Insulin for Medicare beneficiaries 'was costing 400 bucks a month on average. It now costs $35 a month.' — President Joe Biden, March 22.

This article was published on Friday, April 5, 2024 in KFF Health News.

By Samantha Putterman, PolitiFact

The cost of insulin in the United States has risen considerably in recent years, with some estimates finding that Americans have paid around 10 times as much for the drug as people in other developed countries.

But recent changes by the federal government and drug manufacturers have started to drive insulin prices down, something President Joe Biden often mentions at campaign events.

Biden told the crowd at a March 19 campaign reception in Reno, Nevada, that he's fought for years to allow Medicare to negotiate with drug companies.

"How many of you know someone who needs insulin?" Biden asked. "OK, well, guess what? It was costing 400 bucks a month on average. It now costs $35 a month."

We've heard Biden make this point several times on the campaign trail — in other instances, he has said beneficiaries were paying "as much as" $400 a month — so we wanted to look into it.

The Inflation Reduction Act, which Biden signed in 2022, caps out-of-pocket insulin costs at $35 a month for Medicare enrollees. The cap took effect in 2023. In response, three drug manufacturers said they planned to reduce the price of insulin to $35 through price caps or savings programs.

The legislation also helped patients by clarifying how much they would have to pay for insulin and other drugs.

But Biden overstated the average monthly cost that Medicare beneficiaries were paying before the law.

One government estimate for out-of-pocket insulin costs found that people with diabetes enrolled in Medicare or private insurance paid an average of $452 a year — not a month, as Biden said. That's according to a December 2022 report by the Department of Health and Human Services using 2019 data. Uninsured users, however, paid more than twice as much on average for the drug, or about $996 annually.

About Half of US Insulin Users Are on Medicare

More than 37 million Americans have diabetes, and more than 7 million of them need insulin to control their blood sugar levels and prevent dangerous complications. Of the Americans who take the drug, about 52% are on Medicare.

It's unlikely that many Medicare enrollees were paying the $400 out-of-pocket monthly average Biden referred to, though it could be on target for some people, especially if they're uninsured, drug pricing experts told us.

"It would be more accurate to say that it could cost people on Medicare over $400 for a month of insulin, but the average cost would have been quite a bit lower than $400 on Medicare," said Stacie Dusetzina, a health policy professor at Vanderbilt University School of Medicine.

Medicare Part D, also called the Medicare prescription drug benefit, helps beneficiaries pay for self-administered prescriptions. The benefit has several phases, including a deductible, an initial coverage phase, a coverage gap phase, and catastrophic coverage. What Medicare beneficiaries pay for their prescriptions often depends on which phase they're in.

"It is confusing, because the amount that a person was supposed to pay jumps around a lot in the Part D benefit," Dusetzina said. For example, she said, Medicare beneficiaries would be more likely to pay $400 a month for insulin during months when they hadn't yet met their deductible.

Mariana Socal, an associate scientist at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health, said it's also difficult to estimate insulin's precise cost under Medicare because individual prices hinge on other factors, such as how many other prescription medications patients take.

"Because the Medicare program has multiple instances where the patient is required to pay a coinsurance (percentage of the drug's cost) to get their drug, it is very likely that patients were paying much more than $35 per month, on average, before the cap established by the Inflation Reduction Act went into effect," Socal wrote in an email.

There are different ways to administer insulin, including through a pump, inhaler, or pen injector filled with the medicine.

In a 2023 report, HHS researchers estimated that about 37% of insulin fills for Medicare enrollees cost patients more than $35, and 24% of fills exceeded $70. Nationally, the average out-of-pocket cost for insulin was $58 per fill, typically for a 30-day supply, the report found. Patients with private insurance or Medicare paid about $63 per fill, on average.

For people with employer-sponsored insurance, the average monthly out-of-pocket spending on insulin in 2019 was $82, according to a report published in October 2021 by the Health Care Cost Institute, a nonprofit that studies health care prices. The study found that the majority of patients were spending an average of $35 a month, or lower, on the drug. But among the "8.7% of individuals in the highest spending category," the median monthly out-of-pocket spending on insulin was about $315, the study said.

