PITTSBURGH — A false alarm that a gunman was roaming one Catholic high school and then another in March 2023 touched off frightening evacuations and a robust police response in the city. It also prompted the diocese to rethink what constitutes a model learning environment.

Months after hundreds of students were met by SWAT teams, the Catholic Diocese of Pittsburgh began forming its own armed police force.

Wendell Hissrich, a former safety director for the city and career FBI unit chief, was hired that year to form a department to safeguard 39 Catholic schools as well as dozens of churches in the region. Hissrich has since added 15 officers and four supervisors, including many formerly retired officers and state troopers, who now oversee school campuses fitted with Stop the Bleed kits, cameras, and defibrillators.

When religious leaders first asked for advice after what are known as “swatting” incidents, the veteran lawman said he didn’t hesitate to deliver blunt advice: “You need to put armed officers in the schools.”

But he added that the officers had to view schools as a special assignment: “I want them to be role models. I want them to be good fits within the school. I’m looking for someone to know how to deal with kids and with parents — and, most importantly, knows how to de-escalate a situation.”

Gun violence is a leading cause of death for young people in America, and the possibility of shootings has influenced costly decision-making in school systems as administrators juggle fear, duty, and dizzying statistics in efforts to keep schools safe from gun harm. In the first week of September, the risks were made tragically clear again, this time in Georgia, as a teenager stands accused of shooting his way through his high school and killing two students and two teachers.

Still, scant research supports the creation of school police forces to deter gun violence — and what data exists can raise as many questions as answers. Data shows over half of U.S. firearm deaths are, in fact, suicides — a sobering statistic from the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that reflects a range of ills. Gun violence grew during the covid-19 pandemic and studies found that Black children were 100 times as likely as white children to experience firearm assaults. Research on racial bias in policing overall in the U.S. as well as studies on biased school discipline have prompted calls for caution. And an oft-cited U.S. Secret Service review of 67 thwarted plots at schools supports reasons to examine parental responsibility as well as police intervention as effective ways to stop firearm harm.

The Secret Service threat assessment, published in 2021, analyzed plots from 2006 to 2018 and found students who planned school violence had guns readily at home. It also found that school districts that contracted sworn law officers, who work as full- or part-time school resource officers, had some advantage. The officers proved pivotal in about a third of the 67 foiled plots by current or former students.

“Most schools are not going to face a mass shooting. Even though there are more of them — and that’s horrible — it is still a small number,” said Mo Canady, executive director of the National Association of School Resource Officers. “But administrators can’t really allow themselves to think that way.

“They have to think, ‘It could happen here, and how do I prevent it?’”

About a 20-minute drive north of Pittsburgh, a top public school system in the region decided the risk was too great. North Allegheny Superintendent Brendan Hyland last year recommended retooling what had been a two-person school resource officer team — staffed since 2018 by local police — into a 13-person internal department with officers stationed at each of the district’s 12 buildings.

Several school district board members voiced unease about armed officers in the hallways. “I wish we were not in the position in our country where we have to even consider an armed police department,” board member Leslie Britton Dozier, a lawyer and a mother, said during a public planning meeting.

Within weeks, all voted for Hyland’s request, estimated to cost $1 million a year.

Hyland said the aim is to help 1,200 staff members and 8,500 students “with the right people who are the right fit to go into those buildings.” He oversaw the launch of a police unit in a smaller school district, just east of Pittsburgh, in 2018.

Hyland said North Allegheny had not focused on any single news report or threat in its decision, but he and others had thought through how to set a standard of vigilance. North Allegheny does not have or want metal detectors, devices that some districts have seen as necessary. But a trained police unit willing to learn every entrance, stairway, and cafeteria and who could develop trust among students and staffers seemed reasonable, he said.

“I’m not Edison. I’m not inventing something,” Hyland said. “We don’t want to be the district that has to be reactive. I don’t want to be that guy who is asked: ‘Why did you allow this to happen?’”

Since 2020, the role of police in educational settings has been hotly debated. The video-recorded death of George Floyd, a Black man in Minneapolis who was murdered by a white police officer during an arrest, prompted national outrage and demonstrations against police brutality and racial bias.

Some school districts, notably in large cities such as Los Angeles and Washington, D.C., reacted to concerns by reducing or removing their school resource officers. Examples of unfair or biased treatment by school resource officers drove some of the decisions. This year, however, there has been apparent rethinking of the risks in and near school property and, in some instances in California, Colorado, and Virginia, parents are calling for a return of officers.

The 1999 bombing plot and shooting attack of Columbine High School and a massacre in 2012 at Sandy Hook Elementary School are often raised by school and police officials as reasons to prepare for the worst. But the value of having police in schools also came under sharp review after a blistering federal review of the mass shooting in 2022 at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas.

The federal Department of Justice this year produced a 600-page report that laid out multiple failures by the school police chief, including his attempt to try to negotiate with the killer, who had already shot into a classroom, and waiting for his officers to search for keys to unlock the rooms. Besides the teenage shooter, 19 children and two teachers died. Seventeen other people were injured.

The DOJ report was based on hundreds of interviews and a review of 14,000 pieces of data and documentation. This summer, the former chief was indicted by a grand jury for his role in “abandoning and endangering” survivors and for failing to identify an active shooter attack. Another school police officer was charged for his role in placing the murdered students in “imminent danger” of death.

There have also been increased judicial efforts to pursue enforcement of firearm storage laws and to hold accountable adults who own firearms used by their children in shootings. For the first time this year, the parents of a teenager in Michigan who fatally shot four students in 2021 were convicted of involuntary manslaughter for not securing a newly purchased gun at home.

In recent days, Colin Gray, the father of the teenage shooting suspect at Apalachee High School in Georgia, was charged with second-degree murder — the most severe charges yet against a parent whose child had access to firearms at home. The 14-year-old, Colt Gray, who was apprehended by school resource officers on the scene, according to initial media reports, also faces murder charges.

Hissrich, the Pittsburgh diocese’s safety and security director, said he and his city have a hard-earned appreciation for the practice and preparation needed to contain, if not thwart, gun violence. In January 2018, Hissrich, then the city’s safety officer, met with Jewish groups to consider a deliberate approach to safeguarding facilities. Officers cooperated and were trained on lockdown and rescue exercises, he said.

Ten months later, on Oct. 27, 2018, a lone gunman entered the Tree of Life synagogue and, within minutes, killed 11 people who had been preparing for morning study and prayer. Law enforcement deployed quickly, trapping and capturing the shooter and rescuing others caught inside. The coordinated response was praised by witnesses at the trial where the killer was convicted in 2023 on federal charges and sentenced to die for the worst antisemitic attack in U.S. history.

“I knew what had been done for the Jewish community as far as safety training and what the officers knew. Officers practiced months before,” Hissrich said. He believes schools need the same kind of plans and precautions. “To put officers in the school without training,” he said, “would be a mistake.”

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Even as federal aid poured into state budgets in response to the COVID-19 pandemic, public health leaders warned of a boom-and-bust funding cycle on the horizon as the emergency ended and federal grants sunsetted. Now, that drought has become reality and state governments are slashing budgets that feed local health departments.

Congress allotted more than $800 billion to support states’ COVID responses, fueling a surge in the public health workforce nationwide.

Local health department staffing grew by about 19% from 2019 to 2022, according to a report from the National Association of County and City Health Officials that studied 2,512 of the nation’s roughly 3,300 local departments. That same report explained that half of their revenue in 2022 came from federal sources.

But those jobs, and the safety net they provide for the people in the communities served, are vulnerable as the money dries up, worrying public health leaders — particularly in sparsely populated, rural areas, which already faced long-standing health disparities and meager resources.

Officials in such states as Montana, California, Washington, and Texas now say they face budget cuts and layoffs. Public health experts warn the accompanying service cuts — functions like contact tracing, immunizations, family planning, restaurant inspections, and more — could send communities into crisis.

In California, Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom proposed cutting the state’s public health funding by $300 million. And the Washington Department of Health slashed more than 350 positions at the end of last year and anticipated cutting 349 more this year as the state’s federal COVID funding runs dry.

“You cannot hire firefighters when the house is already burning,” said Brian Castrucci, president and CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, an organization that advocates for public health policy.

