For more than a year, public health officials have repeatedly told us that masks save lives. They've warned us to keep our distance from our neighbors, who've morphed into disease vectors before our eyes.
Now they are telling us that if we're vaccinated, we no longer need to wear masks or physically distance ourselves in most cases — even indoors. To many people, myself included, this seems hard to reconcile with so many long months of masking and physical distancing and sacrificing our social lives for fear of COVID-19.
What is an anxious, pandemic-weary (and wary) soul to do?
First, it's important to stress that the dramatic rollback of mask-wearing and physical distancing recommended last month by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention — a policy California has adopted starting Tuesday as part of a broader reopening — applies only to people who have been fully vaccinated.
Even if you are vaccinated, though, you don't need to change your behavior one iota if doing so makes you uncomfortable.
"Nothing in the CDC guidelines says to stop wearing a mask," says Dr. José Mayorga, executive director of the UCI Health Family Health Centers. "It's a recommendation, but if you choose to wear one, that's OK. You shouldn't be stigmatized."
Mayorga has lost five relatives to COVID, including a favorite aunt, and he knows from personal experience how hard it can be to rush back into so-called normalcy.
"Many people have not been directly impacted by COVID," he says. "But for those of us who have been, it's natural to have concern or fear, thinking, 'Oh, I can take my mask off? But is it really safe?'"
Some people are just cautious by nature and won't be rushing to jettison their masks and rub elbows with unmasked strangers. "I know that, realistically, I can do pretty much anything once I'm fully vaccinated, but mentally it's scary," says 36-year-old Sacramento resident Shannon Albers, who got her second dose of the Pfizer vaccine on May 27. "It's going to be weird, after a year of them drilling into us 'Wear a mask, wear a mask, wear a mask,' to be around a bunch of people who aren't wearing masks."
Early in the pandemic, the CDC said masks were not necessary. Then, it changed its guidance so emphatically that masks became an indispensable part of our wardrobes. Now the advice has changed again.
"For scientists, it is very understandable that there is this revision of recommendations based on new research," says Roxane Cohen Silver, a professor of psychology, public health and medicine at the University of California-Irvine. "But for the general public, that could sound very confusing."
Early on, many people feared catching the coronavirus from surfaces and even disinfected groceries before putting them away. Now, the virus is believed to spread mainly through the air, and the notion of spraying or wiping down everything you bring into the house seems silly.
We don't know how long the vaccines' protection lasts, but it is increasingly clear that being vaccinated reduces the risk of infecting others.
"Vaccinated people have very little risk of infection; they can do what they want to do," says Dr. George Rutherford, a professor of epidemiology at the University of California–San Francisco. "I think we're in pretty good shape, and I think it's going to be pretty much a disease-free summer."
In California, the rate of positive COVID tests has dropped from a seven-day average of over 17% in early January, at the peak of the winter surge, to under 1% now. The number of hospitalized COVID patients statewide has fallen from over 22,000 to below 1,300 in the same period.
Around 46% of Golden State residents have been fully vaccinated, lagging behind numerous other states but ahead of the national rate of just under 43%. Some millions more have built up immunity after a COVID infection.
As more people get protection, the COVID virus finds fewer susceptible bodies, further reducing transmission and producing a downward spiral in the number of cases.
If you are indoors with other people you know to be vaccinated, you can dispense with masks. Want to cook dinner for a group of vaccinated friends you haven't seen for several months? Carpe diem — and don't worry about wearing masks or sitting spaced apart.
But if you are in a mixed crowd — say, a grocery store — and don't know who's vaccinated, wear a mask, even though your personal risk is low. If the workers are wearing masks, it's a matter of respect to wear one yourself. Some people may be nervous about being there — those who are immune-compromised, for example, or can't get vaccinated for some other health reason — and they won't know if you've had your shots.
"Forget about the medical benefit," says Bradley Pollock, associate dean for Public Health Sciences at the UC-Davis School of Medicine. "If you are wearing a mask, people who are not vaccinated don't need to feel uncomfortable around you. So, it's kind of a courtesy issue."
The presence of children is another good reason to mask up. Most kids ages 12 to 16 haven't been vaccinated yet, and those under 12 can't be, yet. They'll probably have to wear masks in school this fall.
And though children have not been hit by COVID nearly as hard as adults, and are not efficient transmitters of the virus, thousands of kids have been hospitalized with it nonetheless — including about 4,000 nationwide diagnosed with a frightening multisystem inflammatory syndrome.
Mayorga, who is fully vaccinated and has young children, says he wears a mask "to protect them and to model good behavior."
Public health experts agree that vaccinating as many people as possible, including children, is the way out of the pandemic.
But the rate of vaccinations has slowed recently. One of the biggest contributions you can make to the public good right now is to get vaccinated — and help others do the same.
Some people aren't vaccinated because they lack mobility and can't get to an appointment. Check in with elderly neighbors, and if they haven't been vaccinated and need a ride, offer to drive them. You can also check with your local department on aging, community groups that serve the elderly, public health agencies or hospitals to ask if they are seeking drivers.
Perhaps the biggest impact you can have is persuading friends and loved ones to get the vaccine – and then urging them to persuade others.
If they think the vaccines were rolled out too fast to be safe, tell them that related coronavirus vaccine research has been going on for more than a decade. Point out that hundreds of millions of COVID shots have now been given and serious side effects are rare — and are being carefully monitored by officials.
You might also need to rebut the widespread notion that the vaccine could suddenly produce some terrible, unforeseen health impact a few years down the road. "That just doesn't happen," Pollock says.
Expect to encounter resistance at first, but be persistent. It can take numerous conversations to assuage anxieties, but your close friends will listen.
"If your best friend tells you they did this, that's highly influential — more than some talking head," Pollock says.
Missoula began sending a special crew on emergency mental health calls in November as a pilot project, and next month the program will become permanent.
This article was published on Monday, June 14, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
By the time Kiki Radermacher, a mental health therapist, arrived at a Missoula, Montana, home on an emergency 911 call in late May, the man who had called for help was backed into a corner and yelling at police officers.
The home, which he was renting, was about to be sold. He had called 911 when his fear of becoming homeless turned to thoughts of killing himself.
"I asked him, 'Will you sit with me?'" recalled Radermacher, a member of the city's mobile crisis response team who answered the call with a medic and helped connect the man with support services. "We really want to empower people, to find solutions."
Missoula began sending this special crew on emergency mental health calls in November as a pilot project, and next month the program will become permanent. It's one of six mobile crisis response initiatives in Montana — up from one at the start of 2019. And four more local governments applied for state grants this year to form teams.
Nationwide, more communities are creating units in which mental health professionals are the main responders to psychiatric crises instead of cops, though no official count exists of the teams that are up and running.
More support is on the way. The COVID relief package President Joe Biden signed in March offers states Medicaid funding to jump-start such services. By July 2022, a national 988 hotline, modeled on 911, is slated to launch for people to reach trained suicide prevention specialists and mental health counselors.
Protests against police brutality in the past year have helped propel the shift across the United States. While one rallying cry has been to "defund the police," these crisis intervention programs — the sort that employ therapists like Radermacher — are often funded in addition to law enforcement departments, not drawing from existing policing budgets.
Studies suggest such services enable people in crisis to get help instead of being transported away in handcuffs. But the move away from policing mental health is still a national experiment, with ongoing debate about who should be part of the response, and limited research on which model is best. Even then, not all communities can afford and staff separate mental health teams.
"I don't know that there's a consensus of what the best approach is at this point," said Amy Watson, a professor of social work at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee who has studied such crisis intervention. "We need to move towards figuring out what are the important elements of these models, where are the pieces of variation and where those variations make sense."
The federal Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration sets minimum expectations for teams, such as including a healthcare professional and connecting people to more services, if needed. Ideally, the guidelines suggest, the team should include a crisis response specialist who has personally experienced mental health challenges, and the team should respond to the calls without law enforcement.
Still, crisis response teams vary significantly in their makeup and approach. For more than 40 years, the Los Angeles Police Department has deployed teams in which police officers and mental health workers respond together. It boasts the program is one of the nation's earliest to do so. A program out of Eugene, Oregon, which has been copied across the U.S., teams a crisis intervention worker with a nurse, paramedic or emergency medical technician. In Georgia, 911 emergency dispatchers steer calls to a statewide crisis center that can deploy mobile units that include professionals with backgrounds in social work, counseling and nursing. In Montana, teams are based within law enforcement departments, medical facilities or crisis homes.
