A KHN review of hundreds of pieces of legislation found that, in all 50 states, legislators have proposed bills to curb such public health powers since the covid-19 pandemic began. While some governors vetoed bills that passed, at least 26 states pushed through laws that permanently weaken government authority to protect public health. In three additional states, an executive order, ballot initiative or limited long-held public health powers. More bills are pending in a handful of states whose legislatures are still in session.

In Arkansas, legislators except in private businesses or state-run health care settings, calling them “a burden on the public peace, health, and safety of the citizens of this state.” In Idaho, county commissioners, who typically have no public health expertise, . And in and , school boards, rather than health officials, have the power to close schools.

President Joe Biden last Thursday announced sweeping vaccination mandates and other covid measures, saying he was forced to act partly because of such legislation: “My plan also takes on elected officials in states that are undermining you and these lifesaving actions.”

All told:

• In at least 16 states, legislators have limited the power of public health officials to order mask mandates, or quarantines or isolation. In some cases, they gave themselves or local elected politicians the authority to prevent the spread of infectious disease.
• At least 17 states passed laws banning covid vaccine mandates or passports, or made it easier to get around vaccine requirements.
• At least nine states have new laws banning or limiting mask mandates. Executive orders or a court ruling limit mask requirements in five more.

Much of this legislation takes effect as covid hospitalizations in some areas are climbing to the highest numbers at any point in the pandemic, and children are back in school.

“We really could see more people sick, hurt, hospitalized or even die, depending on the extremity of the legislation and curtailing of the authority,” said , head of the National Association of County and City Health Officials.

Public health academics and officials are frustrated that they, instead of the virus, have become the enemy. They argue this will have consequences that last long beyond this pandemic, diminishing their ability to fight the latest covid surge and future disease outbreaks, such as being able to quarantine people during a measles outbreak.

“It’s kind of like having your hands tied in the middle of a boxing match,” said Kelley Vollmar, executive director of the Jefferson County Health Department in Missouri.

But proponents of the new limits say they are a necessary check on executive powers and give lawmakers a voice in prolonged emergencies. Arkansas state Sen. , a Republican who co-sponsored his state’s to ban mask mandates, said he was trying to reflect the will of the people.

“What the people of Arkansas want is the decision to be left in their hands, to them and their family,” Garner said. “It’s time to take the power away from the so-called experts, whose ideas have been woefully inadequate.”

After initially signing the bill, Republican Gov. Asa Hutchinson expressed regret, calling a special legislative session in early August to ask lawmakers to carve out an exception for schools. They declined. The law is by an Arkansas judge who deemed it unconstitutional. Legal battles are ongoing in other states as well.

A Deluge of Bills

In Ohio, legislators to overturn health orders and . In and , schools cannot require masks. In Alabama, state and local governments and schools cannot require covid vaccinations.

Montana’s legislature passed some of the most restrictive laws of all, powers, increasing local elected officials’ over local health boards, preventing limits on and — including in health care settings — from requiring vaccinations for covid, the flu or anything else.

Legislators there also passed : If jurisdictions add public health rules stronger than state public health measures, they could lose 20% of some grants.

Losing the ability to order quarantines has left Karen Sullivan, health officer for Montana’s Butte-Silver Bow department, terrified about what’s to come — not only during the covid pandemic but for future measles and whooping cough outbreaks.

“In the midst of delta and other variants that are out there, we’re quite frankly a nervous wreck about it,” Sullivan said. “Relying on morality and goodwill is not a good public health practice.”

While some public health officials tried to fight the national wave of legislation, the underfunded public health workforce was consumed by trying to implement the largest vaccination campaign in U.S. history and had little time for political action.

Freeman said her city and county health officials’ group has meager influence and resources, especially in comparison with the , a corporate-backed conservative group that promoted a model to restrict the emergency powers of governors and other officials. The draft legislation appears to have inspired dozens of state-level bills, according to the KHN review. At least 15 states passed laws limiting emergency powers. In some states, governors can no longer institute mask mandates or close businesses, and their executive orders can be overturned by legislators.