In some places, that pandemic cash did little more than keep small health departments afloat. The Central Montana Health District, the public health agency for five rural counties, did not receive the same flood of money others saw but did get enough to help the staff respond to an increased workload, including testing, contact tracing, and rolling out COVID vaccines.

The department filled a vacancy with a federal grant funneled through the state when a staffer left during the pandemic. The federal funding allowed the department to break even, said Susan Woods, the district’s public health director.

Now, there are five full-time employees working for the health district. Woods said the team is getting by with its slim resources, but a funding dip or another public health emergency could tip the balance in the wrong direction.

“Any kind of crisis, any kind of, God forbid, another pandemic, would probably send us crashing,” Woods said.

Adriane Casalotti, chief of government and public affairs for the National Association of County and City Health Officials, said she expects to see layoffs and health department budget cuts intensify. Those cuts will come as health officials address issues that took a back seat during the pandemic, like increases in rates of sexually transmitted diseases, suicide, and substance misuse.

“There’s tons of work being done right now to pick up the pieces on those types of other public health challenges,” she said. But it’ll be hard to catch up with whittled resources.

From 2018 to 2022, reports of chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, and congenital syphilis increased by nearly 2% nationwide, adding up to more than 2.5 million cases. A recent KFF report found that routine vaccination rates for kindergarten-age children have not rebounded to pre-pandemic levels while the number of families claiming exemptions has increased. Nearly three-quarters of states did not meet the federal target vaccination rate of 95% for the 2022-23 school year for measles, mumps, and rubella, increasing the risk of outbreaks.

Amid these challenges, public health leaders are clinging to the resources they gained during the past few years.

The health district in Lubbock, Texas, a city of more than 250,000 people in the state’s Panhandle, hired four disease intervention specialists focused on sexually transmitted diseases during the pandemic due to a five-year grant from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

The positions came as syphilis cases in the state skyrocket past levels seen in the past decade and the increases in congenital syphilis surpass the national average, according to the CDC. State officials recorded 922 congenital syphilis cases in 2022, with a 246.8 rate per 100,000 live births.

But federal officials, facing their own shrinking budget, cut the grant short by two years, leaving the district scrambling to fill a nearly $400,000 annual budget gap while working to tamp down the outbreak.

“Even with the funding, it’s very hard for those staff to keep up with cases and to actually make sure that we get everybody treated,” said Katherine Wells, director of public health for Lubbock.

Wells said state officials may redirect other federal money from the budget to keep the program going when the grant ends in December. Wells and other health leaders in the state consistently plead with state officials for more money but, Wells said, “whether or not we’ll be successful with that in a state like Texas is very much in the air.”

Making public health a priority in the absence of a national crisis is a challenge, Castrucci said. “The boom-and-bust funding cycle is a reflection of the attention of the American public,” he said; as the emergency sunsetted, so too did enthusiasm wane for public health issues.

And rural health departments, like the one in central Montana, deserve more attention, said Casalotti, the advocate for county and city health officials. That’s because they serve a critical function in communities that continue to see hospital closures and lose other health services, such as maternity and women’s care. Local health departments can function as a “safety net for the safety net,” she said.

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In a video posted to Reddit this summer, Lucie Rosenthal’s face starts focused and uncertain, looking intently into the camera, before it happens.

She releases a succinct, croak-like belch.

Then, it’s wide-eyed surprise, followed by rollicking laughter. “I got it!” the Denver resident says after what was her second burp ever.

“It’s really rocking my mind that I am fully introducing a new bodily function at 26 years old,” Rosenthal later told KFF Health News while working remotely, because, as great as the burping was, it was now happening uncontrollably. “Sorry, excuse me. Oh, my god. That was a burp. Did you hear it?”

Rosenthal is among more than a thousand people who have received a procedure to help them burp since 2019 when an Illinois doctor first reported the steps of the intervention in a medical journal.

The inability to belch can cause bloating, pain, gurgling in the neck and chest, and excessive flatulence as built-up air seeks an alternate exit route. One Reddit user described the gurgling sound as an “alien trying to escape me,” and pain like a heart attack that goes away with a fart.

The procedure has spread, primarily thanks to increasingly loud rumblings in the bowels of Reddit. Membership in a subreddit for people with or interested in the condition has ballooned to about 31,000 people, to become one of the platform’s larger groups.

Since 2019, the condition has had an official name: retrograde cricopharyngeus dysfunction, also known as “abelchia” or “no-burp syndrome.” The syndrome is caused by a quirk in the muscle that acts as the gatekeeper to the esophagus, the roughly 10-inch-long muscular tube that moves food between the throat and the stomach.

The procedure to fix it involves a doctor injecting 50 to 100 units of Botox — more than twice the amount often used to smooth forehead wrinkles — into the upper cricopharyngeal muscle.

Michael King, the physician who treated Rosenthal, said he hadn’t heard of the disorder until 2020, when a teenager, armed with a list of academic papers found on Reddit, asked him to do the procedure.

It wasn’t a stretch. King, a laryngologist with Peak ENT and Voice Center, had been injecting Botox in the same muscle to treat people having a hard time swallowing after a stroke.

Now he’s among doctors from Norway to Thailand listed on the subreddit, r/noburp, as offering the procedure. Other doctors, commenters have noted, have occasionally laughed at them or made them feel they were being melodramatic.

To be fair, doctors and researchers don’t understand why the same muscle that lets food move down won’t let air move up.

“It’s very odd,” King said.

Doctors also aren’t sure why many patients keep burping long after the Botox wears off after a few months. Robert Bastian, a laryngologist outside of Chicago, named the condition and came up with the procedure. He estimates he and his colleagues have treated about 1,800 people, charging about $4,000 a pop.

“We hear that in Southern California it’s $25,000, in Seattle $16,000, in New York City $25,000,” Bastian said.

Because insurance companies viewed Botox charges as a “red flag,” he said, his patients now pay $650 to cover the medication so it can be excluded from the insurance claims.

The pioneering patient is Daryl Moody, a car technician who has worked at the same Toyota dealership in Houston for half his life. The 34-year-old said that by 2015 he had become “desperate” for relief. The bloating and gurgling wasn’t just a painful shadow over his day; it was cramping his new hobby: skydiving.

“I hadn’t done anything fun or interesting with my life,” he said.

That is, until he tried skydiving. But as he gained altitude on the way up, his stomach would inflate like a bag of chips on a flight.

“I went to 10 doctors,” he said. “Nobody seemed to believe me that this problem even existed.”

Then he stumbled upon a YouTube video by Bastian describing how Botox injections can fix some throat conditions. Moody asked if Bastian could try it to cure his burping problem. Bastian agreed.

Moody’s insurance considered it “experimental and unnecessary,” he recalled, so he had to pay about $2,700 out-of-pocket.

“This is honestly going to change everything,” he posted on his Facebook page in December 2015, about his trip to Illinois.

The year after his procedure, Moody helped break a national record for participating in the largest group of people to skydive together while wearing wingsuits, those getups that turn people into flying squirrels. He has jumped about 400 times now.

People have been plagued by this issue for at least a few millennia. Two thousand years ago, the Roman philosopher Pliny the Elder described a man named Pomponius who could not belch. And 840 years ago, Johannes de Hauvilla included the tidbit in a poem, writing, “The steaming face of Pomponius could find no relief by belching.”

It took a few more centuries for clinical examples to pop up. In the 1980s, a few case reports in the U.S. described people who couldn’t burp and had no memory of vomiting. One woman, doctors wrote, was “unable to voluntarily belch along with her childhood friends when this was a popular game.”

The patients were in a great deal of pain, though doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with their anatomy. But the doctors confirmed using a method called manometry that patients’ upper esophageal sphincters simply would not relax — not after a meal of a sandwich, glass of milk, and candy bar, nor after doctors used a catheter to squirt several ounces of air beneath the stubborn valve.

André Smout, a gastroenterologist at the University of Amsterdam in the Netherlands, said he read those reports when they came out.

“But we never saw the condition, so we didn’t believe that it existed in real life,” he said.

Smout’s doubts persisted until he and colleagues studied a small group of patients a few years ago. The researchers gave eight patients with a reported inability to burp a “belch provocation” in the form of carbonated water, and used pressure sensors to observe how their throats moved. Indeed, the air stayed trapped. A Botox injection resolved their problems by giving them the ability to burp, or, to use an academic term, eructate.