"Mobile crisis response, in whatever format it looks like, is becoming more and more the norm," said Kari Auclair, an area director for Western Montana Mental Health Center, a nonprofit treatment program. "In some communities, it's going to be the church group that's going to be part of a crisis response, because that's who people go to and that's what they've got."
Defenders of the various models tout reasons for their teams' makeups and match-ups: Medics can recognize a diabetic blood sugar crash that might mimic substance misuse or a mental health crisis; police can watch for danger if tensions escalate; and crews tethered to hospitals' behavioral health units have a team of doctors on standby they can consult.
Many crisis teams still work directly with law enforcement, sometimes responding together when called or staying on the scene after officers leave. In Montana, for example, 61% of the calls that crisis teams handled also involved law enforcement, according to state data.
Zoe Barnard, administrator for Montana's addictive and mental disorders division, said her state is still establishing a baseline for what works well there. Even after they've worked out a standard, she added, local governments will continue to need flexibility in how they set up their programs.
"I'm a realist," Barnard said. "There will be parts of the state that are going to have limitations related to workforce, and trying to put them into a cookie-cutter model might keep some from doing something that really does the job well."
In some areas, recruiting mental health workers to such teams is nearly impossible. Federal data shows 125 million people live in areas with a shortage of mental health professionals, a problem exacerbated in rural America. That lack of expertise and support can fuel the crises that warrant emergency help.
In Helena, Montana's capital, for example, a crisis crew that formed in November must still fill two positions before services can run round-the-clock. All across the U.S., with these sorts of high-stress jobs often paid through cobbled-together grants, retaining staff is a challenge.
Being flexible will be key for programs as they develop, said Jeffrey Coots, who directs an initiative at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City to prevent unnecessary imprisonment.
"We're trying to figure our way out of historical inequities in mental healthcare services," Coots said. "The best thing to do is to run that demonstration project, and then adapt your team based on the data."
And for the people in these crises who need help, having an alternative to a police officer can mean a big difference, said Tyler Steinebach, executive director of Hope Health Alliance Inc., which offers behavioral crisis training for medics across Montana. He knows firsthand because he has both bipolar and post-traumatic stress disorders and has had to call 911 when his own mental health has plummeted.
"You know cops are coming, almost certainly," Steinebach said, from his personal experience. "You're trying to figure out what to say to them because you're trying to fight for yourself to get treatment or to get somewhere where you can talk to somebody — but you're also trying to not get hauled off in handcuffs."
Gallatin County Sheriff Dan Springer also noticed the benefits after two mental health professionals started to respond to 911 calls in Bozeman and the surrounding area in 2019. Although deputies in his department are trained in crisis intervention, he said that goes only so far.
"When I hear deputies say the mental health provider is a godsend, or they came in and were able to extend the capabilities of the response, that means something to me," Springer said. "And I hear that routinely now."
Erica Gotcher, a medic on the mental health response team in Missoula, recalled a day recently when her team was wrapping up a call and received three new alerts: A man was considering suicide, a teen was spiraling into crisis and someone else needed follow-up mental health services. They knew the suicide risk call would take time as responders talked to the person by phone to get more details, so they responded to the teen hitting walls first and saw all three people before their shift was done.
Gotcher said being busy is a good sign that her team — and teams like it — are becoming just one more form of first response.
"Sometimes we roll up on a scene and there are three cop cars, an ambulance and a firetruck for one person who is having a panic attack," Gotcher said. "One of the best things that we can do is briefly assess the situation and cancel all those other resources. They can go fight fires; they can go fight crime. We are the ones that need to be here."
But gaps still exist, such as not always having somewhere to take a patient who needs a stable place to recuperate or get more help. The team's shift also ends at 8 p.m., meaning, come nighttime, it's back to police officers responding alone.
Need help?
If you or someone you know is in a crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or contact the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741.
HCA Healthcare's activation fees run as high as $50,000 per patient and are sometimes 10 times greater than those at other hospitals, according to publicly posted price lists.
This article was published on Monday, June 14, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
After falling from a ladder and cutting his arm, Ed Knight said, he found himself at Richmond, Virginia's Chippenham Hospital surrounded by nearly a dozen doctors, nurses and technicians — its crack "trauma team" charged with saving the most badly hurt victims of accidents and assaults.
But Knight's wound, while requiring about 30 stitches, wasn't life-threatening. Hospital records called it "mild." The people in white coats quickly scattered, he remembered, and he went home about three hours later.
"Basically, it was just a gash on my arm," said Knight, 71. "The emergency team that they assembled didn't really do anything."
Nevertheless, Chippenham, owned by for-profit chain HCA Healthcare, included a $17,000 trauma team "activation" fee on Knight's bill, which totaled $52,238 and included three CT scans billed at $14,000. His care should have cost closer to $3,500 total, according to claims consultant WellRithms, which analyzed the charges for KHN.
HCA Healthcare's activation fees run as high as $50,000 per patient and are sometimes 10 times greater than those at other hospitals, according to publicly posted price lists. Such charges have made trauma centers, once operated mainly by established teaching hospitals, a key part of the company's growth and profit-generating strategy, corporate officials have said. HCA's stock has doubled in three years. The biggest U.S. hospital operator along with the Department of Veterans Affairs, HCA has opened trauma centers in more than half its 179 hospitals and says it runs 1 of every 20 such facilities in the country.
And it's not slowing down.
HCA "has basically taken a position that all of their hospitals should be trauma centers," said Dr. Robert Winchell, describing conversations he had with HCA officials. Winchell is a trauma surgeon and former chairman of the trauma evaluation and planning committee at the American College of Surgeons.Bottom of Form
Trauma patients are typically those severely injured in automobile accidents or falls or wounded by knives or guns.
State or local regulators confer the designation "trauma center," often in concert with standards verified by the American College of Surgeons. The status allows a cascade of lucrative reimbursement, including activation fees billed on top of regular charges for medical care. Trauma centers are mostly exempt from 1970s-era certificate-of-need laws enacted to limit excessive hospital spending and expansion. The bills for all this — reaching into tens of thousands of dollars — go to private insurers, Medicare or Medicaid, or patients themselves.
"Once a hospital has a trauma designation, it can charge thousands of dollars in activation fees for the same care seen in the same emergency room," said Stacie Sasso, executive director of the Health Services Coalition, made up of unions and employers fighting trauma center expansion by HCA and others in Nevada.
HCA's expansion into trauma centers alarms health policy analysts who suggest its motive is more about chasing profit than improving patient care. Data collected by the state of Florida, analyzed by KHN, shows that regional trauma cases and expensive trauma bills rise sharply after HCA opens such centers, suggesting that many patients classified as trauma victims would have previously been treated less expensively in a regular emergency room.
Patients admitted to HCA and other for-profit hospitals in Florida with a trauma-team activation were far more likely to be only mildly or moderately injured than those at not-for-profit hospitals, researchers have found.
HCA is "cherry-picking patients," said Ed Jimenez, CEO of the University of Florida Health Shands, which runs a Level I trauma center, the highest designation. "What you find is an elderly person who fell and broke their hip who could be perfectly well treated at their local hospital now becomes a trauma patient."
HCA's trauma center expansion makes superior care available to more patients, providing "lifesaving clinical services while treating all critically injured patients," said company spokesperson Harlow Sumerford.
Richmond's population "is booming," said Chippenham spokesperson Jeffrey Caldwell. "This increase in demand requires that the regional healthcare system keep up."
Trauma Is Big Business
HCA's trauma center boom picked up speed in Florida a decade ago and has spread to its hospitals in Virginia, Nevada, Texas and other states. It has sparked fierce fights over who handles highly profitable trauma cases and debates over whether costs will soar and care suffer when rival centers go head-to-head competing for patients.
"There's no question it's a money grab" by HCA, said Jimenez, who was part of a largely unsuccessful effort to stop HCA's trauma center expansion in Florida. "It was clear that their trauma activation fees were five or six times larger than ours."
In a process shielded from public view in Virginia, Chippenham recently applied for and won the highest trauma center designation, Level I, providing the most sophisticated care — and putting it squarely in competition with nearby VCU Health. VCU has run the region's only Level I facility for decades. In October, Chippenham announced a contract for its own helicopter ambulance, which gives it another way to increase its trauma business, by flying patients in from miles away. The Virginia Department of Health rejected KHN's request to review HCA's Chippenham trauma center application and related documents.