Our Ruling

Biden said Medicare beneficiaries used to pay an average of $400 per month for insulin and are now paying $35 per month.

The Inflation Reduction Act capped the monthly price of insulin at $35 for Medicare enrollees, starting in 2023. The change built in price predictability and helped insulin users save hundreds of dollars a year.

However, most Medicare enrollees were not paying a monthly average of $400 before these changes, according to experts and government data. Costs vary, so it is possible some people paid that much in a given month, depending on their coverage phase and dosage.

Research has shown that patients with private insurance or Medicare often paid more than $35 a month for their insulin, sometimes much more, but not as high as the $400 average Biden cited.

We rate Biden's statement Half True.

PolitiFact copy chief Matthew Crowley contributed to this report.

The state's overall medical debt burden is lower than most. But racial and ethnic disparities are wider.

This article was published on Wednesday, April 3, 2024 in KFF Health News.

By Rae Ellen Bichell and Lindsey Toomer, Colorado Newsline

DENVER — In February, Norma Brambila's teenage daughter wrote her a letter she now carries in her purse. It is a drawing of a rose, and a note encouraging Brambila to "keep fighting" her sickness and reminding her she'd someday join her family in heaven.

Brambila, a community organizer who emigrated from Mexico a quarter-century ago, had only a sinus infection, but her children had never seen her so ill. "I was in bed for four days," she said.

Lacking insurance, Brambila had avoided seeking care, hoping garlic and cinnamon would do the trick. But when she felt she could no longer breathe, she went to an emergency room. The $365 bill — enough to cover a week of groceries for her family — was more than she could afford, pushing her into debt. It also affected another decision she'd been weighing: whether to go to Mexico for surgery to remove the growth in her abdomen that she said is as big as a papaya.

Brambila lives in a southwestern Denver neighborhood called Westwood, a largely Hispanic, low-income community where many residents are immigrants. Westwood is also in a ZIP code, 80219, with some of the highest levels of medical debt in Colorado.

More than 1 in 5 adults there have historically had unpaid medical bills on their credit reports, more in line with West Virginia than the rest of Colorado, according to 2022 credit data analyzed by the nonprofit Urban Institute.

The area's struggles reflect a paradox about Colorado. The state's overall medical debt burden is lower than most. But racial and ethnic disparities are wider.

The gap between the debt burden in ZIP codes where residents are primarily Hispanic and/or non-white and ZIP codes that are primarily non-Hispanic white is twice what it is nationally. (Hispanics can be of any race or combination of races.)

Medical debt in Colorado is also concentrated in ZIP codes with relatively high shares of immigrants, many of whom are from Mexico. The Urban Institute found that 19% of adults in these places had medical debt on their credit reports, compared with 11% in communities with fewer immigrants.

Nationwide, about 100 million people have some form of health care debt, according to a KFF Health News-NPR investigation. This includes not only unpaid bills that end up in collections, but also those being paid off through installment plans, credit cards, or other loans.

Racial and ethnic gaps in medical debt exist nearly everywhere, data shows. But Colorado's divide — on par with South Carolina's, according to the Urban Institute data — exists even though the state has some of the most extensive medical debt protections in the country.

The gap threatens to deepen long-standing inequalities, say patient and consumer advocates. And it underscores the need for more action to address medical debt.

"It exacerbates racial wealth gaps," said Berneta Haynes, a senior attorney with the nonprofit National Consumer Law Center who co-authored a report on medical debt and racial disparities. Haynes said too many Colorado residents, especially residents of color, are still caught in a vicious cycle in which they forgo medical care to avoid bills, leading to worse health and more debt.

Brambila said she has seen this cycle all too often around Westwood in her work as a community organizer. "I really would love to help people to pay their medical bills," she said.

Health or Debt?

Roxana Burciaga, who grew up in Westwood and works at Mi Casa Resource Center there, said she hears questions at least once a week about how to pay for medical care.