“We had to admit that it really existed,” Smout said.

He wrote this summer in Current Opinion in Gastroenterology that the syndrome “may not be as rare as thought hitherto.” He credits Reddit with alerting patients and medical professionals to its existence.

But he wonders how often the treatment might cause a placebo effect. He pointed to studies finding that with conditions such as irritable bowel syndrome, 40% or more of patients who receive placebo treatment feel their symptoms improve. Awareness is also growing about “cyberchondria,” when people search desperately online for answers to their ailments — putting them at risk of unnecessary treatment or further distress.

In Denver, Rosenthal, the new burper, is open to the idea that the placebo effect could be at play for her. But even if that’s the case, she feels much better.

“I felt perpetual nausea, and that has subsided a lot since I got the procedure done,” she said. So has the bloating and stomach pain. She can drink a beer at happy hour and not feel ill.

She’s pleased insurance covered the procedure, and she’s getting a handle on the involuntary burping. She cannot, however, burp the alphabet.

“Not yet,” she said.

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

Christina Kashiwada was traveling for work during the summer of 2018 when she noticed a small, itchy lump in her left breast.

She thought little of it at first. She did routine self-checks and kept up with medical appointments. But a relative urged her to get a mammogram. She took the advice and learned she had stage 3 breast cancer, a revelation that stunned her.

“I’m 36 years old, right?” said Kashiwada, a civil engineer in Sacramento, California. “No one’s thinking about cancer.”

About 11,000 Asian American and Pacific Islander women were diagnosed with breast cancer in 2021 and about 1,500 died. The latest federal data shows the rate of new breast cancer diagnoses in Asian American and Pacific Islander women — a group that once had relatively low rates of diagnosis — is rising much faster than that of many other racial and ethnic groups. The trend is especially sharp among young women such as Kashiwada.

About 55 of every 100,000 Asian American and Pacific Islander women under 50 were diagnosed with breast cancer in 2021, surpassing the rate for Black and Hispanic women and on par with the rate for white women, according to age-adjusted data from the National Institutes of Health. (Hispanic people can be of any race or combination of races but are grouped separately in this data.)

The rate of new breast cancer cases among Asian American and Pacific Islander women under 50 grew by about 52% from 2000 through 2021. Rates for AAPI women 50 to 64 grew 33% and rates for AAPI women 65 and older grew by 43% during that period. By comparison, the rate for women of all ages, races, and ethnicities grew by 3%.

Researchers have picked up on this trend and are racing to find out why it is occuring within this ethnically diverse group. They suspect the answer is complex, ranging from cultural shifts to pressure-filled lifestyles — yet they concede it remains a mystery and difficult for patients and their families to discuss because of cultural differences.

Helen Chew, director of the Clinical Breast Cancer Program at UC Davis Health, said the Asian American diaspora is so broad and diverse that simple explanations for the increase in breast cancer aren’t obvious.

“It’s a real trend,” Chew said, adding that “it is just difficult to tease out exactly why it is. Is it because we’re seeing an influx of people who have less access to care? Is it because of many things culturally where they may not want to come in if they see something on their breast?”

There’s urgency to solve this mystery because it’s costing lives. While women in most ethnic and racial groups are experiencing sharp declines in breast cancer death rates, about 12 of every 100,000 Asian American and Pacific Islander women of any age died from breast cancer in 2023, essentially the same death rate as in 2000, according to age-adjusted, provisional data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The breast cancer death rate among all women during that period dropped 30%.

The CDC does not break out breast cancer death rates for many different groups of Asian American women, such as those of Chinese or Korean descent. It has, though, begun distinguishing between Asian American women and Pacific Islander women.

Nearly 9,000 Asian American women died from breast cancer from 2018 through 2023, compared with about 500 Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander women. However, breast cancer death rates were 116% higher among Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander women than among Asian American women during that period.

Rates of pancreatic, thyroid, colon, and endometrial cancer, along with non-Hodgkin lymphoma rates, have also recently risen significantly among Asian American and Pacific Islander women under 50, NIH data show. Yet breast cancer is much more common among young AAPI women than any of those other types of cancer — especially concerning because young women are more likely to face more aggressive forms of the disease, with high mortality rates.

“We’re seeing somewhere almost around a 4% per-year increase,” said Scarlett Gomez, a professor and epidemiologist at the University of California-San Francisco’s Helen Diller Family Comprehensive Cancer Center. “We’re seeing even more than the 4% per-year increase in Asian/Pacific Islander women less than age 50.”

Gomez is a lead investigator on a large study exploring the causes of cancer in Asian Americans. She said there is not yet enough research to know what is causing the recent spike in breast cancer. The answer may involve multiple risk factors over a long period of time.

“One of the hypotheses that we’re exploring there is the role of stress,” she said. “We’re asking all sorts of questions about different sources of stress, different coping styles throughout the lifetime.”

It’s likely not just that there’s more screening. “We looked at trends by stage at diagnosis and we are seeing similar rates of increase across all stages of disease,” Gomez said.

Veronica Setiawan, a professor and epidemiologist at the Keck School of Medicine of the University of Southern California, said the trend may be related to Asian immigrants adopting some lifestyles that put them at higher risk. Setiawan is a breast cancer survivor who was diagnosed a few years ago at the age of 49.

“Asian women, American women, they become more westernized so they have their puberty younger now — having earlier age at [the first menstrual cycle] is associated with increased risk,” said Setiawan, who is working with Gomez on the cancer study. “Maybe giving birth later, we delay childbearing, we don’t breastfeed — those are all associated with breast cancer risks.”

Moon Chen, a professor at the University of California-Davis and an expert on cancer health disparities, added that only a tiny fraction of NIH funding is devoted to researching cancer among Asian Americans.

Whatever its cause, the trend has created years of anguish for many patients.

Kashiwada underwent a mastectomy following her breast cancer diagnosis. During surgery, doctors at UC Davis Health discovered the cancer had spread to lymph nodes in her underarm. She underwent eight rounds of chemotherapy and 20 sessions of radiation treatment.

Throughout her treatments, Kashiwada kept her ordeal a secret from her grandmother, who had helped raise her. Her grandmother never knew about the diagnosis. “I didn’t want her to worry about me or add stress to her,” Kashiwada said. “She just would probably never sleep if she knew that was happening. It was very important to me to protect her.”

Kashiwada moved in with her parents. Her mom took a leave from work to help take care of her.

Kashiwada’s two young children, who were 3 and 6 at the time, stayed with their dad so she could focus on her recovery.

“The kids would come over after school,” she said. “My dad would pick them up and bring them over to see me almost every day while their dad was at work.”

Kashiwada spent months regaining strength after the radiation treatments. She returned to work but with a doctor’s instruction to avoid lifting heavy objects.

Kashiwada had her final reconstructive surgery a few weeks before COVID lockdowns began in 2020. But her treatment was not finished.

Her doctors had told her that estrogen fed her cancer, so they gave her medicine to put her through early menopause. The treatment was not as effective as they had hoped. Her doctor performed surgery in 2021 to remove her ovaries.

More recently, she was diagnosed with osteopenia and will start injections to stop bone loss.

Kashiwada said she has moved past many of the negative emotions she felt about her illness and wants other young women, including Asian American women like her, to be aware of their elevated risk.

“No matter how healthy you think you are, or you’re exercising, or whatever you’re doing, eating well, which is all the things I was doing — I would say it does not make you invincible or immune,” she said. “Not to say that you should be afraid of everything, but just be very in tune with your body and what your body’s telling you.”

Phillip Reese is a data reporting specialist and an associate professor of journalism at California State University-Sacramento.

This article was produced by KFF Health News , which publishes California Healthline , an editorially independent service of the California Health Care Foundation . Supplemental support comes from the Asian American Journalists Association-Los Angeles through The California Endowment.

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

When pediatrician Eric Ball opened a refrigerator full of childhood vaccines, all the expected shots were there — DTaP, polio, pneumococcal vaccine — except one.

“This is where we usually store our COVID vaccines, but we don’t have any right now because they all expired at the end of last year and we had to dispose of them,” said Ball, who is part of a pediatric practice in Orange County, California.

“We thought demand would be way higher than it was.”

