Kirsch's Aug. 6 post referred to the Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System, a federal database.
"VAERS data is crystal clear," the headline read. "The COVID vaccines are killing an estimated 1 person per 1,000 doses (676,000 dead Americans)."
The blog post was shared on social media and flagged as part of Meta's efforts to combat false news and misinformation on its News Feed. (Read more about PolitiFact's partnership with Meta, which owns Facebook and Instagram.)
The data Kirsch used is from an anti-vaccine group's alternative gateway to VAERS. VAERS, which includes unverified reports, cannot be used to determine whether a vaccine caused death. Kirsch did not reply to our request for information.
"Statements that imply that reports of deaths to VAERS following vaccination equate to deaths caused by vaccination are scientifically inaccurate, misleading and irresponsible," the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which co-manages the database with the FDA, told PolitiFact.
The CDC added that it "has not detected any unusual or unexpected patterns for deaths following immunization that would indicate that COVID vaccines are causing or contributing to deaths, outside of the nine confirmed" thrombosis with thrombocytopenia syndrome, or TTS, deaths following the Johnson & Johnson/Janssen vaccine, which is no longer offered in the U.S.
TTS, which causes blood clots, has occurred in approximately four cases per million doses administered, according to the CDC.
VAERS helps researchers collect data on vaccine aftereffects and detect patterns that may warrant a closer look.
The CDC cautions that VAERS results, which come from unverified reports anyone can make, are not enough to determine whether a vaccine causes a particular adverse event.
For the covid vaccines, VAERS has received a flood of reports, and they have become especially potent fuel for misinformation.
Kirsch made his claim not by using VAERS directly, but with an alternative gateway to VAERS from the anti-vaccine National Vaccine Information Center.
That website draws on raw and limited VAERS reports, which can include incomplete or inaccurate information. These reports do not provide enough information to determine whether a vaccine caused a particular adverse event.
There is no evidence that covid vaccines have killed Americans in large numbers, let alone 676,000. We rate the claim Pants on Fire!
The Biden administration last year promised to establish minimum staffing levels for the nation's roughly 15,000 nursing homes. It was the centerpiece of an agenda to overhaul an industry the government said was rife with substandard care and failures to follow federal quality rules.
But a research study the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services commissioned to identify the appropriate level of staffing made no specific recommendations and analyzed only staffing levels lower than what the previous major federal evaluation had considered best, according to a copy of the study reviewed Monday by California Healthline. Instead, the new study said there was no single staffing level that would guarantee quality care, although the report estimated that higher staffing levels would lead to fewer hospitalizations and emergency room visits, faster care, and fewer failures to provide care.
Patient advocates said the report was the latest sign that the administration would fall short of its pledge to establish robust staffing levels to protect the 1.2 million Americans in skilled nursing facilities. Already, the administration is six months behind its self-imposed deadline of February to propose new rules. Those proposals, which have not been released, have been under evaluation since May by the Office of Management and Budget. The study, dated June 2023, has not been formally released either, but a copy was posted on the CMS website. It was taken down shortly after California Healthline published this article.
"It's honestly heartbreaking," said Richard Mollot, executive director of the Long Term Care Community Coalition, a nonprofit that advocates for nursing home patients in New York state. "I just don't see how this doesn't ultimately put more residents at risk of neglect and abuse. Putting the government's imprimatur on a standard that is patently unsafe is going to make it much more difficult for surveyors to hold facilities accountable for the harm caused by understaffing nursing homes."
For months, the nursing home industry has been lobbying strenuously against a uniform ratio of patients to nurses and aides. "What is clear as you look across the country is every nursing home is unique and a one-size-fits-all approach does not work," said Holly Harmon, senior vice president of quality, regulatory, and clinical services at the American Health Care Association, an industry trade group.
Nursing home groups have emphasized the widespread difficulty in finding workers willing to fill existing certified nursing assistant jobs, which are often grueling and pay less than what workers can make at retail stores. Homes say their licensed nurses are often drawn away by other jobs, such as better-paying hospital positions. "The workforce challenges are real," said Katie Smith Sloan, president and CEO of LeadingAge, an association that represents nonprofit nursing homes.
The industry has also argued that if the government wants it to hire more workers it needs to increase the payments it makes through state Medicaid programs, which are the largest payor for nursing home care. Advocates and some researchers have argued that nursing homes, particularly for-profit ones, can afford to pay employees more and hire additional staff if they forsake some of the profits they give investors.
"Certainly, facilities haven't put all the dollars back into direct care over the years," said David Grabowski, a professor of health care policy at Harvard Medical School. "But for certain facilities, it's going to be a big lift to pay for" higher staffing levels, he said in an interview last week.
In a written statement to KFF Health News, Jonathan Blum, CMS' principal deputy administrator and chief operating officer, said the study had been posted in error. "CMS is committed to holding nursing homes accountable for protecting the health and safety of all residents, and adequate staffing is critical to this effort," he said. "CMS's proposal is being developed using a rigorous process that draws on a wide range of source information, including extensive input from residents and their families, workers, administrators, experts, and other stakeholders. Our focus is on advancing implementable solutions that promote safe, quality care for residents." Blum's statement called the study a "draft," although nothing in the 478-page study indicated it was preliminary.
The study has been widely anticipated, both because of the central role the administration said it would play in its policy and because the last major CMS study, conducted in 2001, had concluded that nursing home care improves as staffing increases up to the level of about one worker for every six residents. The formal metric for that staffing level was 4.1 staff hours per resident per day, which is calculated by dividing the number of total hours worked by nurses and aides on duty daily by the number of residents present each day.
CMS never adopted that staffing ratio and instead gave each nursing home discretion to determine a reasonable staffing level. Regulators rarely cite nursing homes for insufficient staffing, even though independent researchers have concluded low staffing is the root of many nursing home injuries. Too few nurse aides, for instance, often means immobile residents are not repositioned in bed, causing bedsores that can lead to infection. Low staffing also is often responsible for indignities residents face, such as being left in soiled bedsheets for hours.
The new research was conducted by Abt Associates, a regular contractor for CMS that also performed the 2001 study. But the report, in an implicit disagreement with its predecessor, concluded there was "no obvious plateau at which quality and safety are maximized or ‘cliff' below which quality and safety steeply decline." Abt referred questions about the study to CMS.
The study evaluated four minimum staffing levels, all of which were below the 4.1 daily staff hours that the prior study had identified as ideal. The highest was 3.88 daily staff hours. At that level, the study estimated 0.6% of residents would get delayed care and 0.002% would not get needed care. It also said that staffing level would result in 12,100 fewer hospitalizations of Medicare residents and 14,800 fewer emergency room visits. The report said three-quarters of nursing homes would need to add staff to meet that level and that it would cost $5.3 billion extra each year.