Medical debt is a "big, big, big topic in our community," she said. People don't understand what their insurance actually covers or can't get appointments for preventive care that suit their work schedules, she said.

Many, like Brambila, skip preventive care to avoid the bills and end up in the emergency room.

Doctors and nurses say they see the strains, as well.

Amber Koch-Laking, a family physician at Denver Health's Westwood Family Health Center, part of the city's public health system, said finances often come up in conversations with patients. Many patients try to get telehealth appointments to avoid the cost of going in person.

Adding to the crunch is Medicaid "unwinding", the process of states reexamining post-pandemic eligibility for health coverage for low-income people, Koch-Laking said. "They say, ‘Oh, I'm losing my Medicaid in three weeks, can you take care of these seven things without a visit?' Or like, ‘Can we just do it over the portal, because I can't afford it?'"

Looking for the Right Fix

Colorado has taken steps to protect patients from medical debt, including expanding Medicaid coverage through the 2010 Affordable Care Act. More recently, state leaders required hospitals to expand financial assistance for low-income patients and barred all medical debts from consumers' credit reports.

But the complexities of many assistance programs remain a major barrier for immigrants and others with limited English, said Julissa Soto, a Denver-based health equity consultant focused on Latino Coloradans.

Many patients, for example, may not know they can seek help with medical bills from the state or community nonprofits.

"The health care system is a puzzle. You better learn how to play with puzzles," said Soto, who said she was sent to collections for medical bills when she first immigrated to the U.S. from Mexico. "Many hospitals also have funding to help out with your debt. You just have to get to the right person, because it seems that nobody wants to let us know that those programs exist."

She said simplifying bills would go a long way to helping many patients.

Several states, including Oregon, Maryland, and Illinois, have tried to make it easier for people to access hospital financial aid by requiring hospitals to proactively screen patients.

Patient and consumer advocates say Colorado could also further restrict aggressive debt collection, such as lawsuits, which remain common in the state.

New York, for example, banned wage garnishment after finding that the practice disproportionately affected low-income communities. Research there also showed that medical debt burden was falling about twice as hard on communities of color as it was on non-Hispanic white communities.

Elisabeth Benjamin, a lawyer with the Community Service Society of New York, said hospitals were garnishing the wages of people working at Walmart and Taco Bell.

Maryland enacted limits on debt collection lawsuits after advocates found that patients living in predominantly minority neighborhoods were being disproportionately targeted. Even in wealthy counties, "the pockets that are being pursued are majority Latino neighborhoods," said Marceline White, executive director of the advocacy group Economic Action Maryland.

White's group helped pass a law requiring hospitals to pay back low-income patients and avoid the scenario she was seeing, in which hospitals were "suing patients who should have gotten free care."

Exacting a Heavy Toll

In Colorado, lawmakers are considering a measure to improve patients' access to financial aid: a modification to the state's Hospital Discounted Care program that would make hospitals presumptive eligibility sites for Medicaid.

Meanwhile, some consumer advocates say existing protections aren't working well enough.

State data shows patients who received financial assistance were primarily white. And, though it's unclear why, 42% of patients who may have been eligible were not fully screened by hospitals for financial assistance.

"What is clear is that a lot of people are not making it through," said Bethany Pray, deputy director of the Colorado Center on Law and Policy, a Denver-based legal aid group that pushed for the discounted care legislation.

Within the state's immigrant communities, medical debt — and the fear of debt — continues to take a heavy toll.

"What we've heard from our constituents is that medical debt sometimes is the difference between them being housed and them being unhoused," said Denver City Council member Shontel Lewis. Her district includes the 80216 ZIP code, another place north of the city center that is saddled with widespread medical debt.

Paola Becerra is an immigrant living in the U.S. without legal permission who was pregnant when she was bused to Denver from a Texas shelter a few months ago.

She said she has skipped prenatal care visits because she couldn't afford the $50 copays. She has emergency health coverage through Medicaid, but it doesn't cover preventive visits, and she has already racked up about $1,600 in bills.