Pediatricians across the country are pre-ordering the updated and reformulated COVID-19 vaccine for the fall and winter respiratory virus season, but some doctors said they’re struggling to predict whether parents will be interested. Providers like Ball don’t want to waste money ordering doses that won’t be used, but they need enough on hand to vaccinate vulnerable children.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommends that anyone 6 months or older get the updated COVID vaccination, but in the 2023-24 vaccination season only about 15% of eligible children in the U.S. got a shot.

Ball said it was difficult to let vaccines go to waste last year. It was the first time the federal government was no longer picking up the tab for the shots, and providers had to pay upfront for the vaccines. Parents would often skip the COVID shot, which can have a very short shelf life compared with other vaccines.

“Watching it sitting on our shelves expiring every 30 days, that’s like throwing away $150 repeatedly every day, multiple times a month,” Ball said.

This year, Ball slashed his fall vaccine order to the bare minimum to avoid another costly mistake.

“We took the number of flu vaccines that we order, and then we ordered 5% of that in COVID vaccines,” Ball said. “It’s a guess.”

That small vaccine order cost more than $63,000, he said.

Pharmacists, pharmacy interns, and techs are allowed to give COVID vaccines only to children age 3 and up, meaning babies and toddlers would need to visit a doctor’s office for inoculation.

It’s difficult to predict how parents will feel about the shots this fall, said Chicago pediatrician Scott Goldstein. Unlike other vaccinations, COVID shots aren’t required for kids to attend school, and parental interest seems to wane with each new formulation, he said. For a physician-owned practice such as Goldstein’s, the upfront cost of the vaccine can be a gamble.

“The cost of vaccines, that’s far and away our biggest expense. But it’s also the most important thing we do, you could argue, is vaccinating kids,” Goldstein said.

Insurance doesn’t necessarily cover vaccine storage accidents, which can put the practice at risk of financial ruin.

“We’ve had things happen like a refrigerator gets unplugged. And then we’re all of a sudden out $80,000 overnight,” Goldstein said.

South Carolina pediatrician Deborah Greenhouse said she would order more COVID vaccines for older children if the pharmaceutical companies that she buys from had a more forgiving return policy.

“Pfizer is creating that situation. If you’re only going to let us return 30%, we’re not going to buy much,” she said. “We can’t.”

Greenhouse owns her practice, so the remaining 70% of leftover shots would come out of her pocket.

Vaccine maker Pfizer will take back all unused COVID shots for young children, but only 30% of doses for people 12 and older.

Pfizer said in an Aug. 20 emailed statement, “The return policy was instituted as we recognize both the importance and the complexity of pediatric vaccination and wanted to ensure that pediatric offices did not have hurdles to providing vaccine to their young patients.”

Pfizer’s return policy is similar to policies from other drugmakers for pediatric flu vaccines, also recommended during the fall season. Physicians who are worried about unwanted COVID vaccines expiring on the shelves said flu shots cost them about $20 per dose, while COVID shots cost around $150 per dose.

“We run on a very thin margin. If we get stuck holding a ton of vaccine that we cannot return, we can’t absorb that kind of cost,” Greenhouse said.

Vaccine maker Moderna will accept COVID vaccine returns, but the amount depends on the individual contract with a provider. Novavax will accept the return of only unopened vaccines and doesn’t specify the amount they’ll accept.

Greenhouse wants to vaccinate as many children as possible but said she can’t afford to stock shots with a short shelf life. Once she runs out of the doses she’s ordered, Greenhouse said, she plans to tell families to go to a pharmacy to get older children vaccinated. If pediatricians around the country are making the same calculations, doses for very small children could be harder to find at doctors’ offices.

“Frankly, it’s not an ideal situation, but it’s what we have to do to stay in business,” she said.

Ball, the California pediatrician, worries that parents’ limited interest has caused pediatricians to minimize their vaccine orders, in turn making the newest COVID shots difficult to find once they become available.

“I think there’s just a misperception that it’s less of a big deal to get COVID, but I’m still sending babies to the hospital with COVID,” Ball said. “We’re still seeing kids with long COVID. This is with us forever.”

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

SAVANNAH, Ga. — Blocks from where tourists stroll along the cobblestoned riverfront in this racially divided city, Detraya Gilliard made her way down the dark, ruptured sidewalks of Yamacraw Village, looking for her missing 15-year-old daughter.

Like most other people living in one of the nation’s oldest public housing projects, Gilliard endured the boarded-up buildings and mold-filled apartments because it was the only place she could afford.

Without working streetlights in parts of Yamacraw, Gilliard relied on the crescent moon’s glow to search for her daughter Desaray in May 2022. She passed yards dotted with clotheslines and power lines, and a broken-down playground littered with juice boxes and red Solo cups.

“I happened to look down, and I knew it was her by her feet, by the shoes she had on,” Gilliard said. She was “barely hanging on and she was covered in blood.”

The year before Desaray died, President Joe Biden called for the federal government to spend tens of billions of dollars to fix dilapidated public housing that he said posed “critical life-safety concerns.” The repairs, Biden said, would mostly help people of color, single mothers like Gilliard who work in low-income jobs, and people with disabilities.

The federal Department of Housing and Urban Development estimates that $115 billion is needed to fund a backlog of public housing repairs. But, two years ago, money to fund those repairs became a casualty of negotiations between the Biden administration and congressional lawmakers over the Inflation Reduction Act. Republicans also have blocked efforts to lift 25-year-old legislation that effectively prohibits the construction of additional public housing, despite the catastrophic public health consequences.

Tenants living in derelict housing face conditions that contribute to higher rates of heart disease, diabetes, asthma, violence, and other life-threatening risks.

The federal government has a long history of discriminatory practices in public housing. In cities across the country after World War II, Black families were barred from many public housing complexes even as the government induced white people to leave them by offering single-family homes in the suburbs subsidized by the Federal Housing Administration. Starting with the Nixon administration, lawmakers slowed investing in new public housing as more Black families and other people of color became tenants.

Today “residents are facing really terrible choices, or terrible options about their future,” said Sarah Saadian, senior vice president of policy for the National Low Income Housing Coalition. “We got here from Congress really failing to live up to its responsibilities of ensuring that people have access to an affordable, stable home.”

In 2022, an art deco luxury apartment building opened down the street. But little has changed in Yamacraw, which is filled with Black families.

Current and former tenants say the Housing Authority of Savannah, the agency that oversees Yamacraw, has ignored the mold, rats, and roaches that infest the units and sicken residents, and the bullet holes in windows and gunshots that ring through the night. Now they fear the city is using the poor state of Yamacraw as justification to push residents out.

In April, an inspection of Yamacraw apartments conducted by HUD, which oversees taxpayer-supported public housing nationwide, found 29 “life-threatening” deficiencies that pose a high risk of death to residents, according to a preliminary report.

The inspection cited 28 deficiencies it called “severe,” meaning they present a high risk of permanent disability, serious injury, or illness. An additional 195 deficiencies were cited as “moderate” because they could cause temporary harm or prompt a visit to a doctor.

Research links structural racism and disinvestment to chronic gun violence, which has taken a heavy toll on Black neighborhoods and kids such as Desaray. A study of gun injuries in four large cities at the height of the covid-19 pandemic found that Black children were 100 times as likely as white youths to suffer a firearm assault.

Study co-author Jonathan Jay, an assistant professor of community health sciences at Boston University, said most of the country’s gun violence stems from disputes in neighborhoods that lack investment in housing and other public services

“This is about white privilege,” Jay said. “The result is driven by racist policymaking.”

Desaray Gilliard was a high school freshman when she was killed. She loved clothes, music, dancing, and the color pink, her mother said. She planned to go to Italy with her art class. She was excited about learning to drive and getting a job. Desaray had her sights set on attending Ohio State University.

They’d lived in Yamacraw for seven years. The teen’s shooting death remains unsolved.

Gilliard has struggled with thoughts of self-harm, she said. She maintains a memorial with pictures, stuffed animals, and flowers near the spot where she found Desaray’s body.

“I have to remember this is for her,” she said of her middle child’s death, “because nobody else is doing these things for her to keep her memory alive.”

A Broken Promise?

Federally funded public housing must be kept in “decent, safe and sanitary” condition, according to HUD. In 2013, the agency’s then secretary, Shaun Donovan, visited Savannah to announce a program that could give the local housing authority millions of dollars to rehab four public housing complexes, including Yamacraw, which has been among the lowest-rated public housing complexes in Georgia.

