “Covid has caused a resetting of market rates and a reshuffling of nurse staffing.”
The circumstances at Big Bend Regional, which serves a 12,000-square-mile area (about the size of Maryland), illustrates the ripple effects of potentially losing obstetric services across a broader region. The hospital, owned by Quorum Health Corp., serves a swath that extends southwest to the Mexican border and includes Big Bend National Park as well as the communities of Presidio and Candelaria. The nearest hospital, the 25-bed Pecos County Memorial in Fort Stockton, is 68 miles northeast of Alpine.
As of late July, Big Bend Regional’s obstetrics services remained in flux, with the unit closed for four- and five-day stretches, said Billings. Physicians have been told that the unit would typically remain open only Monday morning through Thursday morning of each week until more nurses arrive, he said.
The staffing crisis highlights the need for more state and national efforts to train rural nurses and other clinicians, Billings added. “The big concern that I have is that, if we don’t fix this, this could be the beginning of a rural maternity care desert out here in the Big Bend.”
The hospital, which delivered 136 babies last year, said it is “working feverishly to ensure adequate staffing levels in the coming weeks,” recruiting to fill 10 nursing positions in the labor and delivery unit, according to a statement to KHN. “When our hospital is on diversion for elective OB patients, we communicate in advance with nearby emergency transport services and acute care providers to ensure continuity of care,” the statement said.
Kelly Jones of Alpine, who worried she was having contractions, couldn’t get anyone to pick up the phone for a few hours at Big Bend’s unit in mid-July. She decided to drop off her son at a friend’s house and head to the hospital.
Jones, who is nearly full term, knew the unit had been closed a few days earlier that month but didn’t realize that closures were still occurring. “I went in and said, ‘I think I’m in labor.’ They were like, ‘Well, you can’t go into labor and delivery because they’re closed. So we’re going to take you to the ER.’” In the end, medical personnel determined she wasn’t going to deliver that day and she went home.
Since the hospital first alerted doctors last month, the unit has been on diversion July 5-9, July 14-18 and then again July 22 until Sunday, July 25, according to Billings. Efforts were being made to recruit nurses from Odessa, 150 miles away, to fill in, but the outcome was uncertain, Billings said.
Luecke scheduled an induction for one patient for July 26, when her pregnancy would be at 39 weeks — a week short of full term — and the unit was scheduled to be open. “We are trying to induce them [women] on the days that they [the hospital’s unit] are open,” he said.
Jones, who is being cared for by another physician, is scheduled for induction Aug. 2, at 39 weeks. “For a while, I was not sleeping. I was really stressed. I was panicking about every scenario,” said the 30-year-old, whose pregnancy was initially considered high risk because her son had been born prematurely.
But Jones felt better once her induction date was set. And what if the baby arrives sooner and the unit is closed? She’s been told to go to the ER, to be taken from there by ambulance to the local airport and flown to Fort Stockton.
Malynda Richardson, director of emergency medical services for the town of Presidio, which sits along the Mexican border about 90 miles from Alpine, said its first responders transport more than two dozen women with pregnancy-related issues each year, most of them in labor, including an average of two who deliver en route. First responders, including paramedics, are not typically trained to assess a woman’s cervix for dilation, making it more difficult to gauge imminent delivery, she said.
Also, when responders drive an additional two to three hours round trip to reach Fort Stockton, that affects the Presidio community, which can reliably staff only one ambulance, Richardson said. “What happens when we do have that transport [of a woman in labor] and have to go to Fort Stockton and then we have somebody else down here having a heart attack and we don’t have an ambulance available?”
Rural obstetrics units require far more nurses than doctors to remain open, so diverting women elsewhere in the short term makes sense, said Dr. Tony Ogburn, who chairs the department of obstetrics and gynecology at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley School of Medicine. “If you don’t have trained nurses there, it doesn’t matter if you have a physician that can do a C-section or do a delivery; you can’t take care of those patients safely,” he said.
Registered nurses who work in labor and delivery have completed specialized training, such as how to read a fetal heart monitor, so a nurse from the ER or another hospital unit can’t easily step in, Billings said. “It’s kind of like having a small football team or a small soccer team and not being able to pull from the bench,” he said.
Billings said he’s reached out to Dr. Michael Galloway, who chairs the department of obstetrics and gynecology at Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center in Odessa and has been helping coordinate efforts to recruit nurses from that city. But even if Odessa nurses agree to pick up some shifts at Big Bend Regional, they are likely a stopgap solution, said Billings, who questions how long they’d be willing to work so far away from home.
Luecke believes Big Bend Regional administrators are doing everything they can to improve nurse staffing. But, like Billings, he’s worried that these July temporary closures could become longer-term.
“We are hoping August will be a different situation,” Luecke said. “But it’s pretty iffy right now.”