"I didn't know that I was going to arrive pregnant," said Becerra, who thought she could no longer conceive when she left Colombia. "You have to give up your health. Either I pay the rent, or I pay the hospital."

For Rocio Leal, a community organizer in Boulder, medical debt has become a defining feature of her life.

Despite the health insurance she had through her job, Leal ended up with high-interest payday loans to pay for healthy births, wage garnishment, prenatal appointments she missed to save money, and a "ruined" credit score, which limited her housing options.

Leal recalled times she thought they'd be evicted and other times the electricity was cut off. "It's not like we're avoiding and don't want to pay. It's just sometimes we don't have an option to pay," she said.

Leal said the worst times are behind her now. She's in a home she loves, where neighbors bring cakes over to thank her son for shoveling the snow off their driveway.

Her children are doing well. One daughter got a perfect GPA for the second semester in a row. Another is playing violin in the school orchestra. Her third daughter attends art club. And her son was recently accepted to college for biomedical engineering. They are covered by Medicaid, which has removed the uncertainty around big medical bills.

But medical debt still haunts Leal, who has Type 2 diabetes.

When she was referred to Boulder Medical Center to get her eyes checked after the diabetes diagnosis, she said she was told there was a red flag by her name. The last time she'd interacted with the medical center was about a dozen years earlier, when she'd been unable to pay pediatrician bills.

"I was in the process of moving and then my wages were garnished," she recalled. "I just was like, ‘What else do I owe?'"

Heart pounding, she hung up the phone.

KFF Health News senior correspondent Noam N. Levey contributed to this report.

Rae Ellen Bichell: rbichell@kff.org, @raelnb

The loss of a trusted doctor is never easy, and it's an experience that is increasingly common.

This article was published on Tuesday, April 2, 2024 in KFF Health News.

First, her favorite doctor in Providence, Rhode Island, retired. Then her other doctor at a health center a few miles away left the practice. Now, Piedad Fred has developed a new chronic condition: distrust in the American medical system.

"I don't know," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "To go to a doctor that doesn't know who you are? That doesn't know what allergies you have, the medicines that make you feel bad? It's difficult."

At 71, Fred has never been vaccinated against covid-19. She no longer gets an annual flu shot. And she hasn't considered whether to be vaccinated against respiratory syncytial virus, or RSV, even though her age and an asthma condition put her at higher risk of severe infection.

"It's not that I don't believe in vaccines," Fred, a Colombian immigrant, said in Spanish at her home last fall. "It's just that I don't have faith in doctors."

The loss of a trusted doctor is never easy, and it's an experience that is increasingly common.

The stress of the pandemic drove a lot of health care workers to retire or quit. Now, a nationwide shortage of doctors and others who provide primary care is making it hard to find replacements. And as patients are shuffled from one provider to the next, it's eroding their trust in the health system.

The American Medical Association's president, Jesse Ehrenfeld, recently called the physician shortage a "public health crisis."

In Fred's home state of Rhode Island, the percentage of people without a regular source of routine health care increased from 2021 to 2022, though the state's residents still do better than most Americans.

Hispanic residents and those with less than a high school education are less likely to have a source of routine health care, according to the nonprofit organization Rhode Island Foundation.

The community health centers known as federally qualified health centers, or FQHCs, are the safety net of last resort, serving the uninsured, the underinsured, and other vulnerable people. There are more than 1,400 community health centers nationwide, and about two-thirds of them lost between 5% and a quarter of their workforce during a six-month period in 2022, according to a report by the National Association of Community Health Centers.

Another 15% of FQHCs reported losing between a quarter and half of their staff. And it's not just doctors: The most severe shortage, the survey found, was among nurses.

In a domino effect, the shortage of clinicians has placed additional burdens on support staff members such as medical assistants and other unlicensed workers.

Their extra tasks include "sterilizing equipment, keeping more logs, keeping more paperwork, working with larger patient loads," said Jesse Martin, executive vice president of District 1199 NE of the Service Employees International Union, which represents 29,000 health care workers in Connecticut and Rhode Island.

"When you add that work to the same eight hours' worth of a day's work you can't get everything done," Martin said.