When North Dakota’s legislative session began in January, a long slate of bills sought to rein in public health powers, including one with language similar to ALEC’s. The state didn’t have a health director to argue against the new limits because three had resigned in 2020.

Fighting the bills not only took time, but also seemed dangerous, said Renae Moch, public health director for Bismarck, who testified against a measure . She then received an onslaught of hate mail and demands for her to be fired.

Lawmakers overrode the governor’s veto to pass the bill into law. The North Dakota legislature also banned businesses from asking whether patrons are vaccinated against or and .

The new laws are meant to reduce the power of governors and restore the balance of power between states’ executive branches and legislatures, said Jonathon Hauenschild, director of the ALEC task force on communications and technology. “Governors are elected, but they were delegating a lot of authority to the public health official, often that they had appointed,” Hauenschild said.

‘Like Turning Off a Light Switch’

When the Indiana legislature to pass a bill that gave county commissioners the power to review public health orders, it was devastating for Dr. David Welsh, the public health officer in rural Ripley County.

People immediately stopped calling him to report covid violations, because they knew the county commissioners could overturn his authority. It was “like turning off a light switch,” Welsh said.

Another county in Indiana has already seen its health department’s mask mandate by the local commissioners, Welsh said.

He’s considering stepping down after more than a quarter century in the role. If he does, he’ll join at least 303 public health leaders who have retired, resigned or been fired since the pandemic began, according to an ongoing KHN and AP analysis. That means 1 in 5 Americans have lost a local health leader during the pandemic.

“This is a deathblow,” said , CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for public health. He called the legislative assault the last straw for many seasoned public health officials who have battled the pandemic without sufficient resources, while also being vilified.

Public health groups expect further combative legislation. ALEC’s Hauenschild said the group is looking into a Michigan law that allowed the legislature to limit the governor’s emergency powers without Democratic Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s signature. 

Curbing the authority of public health officials has also become campaign fodder, particularly among Republican candidates running further on the right. While Republican Idaho Gov. Brad Little was traveling out of state, Lt. Gov. Janice McGeachin signed a surprise executive order banning mask mandates that she for her upcoming campaign against him. He later reversed the ban, , “I do not like petty politics. I do not like political stunts over the rule of law.”

At least one former lawmaker — former — said some of today’s politicians may come to regret these laws.

Fawbush was a sponsor of during the AIDS crisis. It banned employers from requiring health care workers, as a condition of employment, to get an HIV vaccine, if one became available. 

But 32 years later, that means Oregon cannot require health care workers to be vaccinated against covid. Calling lawmaking a “messy business,” Fawbush said he certainly wouldn’t have pushed the bill through if he had known then what he does now.

“Legislators need to obviously deal with immediate situations,” Fawbush said. “But we have to look over the horizon. It’s part of the job responsibility to look at consequences.”

KHN data reporter Hannah Recht, Montana correspondent Katheryn Houghton and Associated Press writer Michelle R. Smith contributed to this report.

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Public health officials who have juggled bare-bones budgets for years are happy to have the additional money. Yet they worry it will soon dry up as the pandemic recedes, continuing a boom-bust funding cycle that has plagued the U.S. public health system for decades. If budgets are slashed again, they warn, that could leave the nation where it was before covid: unprepared for a health crisis.

“We need funds that we can depend on year after year,” said Dr. Mysheika Roberts, the health commissioner of Columbus, Ohio.

When Roberts started in Columbus in 2006, an emergency preparedness grant paid for more than 20 staffers. By the time the coronavirus pandemic hit, it paid for about 10. Relief money that came through last year helped the department staff up its covid response teams. While the funding has helped the city cope with the immediate crisis, Roberts wonders if history will repeat itself.

After the pandemic is over, public health officials across the U.S. fear, they’ll be back to scraping together money from a patchwork of sources to provide basic services to their communities — much like after 9/11, SARS and Ebola.