The lowest staffing level the report analyzed was 3.3 daily staffing hours. At that level, the report said, 3.3% of residents would get delayed care and 0.04% would not get needed care. That level would reduce hospitalizations of Medicare residents by 5,800 and lead to 4,500 fewer emergency room visits. More than half of nursing homes would have to increase staff levels to meet that ratio, the report said, and it would cost $1.5 billion more each year.
Charlene Harrington, a professor emeritus of nursing at the University of California-San Francisco, said CMS "sabotaged" the push for sufficiently high staffing through the instructions it gave its contractor. "Every threshold they looked at was below 4.1," she said. "How can that possibly be a decent study? It's just unacceptable."
This article was produced by KFF Health News, formerly known as Kaiser Health News (KHN), a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling, and journalism.
[UPDATE: This article was last revised at 12:30 p.m. PT to reflect that the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services removed a copy of the study from its website after this article was published, and to include reaction from CMS leadership and Abt Associates.]
BOULDER, Colo. — Mad-scientist kind of moments happen fairly often for nanoengineer Carson Bruns. A few months ago in his lab at the University of Colorado-Boulder, he tested his latest invention on his own arm and asked a colleague for help.
"We were like, 'OK, we're going to tattoo ourselves. Can you help us today?'" he said.
The tattoo is like a freckle, a little blue dot. But he can turn it on and off. Like the way a mood ring changes color with temperature, this tattoo changes with light: Ultraviolet light to turn it on, daylight (or even a flashlight) to turn it off.
"You can go to court and turn it off, and then go to the party and turn it on. And then go to Grandma's house and turn it off," said Bruns, who is affiliated with the university's ATLAS Institute, which prides itself on fostering out-of-the-box ideas.
Bruns started a company with tattoo-artist-to-the-stars Keith "Bang Bang" McCurdy, along with a former doctoral student. Early next year, they plan to release their first product, Magic Ink, to a group of handpicked artists. The business partners have long-term hopes for smart tattoos that have a health value, but cosmetics are cheaper and simpler to get to consumers than medical devices. So, that's where they're starting.
The new ink will enter a market in a moment of flux for the regulation of cosmetics. The FDA steps in to urge a recall if an ink causes a bacterial outbreak but traditionally has not exercised its regulatory might over tattoo ink products as it does with other products that go into the body. (Tattoo inks don't even have to be sterile.) But following the Modernization of Cosmetics Regulation Act of 2022, the FDA is expanding its authority over tattoo manufacturers. The agency is now accepting comments on draft guidance about tattoo ink preparation.
"To be honest with you, I don't think either the FDA or the tattoo ink industry really knows what that's going to look like," said John Swierk, a chemist at the State University of New York-Binghamton. But, he said, the law does mean "the FDA has a new charge to really ensure that labeling is correct and good manufacturing practices are being followed."
Bruns said Magic Ink is made of particles of dye, encased in beads of plexiglass — the same polymethyl methacrylate material in those dermal fillers people use to plump their lips. Dermal fillers are FDA-approved, whereas tattoo ink contents can be like a black box.
Swierk said many of the tattoo pigments in use now have been around a long time, which gives some users a base comfort level about their safety. But a new material comes with new unknowns.
"If somebody is going to get tattooed with Magic Ink, they have to accept a degree of uncertainty about what the future is going to hold with that ink," Swierk said.
Bruns recently received funding from the National Science Foundation, which he plans to use for probing which size and type of nanoparticles are less likely to irritate the immune system and more likely to stay put where they're placed. The immune system has been known to haul off bits of tattoo ink to the lymph nodes, dyeing them blue and green.
While Magic Ink is a cool party trick, Bruns and his colleagues have made other inks that align with their bigger goal: to make tattoos helpful.
Bruns and his colleagues have made one that changes color when exposed to gamma radiation — envisioning it might someday work as a built-in exposure meter. Another ink shows up when it is time to put on sunscreen. He developed yet another ink intended to act as a permanent sunscreen. None of those are available to consumers, though the permanent sunscreen is furthest along. That ink has been tested in a small group of mice; the others have been tested on pigskin.
Bruns started a company, Hyprskn, a few years ago, when Bang Bang came across his work and suggested they team up.
The name Bang Bang might not ring a bell, but the tattoos he's done are very public: They're cascading down Rihanna, scattered across Miley Cyrus, and peering out from LeBron James, among others. Turns out, Bang Bang loves tech.
"I would like to wave my hand and pay with my AmEx, or walk up to my car and it knows it's me," he said. Or, he continued, maybe there could even be health applications — like alerting him if his blood sugar is high or low, just by looking at the color of his tattoos.
Scientifically, that is still way far off. If tattoo ink were to make the leap from cosmetics into the medical realm, it would require clearing all sorts of regulatory hoops.
"There's a lot of steps between where we are today and getting a functional tattoo that's going to tell you something about your health," Swierk said. "A lot of steps."
But Bang Bang thinks the product they're taking preorders for is step one toward building a consumer base that would be open to tattooable tech.
The first product they're offering to consumers is Magic Ink. It's a lot like that blue freckle on Bruns' arm, except it's red. For now, that's the only color available for purchase.
"That's how you can excite people," said Bang Bang. "It's almost a Trojan horse into that new goal of how do we bridge the gap between tattoo and technology."
It's $100 for a half-ounce bottle. That's a lot more than regular ink costs. If the product takes off, the University of Colorado-Boulder will also benefit, as it owns the intellectual property.
Bang Bang is among a few dozen people, many of them tattoo artists, who are already wearing the ink in their skin.
Tattoo artist Selina Medina has been in the business more than 20 years and used to work for an ink manufacturer. She spends a lot of time advocating for tattoo safety, volunteering with several national and international groups focused on the issue.
"I'd probably give it a year in the market before I would buy it. But it does look really interesting," said Medina, who is on the board of directors for the Alliance of Professional Tattooists.
Medina hopes this ink is different from the UV inks she saw pop up in the 2000s, which would glow under a black light.
"It seemed like an awesome idea, but then we noticed that it faded really fast," she said. "It would just disappear. We didn't know what it did. We didn't know where it went. And that was just kind of like, 'What the hell is this stuff?'"
She expects her customers will be clamoring for Magic Ink before she's ready to purchase it.
Looking further afield, some companies are already investing in technology embedded in the skin. A European company called DSruptive makes injectable thermometers. It said about 5,000 people — living primarily in Sweden, Japan, the U.S., and the United Kingdom — have had the devices installed. Ali Yetisen, an engineer at Imperial College London, said for companies eyeing tech embedded in the skin, diabetes is a big focus.
"That's where the money is. Most companies invest in this area," said Yetisen. The dream is to create something like a tattoo that could measure blood sugar in real time, and be long-lasting, he said.
"That's the holy grail of all medical diagnostics," he said.
While Bruns' inventions sense external factors like light and radiation, for manufacturers looking to develop in-body tech that reacts to the blood, there are other scientific hurdles. The immune system forms little shells around foreign bodies, effectively putting up a wall between a sensor and the blood.