Last October, scores of SEIU members who work at Providence Community Health Centers, Rhode Island's largest FQHC, held an informational picket outside the clinics, demanding improvements in staffing, work schedules, and wages.

The marketing and communications director for PCHC, Brett Davey, declined to comment.

Staff discontent has rippled through community health care centers across the country. In Chicago, workers at three health clinics held a two-day strike in November, demanding higher pay, better benefits, and a smaller workload.

Then just before Thanksgiving at Unity Health Care, the largest federally qualified health center in Washington, D.C., doctors and other medical providers voted to unionize. They said they were being pressed to prioritize patient volume over quality of care, leading to job burnout and more staff turnover.

The staffing shortages come as community health centers are caring for more patients. The number of people served by the centers between 2015 and 2022 increased by 24% nationally, and by 32.6% in Rhode Island, according to the Rhode Island Health Center Association, or RIHCA.

"As private practices close or get smaller, we are seeing patient demand go up at the health centers," said Elena Nicolella, RIHCA's president and CEO. "Now with the workforce challenges, it's very difficult to meet that patient demand."

In Rhode Island, community health centers in 2022 served about 1 in 5 residents, which is more than twice the national average of 1 in 11 people, according to RIHCA.

Job vacancy rates at Rhode Island's community health centers are 21% for physicians, 18% for physician assistants and nurse practitioners, and 10% for registered nurses, according to six of the state's eight health centers that responded to a survey conducted by RIHCA for The Public's Radio, NPR, and KFF Health News.

Pediatricians are also in short supply. Last year, 15 pediatricians left staff positions at the Rhode Island health centers, and seven of them have yet to be replaced.

Research shows that some of the biggest drivers of burnout are workload and job demands.

Community health centers tend to attract clinicians who are mission-driven, said Nelly Burdette, who spent years working in health centers before becoming a senior leader of the nonprofit Care Transformation Collaborative of Rhode Island.

These clinicians often want to give back to the community, she said, and are motivated to practice "a kind of medicine that is maybe less corporate," and through which they can they develop close relationships with patients and within multigenerational families.

So when workplace pressures make it harder for these clinicians to meet their patients' needs, they are more likely to burn out, Burdette said.

When a doctor quits or retires, Carla Martin, a pediatrician and an internist, often gets asked to help. The week before Thanksgiving, she was filling in at two urgent care clinics in Providence.

"We're seeing a lot of people coming in for things that are really primary care issues, not urgent care issues, just because it's really hard to get appointments," Martin said.

One patient recently visited urgent care asking for a refill of her asthma medication. "She said, ‘I ran out of my asthma medicine, I can't get a hold of my PCP for refill, I keep calling, I can't get through,'" Martin said.

Stories like that worry Christopher Koller, president of the Milbank Memorial Fund, a nonprofit philanthropy focused on health policy. "When people say, ‘I can't get an appointment with my doctor,' that means they don't have a usual source of care anymore," Koller said.

Koller points to research showing that having a consistent relationship with a doctor or other primary care clinician is associated with improvements in overall health and fewer emergency room visits.

When that relationship is broken, patients can lose trust in their health care providers.

That's how it felt to Piedad Fred, the Colombian immigrant who stopped getting vaccinated. Fred used to go to a community health center in Rhode Island, but then accessing care there began to frustrate her.

She described making repeated phone calls for a same-day appointment, only to be told that none were available and that she should try again tomorrow. After one visit, she said, one of her prescriptions never made it to the pharmacy.

And there was another time when she waited 40 minutes in the exam room to consult with a physician assistant — who then said she couldn't give her a cortisone shot for her knee, as her doctor used to do.

Fred said that she won't be going back.

So what will she do the next time she gets sick or injured and needs medical care?

"Well, I'll be going to a hospital," she said in Spanish.

But experts warn that more people crowding into hospital emergency rooms will only further strain the health system, and the people who work there.

This article is from a partnership that includes The Public's Radio, NPR, and KFF Health News.