When the mosquito-borne Zika virus tore through South America in 2016, causing serious birth defects in newborn babies, members of Congress couldn’t agree how, and how much, to spend in the U.S. for prevention efforts, such as education and mosquito abatement. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention took money from its Ebola efforts, and from state and local health department funding, to pay for the initial Zika response. Congress eventually allocated $1.1 billion for Zika, but by then mosquito season had passed in much of the U.S.

“Something happens, we throw a ton of money at it, and then in a year or two we go back to our shrunken budgets and we can’t do the minimum things we have to do day in and day out, let alone be prepared for the next emergency,” said Chrissie Juliano, executive director of the Big Cities Health Coalition, which represents leaders of more than two dozen public health departments.

Funding for Public Health Emergency Preparedness, which pays for emergency capabilities for state and local health departments, dropped by about half between the 2003 and 2021 fiscal years, accounting for inflation, according to , a public health research and advocacy organization.

Even the federal , established with the Affordable Care Act to provide $2 billion a year for public health, was raided for cash over the past decade. If the money hadn’t been touched, eventually local and state health departments would have gotten an additional $12.4 billion.

Several lawmakers, led by Democratic U.S. Sen. Patty Murray of Washington, are looking to end the boom-bust cycle with that would eventually provide $4.5 billion annually in core public health funding. Health departments carry out essential government functions — such as managing water safety, issuing death certificates, tracking sexually transmitted diseases and preparing for infectious outbreaks.

Spending for state public health departments dropped by 16% per capita from 2010 to 2019, and spending for local health departments fell by 18%, KHN and The Associated Press found in a July investigation. At least 38,000 public health jobs were lost at the state and local level between the 2008 recession and 2019. Today, many public health workers are hired on a temporary or part-time basis. Some are paid so poorly they qualify for public aid. Those factors reduce departments’ ability to retain people with expertise.

Compounding those losses, the pandemic has prompted an exodus of public health officials because of harassment, political pressure and exhaustion. A yearlong analysis by the AP and KHN found at least 248 leaders of state and local health departments resigned, retired or were fired between April 1, 2020, and March 31, 2021. Nearly 1 in 6 Americans lost a local public health leader during the pandemic. Experts say it is the largest exodus of public health leaders in American history.

Brian Castrucci, CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for public health, calls Congress’ giant influx of cash in response to the crisis “wallpaper and drapes” because it doesn’t restore public health’s crumbling foundation.

“I worry at the end of this we’re going to hire up a bunch of contact tracers — and then lay them off soon thereafter,” Castrucci said. “We are continuing to kind of go from disaster to disaster without ever talking about the actual infrastructure.”

Castrucci and others say dependable money is needed for high-skill professionals, such as epidemiologists — data-driven disease detectives — and for technology upgrades that would help track outbreaks and get information to the public.

In Ohio, the computer system used to report cases to the state predates the invention of the iPhone. State officials had said for years they wanted to upgrade it, but they lacked the money and political will. Many departments across the country have relied on to report covid cases.

During the pandemic, Ohio’s that nearly 96% of local health departments it surveyed had problems with the state’s disease reporting system. Roberts said workers interviewing patients had to navigate several pages of questions, a major burden when handling 500 cases daily.

The system was so outdated that some information could be entered only in a non-searchable comment box, and officials struggled to pull data from the system to report to the public — such as how many people who tested positive had attended a Black Lives Matter rally, which last summer was a key question for people trying to understand whether protests contributed to the virus’s spread.

Ohio is working on a new system, but Roberts worries that, without a dependable budget, the state won’t be able to keep that one up to date either. 

“You’re going to need to upgrade that,” Roberts said. “And you’re going to need dollars to support that.”

In Washington, the public health director for Seattle and King County, Patty Hayes, said she is asked all the time why there isn’t a single, central place to register for a vaccine appointment. The answer comes down to money: Years of underfunding left departments across the state with antiquated computer systems that were not up to the task when covid hit.

Hayes recalls a time when her department would conduct mass vaccination drills, but that system was dismantled when the money dried up after the specter of 9/11 faded.