"This is a corporate strategy" by HCA "to grow revenue, maximize reimbursement and meet the interest of stockholders," said Dr. Arthur Kellermann, CEO of VCU Health, who says his nonprofit, state-run facility is sufficient for the region's trauma care needs. "Many people in the state should be concerned that the end result will be a dilution of care, higher costs and poorer outcomes."
Chippenham's Caldwell said the "redundancy" with VCU "allows the region to be better prepared for mass trauma events."
Studies show trauma centers need high volumes of complex cases to stay sharp. Researchers call it the "practice makes perfect" effect. Patients treated for traumatic brain injuries at hospitals seeing fewer than six such cases a year died at substantially higher rates than such patients in more experienced hospitals, according to a 2013 study published in the Journal of Neurosurgery.
Another study, published in the Annals of Surgery, showed that a decrease as small as 1% in trauma center volume — because of competition or other reasons — substantially increased the risk that patients would die.
By splitting a limited number of cases, a competing, cross-town trauma center could set the stage for subpar results at both hospitals, goes the argument. The number of VCU's admitted adult trauma patients decreased from nearly 3,600 in 2014, before Chippenham attained Level II status, to 3,200 in 2019, VCU officials said.
Chippenham was the only Level I center in Virginia that declined to disclose its trauma patient volume to KHN.
"People are trying to push the [trauma center] designation process beyond what may be good for the major hospitals that are already providing trauma care," said Dr. David Hoyt, executive director of the American College of Surgeons, speaking generally. Local authorities who make those decisions, he said, can be "pressured by a hospital system that has a lot of economic pull in a community."
Unlike regular emergency departments, Level I and Level II trauma centers make trauma surgeons, neurosurgeons and special equipment available round-the-clock. Centers with Levels III or IV designations offer fewer services but are still more capable than many emergency rooms, with round-the-clock lab services and extra training, for example.
Hospitals defend trauma team activation fees as necessary to cover the overhead of having a team of elite emergency specialists at the ready. At HCA hospitals they can run more than $40,000 per case, according to publicly posted charge lists, although the amount paid by insurers and patients is often less, depending on the coverage.
"Fees associated with trauma activation are based on our costs to immediately deploy lifesaving resources and measures 24/7," said HCA spokesperson Sumerford, adding that low-income and uninsured patients often pay nothing for trauma care. "What patients actually pay for their hospital care has more to do with their insurance plan" than the total charges, he said.
There is no standard accounting for trauma-related costs incurred by hospitals. One method involves multiplying hourly pay for members of the trauma team by the potential hours worked. Hospitals don't reveal calculations, but the wide variation in fees suggests they are often set with an eye on revenue rather than true costs, say industry analysts.
Reasonable charges for Knight's total bill would have been $3,537, not $52,238, according to the analysis by WellRithms, a claims consulting firm that examined his medical records and Chippenham's costs filed with Medicare. Given his minor injury, the $17,000 trauma activation fee "is not necessary," said Dr. Ira Weintraub, WellRithms' chief medical officer.
Often insurers pay substantially less than billed charges, especially Medicare, Knight's insurer. He paid nothing out-of-pocket, and Chippenham collected a total of $1,138 for his care, HCA officials said after this article was initially published. But hospitals can maximize revenue by charging high trauma fees to all insurers, including those required to pay a percentage of charges, say medical billing consultants.
VCU Health charges up to $13,455 for trauma activation, according to its charge list.
Average HCA trauma activation charges are $26,000 in states where the company does business — three times higher than those of non-HCA hospitals, according to data from Hospital Pricing Specialists, a consulting firm that analyzed trauma charges in Medicare claims for KHN.
The findings are similar to those reported by the Tampa Bay Times in 2014, early in HCA's trauma center expansion. The Times found that Florida HCA trauma centers were charging patients and insurers tens of thousands of dollars more per case than other hospitals.
Treating trauma patients in the ER is only the beginning of the revenue stream. Intensive inpatient treatment and long patient recoveries add to the income.
"We have more Level I, Level II trauma centers today than we have ever had in the company history," HCA's then-CEO, Milton Johnson, told stock analysts in 2016. "That strategy in turn feeds surgical growth. That strategy in turn feeds neurosciences growth, it feeds rehab growth." Trauma centers attract "a certain cadre of high-value patients," Dr. Jonathan Perlin, HCA's chief medical officer, told analysts at a 2017 conference.
Patients at HCA's largely suburban hospitals are more likely than those at an average hospital to carry private insurance, which pays much more than Medicare and Medicaid. More than half the company's revenue in 2020 came from private insurers, regulatory filings show. Hospitals, in general, collect a little more than a third of their revenue from private insurers, according to the Department of Health and Human Services.
HCA's trauma cases can fit the same profile. At Chippenham, in south Richmond, trauma cases are "90% blunt trauma," according to the hospital's online job posting last year for a trauma medical director. Blunt-trauma patients are generally victims of car accidents and falls and tend to have good insurance, analysts say.
VCU and other urban hospitals, on the other hand, treat a higher share of patients with gun and knife injuries — penetrating trauma — who are more often uninsured or covered by Medicaid. About 75% of VCU's trauma cases are classified as blunt trauma, hospital officials said.
The 90% figure is "not accurate today," Caldwell said. "Chippenham's current mix of trauma type is aligned with that of other trauma centers in the region, and we treat traumas ranging from motor vehicle accidents to gunshots, stabbings and other critical injuries regularly."
'Trauma Drama' in Florida and Beyond
HCA's growth strategy is part of a wider trend. From 2010 to 2020 the number of Level I and Level II trauma centers verified by the American College of Surgeons nationwide increased from 343 to 567.
Nowhere has HCA added trauma centers more aggressively or the fight over trauma center growth been more acrimonious than in Florida. The state's experience over the past decade may offer a preview of what's to come in Virginia and elsewhere.
In the thick of the controversy, legislators stepped in to broker a 2018 truce — but only after the number of HCA trauma centers in the state had grown from one to 11 over more than a decade and helped spark an explosion in trauma cases, according to Florida Department of Health data.
News headlines called it "trauma drama." Hospitals with existing centers repeatedly filed legal challenges to stop the expansion, with little effect. Florida's governor at the time was Rick Scott, former chief executive of Columbia/HCA, a predecessor company to HCA.
After launching Level II centers across the state, HCA officials urged Florida regulators not to adopt CDC guidelines recommending severely injured patients be treated at the highest level of trauma care in a region — Level I, if available.
HCA "kept on working, working, working, working for 10 years" to gain trauma center approvals over objections, said Mark Delegal, who helped broker the legislative settlement as a lobbyist for large safety-net hospitals. "Once they had what they wanted, they were happy to lock the door behind them."
HCA hospitals "serve the healthcare needs of their communities and adjust or expand services as those needs evolve," said Sumerford.
As HCA added trauma centers, trauma-activation billings and the number of trauma cases spiked, according to Florida Department of Health data analyzed by KHN. Statewide, inpatient trauma cases doubled to 35,102 in the decade leading up to 2020, even though the population rose by only 15%. HCA's share of statewide trauma cases jumped from 4% to 24%, the data shows.
Charges for trauma activations, also known as trauma alerts, for HCA's Florida hospitals averaged $26,890 for inpatients in 2019 while the same fees averaged $9,916 for non-HCA Florida hospitals, the data shows. Total average charges, including medical care, were $282,600 per case in 2019 for inpatient trauma cases at HCA hospitals, but $139,000 for non-HCA hospitals.
HCA's substantially higher charges didn't necessarily result from patients with especially severe injuries, public university research found.
Over three years ending in 2014, Florida patients with sprains, mild cuts and other non-life-threatening injuries were "significantly more likely" to be admitted under trauma alerts at HCA hospitals and other for-profit hospitals than at nonprofit hospitals, according to research by University of South Florida economist Etienne Pracht and colleagues. HCA hospitals have admitted emergency department Medicare patients at substantially higher-than-average rates since 2011, suggesting that at other hospitals many would have been sent home, new research by the Service Employees International Union found.
"What's going on with HCA is the Wall Street model they're following," said Pracht, who provided KHN with additional Florida Department of Health data showing soaring trauma cases. "And Wall Street's not happy unless you're expanding. They're driven by the motive to keep the stock price high."