The Rental Assistance Demonstration program touted by Donovan did not provide new public money. Instead, it loosened rules to allow local officials to work with private lenders and developers to pay for repairs, transforming public housing complexes into mixed-income developments with Section 8 project-based rental assistance.

Last year, a consultants’ report found a host of problems in Yamacraw, including water leaks and faulty wiring. “The Remaining Useful Life of the Property is estimated to be 0 years,” the consultants wrote. The housing authority wants to demolish Yamacraw and replace it with homes that are “healthier, more energy efficient and accessible,” the report said.

Yamacraw never saw the windfall Donovan promised, current and former tenants said. Even with a housing assistance waitlist of more than 3,000 families in Savannah, records show most of the 315 apartments in Yamacraw sit empty, many with boarded-up doors and windows. Some other public housing developments in the area have been repaired or rebuilt, but except for new roofing added in 2019, Yamacraw has not had a significant renovation in years, according to the consultants’ report.

Rather than repair the units, local officials started a process to tear down the complex, threatening to displace residents who have nowhere else to go in a city where the average two-bedroom apartment rents for more than $1,600 monthly.

Congress has provided less money than was needed over the past 20 years to fix Yamacraw and other public housing complexes nationwide, leaving local agencies in a tough spot, said Earline Davis, executive director of the Housing Authority of Savannah.

The housing authority still plans to demolish Yamacraw and redevelop the property with new affordable housing, she said. Residents fear that they will be pushed out, and that because of its prime location, the redevelopment plans would prioritize apartments that attract people who can afford higher rents.

“Anytime you want to do something to make money — go destroy the historic Black community,” said Georgia Benton, who grew up in Yamacraw. “But ain’t nobody hollerin’ ‘Stop.’”

She and her son LaRay Benton have been fighting the housing authority’s redevelopment plans, which they say could also disrupt the two-century-old First Bryan Baptist Church. Rev. Andrew Bryan, a former enslaved person and ordained minister, founded the church in 1788. He later bought his freedom.

The Bentons and three City Council members went door to door observing the condition of residents’ units. They said plumbing issues caused sewage overflows and leaky faucets, mold tracked across the ceilings, and there were insect and rodent infestations.

Many families said they developed respiratory problems, such as bronchitis and asthma, after they moved in. “It is an unhealthy situation,” LaRay Benton said.

About seven years ago, after his previous Savannah landlord raised the rent, Paris Snead, his wife, and two children found themselves homeless. A nonprofit helped them get into Yamacraw, where rent was $750 a month.

It’s been years since they left. Snead said he still takes a daily allergy pill because he believes he was exposed to mold in his unit, which caused allergy-like symptoms.

“The walls sweat like working men,” Snead said of his former apartment. “The walls will, literally, from the top to the bottom, leak water.”

“When you’re homeless, and you want to be able to have a place for your kids, I mean, you’ll make a home wherever you can,” he said.

Snead said he showed Yamacraw’s management the leaking walls, but they didn’t act.

“The management team there did more to evict people and cause problems than they did to help families and ensure they had a place to stay,” Snead said.

HUD, which conducts periodic inspections at public housing complexes, declined an interview request. The agency referred questions to the Housing Authority of Savannah.

The housing authority’s redevelopment plans have been delayed by HUD’s lengthy approval process, said Savannah Mayor Van R. Johnson II, who appoints people to a five-member board of commissioners that helps oversee the city’s public housing.

He said he met with HUD acting Secretary Adrianne Todman and other HUD officials about housing issues in Savannah.

“People don’t deserve to live like that,” Johnson said.

If Yamacraw is demolished and rebuilt, he said, current tenants will have a chance to return because the homes will be affordable to people with low incomes.

Nobody else is doing these things for her to keep her memory alive.

‘The Worst Experience of My Life’

Yamacraw’s struggles are rooted in century-old policies that have made it difficult for many Black neighborhoods to thrive.

In the 1930s, the federal government’s Home Owners’ Loan Corp. made color-coded maps for Savannah and 238 other cities and labeled redlined areas — usually places where Black people, Jews, immigrants, and Catholics lived — as undesirable for investment.

“The houses are occupied by the lowest class negro tenants,” a government surveyor wrote.

Yamacraw was opened in 1941 as segregated public housing for Black people. Today a health clinic occupies the original administrative building, designed to look like a plantation house.

Despite its problems, Johnson said, some of the city’s most prominent doctors, lawyers, and ministers grew up in Yamacraw.

Former and current tenants said the apartments slowly descended into disrepair.

Each year more than 10,000 public housing apartments across the U.S. become uninhabitable.

Some lawmakers have used the poor state of public housing as justification to refuse lifting a moratorium passed during the Clinton administration that prohibits the construction of additional units, even as the nation’s rental prices — and evictions — soar.

The argument that public housing “doesn’t work” is disingenuous, said Saadian, with the National Low Income Housing Coalition.

“The federal government really failed to invest in public housing, to keep it in good condition, and to keep those communities thriving,” Saadian said, “and in many cases, actively contributed to those communities declining.”

Instead of repairing public housing and building more high-quality units, federal lawmakers promised to provide housing vouchers, commonly known as Section 8, which helps people with low incomes rent privately owned homes. But most people who qualify for vouchers never receive them. Those who do often struggle to find landlords who will accept them, rendering them sometimes worthless.

Three years ago, LaTonya Atterbury was living in hotels north of Atlanta when she was offered a unit in Yamacraw for $511 a month. In August 2021, she moved in with her niece, now 29, and her niece’s son, now 8, relieved to have more stable housing.

But within the first week, she said, a neighbor’s son broke her window and the housing authority charged her $60 to fix it. She said her bathroom is covered in mold and mildew. One day, months after she moved in, Atterbury noticed a hole in her second-story window and saw a bullet on the floor, and realized there had been a shooting overnight. No one was injured, she said, but the bullet hole was only recently fixed — about 2½ years after the incident.

“It’s been the worst experience of my life,” Atterbury said. “Sitting here will make you very depressed.”

Atterbury said she and other residents remain in Yamacraw at least in part because the housing authority has promised vouchers to move elsewhere. Three years later, she is still waiting.

Demolishing and rebuilding Yamacraw could take years.

Davis, the housing authority’s executive director, said her agency has repeatedly told tenants they would be relocated to other public housing complexes or given a Section 8 voucher during construction if they have no lease violations. But residents say they routinely receive lease violations for harmless acts such as broken blinds. LaRay Benton said one resident was cited and fined $75 for leaving a stroller on her front porch while she took her baby inside.

A Mother’s Search

Researchers said that the presence of abandoned buildings can contribute to violent crime by making people feel unsafe and creating a sense of disorder. Studies suggest that razing abandoned buildings and improving green space can reduce it.

“No gun policy is going to work if we don’t fix social infrastructure,” said Jonathan Metzl, director of the Department of Medicine, Health, and Society at Vanderbilt University. “We need investments to make sure communities feel safe. This is not just a public health problem. This is a race problem. This is a democracy problem.”

In recent years, shooting victims or their relatives, including Desaray’s mother, have filed at least three lawsuits against the Housing Authority of Savannah. Those ongoing lawsuits allege the agency failed to take added security measures in its public housing complexes — some of which had fallen into disrepair — despite gun violence and other crimes.

“I don’t know how we can prevent shootings,” Davis said.

Davis declined to comment on the lawsuits. She would say only that her agency has installed cameras in Yamacraw, worked with police, and asked residents to report crime. The actions came after Desaray’s death.

Johnson, Savannah’s mayor, said police have investigated the Desaray Gilliard case, but there are people “who know what happened” and will not talk to officers.

Around 9 p.m. on a Friday night two years ago, Gilliard went looking for her daughter for the second time that night. Desaray missed an 8 p.m. curfew and wasn’t answering her phone.

Gilliard waited for about 30 minutes at a bench near a park in the middle of the complex, hoping Desaray would find her. Then she started to retrace her steps.

Gilliard called 911 after she saw her daughter’s body.

When the police arrived, they made their way through the darkened complex with flashlights, Gilliard said. An officer pulled up Desaray’s shirt and saw a bullet hole in her chest. Gilliard said she later learned from a funeral director that her daughter had been shot three times. She has yet to receive an autopsy report from the police.