No one has really figured a way around that yet, said Yetisen, but a lot of people are trying.
California doctors and state lawmakers are squaring off once again over the future of the Medical Board of California, which is responsible for licensing and disciplining doctors and has been criticized by patient advocates for years for being too lax.
A bill before the legislature would significantly increase the fees doctors pay to fund the medical board, which says it hasn't had the budget to carry out its mission properly. It would also mandate new procedures for investigating complaints.
Patient advocates say the board, which oversees about 150,000 physicians and surgeons with active licenses in the state, is hamstrung by a lack of funding and clunky processes, and that its shortcomings pose a risk to the public by allowing bad doctors to continue practicing. The board opened only about 1,000 investigations out of nearly 10,000 complaints last year, according to its 2022 annual report.
But the California Medical Association, which represents physicians, is again fighting proposed increases in the fee, which was unchanged for more than a decade before being raised in 2021 after a contentious debate. Now lawmakers want to boost the license renewal fee to $1,289 every two years, up from $863 currently.
The doctors' lobby largely defeated the 2021 efforts to strengthen the board, and critics say the group is trying to whittle away the board's power by depriving it of funding.
The legislation, sponsored by Sen. Richard Roth, a Riverside Democrat, would also require board staff to interview patients or families before closing their complaints, create a unit to better facilitate communications, and improve efficiency by changing procedures and adjusting standards of evidence for investigations.
Another provision would allow patients and relatives to make a statement during the investigation about how a doctor's negligence or misconduct affected them — similar to crime victims speaking during a sentencing hearing in criminal court.
The bill faces a pivotal vote in the state Assembly's Appropriations Committee this month.
Most California licensing boards are funded through license fees. Currently, dentists pay $668 for a two-year license renewal, plus other permitting fees such as $325 for general anesthesia or $650 for oral surgery. Attorneys actively practicing in California pay $510 annually.
But the medical association insisted in a memo that it "cannot agree to a fee increase of nearly 50% that will primarily go toward building a multimillion-dollar reserve fund and future programs for the Medical Board."
"If the bill is passed in its current form, it would have vast, negative impacts on the practice of medicine and healthcare delivery in California," it added.
George Soares, a legislative advocate for the California Medical Association, told lawmakers last month that the association would be willing to accept a fee increase, but that $1,289 is too much — more than double the national average for state medical licenses. A July working paper from the National Bureau of Economic Research found that physicians' annual earnings average $350,000 across the U.S.
The medical board supports the bill and says a fee hike is needed to cover operations, repay millions of dollars in loans, and establish a three-month reserve. Over the past two years, the Department of Consumer Affairs, which is responsible for the operations of the medical board and other licensing boards, has had to backfill the board's $79 million budget, using a total of $18 million in loans from Bureau of Automotive Repair license fees to cover the gap.
"The simple reality is that the board is not able to pay its bills," a spokesperson for the medical board read from a joint statement from Randy Hawkins, the vice president of the board, and Richard Thorp, a former president of the California Medical Association and current member of the board, at a committee hearing last month.
"We are physicians in private practice, and this fee increase will impact us personally, albeit at an increased cost of less than $20 per month," the statement read. "We do not see this as a burden but rather as an investment into the organization that helps ensure that physicians have the confidence of the patients that we are privileged to treat."
Roth points out that the medical board, which is composed of eight physicians and seven members of the public, has little control over staffing costs. Its 169 employees work for the state and are covered by labor agreements negotiated by statewide employee unions.
Consumer advocates say the opposition from the doctors' lobby is part of a years-long effort to weaken the board and deprive it of adequate funding.
A report about the medical board's operations conducted by a consulting firm that serves as the enforcement monitor for the board, Alexan RPM Inc., underscored the board's financial challenges and recommended adopting automatic annual fee increases tied to the consumer price index, or something similar. Some lawmakers suggested the fees could be determined on a sliding scale based on doctors' income.
Critics have complained for years that the medical board doesn't hold doctors accountable often enough. Families that file complaints against doctors frequently go years without updates on the status of investigations, and often aren't told why when their complaints are rejected.
"This is kind of the culmination of two things: patient advocacy trying to make changes and a few years of very recent, direct pushes by the legislature," said Carmen Balber, the executive director of Consumer Watchdog, a consumer and patient advocacy organization.
The California Medical Association has already blunted some aspects of the bill, including securing the removal of a provision to add two more members of the public to the board, which would have made it a public-member majority instead of its current physician majority.
The association is also opposed to a provision currently in the bill that would lower the standard of proof for disciplining doctors in instances besides those in which they could lose their licenses.
Tracy Dominguez, a Bakersfield resident whose daughter, Demi, and grandson, Malakhi, died in 2019 from complications of severe preeclampsia, is among those advocating for reforms.
One of the physicians who treated Dominguez's daughter prior to her death had already been accused by the medical board of gross negligence that led to the death of a young mother, according to medical board documents. Advocates at Consumer Watchdog allege his negligence had already caused death or permanent injury of other mothers and babies he treated, and that he was already banned from practicing in some hospitals at the time he treated Demi Dominguez but had been allowed to keep his license.
Tracy Dominguez said she hopes changing evidentiary standards and strengthening the medical board overall "will put dangerous doctors away."
And a chance to provide a victim impact statement would be important for families hurt by medical neglect, she added. It would be "an opportunity for them to hear from the family, directly — to know that she was a person, not just a number."
Madera Community Hospital in California's Central Valley, which ceased operations last December and filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in March, moved a step closer to reopening Thursday when California's new fund for troubled hospitals said it was prepared to offer the facility up to $52 million in interest-free loans.
The program is offering an additional $240.5 million in no-interest loans to 16 other troubled hospitals, including Beverly Community Hospital in Montebello and Hazel Hawkins Memorial Hospital in Hollister, both of which filed for bankruptcy earlier this year.
Hazel Hawkins will get a loan of $10 million, and Beverly will get a bridge loan of $5 million while it is being purchased out of bankruptcy by Adventist Health's White Memorial in Los Angeles, according to the state's Department of Health Care Access and Information, which unveiled the lending details Thursday.
Adventist Health has also agreed conditionally to manage Madera if it reopens. If all goes well it would take six to nine months to reopen, officials said.
Madera will get a bridge loan of $2 million to cover basic costs while Adventist Health, a large multistate health system with 22 hospitals in California, works on a "comprehensive hospital turnaround plan," the department said. Once such a plan is approved, Madera "can be eligible for an additional $50 million loan" from the distressed hospital program, it said.
For most of last year, Fresno-based St. Agnes Medical Center, part of the large Catholic hospital chain Trinity Health, appeared poised to rescue Madera Community Hospital from financial ruin in a planned acquisition that was approved by California Attorney General Rob Bonta. But Trinity walked away from the deal at the last minute with scant explanation, infuriating Bonta along with multiple other political leaders, community advocates, and health care officials.