Lobbying and Campaign Dollars
In Virginia, healthcare organizations need to go through a lengthy and public application process to add something as basic as a $1 million MRI imaging machine.
But to open or upgrade a trauma center, all that's needed is the approval of the health commissioner after a confidential qualification procedure. Chippenham did not seek or obtain Level I verification from the American College of Surgeons before getting Level I approval from the state. It is ACS-verified as a Level II center and, Caldwell said, is seeking Level I status with ACS.
Virginia requires an "extensive application" and "in-depth" site reviews by experts before a hospital gains status as a trauma center, Dr. M. Norman Oliver, the commissioner, said in an email. "Chippenham Hospital met the requirements" to become a Level I center, he said.
Nearly 80% of HCA's Level I and Level II trauma centers have been verified by the American College of Surgeons "and the others currently are pursuing this verification," said HCA spokesperson Sumerford.
As in other states, HCA invests heavily in Virginia in political influence. Eleven Virginia lobbyists are registered with the state to advocate on HCA's behalf. One lobbyist spent more than $5,000 from December 2019 through February 2020 treating public officials to reception spreads and meals at posh Richmond restaurants such as L'Opossum and Morton's the Steakhouse, lobbying records submitted to Virginia's Conflict of Interest and Ethics Advisory Council show. HCA's political action committee donated $160,000 to state candidates last year, according to the records.
Like other hospital systems, HCA hires former paramedics for "EMS relations" or "EMS outreach" jobs. HCA's EMS liaisons are expected to develop a "business plan, driving service line growth," according to its employment ads.
Chippenham's decision to start a helicopter ambulance operation last year to compete with others in transporting trauma patients surprised some public officials. HCA and its contractor had filed paperwork for the operation to be reimbursed by insurers when Richmond City Council members learned about it. Members "were not up to speed on this matter," council member Kristen Larson told a May 2020 meeting of the Richmond Ambulance Authority, according to the minutes.
Chippenham's air ambulance partner, private equity-owned Med-Trans, has been the subject of numerous media reports of patients saddled with tens of thousands of dollars in out-of-network surprise bills. It's not unusual for air ambulances to charge $30,000 or more for transporting a patient from a highway accident or just across town, according to news reports.
Last year, 85% of Med-Trans flights for Virginia patients with health insurance were in-network, said a company spokesperson. But Med-Trans is out of network for Virginia members of Aetna and UnitedHealthcare, two of the state's biggest carriers, said spokespeople for those companies. Med-Trans is part of Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield's network, an Anthem spokesperson said.
HCA runs trauma centers "really well," said Winchell, who runs the Level I trauma center at NewYork-Presbyterian Weill Cornell Medical Center.
But "there are clearly areas of oversupply" for trauma centers generally, he said.
Instead of letting a drive for profits dictate trauma center expansion, health authorities need "objective and transparent metrics" to guide the designation of trauma centers, Winchell recently wrote in the Journal of the American College of Surgeons.
Free-market advocate "Adam Smith might have been a good economist," he wrote, "but he would have been a very poor designer of trauma systems."
KHN data editor Elizabeth Lucas contributed to this report.
SAN LUIS VALLEY, Colo. — A woman with pregnancy complications needed permission from her boss to visit a doctor. Community health volunteers were turned away from delivering food and COVID information to worker housing. A farmworker had a serious allergic reaction but was afraid to seek treatment.
To Nicole Civita, policy director with Colorado advocacy group Project Protect Food Systems Workers, such stories encapsulate an entrenched power dynamic that COVID-19 has brought into focus: Farmworkers are "essential but treated as expendable," including when it comes to accessing health care.
Her organization is one of many that supported Colorado legislation dubbed the Farmworker Bill of Rights. Among its provisions is a requirement that the more than 3,000 Colorado farmworkers who live in employer-provided housing be able to visit, or be visited by, medical professionals and community health workers. Employers must also provide transportation to medical visits for those without vehicles. The bill passed the legislature Tuesday and is now off to the governor.
States including Florida, Maryland, Oregon and Wisconsin have guaranteed farmworkers the right to see health care providers where they live. The pandemic spurred North Carolina to reiterate that employers cannot bar health care providers from visiting farmworkers living on their property.
Augusto Basterrechea, who does outreach to farmworkers for the Colorado Department of Labor and Employment in the San Luis Valley, an agricultural hub, said that in his eight years in the role he had never heard of a farmworker being unable to get medical care, even during the pandemic.
But former farmworker Anita Rodriguez clearly remembers a call she received at 2 a.m. in September, when the harvest was in full swing in the region bordered by snow-capped mountains and known for its high-altitude crops of potatoes, lettuce and spinach. It was from a man working on a farm. "He was freaking out."
His body was covered in large red hives and his face was swollen. He could barely open his eyes. He wanted medical attention, she said, but was worried about being caught sneaking out of his employer-provided housing, which is surrounded by tall chain-link fencing, much of it topped with razor wire. A foreman watched over the camp and allowed just three or four workers to leave each day, he told Rodriguez, who volunteers as a community outreach worker and recounted the story to lawmakers in March.
Amy Kunugi, general manager of Southern Colorado Farms, said that the razor wire is intended to deter break-ins during the off-season and that the farm has never policed employees' comings and goings. However, COVID protocols had banned visitors unless approved by managers and limited the number of employees who could leave for essential trips at a given time.
"I'm just kind of gobsmacked," said Kunugi, who first learned of the story at the March legislative hearing on the bill. She said she hasn't found any employees who are familiar with the story. "We always would transport people if they needed health care."
Linda Rossi with Fresh Harvest, the company that recruits farmworkers for Kunugi's farm, added: "There is no way this allegation has any merit, and if anyone so much as said they had the hiccups last year, we responded."
Still, Rodriguez said, this man having a medical emergency on his day off felt scared enough about seeking urgent care that he hatched a plan with her: They waited until later that morning, when he was sure he could sneak out unnoticed. They met at the dollar store down the street, and Rodriguez drove him to an urgent care clinic in the next town over.
"He was afraid to get caught because he didn't want to lose his visa," she said. "That's how he supports his family."
After the man received treatment for his severe allergic reaction, she said, they drove back toward the worker housing. He slunk down in his seat and asked that Rodriguez drive by slowly, so that he could make sure the foreman's car was not outside. Then, she said, he "jumped out of my car like a bat out of hell" and sprinted back inside.
The U.S. Department of Agriculture estimates the nation has 3.2 million farmworkers, with more than 36,700 in Colorado. Nationally, according to the Department of Labor's National Agricultural Workers Survey of 2015-16, about 15% of crop workers lived in employer-provided housing, and a little under half said they had health insurance. While about 40% of respondents said they had not used health care services in the U.S. in the previous couple of years, around 87% said they'd needed it.
About half of crop workers in that survey were undocumented, leaving them vulnerable to abuse and intimidation by their employers. Even those with agricultural work visas can find their movements restricted: The international migrant rights organization Centro de los Derechos del Migrante found that more than a third of 100 workers surveyed in 2019 reported that their employer determined when they could leave their housing or job site.
Jenifer Rodriguez, managing attorney with the nonprofit Colorado Legal Services (no relation to Anita Rodriguez), said that, in addition to barriers like lack of health insurance and the cost of treatment, farmworkers are vulnerable to employer retaliation. In her 14 years representing farmworkers in Colorado, she's spoken to, among others, a sheepherder whose employer wouldn't give him a ride to a doctor for what turned out to be a brain tumor, and health care providers prevented from entering farm property to visit workers even when they were off the clock. "There are a lot of employers that deny them access to do that," she said.
Growers balked at the Farmworker Bill of Rights, primarily over its requirement to provide overtime pay. "The way it was introduced, it probably would have put the majority of the industry out of business. Literally," said Marilyn Bay Drake, executive director of the Colorado Fruit and Vegetable Growers Association.
Drake said members also worry that the medical access provisions could interfere with growers' ability to follow the federal Food Safety Modernization Act, which includes requirements meant to prevent visitors from introducing foodborne illness to farms.
At the state Senate hearing in March, some farmers testified they were "embarrassed" and "shaken" to hear stories of worker mistreatment. Potato farmer Harry Strohauer repeated a common refrain: "There may be a few bad apples in our group, but I don't see it. None of us have seen it. We believe that we do a good job. We believe we take care of our people."