The companies see a business opportunity in the shortage of inpatient beds for people with severe mental illness.

This article was published on Monday, April 1, 2024 in KFF Health News.

By Tony Leys

GRINNELL, Iowa — A for-profit company has proposed turning a boarded-up former nursing home here into a psychiatric hospital, joining a national trend toward having such hospitals owned by investors instead of by state governments or nonprofit health systems.

The companies see a business opportunity in the shortage of inpatient beds for people with severe mental illness.

The scarcity of inpatient psychiatric care is evident nationwide, especially in rural areas. People in crisis often are held for days or weeks in emergency rooms or jails, then transported far from their hometowns when a bed opens in a distant hospital.

Eight nonprofit Iowa hospitals have shuttered their psychiatric units since 2007, often citing staffing and financial challenges. Iowa closed two of its four mental health institutions in 2015.

The state now ranks last in the nation for access to state-run psychiatric hospitals, according to the Treatment Advocacy Center. The national group, which promotes improving care for people with severe mental illness, recommends states have at least 50 state-run psychiatric beds per 100,000 people. Iowa has just two such beds per 100,000 residents, the group said.

Two out-of-state companies have developed psychiatric hospitals in Iowa in the past four years, and now a third company has obtained a state "certificate of need" to open a 60-bed facility in Grinnell.

Before 2020, Iowa had no privately owned, free-standing psychiatric hospitals. But several national companies specialize in developing such facilities, which treat people in crisis from conditions such as depression, schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder, sometimes compounded by drug or alcohol abuse. One of the companies operating in Iowa, Universal Health Services, says it has mental health facilities in 39 states.

Lisa Dailey, the Treatment Advocacy Center's executive director, said that for-profit hospitals don't necessarily provide worse care than nonprofit ones but that they tend to be less transparent and more motivated by money. "Private facilities are private," she said. "As a result, you may not have a great insight into why they make the decisions that they make."

Dailey said solid data on privately run mental health hospitals nationwide is scarce. But she has heard for-profit companies have recently set up free-standing psychiatric hospitals in several states, including California. The California Department of Public Health confirmed three such facilities have opened there since 2021, in Aliso Viejo, Madera, and Sacramento.

The latest Iowa psychiatric hospital would be housed in a vacant nursing home on the outskirts of Grinnell, a college town of 9,500 people in a rural region of the state. The project's developers noted there are no other inpatient mental health facilities in Poweshiek County, where Grinnell is located, or in any of the eight surrounding counties. The nearest inpatient mental health facilities are 55 miles west in Des Moines.

The Indiana-based company proposing the hospital, Hickory Recovery Network, primarily runs addiction treatment centers in Indiana. But it opened psychiatric hospitals in Ohio and Texas in 2023 and 2024, and it told Iowa regulators it could open the Grinnell hospital by August.

An affiliated company ran the facility as a nursing home, called the Grinnell Health Care Center, until 2022, according to a Hickory Recovery Network filing with Iowa regulators.

Medicare rated the nursing home's overall quality at just two out of five stars. And in 2020, the facility was suspended indefinitely from Iowa's Medicaid program because of billing issues, state records show.

Officials from Hickory Recovery Network responded only briefly to KFF Health News inquiries, including about how the former Iowa nursing home's spotty record could affect the proposed psychiatric hospital.

In a short telephone interview in February, Melissa Durkin, the company's chief operating officer, declined to say who owns Hickory Recovery Network.

Durkin denied in the interview that her organization was associated with the company that ran the defunct and troubled Grinnell nursing home.

However, Hickory Recovery's application for a certificate of need refers to the nursing home operator as "Hickory's affiliated company." In testimony before Iowa regulators, Durkin made a similar reference as she expressed confidence her organization could find sufficient staff to reopen the facility as a psychiatric hospital. "We have a history with that building. We operated a nursing home there before," she said at the video-recorded hearing.

Durkin said in the interview that company leaders had not decided for sure to redevelop the vacant Iowa nursing home into a psychiatric hospital, although they twice went through the complicated process of applying for a state "certificate of need" for the project. The first attempt was stymied in 2023 by a tie vote of the board that considers such permits, which are a major hurdle for large health care projects. The second application was approved by a unanimous vote after a hearing on Jan. 25.