Trinity, which had loaned Madera $15.4 million during their merger talks, became its largest creditor in the bankruptcy that ensued. At the time of its bankruptcy filing in March, Madera reported total debts of just over $30 million.
Adventist Health agreed last month to a nonbinding letter of intent to manage Madera. At the time, Kerry Heinrich, Adventist's president and CEO, said that if the shuttered hospital got the requisite financing, Adventist Health would use its expertise in "helping to secure a sustainable future for healthcare" in the county.
Adventist Health spokesperson Japhet De Oliveira said Thursday that his organization remains intent on doing so. Reopening Madera "would be a really good thing, and we will put every effort into making that happen," De Oliveira said. He added: "We will need all parties to be involved in developing the approved plan and negotiating the terms of management services."
Karen Paolinelli, the CEO of Madera Community Hospital, did not respond to emailed questions by publication time.
State political leaders representing the region expressed satisfaction with Thursday's news. "It brings me tremendous relief to know that Madera Community Hospital and Hazel Hawkins Memorial Hospital in San Benito County have received grant awards and will be able to ensure that community members can once again receive services in their own communities," said Sen. Anna Caballero, a Democrat who represents the areas in which those facilities are located.
The Adventist letter of intent for Madera said that in addition to paying off creditors in the bankruptcy, the hospital would need to secure $55 million in the first year to pay for all aspects of reopening, plus an additional $30 million in the second year.
The $52 million the state proposes lending to Madera is significantly short of the $80 million the hospital applied for. Assuming the full $52 million materializes, the total amount loaned to the 17 hospitals would be $292.5 million — nearly the entire $300 million available to the fund for fiscal years 2023 and 2024. The program is scheduled to end after 2031.
With $52 million from the state, Madera Community Hospital would still need to find an additional $33 million. Madera said in a bankruptcy court filing earlier this year that it expects just over $33 million in revenues from "provider fees" and from the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
The law that created the distressed hospital loan fund, AB 112, initially provided for $150 million in lending to help troubled hospitals, mostly rural ones, that faced the risk of closing. Another $150 million was later added to the pot. Small hospitals across the state — and the country — have been buffeted by the ill economic winds of the covid-19 pandemic, which ratcheted up the cost of drugs, supplies, and labor.
Hospital industry officials have also pointed to low payment rates by government programs, especially Medi-Cal, California's Medicaid program, which they say has saddled many hospitals with financial losses.
Madera made the same argument, but state data shows it received enough supplemental payments to earn nearly $15 million from Medi-Cal in 2021, though it lost over $11 million treating Medicare patients.
The hospitals awarded the largest loans by the distressed hospital fund are Tri-City Medical Center in Oceanside, with $33.2 million; Dameron Hospital Association in Stockton, with $29 million; Pioneers Memorial Healthcare District in Imperial County, with $28 million; and El Centro Regional Medical Center, with $28 million.
Sally Nix was furious when her health insurance company refused to pay for the infusions she needs to ease her chronic pain and fatigue.
Nix has struggled with a combination of autoimmune diseases since 2011. Brain and spinal surgeries didn't ease her symptoms. Nothing worked, she said, until she started intravenous immunoglobulin infusions late last year. Commonly called IVIG, the treatment bolsters her compromised immune system with healthy antibodies from other people's blood plasma.
"IVIG turned out to be my great hope," she said.
That's why, when Nix's health insurer started denying payment for the treatment, she turned to Facebook and Instagram to vent her outrage.
"I was raising Cain about it," said Nix, 53, of Statesville, North Carolina, who said she was forced to pause treatment because she couldn't afford to pay more than $13,000 out of pocket every four weeks. "There are times when you simply must call out wrongdoings," she wrote on Instagram. "This is one of those times."
Prior authorization is a common cost-cutting tool used by health insurers that requires patients and doctors to secure approval before moving forward with many tests, procedures, and prescription medications. Insurers say the process helps them control costs by preventing medically unnecessary care. But patients say the often time-consuming and frustrating rules create hurdles that delay or deny access to the treatments they need. In some cases, delays and denials equal death, doctors say.
That's why desperate patients like Nix — and even some physicians — say they have turned to publicly shaming insurance companies on social media to get tests, drugs, and treatments approved.
"Unfortunately, this has become a routine practice for us to resort to if we don't get any headway," said Shehzad Saeed, a pediatric gastroenterologist at Dayton's Children's Hospital in Ohio. In March, he tweeted a photo of an oozing skin rash, blaming Anthem for denying the biologic treatment his patient needed to ease her Crohn's disease symptoms.
In July, Eunice Stallman, a psychiatrist based in Idaho, joined X, formerly known as Twitter, for the first time to share how her 9-month-old daughter, Zoey, had been denied prior authorization for a $225 pill she needs to take twice a day to shrink a large brain tumor. "This should not be how it's done," Stallman said.
The federal government has proposed ways to reform prior authorization that would require insurance companies to provide more transparency about denials and to speed up their response times. If finalized, those federal changes would be implemented in 2026. But even then, the rules would apply only to some categories of health insurance, including Medicare, Medicare Advantage, and Medicaid plans, but not employer-sponsored health plans. That means roughly half of all Americans wouldn't benefit from the changes.
The 2010 Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act prohibits health insurance plans from denying or canceling coverage to patients due to their preexisting conditions. AHIP, an industry trade group formerly called America's Health Insurance Plans, did not respond to a request for comment.
But some patient advocates and health policy experts question whether insurers are using prior authorization as "a possible loophole" to this prohibition, as a way of denying care to patients with the highest health care costs, explained Kaye Pestaina, a KFF vice president and the co-director of its Program on Patient and Consumer Protections.
"They take in premiums and don't pay claims. That's how they make money," said Linda Peeno, a health care consultant and retired Kentucky physician who was employed as a medical reviewer by Humana in the 1980s and later became a whistleblower. "They just delay and delay and delay until you die. And you're absolutely helpless as a patient."
"Nobody is saying we should get rid of it entirely," said Todd Askew, senior vice president for advocacy at the American Medical Association, in advance of the group's annual meeting in June. "But it needs to be right-sized, it needs to be simplified, it needs to be less friction between the patient and accessing their benefits."
Customers are increasingly using social media to air their complaints across all industries, and companies are paying attention. Nearly two-thirds of complainants reported receiving some sort of response to their online post, according to the 2023 "National Consumer Rage Survey," conducted by Customer Care Measurement & Consulting in collaboration with Arizona State University.
Some research suggests companies are better off engaging with unhappy customers offline, rather than responding to public social media posts. But many patients and doctors believe venting online is an effective strategy, though it remains unclear how often this tactic works in reversing prior authorization denials.