Civita, with Project Protect, finds that argument problematic. "So often we get stuck, when we're trying to dismantle structural racism in the law, on who's a good employer and who's a bad employer," she said. "But even the ones who stack up as good compared to others are really used to maintaining pretty significant power gaps."
Civita said those power gaps were institutionalized in the 1930s with two federal laws, the National Labor Relations Act and Fair Labor Standards Act, that promised workers a minimum wage, overtime pay and the right to organize. According to research from Loyola University Chicago, while the measures originally included all workers, a group of Southern congressmen pushed to exclude domestic workers and farmworkers — positions primarily held then by African Americans.
At the time, congressional records show, a Florida representative said, "You cannot put the Negro and the white man on the same basis and get away with it."
Nearly a century later, farmworkers in 40 states, including Colorado, still have no right to organize and no more than a handful of states guarantee them overtime pay. Only half of states, including Colorado, require employers to provide workers' compensation for job injuries. Farmworkers are also excluded from several federal safety standards — such as ladder safety and falling protections — even though they work in an industry the U.S. Labor Department considers among the most hazardous.
Rodriguez, the lawyer with Colorado Legal Services, points to an undocumented Colorado dairy worker who recently died when the tractor he was driving fell into a manure pit that reportedly had no guardrails. Rodriguez hopes the right to organize would help workers advocate for health and safety measures to prevent such tragedies. "People just aren't willing to step up and do it because, you know, fear of losing their job."
A farmworker who asked to remain anonymous because she's undocumented and fears deportation if her identity is revealed told KHN she had been working for a potato producer in the San Luis Valley for 10 years when she became pregnant.
"That's when everything changed," she said in Spanish. "They were annoyed."
Because she lived in employer-provided housing, she said, she had to ask for permission to go to every doctor's appointment, even when she started having complications with the pregnancy. "It wasn't fair, but we relied on our jobs because we were living in farm housing," she said.
On a winter morning, she went into labor. As her husband drove her to the hospital, he called his supervisor, who told him he was expected at work by noon. "Obviously he couldn't," she said. "I was in labor for 12 hours."
When her husband reported back the following workday, he was scolded for missing work. Within a week, they were both fired.
"We were left without work, and we were left without a home with a newborn baby," she said.
She doubts the new bill would change conditions for workers like her.
"The companies are going to do everything possible to fight," she said. "They don't care if you have problems, if you're sick or if a parent has died. They're only interested in the work."
Labor Department officials on Thursday announced a temporary emergency standard to protect healthcare workers, saying they face "grave danger" in the workplace from the ongoing coronavirus pandemic.
The new standard would require employers to remove workers who have COVID-19 from the workplace, notify workers of COVID exposure at work and strengthen requirements for employers to report worker deaths or hospitalizations to the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.
"These are the workers who continue to go into work day in and day out to take care of us, to save our lives," said Jim Frederick, acting assistant secretary of Labor for occupational safety and health. "And we must make sure we do everything in our power to return the favor to protect them."
The new rules are set to take effect immediately after publication in the Federal Register and are expected to affect about 10.3 million healthcare workers nationwide.
The government's statement of reasons for the new rules cites the work of KHN and The Guardian in tallying more than 3,600 healthcare worker COVID deaths through April 8. Journalists documented far more deaths than the limited count by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which through May tallied 1,611 deaths on case-reporting forms that were often incomplete.
The Lost on the Frontline project documented early calls for better respiratory protection for healthcare workers than loose-fitting face masks, noted serious complaints to OSHA from hospital workers that went unaddressed and revealed repeated employer failures to report dozens of worker deaths. It also found that healthcare employers were often remiss in notifying workers about exposure to the coronavirus on the job.
The new standard would address some of those problems.
The rules require workers to wear N95 or elastomeric respirators when in contact with people with either suspected or confirmed COVID. They strengthen employer record-keeping requirements, saying employers must document all worker COVID cases (regardless of whether they were deemed work-related) and report work-related deaths even if they occur more than 30 days after exposure.
Until now, employers were required to report a hospitalization only if it came within 24 hours of a workplace exposure. Now all work-related COVID hospitalizations must be reported. The rules also mandate notification about exposure to a sick colleague, patient or customer if the worker was not wearing a respirator.
There is a lot to like about the new rule ― except for the timing, according to Barbara Rosen, vice president of the Health Professionals and Allied Employees union in New Jersey.
"It's a little late," she said. "If we had had this in place at the beginning, it would have saved a lot of lives and a lot of suffering that has gone on with healthcare workers and probably patients in hospitals because of the spread."
She said she was pleased with the requirement that workers be paid when they isolate with COVID and that employers formulate a detailed COVID plan with the input of non-managers.
The day after he took office, President Joe Biden issued an executive order calling on OSHA to "take swift action to reduce the risk that workers may contract COVID-19 in the workplace." The rule has been criticized for coming late — about which Labor Department officials said on a press call that such standards typically take years, not months, to formulate. It has also been derided for failing to enact requirements on employers outside of healthcare.
"OSHA's failure to issue a COVID-specific standard in other high-risk industries, like meat and poultry processing, corrections, homeless shelters and retail establishments is disappointing," according to a statement from David Michaels, a former OSHA administrator and professor with the George Washington University School of Public Health. "If exposure is not controlled in these workplaces, they will continue to be important drivers of infections."Bottom of Form
The new rule also cites 67,000 worker complaints during the pandemic, with "more complaints about healthcare settings than any other industry." The rule would protect workers from retaliation for staying home when sick with COVID, alerting their employer about a COVID hazard or exercising their rights under the emergency rule.
Through March 7, about half of healthcare workers said they had received at least their first dose of a COVID vaccine, according to a KFF-Washington Post poll. About one-third of those polled said they were unsure if they would get a vaccine. The issue has been controversial, especially in Houston, where workers at one hospital staged a protest over their employer's vaccine mandate.
The new rules exempt some office-based healthcare workplaces where all staff members are vaccinated and measures are taken to screen people with potential illness. The rule summary estimates the measures will prevent 776 deaths and 295,000 infections.
The new rule also says it will "enable OSHA to issue more meaningful penalties for willful or egregious violations, thus facilitating better enforcement and more effective deterrence against employers who intentionally disregard … employee safety."
Kristin Carbone said the measure came too late for her mother, Barbara Birchenough, 65, a New Jersey hospital nurse who'd asked family members to gather gardening gloves and trash bags to serve as makeshift personal protective equipment before she fell ill and later died on April 15, 2020. Still, she said, it's a necessary step.
"If there is a silver lining," she said, "I'm glad that out of this tragedy come positives for the people that are left behind."
Promise: "Double the number of drive-through testing sites, invest in next-generation testing, including at home tests and instant tests, so we can scale up our testing capacity by orders of magnitude."
This article was published on Friday, June 11, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
Before vaccinations were widely available, COVID-19 tests were considered one of the few tools to help control the spread of the coronavirus.
That's why then-candidate Joe Biden promised during the 2020 presidential campaign to boost the United States' testing capacity as one way he would "beat COVID-19."
Specifically, Biden's campaign website promised that, if elected, he would "double the number of drive-through testing sites" and "invest in next-generation testing, including at-home tests and instant tests, so we can scale up our testing capacity by orders of magnitude."
KHN has teamed up with our partners at PolitiFact to analyze Biden's promises during the 2020 presidential campaign. Now that Biden has been president almost five months, we checked how he has done on this one. Experts say testing capacity has improved. At the same time, testing demand has decreased and part of Biden's promise — doubling the number of drive-thru testing sites — is harder to pin down.
In February, about a month after Biden took office, his administration announced at a news briefing that it would invest more than $1.6 billion in COVID testing. These funds would, among other things, expand testing in schools and other congregate settings, increase domestic manufacturing of testing supplies, and help track COVID variants via genetic sequencing.
Then, Biden's American Rescue Plan, which successfully passed through both chambers of Congress in March, also allocated funds specifically to expand testing.
On March 17, the Department of Health and Human Services announced that $10 billion from that legislation would be devoted to screening and testing so schools could reopen, and $2.25 billion to scaling up testing in underserved populations as well as providing new guidance. An additional $4.8 billion was allotted in May to reimburse healthcare providers for testing uninsured people for the coronavirus.