Keri Lyn Powers, a Hickory executive, told regulators the company planned to spend $1.5 million to remodel the building. The main changes would include making rooms safe for people who might be suicidal, she said.

The company predicted in its application that 90% of the hospital's patient revenues would come from Medicare or Medicaid, public programs for seniors or people who have low incomes or disabilities. It doesn't mention that the nursing home was suspended from Iowa's Medicaid program, which covers about half of the state's nursing home residents.

Iowa authorities suspended the Grinnell Health Care Center nursing home in 2020 for failing to repay nearly $25,000 in overpayments from Medicaid, state records show. When the nursing home closed in 2022, its former medical director told the local newspaper part of the reason for its demise was its inability to collect Medicaid reimbursements. Iowa administrators recently notified the owners that the former nursing home owed $284,676 to Medicaid. A state spokesperson said in March that neither amount had been repaid.

The proposal to reopen the building as a psychiatric hospital won support from patient advocates, Grinnell's nonprofit community hospital, and the regional mental health coordinator.

The only opposition at the state hearing came from Kevin Pettit, leader of one of Iowa's two other private free-standing psychiatric hospitals. Pettit is chief executive officer of Clive Behavioral Health Hospital, a 100-bed facility in suburban Des Moines that opened in 2021. Pettit told regulators he supports expanding mental health services, but he predicted the proposed Grinnell facility would struggle to hire qualified employees.

He said despite strong demand for care, many Iowa psychiatric facilities are limiting admissions. "The beds exist, but they're not actually open, … because we're dealing with staffing issues throughout the state," Pettit testified.

Overall, Iowa has 901 licensed inpatient mental health beds, including in psychiatric units at community hospitals, in free-standing psychiatric hospitals, and in the two remaining state mental health institutes, according to the Iowa Department of Health and Human Services. But as of January, just 738 of those beds were staffed and being used.

Pettit's facility is run by Pennsylvania-based Universal Health Services in partnership with MercyOne, a hospital system based in the Des Moines area.

In an interview, Pettit said his hospital only has enough staff to use about half of its beds. He said it's especially difficult to recruit nurses and therapists, even in an urban area with a relatively robust labor supply.

State inspectors have cited problems at the Clive facility, including four times declaring that deficiencies put patients' safety in "immediate jeopardy." Those issues included insufficient staff to properly monitor patients and insufficient safeguards to prevent access to items patients could use to choke or cut themselves.

Pettit said such citations are not unusual in the tightly regulated industry. He said the organization is committed to patient safety. "We value the review by our regulatory entities during the survey process and view any finding as an opportunity for continuous improvement of our operations," he wrote in an email.

Iowa's other privately owned psychiatric hospital, Eagle View Behavioral Health in Bettendorf, also has been cited by state inspectors. The 72-bed hospital was purchased in 2022 by Summit BHC from Strategic Behavioral Health, which opened the facility in 2020. Both companies are based in Tennessee.

State inspectors have cited the Bettendorf facility twice for issues posing "immediate jeopardy" to patient safety. In 2023, inspectors cited the facility for insufficient supervision of patients, "resulting in inappropriate sexual activity" between adult and adolescent patients. In 2021, the facility was cited for insufficient safety checks to prevent suicide attempts and sexual misconduct.

Eagle View officials did not respond to requests for comment.

Advocates for Iowa patients have supported the development of free-standing psychiatric hospitals.

Leslie Carpenter of Iowa City, whose adult son has been hospitalized repeatedly for severe mental illness, spoke in favor of the Grinnell facility's application for a certificate of need.

In an interview afterward, Carpenter said she was optimistic the new facility could find enough staff to help address Iowa's critical shortage of inpatient psychiatric care.

She said she would keep a close eye on how the new facility fares. "I think if a company were willing to come in and do the job well, it could be a game changer."

Tony Leys: tleys@kff.org, @tonyleys