Roughly six years ago, an analysis found that her department was about $25 million short of what it needed annually for core public health work. Hayes said the past year has shown that’s an underestimate. For example, climate change is prompting more public health concerns, such as the effect on residents when wildfire smoke engulfed much of the Pacific Northwest in September.

Public health officials in some areas may struggle to make the case for more stable funding because a large swath of the public has questioned — and often been openly hostile toward — the mask mandates and business restrictions that public health officials have imposed through the pandemic.

In Missouri, some county commissioners who were frustrated at public health restrictions withheld money from the departments.

In Knox County, Tennessee, Mayor Glenn Jacobs narrated posted in the fall that showed a photo of health officials after referencing “sinister forces.” Later, someone spray-painted “DEATH” on the department office building. The Board of Health was stripped of its powers in March and given an advisory role. A spokesperson for the mayor’s office declined to comment on the video.

“This is going to change the position of public health and what we can and cannot do across the country,” said Dr. Martha Buchanan, the head of the health department. “I know it’s going to change it here.”

A found at least 24 states were crafting legislation that would limit or remove public health powers.

Back in Seattle, locally based companies have pitched in money and staff members for vaccine sites. Microsoft is hosting one location, while Starbucks offered customer service expertise to help design the sites. Hayes is grateful, but she wonders why a critical government function didn’t have the resources it needed during a pandemic.

If public health had been getting dependable funding, her staff could have been working more effectively with the data and preparing for emerging threats in the state where the was confirmed.

“They’ll look back at this response to the pandemic in this country as a great example of a failure of a country to prioritize the health of its citizens, because it didn’t commit to public health,” she said. “That will be part of the story.”

KHN senior correspondent Anna Maria Barry-Jester and Montana correspondent Katheryn Houghton contributed to this report.

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Tisha Coleman has lived in close-knit Linn County, Kansas, for 42 years and never felt so alone.

As the public health administrator, she’s struggled every day of to keep her rural county along the Missouri border safe. In this community with no hospital, she’s failed to persuade her neighbors to wear masks and take precautions against COVID-19, even as cases rise. In return, she’s been harassed, sued, vilified — and called a Democrat, an insult in her circles.

Even her husband hasn’t listened to her, refusing to require customers to wear masks at the family’s hardware store in Mound City.

“People have shown their true colors,” Coleman said. “I’m sure that I’ve lost some friends over this situation.”

By November, the months of fighting over masks and quarantines were already wearing her down. Then she got COVID-19, likely from her husband, who she thinks picked it up at the hardware store. Her mother got it, too, and died on Sunday, 11 days after she was put on a ventilator.

Across the U.S., state and local public health officials such as Coleman have found themselves at the center of a political storm as they combat . Amid a fractured federal response, the usually invisible army of workers charged with preventing the spread of infectious diseases has . Their expertise on how to fight the coronavirus is often disregarded.

Some have become the target of far-right activists, conservative groups and anti-vaccination extremists, who have coalesced around common goals — fighting mask orders, quarantines and contact tracing with protests, threats and personal attacks.

The backlash has moved beyond the angry fringe. In the courts, public health powers are being undermined. Lawmakers in at least 24 states have crafted legislation to weaken public health powers, which could make it more difficult for communities to respond to other health emergencies in the future.

“What we’ve taken for granted for 100 years in public health is now very much in doubt,” said Lawrence Gostin, an expert in public health law at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.

It is a further erosion of the nation’s already fragile public health infrastructure. At least 181 state and local public health leaders in 38 states have resigned, retired or been fired since April 1, according to an by The Associated Press and KHN. According to experts, this is the largest exodus of public health leaders in American history. An untold number of lower-level staffers has also left.

“I’ve never seen or studied a pandemic that has been as politicized, as vitriolic and as challenged as this one, and I’ve studied a lot of epidemics,” said Dr. Howard Markel, a medical historian at the University of Michigan. “All of that has been very demoralizing for the men and women who don’t make a great deal of money, don’t get a lot of fame, but work 24/7.”