Dr. Marcus Plescia, chief medical officer of the Association of State and Territorial Health Officials, the organization representing state public health agencies, said states have begun to receive their American Rescue Plan funds and are starting to plan how testing will be implemented to help schools conduct classes in person in the fall.
But whether Biden was successful in doubling the number of drive-thru testing sites is unclear. KHN and PolitiFact asked various testing experts for their take, and they generally said they weren't aware of any data that showed the number of sites had doubled. Some hypothesized, though, that this may have been because many public health resources were shifted away from testing sites to staff and to set up vaccination sites once COVID vaccines became available to the public.
"I think states did shift their efforts to vaccination, because that was the move in the spring," said Plescia. But as more people were vaccinated, demand dropped, and "if we had those drive-thru testing sites we ended up closing them," he added. "It was a promise we ended up not needing to keep."
Indeed, there have been reports of shuttered testing sites across the U.S. In Florida all 27 state-run testing sites closed at the end of May. Oklahoma also recently closed a mass testing site once demand fell to fewer than 50 tests a day and, in late May, New Jersey closed the state's first outdoor testing site.Bottom of Form
The Johns Hopkins University Testing Tracker shows that testing demand in the U.S. has significantly dropped. In January, about 2 million tests were conducted in a day. In May, that number dropped to about 850,000. This reduction has occurred at the same time the number of Americans getting vaccinated is rising and COVID cases and deaths are dropping.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention also recently recommended that vaccinated people who have been exposed to someone with COVID no longer need to be tested if asymptomatic, and that vaccinated people can be excluded from workplace testing in most instances.
Still, Plescia thinks that if future outbreaks occur in certain areas and more tests are required, states would be able to scale up to meet the need. Especially because of the increased availability of at-home tests — another Biden focus.
So far, the administration has contracted with several private companies to ensure the production and distribution of both rapid and at-home COVID tests.
Ellume, an Australian diagnostics company, was the first to receive an emergency use authorization from the Food and Drug Administration for an at-home test. In February, the Department of Defense announced it had awarded Ellume almost $232 million to build a U.S. factory and increase home-test production. The contract also includes the allocation of 8.5 million home tests to the federal government, which must be provided by the end of 2021.
Abbott, another diagnostics company, received significant funds from the federal government for tests during both the Biden and Trump administrations. In March, HHS announced that Abbott had received a contract to deliver 50 million of its rapid point-of-care tests to long-term care facilities.
Currently, five over-the-counter at-home tests have been authorized for emergency use by the FDA. In addition to the Ellume and Abbott tests, which provide results at home in 15 minutes, a Labcorp test is also available over the counter, but its results take one or two days to return.
The increase in supply and decrease in demand could mean some testing efforts originally envisioned by the Biden administration might not be rolled out and the U.S. might never get to "orders-of-magnitude" increases in testing, Josh Michaud, associate director of global health policy at KFF, wrote in an email.
Overall, though, despite the number of drive-thru or mass-testing sites closed down, there is now a greater availability of COVID tests. The Biden administration has also provided significant funding toward testing, even if some of it has been redirected.
"In general, I think testing is much better," Jeffrey Schlegelmilch, director of the Columbia University National Center for Disaster Preparedness, wrote in an email. "There are easier-to-access options, and the wait times seem to be much faster for results. … There are also more resources available to state and local health departments to perform testing. So I would qualify this as a promise kept."
Phone interview with Gigi Gronvall, a senior scholar at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security at the Bloomberg School of Public Health, June 8, 2021
Phone interview with Dr. Marcus Plescia, chief medical officer of the Association for State and Territorial Health Officials, June 8, 2021
Phone interview with Dr. Leana Wen, visiting professor of health policy and management at the George Washington University, June 8, 2021
It took COVID-19 to give millions of Americans the option of telling their doctor about their aches and pains by phone.
But now that more doctors and patients are returning to in-person appointments, policymakers across the country are divided over how much taxpayer money to keep spending on phone appointments. Although they were a lifeline for Medicaid and Medicare patients who don't have the technology for video visits, critics say they don't provide the same level of patient care and aren't worth the same price.
In California, the Democratic-controlled legislature wants the state's Medicaid program for low-income people — called Medi-Cal — to keep paying for phone calls at the same rate as for video and in-person visits, a policy that began during the pandemic. But Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom's budget plan directs Medi-Cal to reduce the rate.
Medi-Cal paid for a whopping 2.4 million phone appointments from March 1, 2020, to April 30, 2021, according to the state Department of Healthcare Services.
"Prior to the pandemic, audio-only visits weren't a thing," said Chris Perrone, director of the California Healthcare Foundation's Improving Access team. "No one considered them telehealth." (California Healthline is an editorially independent publication of the foundation.)
The federal Medicare program — which covers older Americans and people with disabilities — and most state Medicaid programs rarely paid for phone visits before the pandemic. But after doctors shuttered their offices last year and patients stayed home, Medicare and nearly every state Medicaid program began paying for phone visits when it became clear that many patients didn't have access to video. More private insurers began counting phone calls as telemedicine visits, too.
The use of audio and video appointments — generally known as telehealth — has exploded during the pandemic. In California, there were about 10,500 telehealth visits a week per 100,000 Medi-Cal patients in 2020, compared with about 300 in 2019, according to the state Department of Healthcare Services.
Medicare saw a similar explosion. Before the pandemic, about 17,000 enrollees used telemedicine each week. That shot up to 1.1 million weekly during the pandemic, according to a Medicare spokesperson.
While most state Medicaid programs began paying for phone visits during the pandemic, they are weighing how to proceed as it wanes. New Hampshire passed a law in March 2020 requiring Medicaid and private plans to pay for phone visits at the same rate as video and in-person visits. This March, Vermont extended emergency rules to pay for phone visits at the same rate as other types of appointments through 2022, and a state working group recommended keeping them permanently. Connecticut, Delaware, New York, Colorado and other states passed laws that define phone visits as telehealth, and all are continuing to pay for them to varying degrees.
Congress held hearings in April to determine whether Medicare should keep paying for phone visits, which it started doing in March 2020 but is set to stop after the federally declared public health emergency ends. A nonpartisan legislative agency has recommended extending the payments for a year or two after the emergency.
Because audio appointments are new, there's little evidence on quality. The California Health Benefits Review Program analyzed studies on the effectiveness of telehealth and found that, generally, telephone visits were "at least as effective as in-person" ones. The few studies that directly compare video and audio visits looked at behavioral healthcare and determined that outcomes were about the same.
Phone visits were important to Taryn Keane, 63, who lost her job as a massage therapist in Venice, California. Keane can't afford internet service at home and didn't have a laptop until the Venice Family Clinic gave her an old one and a Wi-Fi hot spot so she could participate in patient forums.
Still, Keane doesn't like video calls. She has dental problems that make her uncomfortable showing her face on video and a learning disability that makes it hard to focus if there are too many visual distractions. It was easier for her to talk through her mental health issues, and get consultations before and after wrist surgery, over the phone.
"I'm not good on the computer," Keane said. "It's just another uncomfortable barrier for me."
California lawmakers are debating a bill, AB 32, that would require Medi-Cal to keep reimbursing phone, video and in-person visits at the same rate in most settings. The measure, passed by the state Assembly, is now being debated in the Senate and as part of budget negotiations.
An analysis of the bill from the California Health Benefits Review Program found evidence that patients of color and those who are older or rural were more likely to use phone visits than video visits during the pandemic.
"It's obvious that video [appointments] will not be going to all rural residents and seniors anytime soon," said state Assembly member Cecilia Aguiar-Curry (D-Winters), author of the measure. "My No. 1 goal is to have access for all."
Doctors at safety-net clinics that serve Medi-Cal enrollees and uninsured people report that phone visits have been instrumental in keeping patients healthy during the pandemic. They have proved effective with patients with behavioral health issues like substance use disorders, and those with chronic diseases like diabetes, which require monthly check-ins.
Dr. Grace Floutsis, CEO of White Memorial Community Health Center in Los Angeles, used video and phone appointments for the first time during the pandemic. Like all federally qualified health centers, White Memorial generally wasn't allowed to use telehealth until then.
"What surprised us the most was how many more people had access to care because that was provided," Floutsis said. "I'm not sure that changes that much after the pandemic."
Patients have stopped skipping appointments, she said. The no-show rate for pediatrics (now in person) is higher than for adult primary care (still virtual). The no-show rate for behavioral health, once high, has dwindled to nearly zero.