Gilliard said “nothing has changed before, since, or after” her daughter’s death.

“It’s been very difficult,” she said. “Sometimes I wanted to give up. I even thought about committing suicide.”

About a month after Desaray died, Gilliard said someone tried to break into her apartment. A couple of weeks later, her request to move to a new complex was finally granted and Gilliard left Yamacraw.

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

Ashley and Kyle were newlyweds in early 2022 and thrilled to be expecting their first child. But bleeding had plagued Ashley from the beginning of her pregnancy, and in July, at seven weeks, she began miscarrying.

The couple’s heartbreak came a few weeks after the U.S. Supreme Court overturned the federal right to abortion. In Wisconsin, their home state, an 1849 law had sprung back into effect, halting abortion care except when a pregnant woman faced death.

Insurance coverage for abortion care in the U.S. is a hodgepodge. Patients often don’t know when or if a procedure or abortion pills are covered, and the proliferation of abortion bans has exacerbated the confusion. Ashley said she got caught in that tangle of uncertainties.

Ashley’s life wasn’t in danger during the miscarriage, but the state’s abortion ban meant doctors in Wisconsin could not perform a D&E — dilation and evacuation — even during a miscarriage until the embryo died. She drove back and forth to the hospital, bleeding and taking sick time from work, until doctors could confirm that the pregnancy had ended. Only then did doctors remove the pregnancy tissue.

“The first pregnancy was the first time I had realized that something like that could affect me,” said Ashley, who asked to be identified by her middle name and her husband by his first name only. She works in a government agency alongside conservative co-workers and fears retribution for discussing her abortion care.

A year later, the 1849 abortion ban still in place in Wisconsin, Ashley was pregnant again.

“Everything was perfect. I was starting to feel kicking and movement,” she said. “It was the day I turned 20 weeks, which was a Monday. I went to work, and then I picked Kyle up from work, and I got up off the driver’s seat and there was fluid on the seat.”

The amniotic sac had broken, a condition called previable PPROM. The couple drove straight to the obstetrics triage at UnityPoint Health-Meriter Hospital, billed as the largest birthing hospital in Wisconsin. The fetus was deemed too underdeveloped to survive, and the ruptured membranes posed a serious threat of infection.

Obstetrician-gynecologists from across Wisconsin had decided that “in cases of previable PPROM, every patient should be offered termination of pregnancy due to the significant risk of ascending infection and potential sepsis and death,” said Eliza Bennett, the OB-GYN who treated Ashley.

Ashley needed an abortion to save her life.

The couple called their parents; Ashley’s mom arrived at the hospital to console them. Under the 1849 Wisconsin abortion ban, Bennett, an associate clinical professor at the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine, needed two other physicians to attest that Ashley was facing death.

But even with an arsenal of medical documentation, Ashley’s health insurer, the Federal Employees Health Benefits Program, did not cover the abortion procedure. Months later, Ashley logged in to her medical billing portal and was surprised to see that the insurer had paid for her three-night hospital stay but not the abortion.

“Every time I called insurance about my bill, I was sobbing on the phone because it was so frustrating to have to explain the situation and why I think it should be covered,” she said. “It’s making me feel like it was my fault, and I should be ashamed of it,” Ashley said.

Eventually, Ashley talked to a woman in the hospital billing department who relayed what the insurance company had said.

“She told me,” Ashley said, “quote, ‘FEP Blue does not cover any abortions whatsoever. Period. Doesn’t matter what it is. We don’t cover abortions.’”

University of Wisconsin Health, which administers billing for UnityPoint Health-Meriter hospital, confirmed this exchange.

The Federal Employees Health Benefits Program contracts with FEP Blue, or the BlueCross BlueShield Federal Employee Program, to provide health plans to federal employees. In response to an interview request, FEP Blue emailed a statement saying it “is required to comply with federal legislation which prohibits Federal Employees Health Benefits Plans from covering procedures, services, drugs, and supplies related to abortions except when the life of the mother would be endangered if the fetus were carried to term or when the pregnancy is the result of an act of rape or incest.”

Those restrictions, known as the Hyde Amendment, have been passed each year since 1976 by Congress and prohibit federal funds from covering abortion services.

In Ashley’s case, physicians had said her life was in danger, and her bill should have immediately been paid, said Alina Salganicoff, director of Women’s Health Policy at KFF, a health information nonprofit that includes KFF Health News.

What tripped up Ashley’s bill was the word “abortion” and a billing code that is insurance kryptonite, said Salganicoff.

“Right now, we’re in a situation where there is really heightened sensitivity about what is a life-threatening emergency, and when is it a life-threatening emergency,” Salganicoff said. The same chilling effect that has spooked doctors and hospitals from providing legal abortion care, she said, may also be affecting insurance coverage.

In Wisconsin, Bennett said, lack of coverage for abortion care is widespread.

“Many patients I take care of who have a pregnancy complication or, more commonly, a severe fetal anomaly, they don’t have any coverage,” Bennett said.

Recently, the bill for $1,700 disappeared from Ashley’s online bill portal. The hospital confirmed that eight months later, after multiple appeals, the insurer paid the claim. When contacted again on Aug. 7, FEP Blue responded that it would “not comment on the specifics of the health care received by individual members.”

Ashley said tangling with her insurance company and experiencing the impact of abortion restrictions on her health care, similar to other women around the country, has emboldened her.

“I’m in this now with all these people,” she said. “I feel a lot more connected to them, in a way that I didn’t as much before.”

Ashley is pregnant again, and she and her husband hope that this time their insurance will cover whatever medical care her doctor says she needs.

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

When Bristeria Clark went into labor with her son in 2015, her contractions were steady at first. Then, they stalled. Her cervix stopped dilating. After a few hours, doctors at Phoebe Putney Memorial Hospital in Albany, Georgia, prepped Clark for an emergency cesarean section.

It wasn’t the vaginal birth Clark had hoped for during her pregnancy.

“I was freaking out. That was my first child. Like, of course you don’t plan that,” she said. “I just remember the gas pulling up to my face and I ended up going to sleep.”

She remembered feeling a rush of relief when she woke to see that her baby boy was healthy.

Clark, a 33-year-old nursing student who also works full-time in county government, had another C-section when her second child was born in 2020. This time, the cesarean was planned.

Clark said she’s grateful the physicians and nurses who delivered both her babies were kind and caring during her labor and delivery. But looking back, she said, she wishes she had had a doula for one-on-one support through pregnancy, childbirth, and the postpartum period. Now she wants to give other women the option she didn’t have.

Clark is a member of Morehouse School of Medicine’s first class of rural doulas, called Perinatal Patient Navigators.

The program recently graduated a dozen participants, all Black women from southwestern Georgia. They have completed more than five months of training and are scheduled to begin working with pregnant and postpartum patients this year.

“We’re developing a workforce that’s going to be providing the support that Black women and birthing people need,” Natalie Hernandez-Green, an associate professor of obstetrics and gynecology at Morehouse School of Medicine, said at the doula commencement ceremony in Albany, Georgia.

Albany is Morehouse School of Medicine’s second Perinatal Patient Navigator program site. The first has been up and running in Atlanta since training began in the fall of 2022.

Georgia has one of the highest rates of maternal mortality in the country, according to an analysis by KFF, a health information nonprofit that includes KFF Health News. And Black Georgians are more than twice as likely as white Georgians to die of causes related to pregnancy.

“It doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor. Black women are dying at [an] alarming rate from pregnancy-related complications,” said Hernandez-Green, who is also executive director of the Center for Maternal Health Equity at Morehouse School of Medicine. “And we’re about to change that one person at a time.”

The presence of a doula, along with regular nursing care, is associated with improved labor and delivery outcomes, reduced stress, and higher rates of patient satisfaction, according to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists.

Multiple studies also link doulas to fewer expensive childbirth interventions, including cesarean births.

Doulas are not medical professionals. They are trained to offer education about the pregnancy and postpartum periods, to guide patients through the health care system, and to provide emotional and physical support before, during, and after childbirth.

Morehouse School of Medicine’s program is among a growing number of similar efforts being introduced across the country as more communities look to doulas to help address maternal mortality and poor maternal health outcomes, particularly for Black women and other women of color.