"It's not even a joke. The fact that that's how we're trying to get these medications is just sad," said Brad Constant, an inflammatory bowel disease specialist who has published research on prior authorization. His work found that prior authorizations are associated with an increased likelihood that children with inflammatory bowel disease will be hospitalized.
Saeed said the day after he posted the picture of the skin rash, the case was marked for a peer-to-peer review, meaning the prior authorization denial would get a closer look by someone at the insurance company with a medical background. Eventually, the biologic medicine Saeed's patient needed was approved.
Stallman, who is insured through her employer, said she and her husband were prepared to pay out of pocket if Blue Cross of Idaho didn't reverse the denial for the drug Zoey needed.
Bret Rumbeck, a spokesperson for the insurer, said Zoey's medication was approved on July 14 after the company consulted an outside specialist and obtained more information from Zoey's doctor.
Stallman posted details about the ordeal online only after the insurer approved the drug, in part, she said, to prevent them from denying the treatment again when it comes up for a 90-day insurance review in October. "The power of the social media has been huge," she said.
Nix had been insured by Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois through her husband's employer for almost two decades. Dave Van de Walle, a spokesperson for the company, did not specifically address Nix's case. But in a prepared statement, the company said it provides administrative services for many large employers who design and fund their own health insurance plans.
Nix said an "escalation specialist" from the insurance company reached out after she posted her complaints on social media, but the specialist couldn't help.
Then, in July, after KFF Health News contacted Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois, Nix logged in to the insurer's online portal and found that $36,000 of her outstanding claims had been marked "paid." No one from the company had contacted her to explain why or what had changed. She also said she was informed by her hospital that the insurer will no longer require her to obtain prior authorization before her infusions, which she restarted in late July.
"I'm thrilled," she said. But "it just should never have happened this way."
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CARROLLTON, Ala. — Annie Jackson can't know whether her sister Grena Prude might have survived had an ambulance been more readily available when she went into cardiac arrest on May 10. But Jackson is convinced her sister would have at least had a chance.
Prude, 55, died at the steps of Carrollton City Hall, less than a half-mile from her county's only ambulance station. When someone called 911 to get her help, two ambulances were on duty: One was transporting a patient to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 45 minutes away, and the other a patient to Columbus, Mississippi, a 30-minute drive.
"It was a horrible situation," said Vicky McCrory, supervisor of the nonprofit Pickens County Ambulance Service, but not an isolated one. There have been multiple similar tragedies.
That single ambulance station in Carrollton serves all of Pickens County, dispatching one and sometimes two ambulances to serve just under 20,000 residents spread across 900 square miles. The farthest reaches of the county line are 25 to 30 miles away on two-lane country roads.
In rural areas where hospitals have shuttered, like Pickens County, the nearest surviving facilities are long drives away, ambulance coverage is sparse, and residents in the throes of medical emergencies often find their situations even more precarious.
In May, the rural health research and policy centers released the results of an effort by the Maine Rural Health Research Center to document coverage gaps in the availability of ambulance services across the country — what the researchers refer to as "ambulance deserts." They define those deserts as places where people live more than 25 minutes from the nearest station.
The study found that in the 41 states for which data was available, 4.5 million people lived in an ambulance desert. Six in 10 lived in the South. Alabama had 315,000 people living at such a distance, ranking second highest behind North Carolina.
But a closer look into emergency services in Pickens County reveals a grimmer situation. In March 2020, the 56-bed Pickens County Medical Center shut its doors, with administrators citing an unsustainable financial situation and a declining patient volume.
Those living along the periphery of Pickens County must wait nearly a half-hour for an ambulance to arrive. Patients must then ride up to an hour to reach a hospital, in either Tuscaloosa or Columbus.
State Route 86 runs through downtown Carrollton, past the courthouse and City Hall. To the north are the tapering hills of Appalachia; to the south, the Black Belt region.
"Everybody here knows everybody," said Terrence Windham, mayor of Aliceville, a town roughly 10 miles south of Carrollton. And, seemingly, everyone has heard of the death of Grena Prude.
Julia Boothe is a longtime family physician in the town of Reform, situated about 10 miles north of Carrollton, and a recent president of the state medical association.
Boothe said it's not uncommon for people to decide there's no point in calling 911. Some instead show up in her office in a condition well beyond what "a family medicine practice in a rural area of 1,500 people" is equipped to handle.
"People don't understand the severity of what's going on" in these rural areas, she said.
At one time, the county had the resources to deploy three ambulances.
"Now," McCrory said, "we're lucky to have one unit." The closure of the hospital, she said, has meant a loss of some $250,000 a year in revenue for the ambulance service.
Further, Boothe said, "the stress and strain" of working in the county make it difficult to recruit emergency medical crews — not to mention health care providers of any specialty.
This critical shortage of services reflects what's happened to so many rural communities across the U.S. after decades of dwindling resources.
In 1979, when Bill Curry returned home to Pickens County to practice medicine, funeral homes provided the only ambulance service.
"A hearse, literally, would come to the scene of an auto accident or to somebody's house or wherever there was a need for somebody to get transported to a hospital," recalled Curry, now a professor emeritus of medicine at the University of Alabama-Birmingham. "The training was pretty minimal, and the interventions were almost none. It was just pick up and go."
"When we developed the hospital, we said, ‘Well, we really need a modern ambulance service, and so that's how we came up with what they have today," Curry said.
James Parker grew up in Pickens County; his dad ran a feed-and-seed store and raised cattle. Parker had mentors growing up, including Curry, who were prominent in the community and pillars of the hospital. They allowed him to shadow them and nudged him into medicine. He returned home after graduating from medical school in 2000 and has been practicing there since. He laments the loss of the hospital.
"You know, folks love to call a little hospital a band-aid station, but that's a big band-aid that worked," Parker said. "So many success stories of our little hospital."
But with advances in medical technology — allowing more procedures to be performed on an outpatient basis — and an unfavorable payer mix, the old model was deemed no longer feasible.
Community leaders believed they had a viable plan to revitalize the hospital. "I thought it was an excellent option," Boothe said. They requested $10 million from the state legislature — which then became $8 million — to reopen the emergency room and operate an adolescent mental health facility that would serve kids from across the state.
Here, it seemed, was the answer to a need for Pickens County and beyond. Boothe has had young patients who "sat in emergency rooms for over seven days waiting on an admission to an adolescent bed." Some ultimately had to be transferred out of the state.
The $8 million was still in the state budget when it passed the House in April, but, in the eleventh hour, the Senate scuttled the cash infusion.
The issues related to the need for rural emergency care highlight another concern. The authors of the May report on ambulance deserts wrote that the "declining numbers of rural hospitals and ambulance services imply that remaining ambulance services are being tasked to play a greater role in delivering more sophisticated emergency services."
"Ambulance services were never intended to take the place of emergency departments," McCrory said. "I just feel like health care all the way around is failing here, and in other rural areas, too."
The researchers also noted the fragmented nature of ambulance services, particularly in rural areas.