California's Department of Healthcare Services argues that phone appointments aren't as good as in-person or even video visits and wants to pay for some phone visits at 65% of in-person or video rates, beginning July 1 or when the federal public health emergency ends.
"There are inherent limitations on the types of services and quality provided," department spokesperson Tony Cava wrote in an email. "They are not typically viewed as equivalent to in-person visits, do not require the same level of resources to manage, and special equipment or broadband internet connections aren't required."
Despite multiple requests, the department did not provide data on how much it paid for phone appointments during the pandemic.
Under the department's proposal, it would no longer pay for phone appointments at community health centers because the health centers receive a flat rate for every visit by a Medicaid patient. The department left the door open to work with health centers and the federal government to pay some amount for audio visits in the future.
The average community clinic appointment in California is reimbursed at $215, but some can be several hundred dollars.
"While I think it's a really valuable service, I don't think it's a really valuable service at that cost," said Assembly member Jim Wood (D-Santa Rosa), who chairs the Assembly Health Committee.
His committee discussed cost in April when it considered AB 32, the bill to keep rates for phone visits equal to the rates for other visits, and amended it to stop reimbursing audio visits at community clinics altogether after five years.
West County Health Centers in Sonoma County is already losing money on phone appointments for Medicare patients, and will take an even bigger hit if Medi-Cal cuts rates, said CEO Jason Cunningham.
But ending phone appointments completely isn't an option, he said. Phone calls allow patients to conference in family members, eliminate travel time for patients in remote parts of the county, and enabled clinics to keep operating when their buildings were closed for wildfires last summer, he said.
"How can I ask someone to drive an hour to see me, wait in the waiting room for 20 minutes and drive an hour back home when their neighbor with a laptop can see me virtually?" he asked.
Dr. John Carlo is concerned that patients at Prism Health North Texas who rely on the healthcare safety net will soon be struggling even more to stay on PrEP, a medication that prevents HIV transmission.
Carlo, chief executive officer of the clinic, which runs three locations in Dallas, offers free PrEP to roughly 250 patients, he said, thanks to an assistance program run by Gilead Sciences. The drugmaker currently manufactures two PrEP medications.
The program also helps Carlo generate money to cover the care people on the medication need, like regular doctor visits and lab tests.
Without Gilead's help, Carlo said, "none of these people would be in care with us."
Nationwide, safety-net clinics like Prism Health North Texas rely on Gilead's Advancing Access Patient Assistance/Medication Assistance Program to fund services that keep patients in need HIV-negative.
In April, Gilead announced it will change how much it reimburses through that assistance program. For pharmacies that contract with certain safety-net clinics, like Prism Health, the change means less reimbursement cash to pass along to the clinics.
The domino-like impact of the company's move means Prism Health may lose between $2 million and $3 million annually, Carlo estimated.
The Advancing Access program offers free medicine to the uninsured. In the simplest terms, pharmacies dispense Gilead's drugs at no charge to qualifying patients. The pharmacies then file claims with Gilead, which reimburses them.
Shannon Stephenson, who runs a network of safety-net clinics called Cempa Community Care in Chattanooga, Tennessee, said the new policy means she will have to work with a tighter budget and find another way to afford the nearly $2,000 in yearly medical services alone each patient on PrEP needs.
"It could really cause a shift in what HIV looks like in the future," Stephenson said. "This is not the time to be creating any more barriers to getting people into care."
Coy Stout, Gilead's vice president of U.S. commercial access and reimbursement, said that before it changed its policy the company did not know safety-net clinics relied on this money to fund critical services.
Gilead announced the change after discovering it was reimbursing pharmacies at a higher price than what most of them were spending to replace the drugs.
The company declined to tell how much money it will save, but Stout said the move will help keep the aid program sustainable.
In 2020, according to a Gilead press release, the company earned $24.4 billion in product sales.
"This is a program to provide free medication," Stout said, "not free medication and other services."
Currently, the drug company reimburses pharmacies the retail price of the drugs. For HIV prevention medications, the cost is substantial. Gilead's PrEP medicines, Truvada and Descovy, cost more than $1,800 for a 30-day supply, said Sean Dickson, director of healthcare policy at the West Healthcare Policy Center.
In 2022, Gilead will give pharmacies "the amount paid" for each bottle of medicine. Certain safety-net clinics will be harmed by the change because they participate in a separate program called 340B.
The federal program requires pharmaceutical companies to sell their medications to safety-net providers at a discount. Although the size of the discounts the drugmakers offer is confidential, the government estimates they range from 25% to 50%.
In short, that means clinics that participate in the 340B program will be reimbursed for the discounted price of the drug, which will cut how much they can pocket from the Advancing Access program.
Dickson said the amount clinics keep from Gilead's aid program is a critical source of revenue to pay for services and medicines for patients in need who can't get them otherwise.
"These really are needy populations that are being served by them," Dickson said.
Clinics that participate in the 340B program play a crucial role in treating patients at risk of contracting HIV, said Tim Horn, director of healthcare access for NASTAD, the National Alliance of State and Territorial AIDS Directors.
He's particularly concerned about providers in the South, where rates of HIV and the uninsured are among the nation's highest. The region accounted for over half of all HIV diagnoses in 2018, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported.
Small, grassroots clinics in the South are "gonna live or die by the 340B savings," said Horn.
The financial upheaval of Gilead's change in reimbursement adds fodder to larger questions about the 340B program as a viable source of funding for PrEP services.
Several drugmakers have recently released generic PrEP medicines priced significantly lower than Gilead's brand-name offerings. Dickson said lower drug prices are a positive development for patients because it makes healthcare more affordable for everyone.
However, he added, transitioning to generic PrEP would prevent 340B clinics from generating money off the drug company's aid.
That said, relying on high drug pricing to fund the nation's safety net "is not a sustainable path forward," said Dickson. "We actually need to pay for things that work rather than paying too much for prescription drugs."
KHN senior correspondent Sarah Jane Tribble contributed to this report.
Direct primary care practices have been emerging around the country, but they are often criticized for not offering the patient safeguards of traditional insurance.
This article was published on Thursday, June 10, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
When Paul Rana's primary care physician left the VA clinic in Kalispell to open her own practice, he followed her. But instead of picking up a new health insurance policy, Rana and his partner agreed to pay a monthly fee that came with the promise of better access.
Their provider, Dr. Lexi Tabor-Manaker, opened Glacier Direct Primary Care clinic in 2018. The model known as DPC, which can also stand for direct patient care, furnishes basic healthcare to patients for a set fee, often billed monthly like a subscription. The arrangement offers patients unlimited access to their doctors and allows them to communicate by phone or email. But the costs are all out-of-pocket.
"We have been pleased to be able to communicate with her instantly without going through an administrative gauntlet," as he might with the Department of Veterans Affairs, Rana said.
Direct primary care practices have been emerging around the country, but they are often criticized for not offering the patient safeguards of traditional insurance. State legislators this year, however, sought to preserve the approach and passed two new laws that prohibit direct primary care practices or healthcare sharing ministries — religious or ethical groups whose members pool money to cover medical costs — from being regulated as insurance.
Such arrangements, according to supporters, afford greater flexibility and lower costs for healthcare compared with traditional health insurance. Without these laws, "a future commissioner of insurance may deem them to be insurance and require them to come under the health insurance regulatory scheme, thus destroying their value and defining characteristics," said Sen. Tom McGillvray (R-Billings), sponsor of the bill on healthcare sharing ministries.
Lack of regulation comes with risks. Patients in direct primary care and healthcare sharing ministries mostly miss out on consumer protections mandated by the Affordable Care Act, such as coverage of preexisting conditions and prohibitions against charging more based on gender.
Some healthcare sharing ministries have developed into large nationwide organizations, such as Medi-Share and Trinity HealthShare. Critics of that model say the unregulated ministries aren't required to cap out-of-pocket costs or pay claims and can refuse coverage for certain treatments. They can also have annual and lifetime benefit caps.
In Montana, a pastor filed a lawsuit in 2007 after Medi-Share refused to pay for expenses for a member's heart condition. A state judge ruled the group was selling insurance without registering in the state, effectively banning healthcare sharing ministries. That changed in 2017 when Matthew Rosendale, then insurance commissioner, declared the programs weren't health insurance and could operate in the state.
McGillvray's bill cements Rosendale's ruling into state law.