One in 8 Americans — 40 million people — lives in a community that has lost its local public health department leader during the pandemic. Top public health officials in 20 states have left state-level departments, including in North Dakota, which has lost three state health officers since May, one after another.

Many of the state and local officials left due to political blowback or pandemic pressure. Some departed to take higher-profile positions or due to health concerns. Others were fired for poor performance. Dozens retired.

KHN and AP reached out to public health workers and experts in every state and the National Association of County and City Health Officials; examined public records and news reports; and interviewed hundreds to gather the list.

Collectively, the loss of expertise and experience has created a leadership vacuum in the profession, public health experts say. Many health departments are in flux as the nation rolls out and faces what are expected to be the worst months of the pandemic.

“We don’t have a long line of people outside of the door who want those jobs,” said Dr. Gianfranco Pezzino, health officer in Shawnee County, Kansas, who had decided to retire from his job at the end of the year, he said, because he’s burned out. “It’s a huge loss that will be felt probably for generations to come.”

But Pezzino could not even make it to Dec. 31. On Monday, after county commissioners , he . 

“You value the pressure from people with special economic interests more than science and good public health practice,” he to the commissioners. “In full conscience I cannot continue to serve as the health officer for a board that puts being able to patronize bars and sports venues in front of the health, lives and well-being of a majority of its constituents.”

Existing Problems

The departures accelerate problems that had already weakened the nation’s public health system. that per capita spending for state public health departments had dropped by 16%, and for local health departments by 18%, since 2010. At least 38,000 state and local public health jobs have disappeared since the 2008 recession.

Those diminishing resources were already prompting high turnover. Before the pandemic, nearly half of public health workers said in a survey they planned to retire or leave in the next five years. The top reason given was low pay.

Such reduced staffing in departments that have the power and responsibility to manage everything from water inspections to childhood immunizations left public health workforces ill-equipped when COVID-19 arrived. Then, when pandemic shutdowns cut tax revenues, some state and local governments cut their public health workforces further.

“Now we’re at this moment where we need this knowledge and leadership the most, everything has come together to cause that brain drain,” said Chrissie Juliano, executive director of the Big Cities Health Coalition, which represents leaders of more than two dozen public health departments.

Politics as Public Health Poison

Public health experts broadly agree that and save lives and livelihoods. Scientists say that and curtailing indoor activities can also help.

But with the pandemic coinciding with , simple acts such as wearing a mask morphed into , with right-wing conservatives saying such requirements stomped on individual freedom.

On the campaign trail, President Donald Trump ridiculed President-elect Joe Biden for wearing a mask and egged on by tweeting

Coleman, a Christian and a Republican, said that’s just what happened in Linn County. “A lot of people are shamed into not wearing a mask … because you’re considered a Democrat,” she said. “I’ve been called a ‘sheep.’”

The politicization has put some local governments at odds with their own health officials. In California, near Lake Tahoe, the Placer County Board of Supervisors voted to end a local health emergency and declared support for a widely discredited “herd immunity” strategy, which would let the virus spread. The idea is endorsed by many conservatives, including , as a way to keep the economy running, but it has been denounced by public health experts who say millions more people will unnecessarily suffer and die. The supervisors also endorsed a false conspiracy theory claiming many COVID-19 deaths are not actually from COVID-19.

The meeting occurred just days after county Public Health Officer Dr. Aimee Sisson explained to the board the rigorous standards used for counting COVID-19 deaths. Sisson quit the next day.

In Idaho, protests against public health measures are intensifying. Hundreds of protesters, some armed, and health board members’ homes in Boise on Dec. 8, screaming and blaring air horns. They included members of the anti-vaccination group Health Freedom Idaho.

Dr. Peter Hotez, dean of the National School of Tropical Medicine at Baylor College of Medicine, has tracked the anti-vaccine movement and said it has linked up with political extremists on the right, and taken on a larger anti-science role, pushing back against other public health measures such as contact tracing and physical distancing.

Members of a group called the Freedom Angels in California, which sprung up in 2019 around a state law to tighten vaccine requirements, have been organizing protests at health departments, posing with guns and calling themselves a militia on the group’s Facebook page.