Boothe talks of a potential solution whereby three ambulance stations would be spaced across Pickens County and Lamar County, on its northern border. But that's not an easy maneuver.
"Of all the poorly designed aspects of our health care system," said Alan Morgan, CEO of the National Rural Health Association, "EMS is tops."
On a sweltering day in late July, several dozen Pickens County residents and officials traveled 2½ hours to the Alabama Statehouse in Montgomery. They stood on the steps to protest lawmakers' decision not to fund their hospital.
Aliceville Mayor Windham was among them. There's a sense in Pickens County that rural communities such as his don't show up on the radar in Montgomery, he said. He and his neighbors' ongoing mission "is to let the Alabama Legislature know that we are real, live human beings — and we are really suffering."
Morgan, of the rural health association, has witnessed the ripple effects of the loss of essential rural health care services — the consequences for a community's health and the health of its economy. "Rural health care," he said, "is like a tundra. You trample on it, it's really tough to get it to come back."
Annie Jackson joined her neighbors on the steps of the state Capitol that July morning. After traveling hours away from home, she stepped off a chartered bus in downtown Carrollton, less than a hundred yards from where her sister Grena died. She paused and pointed up the road toward the nearby West Alabama Animal Hospital.
"We have our animal hospital up here," Jackson said. "The animals have a hospital. But we do not. What does that say for us?"
Federal officials are trying to clamp down on private arrangements among some hospitals to pay themselves back for the Medicaid taxes they’ve paid. State health officials and the influential hospital industry argue that regulators have no jurisdiction over the agreements.
by Samantha Young
The Biden administration wants to crack down on private arrangements among some hospitals to reimburse themselves for taxes that help fund coverage for low-income people. It contends the practice violates federal law.
Federal regulators say these arrangements “appear designed to” redirect Medicaid dollars away from facilities that treat the poorest patients to those that “provide fewer, or even no, Medicaid-covered services,” according to a proposed enforcement plan released May 3 by the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services.
The practice is typically orchestrated by the lobbying groups that represent hospitals in state capitals — and is often kept secret. Not even federal regulators know how widespread it is, although programs operate in at least a few states, including California and Missouri. It’s also the subject of a Texas lawsuit that could block the federal government’s proposal.
“It does seem like these associations are finding a way to distribute the money in a really weird way,” said Joshua Gordon, the director of health policy for the Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget in Washington, D.C. “But without the transparency, we don’t exactly know what’s going on.”
Previous efforts to block these payback arrangements have gone nowhere in the face of opposition from the powerful health care industry and state health officials who fear that clamping down could result in less money for Medicaid, the joint state-federal health insurance program for low-income people. Several Medicaid experts predicted the latest proposal could meet the same fate, or face immediate court challenges if adopted.
The federal government’s sweeping and contentious proposal would require states to police hospitals, nursing homes, and other health care providers to ensure they made no private agreements to redistribute Medicaid dollars.
Public and private hospitals argue CMS has no jurisdiction to regulate private transactions and has overstepped its legal authority. Together with state health officials from around the country, they warn the move could strip billions of federal dollars from Medicaid and threaten safety-net coverage for 94 million low-income people. Texas alone could lose $6 billion a year, according to Texas Health and Human Services.
KFF Health News attempted to interview state health leaders and hospital association officials around the country, but they declined to comment or did not respond to repeated calls and emails.
The federal government’s proposal is part of a broader Medicaid financing package, and it resurrects a long-standing effort by administrations of both parties over the years to rein in Medicaid spending — which ballooned to $734 billion in 2021.
In this case, regulators are targeting what are known as provider taxes, which states are increasingly imposing on hospitals, nursing homes, and other health care providers to help states pay for their share of the Medicaid program. The more provider taxes states levy, the more money they can also get in federal funding.
These taxes are a critical source of revenue that all states except Alaska rely on for their Medicaid programs — and to get federal matching Medicaid dollars. They account for 17% of state Medicaid funding in 2018, according to a 2020 report by the Government Accountability Office, which called for more transparency in how the money is collected and spent.
In California, hospitals have redistributed provider tax funds since 2009. Here’s how it works: Hospitals with a significant share of low-income patients get more Medicaid funding back than they pay in the tax, so they donate a small portion of their Medicaid funding to a charity run by the leadership of the California Hospital Association, a statewide lobbying organization. The charity awards grants to the hospitals that treat a smaller share of low-income patients and don’t receive as much funding back as they paid in taxes.
For instance, Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, one of the country’s richest hospitals, paid nearly $172 million in provider taxes in 2022, eclipsing the $151 million it got back in Medicaid dollars. Then, it received nearly $28 million from the hospital association’s charity — earning about $6.9 million from the program, the hospital’s audited financial statements show.
Meanwhile, faith-based Adventist Health, which serves a larger share of poor people and operates roughly two dozen hospitals in California, Oregon, and Hawaii, paid $148 million in taxes in 2022 and reaped $401 million in Medicaid dollars through the program, according to its independently audited financial statements. It then contributed $3 million of that Medicaid money to the charity.
Federal law sets stringent rules for provider taxes: They must be broad-based and apply to all providers within a certain category, like hospitals; providers within a state must be taxed at the same rate; and taxes can’t be returned directly or indirectly to providers as part of a “hold harmless” agreement.
It’s that last clause that has spurred the feds to act.
Regulators say some health care providers, to gain the needed support within their ranks for the tax, are moving the tax money — and the federal revenue it draws to states — among themselves.
“We believe providers with relatively higher Medicaid volume agree to redistribute some of their Medicaid payments to ensure broad support for the tax program,” they wrote in their proposal.
These agreements “undermine the fiscal integrity” of the Medicaid program, they wrote.
It’s unclear how widespread such agreements are because hospitals don’t make them public. CMS said it has identified “instances” of Medicaid redistribution payments, but spokesperson Greg Myers declined to elaborate.
Jonathan Williams, vice president of government affairs at Sutter Health, which operates about 20 hospitals across Northern California, argued in a June 30 letter to the federal agency that these arrangements help hospitals expand “care networks and afford necessary incentives to ensure that providers can continue caring for Medicaid beneficiaries with unique and specific care needs.”
Missouri’s hospital association also runs a “pooling arrangement,” in which hospitals that get more Medicaid money than they paid in taxes can donate funds to the hospitals that didn’t.
“Missouri providers have had various private agreements to redistribute funds among themselves for decades, with the full knowledge and approval of CMS,” according to an unsigned and undated letter to the agency from the MO HealthNet Division, which runs the state’s Medicaid program.
In 2002, Missouri got federal approval for its redistribution program by pledging to use the funds for Medicaid services, whereas California has not received approval.