Now that she has graduated, Clark said she’s looking forward to helping other women in her community as a doula. “To be that person that would be there for my clients, treat them like a sister or like a mother, in a sense of just treating them with utmost respect,” she said. “The ultimate goal is to make them feel comfortable and let them know ‘I’m here to support you.’” Her training has inspired her to become an advocate for maternal health issues in southwestern Georgia.

Grants fund Morehouse School of Medicine’s doula program, which costs $350,000 a year to operate. Graduates are given a $2,000 training stipend and the program places five graduates with health care providers in southwestern Georgia. Grant money also pays the doulas’ salaries for one year.

“It’s not sustainable if you’re chasing the next grant to fund it,” said Rachel Hardeman, a professor of health and racial equity at the University of Minnesota School of Public Health.

Thirteen states cover doulas through Medicaid, according to the Georgetown University Center for Children and Families.

Hardeman and others have found that when Medicaid programs cover doula care, states save millions of dollars in health care costs. “We were able to calculate the return on investment if Medicaid decided to reimburse doulas for pregnant people who are Medicaid beneficiaries,” she said.

That’s because doulas can help reduce the number of expensive medical interventions during and after birth, and improving delivery outcomes, including reduced cesarean sections.

Doulas can even reduce the likelihood of preterm birth.

“An infant that is born at a very, very early gestational age is going to require a great deal of resources and interventions to ensure that they survive and then continue to thrive,” Hardeman said.

There is growing demand for doula services in Georgia, said Fowzio Jama, director of research for Healthy Mothers, Healthy Babies Coalition of Georgia. Her group recently completed a pilot study that offered doula services to about 170 Georgians covered under Medicaid. “We had a waitlist of over 200 clients and we wanted to give them the support that they needed, but we just couldn’t with the given resources that we had,” Jama said.

Doula services can cost hundreds or thousands of dollars out-of-pocket, making it too expensive for many low-income people, rural communities, and communities of color, many of which suffer from shortages in maternity care, according to the March of Dimes.

The Healthy Mothers, Healthy Babies study found that matching high-risk patients with doulas — particularly doulas from similar racial and ethnic backgrounds — had a positive effect on patients.

“There was a reduced use of pitocin to induce labor. We saw fewer requests for pain medication. And with our infants, only 6% were low birth weight,” Jama said.

Still, she and others acknowledge that doulas alone can’t fix the problem of high maternal mortality and morbidity rates.

States, including Georgia, need to do more to bring comprehensive maternity care to communities that need more options, Hardeman said.

“I think it’s important to understand that doulas are not going to save us, and we should not put that expectation on them. Doulas are a tool,” she said. “They are a piece of the puzzle that is helping to impact a really, really complex issue.”

In the meantime, Joan Anderson, 55, said she’s excited to get to work supporting patients, especially from rural areas around Albany.

“I feel like I’m equipped to go out and be that voice, be that person that our community needs so bad,” said Anderson, a graduate of the Morehouse School of Medicine doula program. “I am encouraged to know that I will be joining in that mission, that fight for us, as far as maternal health is concerned.”

Anderson said that someday she wants to open a birthing center to provide maternity care. “We do not have one here in southwest Georgia at all,” Anderson said.

In addition to providing support during and after childbirth, Anderson and her fellow graduates are trained to assess their patients’ needs and connect them to services such as food assistance, mental health care, transportation to prenatal appointments, and breastfeeding assistance.

Their work is likely to have ripple effects across a largely rural corner of Georgia, said Sherrell Byrd, who co-founded and directs SOWEGA Rising, a nonprofit organization in southwestern Georgia.

“So many of the graduates are part of church networks, they are part of community organizations, some of them are our government workers. They’re very connected,” Byrd said. “And I think that connectedness is what’s going to help them be successful moving forward.”

This reporting is part of a fellowship with the Association of Health Care Journalists supported by The Commonwealth Fund. It comes from a partnership that includes WABE , NPR , and KFF Health News.

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

OSKALOOSA, Iowa — Rural regions like the one surrounding this southern Iowa town used to have a lot more babies, and many more places to give birth to them.

At least 41 Iowa hospitals have shuttered their labor and delivery units since 2000. Those facilities, representing about a third of all Iowa hospitals, are located mostly in rural areas where birth numbers have plummeted. In some Iowa counties, annual numbers of births have fallen by three-quarters since the height of the baby boom in the 1950s and ’60s, when many rural hospitals were built or expanded, state and federal records show.

Similar trends are playing out nationwide, as hospitals struggle to maintain staff and facilities to safely handle dwindling numbers of births. More than half of rural U.S. hospitals now lack the service.

“People just aren’t having as many kids,” said Addie Comegys, who lives in southern Iowa and has regularly traveled 45 minutes each way for prenatal checkups at Oskaloosa’s hospital this summer. Her mother had six children, starting in the 1980s, when big families didn’t seem so rare.

“Now, if you have three kids, people are like, ‘Oh my gosh, are you ever going to stop?’” said Comegys, 29, who is expecting her second child in late August.

These days, many Americans choose to have small families or no children at all. Modern birth control methods help make such decisions stick. The trend is amplified in small towns when young adults move away, taking any childbearing potential with them.

Hospital leaders who close obstetrics units often cite declining birth numbers, along with staffing challenges and financial losses. The closures can be a particular challenge for pregnant women who lack the reliable transportation and flexible schedules needed to travel long distances for prenatal care and birthing services.

The baby boom peaked in 1957, when about 4.3 million children were born in the United States. The annual number of births dropped below 3.7 million by 2022, even though the overall U.S. population nearly doubled over that same period.

West Virginia has seen the steepest decline in births, a 62% drop in those 65 years, according to federal data. Iowa’s births dropped 43% over that period. Of the state’s 99 counties, just four — all urban or suburban — recorded more births.

Births have increased in only 13 states since 1957. Most of them, such as Arizona, California, Florida, and Nevada, are places that have attracted waves of newcomers from other states and countries. But even those states have had obstetrics units close in rural areas.

In Iowa, Oskaloosa’s hospital has bucked the trend and kept its labor and delivery unit open, partly by pulling in patients from 14 other counties. Last year, the hospital even managed the rare feat of recruiting two obstetrician-gynecologists to expand its services.

The publicly owned hospital, called Mahaska Health, expects to deliver 250 babies this year, up from about 160 in previous years, CEO Kevin DeRonde said.

“It’s an essential service, and we needed to keep it going and grow it,” DeRonde said.

Many of the U.S. hospitals that are now dropping obstetrics units were built or expanded in the mid-1900s, when America went on a rural-hospital building spree, thanks to federal funding from the Hill-Burton Act.

“It was an amazing program,” said Brock Slabach, chief operations officer for the National Rural Health Association. “Basically, if you were a county that wanted a hospital, they gave you the money.”

Slabach said that in addition to declining birth numbers, obstetrics units are experiencing a drop in occupancy because most patients go home after a night or two. In the past, patients typically spent several days in the hospital after giving birth.

Dwindling caseloads can raise safety concerns for obstetrics units.

A study published in JAMA in 2023 found that women were more likely to suffer serious complications if they gave birth in rural hospitals that handled 110 or fewer births a year. The authors said they didn’t support closing low-volume units, because that could lead more women to have complications related to traveling for care. Instead, they recommended improving training and coordination among rural health providers.

Stephanie Radke, a University of Iowa obstetrics and gynecology professor who studies access to birthing services, said it is almost inevitable that when rural birth numbers plunge, some obstetrics units will close. “We talk about that as a bad event, but we don’t really talk about why it happens,” she said.

Radke said maintaining a set number of obstetrics units is less important than ensuring good care for pregnant women and their babies. It’s difficult to maintain quality of care when the staff doesn’t consistently practice deliveries, she said, but it is hard to define that line. “What is realistic?” she said. “I don’t think a unit should be open that only delivers 50 babies a year.”

In some cases, she said, hospitals near each other have consolidated obstetrics units, pooling their resources into one program that has enough staffers and handles sufficient cases. “You’re not always really creating a care desert when that happens,” she said.

The decline in births has accelerated in many areas in recent years. Kenneth Johnson, a sociology professor and demographer at the University of New Hampshire, said it is understandable that many rural hospitals have closed obstetrics units. “I’m actually surprised some of them have lasted as long as they have,” he said.