Studies have found that older adults with a broad array of "weak" as well as "close" ties enjoy better physical and psychological well-being and live longer than people with narrower, less diverse social networks.
This article was published on Monday, August 2, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
In May, Vincent Keenan traveled from Chicago to Charlottesville, Virginia, for a wedding — his first trip out of town since the start of the pandemic.
"Hi there!" he called out to customers at a gas station where he'd stopped on his way to the airport. "How's your day going?" he said he asked the Transportation Security Administration agent who checked his ID. "Isn't this wonderful?" he exclaimed to guests at the wedding, most of whom were strangers.
"I was striking up conversations with people I didn't know everywhere I went," said Keenan, 65, who retired in December as chief executive officer of the Illinois Academy of Family Physicians. "Even if they just grunted at me, it was a great day."
It wasn't only close friends Keenan missed seeing during 15 months of staying home and trying to avoid COVID-19. It was also dozens of casual acquaintances and people he ran into at social events, restaurants, church and other venues.
These relationships with people we hardly know or know only superficially are called "weak ties" — a broad and amorphous group that can include anyone from your neighbors or your pharmacist to members of your book group or fellow volunteers at a school.
Like Keenan, who admitted he's an unabashed extrovert, many older adults are renewing these connections with pleasure after losing touch during the pandemic.
Casual relationships have several benefits, according to researchers who've studied them. These ties can cultivate a sense of belonging, provide bursts of positive energy, motivate us to engage in activities, and expose us to new information and opportunities — all without the emotional challenges that often attend close relationships with family and friends.
Multiple studies have found that older adults with a broad array of "weak" as well as "close" ties enjoy better physical and psychological well-being and live longer than people with narrower, less diverse social networks. Also, older adults with broad, diverse social networks have more opportunities to develop new relationships when cherished friends or family members move away or die.
"Feeling connected to other people, not just the people who are closest to you, turns out to be incredibly important," said Gillian Sandstrom, a senior lecturer in the department of psychology at the University of Essex in England.
Sandstrom's research has found that people who talk to more acquaintances daily tend to be happier than people who have fewer of these interactions. Even talking to strangers makes people feel less lonely and more trusting, she has discovered.
Claire Lomax, 76, of Oakland, California, who's unmarried, has made a practice of chatting with strangers all her life. Among her greatest pleasures in recent years was volunteering at the Oakland Police Department, where she would ask patrol officers about their families or what was happening at the station.
"I never wanted a man of my own, but I like to be around them," she explained. "So, I got to have my guy buzz without any complications, and I felt recognized and appreciated," Lomax told me. Since becoming fully vaccinated, she's volunteering in person at the police stations again — a deep source of satisfaction.
Even people who describe themselves as introverts enjoy the positivity that casual interactions can engender.
"In fact, people are more likely to have purely positive experiences with weak ties" because emotional complications are absent, said Katherine Fiori, a prominent researcher and chair of the psychology department at Adelphi University in Garden City, New York.
Lynn Eggers, 75, a retired psychologist in Minneapolis, loved going to coffee shops and the gym before COVID hit. "In both places, you can be in a group and alone," she told me. "You can choose to talk to someone or not. But you feel you're part of the community."
At a light-rail station, Eggers would strike up conversations with strangers: two police officers who told her about growing up in Somalia, a working-class Texan whose daughter won a scholarship to Harvard, a young Vietnamese woman whose parents worried she was abandoning her culture.
When Eggers stopped taking public transportation for fear of COVID, she missed "getting these glimpses into other ways of seeing the world." Instead, she started chatting with neighbors in daily walks around her neighborhood — another way to feel connected.
Many people may have found that neighbors, mail carriers and delivery people became more important during the pandemic — simply because they were around when others were not, said Karen Fingerman, a professor of human ecology at the University of Texas-Austin. As pandemic restrictions lift, "the key is to get out in daily life again" and reengage with a variety of people and activities, she recommended.
Helen Bartos, 69, a retired clinical psychologist, lives in a condominium community in Rochester, New York. "With COVID, a whole group of us started getting together outside," she told me. "We'd bring out chairs and drinks, wear masks, and sit around and talk. It was very bonding. All of these people are neighbors; now I would call some of them friends."
Ellie Mixter-Keller, 66, of Milwaukee, turned to social gatherings sponsored by the activity group Meetup six years ago after a divorce disrupted her life. "It was my salvation. It exposed me to a bunch of new people who I didn't have to date or have to dinner," she said. Now that she's fully vaccinated, she's busy almost every night of the week attending Meetup events and informal get-togethers arranged by people she's met.
In some cases, varying views of COVID vaccines have made casual interactions more difficult. Patty Beemer, 61, of Hermosa Beach, California, used to go swing-dancing two or three times a week before the pandemic. "It'd be 20 seconds of chitchat and just dance" before all those events were canceled, she said.