The federal government’s plan would require states to get health care providers to attest that they don’t participate in any arrangement that violates federal law. State officials described the proposal as an impractical administrative burden that could dissuade hospitals, nursing homes, and other providers from participating in Medicaid altogether. “Imposing additional requirements on providers that participate in Medicaid managed care networks would only serve to further dissuade network participation, which will have a negative impact on member access to care,” Mike Levine, the assistant secretary for MassHealth, Massachusetts’ Medicaid program, wrote to CMS on July 3.
Texas, which has long tangled with the federal agency over how it funds its Medicaid program, sued in federal court earlier this year after the agency declared in a separate letter to states that these types of arrangements aren’t allowed and must be reported. The letter was sent in February, before the agency issued its formal proposal.
In June, a federal judge handed Texas and its health care industry a victory, temporarily delaying the reporting requirement that regulators had outlined in their February letter. The judge agreed with Texas that the agency had exceeded its legal authority and couldn’t regulate private agreements.
State health officials and hospital leaders are pointing to the Texas court case as evidence that the agency’s May proposal to crack down on the redistribution of Medicaid funds is a “widely controversial interpretation” of the law, as the Tennessee Hospital Association put it in a July 3 letter to CMS.
Federal regulators have not said if or when they will implement their plan. The last time the agency issued a sweeping Medicaid financing proposal, it withdrew it almost a year later.
Mark McClellan, who served as head of the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services for two years during the George W. Bush administration, predicted states and Congress would push back hard if the new proposal moved forward.
“Medicaid is a huge component of state spending and keeps getting bigger,” McClellan said. “So, sudden CMS changes or clamping down is going to be disruptive for state coverage.”
Last year's Inflation Reduction Act included what on its face seems a modest proposal: The federal government would for the first time be empowered to negotiate prices Medicare pays for drugs — but only for 10 very expensive medicines beginning in 2026 (an additional 15 in 2027 and 2028, with more added in later years). Another provision would require manufacturers to pay rebates to Medicare for drug prices that increased faster than inflation.
Those provisions alone could reduce the federal deficit by $237 billion over 10 years, the Congressional Budget Office has calculated. That enormous savings would come from tamping down drug prices, which are costing an average of 3.44 times — sometimes 10 times — what the same brand-name drugs cost in other developed countries, where governments already negotiate prices.
These small steps were an attempt to rein in the only significant type of Medicare health spending — the cost of prescription drugs — that has not been controlled or limited by the government. But they were a call to arms for the pharmaceutical industry in a battle it assumed it had won: When Congress passed the Medicare prescription drug coverage benefit (Part D) in 2003, intense industry lobbying resulted in a last-minute insertion prohibiting Medicare from negotiating those prices.
Without any guardrails, prices for some existing drugs have soared, even as they have fallen sharply in other countries. New drugs — some with minimal benefit — have enormous price tags, buttressed by lobbying and marketing.
AZT, the first drug to successfully treat HIV/AIDS, was labeled "the most expensive drug in history" in the late 1980s. Its $8,000-a-year cost was derided as "inhuman" in a New York Times op-ed. Now, scores of drugs, many with much less benefit, cost more than $50,000 a year. Ten drugs, mostly used to treat rare diseases, cost over $700,000 annually.
Pharmaceutical manufacturers say high U.S. prices support research and development and point out that Americans tend to get new treatments first. But recent research has shown that the price of a drug is related neither to the amount of research and development required to bring it to market nor its therapeutic value.
And selling drugs first in the U.S. is a good business strategy. By introducing a drug in a developed country with limited scrutiny on price, manufacturers can set the bar high for negotiating with other nations.
Here are just a few of the many examples of drug pricing practices that have driven consumers to demand change.
Exhibit A is Humira, the best-selling drug in history, earning AbbVie $200 billion over two decades. Effective in the treatment of various autoimmune diseases, its core patent — the one on the biologic itself — expired in 2016. But for business purposes, the "controlling patent," the last to expire, is far more important since it allows an ongoing monopoly.
AbbVie blanketed Humira with 165 peripheral patents, covering things like a manufacturing step or slightly new formulation, creating a so-called patent thicket, making it challenging for generics makers to make lower-cost copycats. (When they threatened to do so, AbbVie often offered them valuable deals not to enter the market.) Meanwhile, it continued to raise the price of the drug, most recently to $88,000 a year. This year, Humira-like generics (called biosimilars for its type of molecule) are entering the U.S. market; they have been available for a fraction of the price in Europe for five years.
Or take Revlimid, a drug by Celgene (now part of Bristol Myers Squibb), which treats multiple myeloma. It won FDA approval to treat that previously deadly disease in 2006 at about $4,500 a month; today it retails at triple that. Why? The company's CEO explained price hikes were simply a "legitimate opportunity" to improve financial "performance."
Since it must be taken for life to keep that cancer in check, patients who want to live (or their insurers) have had no choice but to pay. Though Revlimid's patent protection ran out in 2022, Celgene avoided meaningful price-cutting competition by offering generic competitors "volume-limited licenses" to its patents so long as they agreed to initially produce a small share of the drug's $12 billion monopoly market.
Par Pharmaceutical, another drugmaker, maneuvered to create a blockbuster market out of a centuries-old drug, isoproterenol, through a well-meaning FDA program that gave companies a three-year monopoly in exchange for performing formal testing on drugs in use before the agency was formed.
During those three years, Par wrapped its branded product, Vasostrict, used to maintain blood pressure in critically ill patients, with patents — including one on the compound's pH level — extending its monopoly eight additional years. Par raised the price by 5,400% between 2010 and 2020. When the covid-19 pandemic filled intensive care units with severely ill patients, that hike cost Americans $600 million to $900 million in the first year.
And then there is AZT and its successors, which offer a full life to HIV-positive people. Pills today contain a combination of two or three medicines, the vast majority including one similar to AZT, tenofovir, made by Gilead Sciences. The individual medicines are old, off-patent. Why then do these combination pills, taken for life, sometimes cost $4,000 monthly?
It's partly because many manufacturers of the combination pills have agreements with Gilead that they will use its expensive branded version of tenofovir in exchange for various business favors. Peter Staley, an activist with HIV, has been spearheading a class-action suit against Gilead, alleging "collusion." The negotiated price for these pills is hundreds of dollars a month in the United Kingdom, not the thousands charged in the U.S.
Faced with such tactics, 8 in 10 Americans now support drug price negotiation, giving Congress and the Biden administration the impetus to act and to resist Big Pharma's legal challenges, which many legal experts view as a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.
"I don't think they have a good legal case," said Aaron Kesselheim, who studies drug pricing at Harvard Medical School. "But it can delay things if they can find a judge to issue an injunction." And even a year's delay could translate into big money.
Yes, American patients are lucky to have first access to innovative drugs. And, sadly, patients in countries that refuse to pay up once in a while go without the latest treatment. But more sadly, polling shows, large numbers of Americans are forgoing prescribed medicines because they can't afford them.