Johnson said rural areas that have seen the steepest population declines tend to be far from cities and lack recreational attractions, such as mountains or large bodies of water. Some have avoided population losses by attracting immigrant workers, who tend to have larger families in the first generation or two after they move to the U.S., he said.

Katy Kozhimannil, a University of Minnesota health policy professor who studies rural issues, said declining birth numbers and obstetric unit closures can create a vicious cycle. Fewer babies being born in a region can lead a birthing unit to shutter. Then the loss of such a unit can discourage young people from moving to the area, driving birth numbers even lower.

In many regions, people with private insurance, flexible schedules, and reliable transportation choose to travel to larger hospitals for their prenatal care and to give birth, Kozhimannil said. That leaves rural hospitals with a larger proportion of patients on Medicaid, a public program that pays about half what private insurance pays for the same services, she said.

Iowa ranks near the bottom of all states for obstetrician-gynecologists per capita. But Oskaloosa’s hospital hit the jackpot last year, when it recruited Taylar Swartz and Garth Summers, a married couple who both recently finished their obstetrics training. Swartz grew up in the area, and she wanted to return to serve women there.

She hopes the number of obstetrics units will level off after the wave of closures. “It’s not even just for delivery, but we need access just to women’s health care in general,” she said. “I would love to see women’s health care be at the forefront of our government’s mind.”

Swartz noted that the state has only one obstetrics training program, which is at the University of Iowa. She said she and her husband plan to help spark interest in rural obstetrics by hosting University of Iowa residency rotations at the Oskaloosa hospital.

Comegys, a patient of Swartz’s, could have chosen a hospital birthing center closer to her home, but she wasn’t confident in its quality. Other hospitals in her region had shuttered their obstetrics units. She is grateful to have a flexible job, a reliable car, and a supportive family, so she can travel to Oskaloosa for checkups and to give birth there. She knows many other women are not so lucky, and she worries other obstetrics units are at risk.

“It’s sad, but I could see more closing,” she said.

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

David Engler had been pretty sure he didn’t want children. Then a frustrating school day two years ago helped seal the deal for the now 43-year-old substitute teacher.

“It was wild. I had to call the office seven times to get kids pulled out,” he said. “The next day, I called Kaiser and said, ‘I’d like to know how much a vasectomy is.’”

A representative with Engler’s insurer, Kaiser Permanente, told him the procedure would be free because it was a form of birth control, he said. But after undergoing the vasectomy last winter, he received a bill for $1,080.

“I felt defeated, tricked, and frustrated,” said Engler, who lives in Portland, Oregon.

Engler’s experience highlights how a labyrinthine patchwork of insurance coverage rules on reproductive health care creates confusion for patients. Oregon requires that vasectomies be covered for most people who work in the public sector. But the federal Affordable Care Act — which mandates that most health plans cover preventive health services, such as contraception, at no cost to the consumer — does not require vasectomies to be covered.

And that perplexity surrounding coverage may get more complicated.

An ongoing federal lawsuit aims to strike down the ACA’s preventive care coverage requirements for private insurers. If the case knocks out the mandates, state-level laws — which vary widely across the country — would carry more weight, a change that would resume the “wild West” dynamic from before Obamacare, said Zachary Baron, a health policy researcher at Georgetown Law.

It would create an environment “in which insurers and employers pick and choose which services they want to cover or which services they want to charge for,” Baron said. “It would certainly threaten access to care for millions of Americans.”

Studies have shown the requirements to cover preventive care have reduced consumers’ out-of-pocket costs and increased their use of short- and long-term birth control methods.

The job of defining which contraceptive services should be covered falls to the Health Resources and Services Administration, or HRSA. Two other groups — the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, or USPSTF, and the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices, or ACIP — make recommendations on other kinds of care that the ACA requires insurers to cover.

The plaintiffs in the lawsuit, a group of individuals and Christian-owned businesses, argue the members of these three panels haven’t been properly appointed by Congress. They also say the recommendations for insurance plans to cover medication for HIV prevention violate their religious rights.

On June 21, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 5th Circuit issued what it called a “mixed bag” opinion in the case. It said one group — the USPSTF — had not been properly appointed, and therefore its recommendations made after the ACA was signed into law were unconstitutional. The plaintiffs had asked for a nationwide ruling, but the court said only the plaintiffs’ organizations could be exempted from its recommendations.

The court then sent the plaintiffs’ challenges to the recommendations made by HRSA and ACIP — including those on contraception — back to a lower court to consider.

The case is likely headed to Reed O’Connor, a federal judge in Texas who has issued decisions undermining the ACA — including a ruling striking down the entire law that the U.S. Supreme Court later overturned.

“O’Connor is a judge notoriously hostile to the Affordable Care Act,” said Gretchen Borchelt, vice president of reproductive rights and health at the National Women’s Law Center. “He is someone who is willing to impose remedies where he takes access to care away from everybody in the country based on what’s happening in one situation.”

A win for the plaintiffs, she worried, could create confusion about what kind of contraception is covered and how much it costs, which would ultimately lead to more unintended pregnancies — all at a time when women have less access to abortions.

Nearly two dozen organizations — including the American Medical Association, the American Public Health Association, and the Blue Cross Blue Shield Association — have joined Borchelt’s group in filing briefs warning about the potential disruptions a ruling for the plaintiffs could cause.

Jay Carson, an attorney with the Buckeye Institute, a conservative think tank, said he’s happy with the court’s ruling. His group, along with the state of Texas, filed briefs in support of the plaintiffs.

“Unelected bureaucrats” shouldn’t have the power to decide what insurance plans should be required to cover, said Carson. “We’ve gotten so far afield of Congress actually making the laws and, instead, relying on Congress to just empower some agency to do the heavy lifting.”

What power agencies do have is likely to be curtailed in the wake of a June 28 U.S. Supreme Court decision that overturned a decades-old precedent dictating that courts should defer to federal agencies when it comes to regulatory or scientific decisions.

“Courts are going to be more able to scrutinize experts,” said Richard Hughes, a health care regulatory attorney with the firm Epstein, Becker, and Green. “It’s a vibe shift — we’re moving in the direction of the administrative state being curtailed.”

Eliminating federal coverage requirements for contraception would leave it up to states to determine what services health insurance plans would be required to provide.

“It would leave significant gaps in coverage,” Baron said.

A group of Democratic-led states made such an argument in a court brief last year, arguing for the mandates to be upheld to discourage self-funded plans from declining to offer preventive services, as they often did before the ACA.

Even when states can regulate what health plans cover, people still fall through the cracks. “I see denials all the time in instances where the treatment clearly is covered,” said Megan Glor, a health insurance attorney in Oregon.

Patients can appeal their insurers’ decisions, but that’s not easy. And if a patient’s appeals fail, litigation is generally the only option — but that’s a long, complicated, costly process, Glor said. Likely, the best outcome for a patient is an insurer covering what should have been covered in the first place.

When Engler called Kaiser Permanente about his vasectomy charge, he said a representative told him the bill was sent by mistake. Still, he said, the insurer kept asking for money. Engler filed and lost multiple appeals and eventually settled the charge for $540.

Engler’s vasectomy likely should have been free, Glor said. As a teacher, Engler is a public sector employee, which means his insurance would be subject to an Oregon law that mandates no-cost coverage for vasectomies.

Kaiser Permanente told KFF Health News that state law does not apply because of a federal rule for high-deductible health plans paired with health savings accounts. That rule requires patients to cover out-of-pocket costs until their deductible is met.

However, after KFF Health News contacted Kaiser Permanente about Engler’s situation, he said the company promised to issue a full refund for the $540 he had paid to settle his case.

“Although we administered the benefit correctly, an employee who spoke with Mr. Engler told him incorrectly that he would not have” to share the cost, said Debbie Karman, a Kaiser Permanente spokesperson.

Engler said he’s happy with the outcome, though he’s still unsure how Kaiser Permanente’s staff was confused about his insurance coverage.

He worries that others don’t have the means he had to advocate for himself.

“It’s scary,” he said. “So many people are limited in their resources or their understanding of how to fight — or even who to fight.”

(KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs of KFF — the independent source for health policy research, polling and journalism.)

©2024 KFF Health News. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.