In the past several months, however, the swing-dance community in and around Los Angeles has split, with some events requiring proof of vaccination and others open to everyone.
"Before, everyone danced with everyone, without really thinking about it. Now, I don't know if it's going to be like that. I'm not sure how much mixing is going to happen," Beemer said. "And that sense of shared humanity, which is so meaningful to all of us, may be harder to find."
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 health care system. Visit khn.org/columnists to submit your requests or tips.
Bryan Keller's health insurance covered much of the cost of his visit to the CityMD clinic. But it didn't cover the physician who stitched his forehead.
This article was published on Monday, August 2, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
It was a Sunday morning in late November when Bryan Keller hopped on a bike for a routine ride to pick up his groceries, cruising with ease in a relatively empty New York City.
The surprises came fast and hard: a fall that sent his head into the pavement and left him bleeding profusely and in shock, a trip to an urgent care clinic for five stitches and then a $1,039.50 bill.
Keller's health insurance covered much of the cost of his visit to the CityMD clinic on Manhattan's Lower East Side. But it didn't cover the physician who arrived to stitch his forehead ― an out-of-network plastic surgeon with a Park Avenue office.
"The people at CityMD just said [this] sort of thing is covered as part of an emergency procedure," said Keller, a regular cyclist who's lived in New York City for three decades. Even in post-accident "delirium," he said, he asked several times whether the stitches would be covered by his health insurance because it struck him as unusual that a plastic surgeon would do them.
"It really irked me that, it's this classic thing you hear in this country all the time," Keller said. "When you do all the right things, ask all the right questions and you're still hit with a large bill because of some weird technicality that there's absolutely no way for you to understand when you're in the moment."
Under a law Congress passed last year, many surprise medical bills will be banned starting in January. Patients with private insurance will be protected against unexpected charges for emergency out-of-network care, for treatment by out-of-network providers at in-network facilities and for transport in an air ambulance. But one gray area: visits to urgent care clinics, which have proliferated in recent years as patients seek speed and convenience over waiting hours at an emergency room or weeks to get a regular doctor's appointment. There are roughly 10,500 urgent care centers in the U.S., according to the Urgent Care Association, which lobbies on their behalf.
Urgent care clinics were not explicitly addressed in the No Surprises Act, but Keller's experience underscores patients' predicament ― insurers often try to steer patients to urgent care and away from costly emergency rooms, but individuals could still get hit with large bills in the process. The Biden administration has expressed an interest in prohibiting surprise bills in those clinics, which may treat serious conditions but not life-threatening injuries and illnesses.
In July, several federal agencies issued interim regulations that largely would not protect patients from surprise urgent care bills. Regulation varies significantly across states, and data is scarce on how common surprise bills are in those facilities. Before the surprise billing rules are finalized, the Department of Health and Human Services and three other federal agencies have asked for information on issues such as the frequency of such bills at urgent care facilities and how health insurers contract with the clinics.
The current regulatory gap, if left untouched before the new law takes effect in January, is one that healthcare experts say could leave patients at risk.
"There's a real interesting question about whether it should apply to the extent that people perceive these as places to go for an emergency," said Jack Hoadley, research professor emeritus for Georgetown University's McCourt School of Public Policy.
CityMD, which was founded by doctors in 2010 and merged with the large medical practice Summit Medical Group in 2019, operates a massive chain of urgent care clinics in New York and New Jersey. Most of its physicians are emergency doctors. The combined enterprise created Summit Health, which is backed by private equity with investments from well-known firms Warburg Pincus ― which acquired CityMD in 2017 ― and Consonance Capital Partners.
Matt Gove, chief marketing officer of Summit Health, confirmed that the plastic surgeon who treated Keller ― Dr. Michael Wolfeld ― has an agreement with the company that allows him to see patients at certain CityMD clinics. Though he was unable to comment on the specifics of Keller's situation, he said, CityMD's "normal procedure" is to "make the patient aware that this is available to them and that they can then make the choice as to whether or not it's important to them to be seen by a plastic surgeon."
"This is a patient choice," Gove said. "We certainly don't require that a patient be seen by Dr. Wolfeld or any other provider."
But Keller said it was never put to him as an option. "It was framed to me as 'This is how we do things,'" he said. "In order to have a preference I would have to know that there is an alternative." Wolfeld did not respond to a request for comment.
"It really irked me that, it's this classic
Last month the Biden administration proposed prohibiting surprise bills at urgent care centers licensed to perform emergency procedures, essentially treating them as free-standing emergency rooms. Some states, like Arizona, allow urgent care centers to provide emergency services, but they then are considered free-standing ERs, a spokesperson for the state Department of Health Services said. But urgent care centers aren't licensed as healthcare facilities in most states, let alone encouraged to provide emergency services, according to healthcare advocates that have tracked the issue and have pushed for greater government oversight of the industry.