PUEBLO, Colo. — As 41% of American adults face medical debt, residents of this southern Colorado city contend their local nonprofit hospitals aren't providing enough charity care to justify the millions in tax breaks they receive.
The two hospitals in Pueblo, Parkview Medical Center and Centura St. Mary-Corwin, do not pay most federal or state taxes. In exchange for the tax break, they are required to spend money to improve the health of their communities, including providing free care to those who can't afford their medical bills. Although the hospitals report tens of millions in annual community benefit spending, the vast majority of that is not spent on the types of things advocates and researchers contend actually create community benefits, such as charity care.
And this month, four U.S. senators called on the Treasury's inspector general for tax administration and the Internal Revenue Service to evaluate nonprofit hospitals' compliance with tax-exempt requirements and provide information on oversight efforts.
The average hospital in the U.S. spends 1.9% of its operating expenses on charity care, according to an analysis of 2021 data by Johns Hopkins University health policy professor Ge Bai. Last year, Parkview provided 0.75% of its operating expenses, about $4.2 million, in free care.
Centura Health, a chain of 20 tax-exempt hospitals, reports its community benefit spending to the federal government in aggregate and does not break out specific numbers for individual hospitals. But St. Mary-Corwin reported $2.3 million in charity care in fiscal year 2022, according to its state filing. The filing does not specify the hospital's operating expenses.
The low levels of charity care have translated into more debt for low-income residents. About 15% of people in Pueblo County have medical debt in collections, compared with 11% statewide and 13% nationwide, according to 2022 data from the Urban Institute. Those Puebloans have median medical debt of $975, about 40% higher than in Colorado and the U.S. as a whole. And all of those numbers are worse for people of color.
"How far into debt do people have to go to get any kind of relief?" said Theresa Trujillo, co-executive director at the Center for Health Progress' Pueblo office. "Once you understand that there are tens of millions of dollars every single year that hospitals are extracting from our communities that are meant to be reinvested in our communities, you can't go back from that without saying, ‘Oh my gosh, that is a thread we need to pull on.'"
Trujillo is organizing a group of fed-up residents to engage both hospitals on their community benefit spending. The group of at least a dozen residents believe the hospitals are ignoring the needs identified by the community — things like housing, addiction treatment, behavioral health care, and youth activities — and instead spending those dollars on things that mainly benefit the hospitals and their staffs.
For the fiscal year ending June 2022, with total revenue of $593 million, Parkview reported $100 million in community benefit spending. But most of that — more than $77 million — represented the difference between the hospital's cost of providing care and what Medicaid paid for it.
IRS guidelines allow hospitals to claim Medicaid shortfall as a community benefit, but many academics and health policy experts argue such balance sheet shifts aren't the same as providing charity care to patients.
Parkview also reported $4.7 million for educating its medical staff and $143,000 in incentives to recruit health professionals as community benefit. The hospital spent only $44,000 on community health improvement projects, which appear to have consisted mainly of launching a new mobile app to streamline appointments and referrals.
Meanwhile, the hospital recently spent $58 million on a new orthopedic facility and $43 million on a new cancer center. Parkview also wrote off $39 million in bad debt in fiscal 2022, although that is different from charity care. The bad debt is money the hospitals tried to collect from patients and ultimately decided they'd never get. But by that time, those patients would likely have been sent to collections and potentially had their credit damaged. And outstanding debt often keeps patients from seeking other needed care.
There is a disconnect between what the community said its biggest health needs were and where Parkview directed its spending. The hospital's community needs assessment pegged access to care as the top concern, and the hospital said it launched the phone app in response.
The second-largest perceived health need was addressing alcohol and drug use. Yet, the only initiative Parkview cited in response was posting preventive health videos online, including some on alcohol and drug use. Meanwhile, the hospital shut down its inpatient psychiatric unit.
Parkview declined to answer questions about its charity care spending, but hospital spokesperson Todd Seip emailed a statement saying the hospital system "has been committed to providing extensive charity care to our community."
Seip noted that 80% of Parkview's patients are covered by Medicare or Medicaid, which pay lower rates than commercial insurance. The hospital posted a net loss of $6.7 million in the 2022 fiscal year, although its charity care wasn't appreciably higher in previous years in which it posted a net gain.
Centura St. Mary-Corwin reported $16 million in Medicaid shortfall and $2 million in medical staff education in 2022, according to its state filing. The hospital spent about $38,000 for its community health improvement projects, primarily on emergency medical services outreach programs in rural areas. The hospital provided another $96,000 in services, mainly to promote covid-19 vaccination.
Centura also declined to answer questions about its charity care spending. Hospital spokesperson Lindsay Radford emailed a statement saying St. Mary-Corwin was aligning its community health needs assessment process with the Pueblo Department of Public Health and Environment "to develop shared implementation strategies for our community benefit funds, ensuring the resources are targeting the highest needs."
Trujillo questioned how the hospital has conducted its community health assessments, relying on a social media poll to identify needs. After community members identified 12 concerns, she said, hospital leaders chose their priorities from the list.
"They talk about a community garden like they're feeding the whole south side of the community," Trujillo said. The hospital established a community garden in 2021, with 20 beds that could be adopted by residents to grow vegetables. Trujillo did praise the hospital for converting part of its building into dorms for a community college nursing program.
Trujillo's group has spent much of the summer researching hospital charity spending and showing up at public meetings to have their views heard. They are working to gain seats on hospital and other state boards that influence how community benefit dollars are spent, and are urging hospitals to reconfigure their boards to better represent the demographics of their communities.
"We've made folks now aware that we want to be a part of those processes," Trujillo said. "We're willing to help them reach deeper into the community."
Tax-exempt hospitals have been under increased state scrutiny for their charitable spending, especially after the Affordable Care Act and Medicaid expansion drove down the uninsured rate. That in turn cut the amount of care hospitals had to provide without being paid, potentially freeing up money to help more people without insurance or with high-deductible plans.
In Colorado, hospitals' charity care spending and bad debt write-offs dropped from an average of $680 million a year in the five years prior to the ACA being fully implemented in 2014 to an average of $337 million in the years after, according to the Colorado Healthcare Affordability and Sustainability Enterprise Board, a state advisory group.
In states like Colorado, which used federal funding to expand the number of people covered by Medicaid, hospitals shifted more of their community benefit spending to cover Medicaid reimbursement shortfalls.
A January report from Colorado's Department of Health Care Policy & Financing concluded that payments from public and private health plans help the state's hospitals make more than enough money to offset lower Medicaid rates and still turn a profit while providing more true charity care.
Colorado has enacted two bills in the past five years to increase the transparency of hospitals' charitable efforts with new reporting requirements.
"I think overall, we're pleased with the amount of money that hospitals are reporting they spent," said Kim Bimestefer, the executive director of the Department of Health Care Policy & Financing. "Is that money being expended in meaningful ways, ways that improve health and well-being of the community? Our reports right now can't determine that."