The latest Idaho protests came after a July skirmish in which Ammon Bundy who tried to stop him and his maskless supporters from entering a health meeting.

Bundy, whose family led armed standoffs against federal agents in 2014 and 2016, has become , most recently forming a multistate network called People’s Rights that has organized protests against public health measures.

“We don’t believe they have a right to tell us that we have to put a manmade filter over our face to go outside,” Bundy said. “It’s not about, you know, the mandates or the mask. It’s about them not having that right to do it.”

Kelly Aberasturi, vice chair for the Southwest District Health, which covers six counties, said the worker Bundy shoved was “just trying to do his job.”

Aberasturi, a self-described “extremist” right-wing Republican, said he, too, has been subjected to the backlash. Aberasturi doesn’t support mask mandates, but he did back the board’s recommendation that people in the community wear masks. He said people who believe even a recommendation goes too far have threatened to protest at his house.

The Mask Fight in Kansas

The public health workforce in Kansas has been hit hard — 17 of the state’s 100 health departments have lost their leaders since the end of March. 

Democratic Gov. Laura Kelly in July, but the state legislature allowed counties to opt out. A recent showed the 24 Kansas counties that had upheld the mandate saw a 6% decrease in COVID-19, while the 81 counties that opted out entirely saw a 100% increase.

Coleman, who pushed unsuccessfully for Linn County to uphold the rule, was sued for putting a community member into quarantine, a lawsuit she won. In late November, she spoke at a to discuss a new mask mandate — it was her first day back in the office after her own bout with COVID-19.

She pleaded for a plan to help stem the surge in cases. One resident referenced Thomas Jefferson, saying, “I prefer a dangerous freedom over a peaceful slavery.” Another falsely argued that masks caused elevated carbon dioxide. Few, besides Coleman, wore a mask at the meeting.

Commissioner Mike Page supported the mask order, noting that a close friend was fighting COVID-19 in the hospital and saying he was “ashamed” that members of the community had sued their public health workers while other communities supported theirs.

In the end, the commissioners encouraged community members to wear masks but opted out of a county-wide rule, writing they had determined that they are “not necessary to protect the public health and safety of the county.”

Coleman was disappointed but not surprised. “At least I know I’ve done everything I can to attempt to protect the people,” she said.

The next day, Coleman discussed Christmas decorations with her mother as she drove her to the hospital.

Stripping of Powers

The state bill that let Linn County opt out of the governor’s mask mandate is one of dozens of efforts to erode public health powers in state legislatures across the country.

For decades, government authorities have had the legal power to stop foodborne illnesses and infectious diseases by closing businesses and quarantining individuals, among other measures.

When people contract tuberculosis, for example, the local health department might isolate them, require them to wear a mask when they leave their homes, require family members to get tested, relocate them so they can isolate and make sure they take their medicine. Such measures are meant to protect everyone and avoid the shutdown of businesses and schools.

Now, opponents of those measures are turning to state legislatures and even the Supreme Court to strip public officials of those powers, defund local health departments or even dissolve them. The American Legislative Exchange Council, a corporate-backed group of conservative lawmakers, has published for .

Lawmakers in Missouri, Louisiana, Ohio, Virginia and at least 20 other states have crafted bills to limit public health powers. In some states, the efforts have failed; in others, legislative leaders have embraced them enthusiastically.

Tennessee’s Republican House leadership is backing a bill to constrain the state’s six local health departments, granting their powers to mayors instead. The bill stems from clashes between the mayor of Knox County and the local health board over mask mandates and business closures.

In Idaho, lawmakers to review the authority of local health districts in the next session. The move doesn’t sit right with Aberasturi, who said it’s hypocritical coming from state lawmakers who profess to believe in local control.

Meanwhile, governors in Wisconsin, Kansas and Michigan, among others, have been sued by their own legislators, state think tanks or others for using their executive powers to restrict business operations and require masks. In Ohio, a group of lawmakers is seeking to impeach Republican Gov. Mike DeWine over his pandemic rules.