Eight direct primary care facilities operate in Montana with out-of-pocket fees that typically range from $70 to $120 per month for an adult, according to DPC Frontier.
Supporters of direct primary care said the model lets doctors spend more time with patients. Physicians told lawmakers that when working with traditional insurance plans they might spend a significant chunk of their days on administrative tasks instead of patient care, according to Sen. Cary Smith (R-Billings), sponsor of the direct primary care bill.
That bill allows for any form of healthcare practice — therapists, dentists, physical therapists, etc. — to operate under the direct primary care model.
Direct primary care agreements don't cover hospital visits, prescription drugs, surgery or specialized care, such as cancer treatment. Providers and supporters recommend people sign up for health insurance to cover those costs.
Another criticism, one leveled by traditional health insurers, is that the monthly fee often doesn't save people money. Patients would have to go to the doctor several times a year to make the direct primary care monthly payments worthwhile, and people usually don't make that many visits, said Richard Miltenberger, CEO of Mountain Health Co-Op, a nonprofit health insurance cooperative that sells health insurance in Montana, Idaho and Wyoming.
"So, it's actually often, for many consumers, more cost-effective to just pay for the service [that isn't covered by insurance] when you utilize it, as you utilize it, as opposed to paying a monthly membership fee," Miltenberger said.
Rana, a retired Army veteran who lives in Woods Bay, doesn't fully depend on direct primary care for his healthcare. He still uses the VA clinic for regular checkups. He also has Medicare and Tricare — a health program for military members and their families — for larger procedures he gets outside of the VA, such as when he had knee surgery in 2020.
But his first stop when he noticed something wrong with his knee was with Tabor-Manaker, who saw him quickly and referred him to a specialist. That makes the expense worth it, he said.
"I knew going in that this was all out-of-pocket for me, and I accepted that because the quality of service is far greater in its value to me than the hundred bucks a month," Rana said.
Loads of other firms, ranging from small start-ups to larger, more established companies, are selling similar concepts of new and improved primary care.
This article was published on Thursday, June 10, 2021 in Kaiser Health News.
In April, San Francisco-based primary care company One Medical revealed an eye-popping compensation package for its chief executive and chairman, Amir Dan Rubin. His $199 million payday, particularly noteworthy at a company that has yet to turn a profit, made Rubin the second-highest-paid CEO in the United States last year — but only on paper.
About $197.5 million of his pay is in stock options. For Rubin to get all that cash, the stock of One Medical, traded as 1Life Healthcare, must rise sharply over the next seven years, to nearly triple its current price.
In short, his compensation is less a quick jackpot than a general statement of One Medical's ambitious vision of primary care that is more accessible, technologically enabled and patient-friendly, while cutting health costs for employers and individuals.
Loads of other firms, ranging from small start-ups to larger, more established companies, are selling similar concepts of new and improved primary care.
Some offer it directly to individuals; others target Medicare enrollees. Perhaps the most promising customers are employers, who insure an estimated 157 million U.S. workers and their dependents, and have long been frustrated with spotty primary care and perpetually rising health costs.
The "direct" primary care companies, as they are often called, face stiff competition from one another as well as the large regional health systems and their affiliated physician groups, which still dominate the field.
Analysts say these emerging primary care companies have significant room for growth because of mounting frustration with the medical status quo and because they currently have only a tiny share of the $260 billion U.S. primary care market.
"I think that, ultimately, they're going to grow in acceptance and accumulate patients and attract clinicians that want to provide a different level of care," said Richard Close, managing director of health equity research at Canaccord Genuity in Nashville, Tennessee. But he added that "all of these companies combined could grow very significantly and just put a dent in the overall system."Bottom of Form
Also vying for a share of the primary care market are urgent care centers and walk-in clinics at retailers such as Target and pharmacies such as CVS, in addition to telehealth companies like Teladoc and Doctors on Demand.
In a sharp reminder of the competitive challenges ahead, the share prices of One Medical and Teladoc sank in mid-March after Amazonannounced plans to begin offering its telehealth and home visit service as an employee benefit nationwide.
"Amazon is a threat, because Amazon knows how to appeal to consumers," said Gary Kurtzman, a Wharton Business School lecturer and managing director of Prostasia Health, a health tech investment advisory firm.
The appeal of these companies has grown as employers increasingly seek to address a shortage of high-quality primary care and reduce spending on the health of their workforce, said Ellen Kelsay, CEO and president of the Business Group on Health, which represents large employers.
Studies show a strong correlation between access to primary care and lower spending on expensive medical services such as ER visits, surgeries and hospital admissions. Yet in the United States, primary care accounts for only around 5% to 7% of total health spending, compared with 14% in the 36 member nations of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development.
The big bet of One Medical and companies like it is that greater spending on primary care will fatten their bottom lines while reducing overall health costs for their clients.
A study published last year in JAMA Network Open showed that employees of Hawthorne, California-based SpaceX who got most of their primary care at One Medical's on-site health clinic generated 109% more in spending on primary care but 45% less on healthcare overall than those who used One Medical infrequently or not at all.
These direct primary care companies typically offer a digital platform as the first point of contact, which enables members to make appointments and text, email or video chat 24/7 with their medical providers.
They wed that technology to brick-and-mortar clinics staffed by doctors, nurse practitioners and medical staff, where members can go for checkups, prescription drugs, lab tests, scans, vaccinations, physical therapy and mental health visits. The patients generally get more time with their providers than in a traditional medical office.
One Medical's focus is improving healthcare for "multiple stakeholders simultaneously," Rubin said in a recent interview with KHN. "How do we delight consumers, serve employers and payers? How do we make medicine the best environment for providers to work in?"
Part of the company's answer is to put doctors on salary rather than paying a fee for every visit. That eliminates the pressure to book a lot of visits, which Rubin said helps physicians spend more time with each patient.
One Medical will offer its combination of telehealth and in-person visits in 22 metropolitan areas around the United States within a year or so, up from nine in 2020, Rubin said. It had nearly 600,000 members at the end of March, up 31% from a year earlier. When One Medical started in 2007, it sold only individual memberships, for which it currently charges $199 a year. But it has since moved increasingly into the employer market. Anecdotally, its patients are happy with the care they get.
"One Medical says your appointment is at 10 a.m., and my nurse practitioner is walking out at 10 a.m. to get me," said Kathleen Wiegand, 63, a One Medical member in Washington, D.C. "I've never had to wait for an appointment."
Brentwood, Tennessee-based Premise Health is the biggest player in the employer segment of the direct care market, with over $1 billion in annual revenue, 11 million employer-sponsored members via 1,600 large corporate and municipal employers and about 850 health centers. Most of those centers are at the worksites of its corporate and local government customers.
"Our bet going forward is that it's the combination of digital and physical access that will drive sustained value and better experience for the member, instead of pure digital or pure physical," said Jami Doucette, president of Premise.
Doucette said his company provides an entry point to medicine that is "an alternative to primary care physicians owned by hospitals who are driven by volume of expensive procedures."
Eden Health, a start-up headquartered in New York City, provides a similar service to small and midsize employers, and is also contracting directly with commercial real estate companies that want to provide on-site medical facilities for the businesses that are their tenants.
As the pandemic eases and many workers return to offices with safety on their minds, providing on-site medical care can help commercial landlords command higher rents, said Matt McCambridge, Eden Health's 29-year-old co-founder and CEO. "What the landlords are trying to do is craft an amenity package that allows them to be a class-A, high-end location, and health is really a key part of that," he said.
San Francisco-based start-up Forward Health, on the other hand, markets itself exclusively to individuals. It charges a flat monthly fee of $149 for access to digital health, in-person visits and technology the company says can scan for signs of skin cancer, perform genetic analyses and return comprehensive blood test results in 12 minutes.
While positioning themselves as "disrupters" in an industry that emphasizes volume of services over health, many direct care companies nonetheless participate in the networks of their members' health plans, and some receive fee-for-service payments from those plans.
One Medical, for example, gets about 37% of its revenue from such payments.
"That's just the way the U.S. health system is organized. If you want to easily serve people, you say, 'Hey, I accept your insurance.' And if you want to easily serve employers, you say, 'I'm in your network,'" Rubin said.
"But the powerful thing is that without changing how the system pays, we can still reduce the cost of care," he added. "We don't have to wait for some mythical unicorn of a reimbursement system to get these kinds of results."