New York, where Keller lives, doesn't consistently regulate urgent care providers, requiring licenses for some companies but not for CityMD clinics.
Regardless of what's prescribed in state regulations, what's considered an "emergency" versus "urgent" can vary by patient. That potentially creates confusion about whether patients would be protected from certain kinds of out-of-network bills if they show up at an urgent care facility for an acute illness or injury.
KHN also found that the urgent care clinic where Keller was treated describes several of its services as emergency care even though many are not meant to treat emergency conditions as envisioned in federal law. For example, the clinic characterizes physical exams, flu shots and vaccinations as emergency medical services. Under federal law, an emergency medical condition is defined as one where the absence of immediate medical attention could seriously jeopardize a patient's health.
Summit Health spokesperson Gove said the use of the term "emergency" is meant to be "patient-facing and patient-centric, and not having to do with miscategorizing or misrepresenting the nature of the services we provide."
The provider is "just making it clear to people that when you have something you need done quickly, which you might call personally an emergency, we're here to do that." CityMD has never marketed itself as an emergency room designed to treat all emergency conditions, Gove said.
Lou Ellen Horwitz, CEO of the Urgent Care Association, said urgent care clinics are akin to private doctor practices rather than an emergency room or hospital facility that would be subject to broad bans on surprising billing. She said that, even as urgent care clinics grow more common, there's "no data" to suggest consumer confusion about what they treat.
The association would oppose any federal push to classify these clinics as something akin to independent emergency departments, Horwitz said. Indeed, she said, such a move "contradicts" their very purpose: to treat non-life-threatening injuries and illnesses.
"The standard practice of the industry as well is that we don't hold ourselves out to be emergency departments," she said. "The likelihood of this being misunderstood is very low."
Nationwide, under the Biden administration's interim regulations, patients needing care for nonemergencies will not be protected if treated by an out-of-network provider at an in-network urgent care facility, according to healthcare experts. "You don't have protections if it turns out the doctor or the physician assistant was out of network," Hoadley said.
A March report from Community Catalyst, a Boston-based healthcare advocacy organization focused on consumer issues, and the National Health Law Program, a civil rights advocacy group, found that fewer than 10 states issue facility licenses for urgent care clinics. Those licenses give state officials greater leeway to set standards for care, staffing levels, inspections or price transparency, but could also make care more expensive by increasing providers' expenses.
Without being licensed as a healthcare facility ― something that exists for hospitals, ambulatory surgery centers and critical access hospitals ― urgent care clinics are generally treated as private physician practices subject to less regulation. "They're really flying under the radar now in many cases," said Lois Uttley, director of the Women's Health Program at Community Catalyst.
Horwitz, however, said the clinics should not be lumped in with those providers because their operations are fundamentally different.
Unlike hospitals and other practices that include facility fees in their charges to patients, "we don't charge or receive payments as a facility," she said.
In the midst of an injury, however, making such distinctions can be difficult. Keller said his motivation in going to urgent care was to get his wounds treated quickly instead of waiting hours in an ER, amid a spike in COVID-19 cases that would presage the country's deadly winter. He had also been to that particular CityMD clinic for a COVID test, so he knew it accepted his insurance.
Keller hadn't been wearing a helmet the day of his accident, caused by trying to prevent a bag of groceries from falling off his bike. With a bleeding forehead and banged-up knees and wrists ― Keller brushed a parked car and went off the bike himself ― he was given a tetanus shot and had elevated blood pressure from the shock of the accident. Still, in that moment, he thought it was odd that a plastic surgeon was being called in to give him a handful of stitches, he said.
"It sounds expensive and it sounds like something optional," he said. "I said, 'OK, is this going to be covered?' And they said, 'Oh, yeah, they should be covered. He does this, he comes here all the time.'"
In New York, CityMD is not subject to facility licensure requirements because it's considered a private physician practice, said Jeffrey Hammond, a spokesperson for the New York State Department of Health. As a result, rather than more sweeping regulations that would govern the practices of urgent care clinics, state health officials oversee individual practitioners and investigate complaints related to misconduct.
On its website for the location Keller visited, CityMD advertised many of the services it provides as "emergency medical services." They include physical exams, vaccinations, pediatric care, lab tests, X-rays, and treatment for sore throats and ear infections.
"Just stop by the CityMD walk-in clinic located on 138 Delancey St. between Norfolk and Suffolk St, where quick, reliable, emergency care service is available 365 days a year," the website reads.
About six weeks after receiving his stitches, Keller said, he went to the same plastic surgeon to get them removed. His health insurer, Aetna, has denied an appeal to fully cover the cost.
"It's so clear that getting stitches for a wound, for an open bleeding wound, is an emergency procedure to the normal world," Keller said.
As for his forehead, eight months later, Keller still has a visible scar.