The U.S. Supreme Court in 1905 found it was constitutional for officials to issue orders to protect the public health, in a case upholding a Cambridge, Massachusetts, requirement to get a smallpox vaccine. But a indicated the majority of justices are willing to put new constraints on those powers.

“It is time — past time — to make plain that, while the pandemic poses many grave challenges, there is no world in which the Constitution tolerates color-coded executive edicts that reopen liquor stores and bike shops but shutter churches, synagogues, and mosques,” Justice Neil Gorsuch wrote.

Gostin, the health law professor, said the decision could embolden state legislators and governors to weaken public health authority, creating “a snowballing effect on the erosion of public health powers and, ultimately, public’s trust in public health and science.”

Who’s Left?

Many health officials who have stayed in their jobs have faced not only political backlash but also threats of personal violence. Armed paramilitary groups have put public health in their sights.

In California, a man with ties to the right-wing, anti-government Boogaloo movement was accused of stalking and threatening Santa Clara’s health officer. The suspect was arrested and has pleaded not guilty. The Boogaloo movement is associated with multiple murders, including of a Bay Area sheriff deputy and federal security officer.

Linda Vail, health officer for Michigan’s Ingham County, has received emails and letters at her home saying she’d be “taken down like the governor,” which Vail took to be a reference to . Even as other health officials are leaving, Vail is choosing to stay despite the threats.

“I can completely understand why some people, they’re just done,” she said. “There are other places to go work.”

In mid-November, Danielle Swanson, public health administrator in Republic County, Kansas, said she was planning to resign as soon as she and enough of her COVID-19-positive staff emerged from isolation. Someone threatened to go to her department with a gun because of a quarantine, and she’s received hand-delivered hate mail and calls from screaming residents.

“It’s very stressful. It’s hard on me; it’s hard on my family that I do not see,” she said. “For the longest time, I held through it thinking there’s got to be an end in sight.”

Swanson said some of her employees have told her once she goes, they probably will not stay.

As public health officials depart across the country, the question of who takes their places has plagued Dr. Oxiris Barbot, who in August amid a clash with Democratic Mayor Bill de Blasio. During the height of the pandemic, the mayor empowered the city’s hospital system to lead the fight against COVID-19, passing over her highly regarded department.

“I’m concerned about the degree to which they will have the fortitude to tell elected officials what they need to hear instead of what they want to hear,” Barbot said.

In Kentucky, 189 employees, about 1 in 10, left local health departments from March through Nov. 21, according to Sara Jo Best, public health director of the Lincoln Trail District Health Department. That comes after a decade of decline: Staff numbers fell 49% from 2009 to 2019. She said workers are exhausted and can’t catch up on the overwhelming number of contact tracing investigations, much less run COVID-19 testing, combat flu season and prepare for COVID-19 vaccinations.

And the remaining workforce is aging. According to the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for local public health, 42% of governmental public health workers are over age 50.

Back in Linn County, cases are rising. As of Dec. 14, 1 out of every 24 residents has tested positive.

The day after her mother was put on a ventilator, Coleman fought to hold back tears as she described the 71-year-old former health care worker with a strong work ethic.

“Of course, I could give up and throw in the towel, but I’m not there yet,” she said, adding that she will “continue to fight to prevent this happening to someone else.”

Coleman, whose mother died Sunday, has noticed more people are wearing masks these days.

But at the family hardware store, they are still not required.

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

Methodology

KHN and AP counted how many state and local public health leaders have left their jobs since April 1, or who plan to leave by Dec. 31.

The analysis includes the exits of top department officials regardless of the reason. Some departments have more than one top position and some had multiple top officials leave from the same position over the course of the pandemic.

To compile the list, reporters reached out to public health associations and experts in every state and interviewed hundreds of public health employees. They also received information from the National Association of County and City Health Officials, and combed news reports and public records, such as meeting minutes and news releases.

The population served by each local health department is calculated using the Census Bureau 2019 Population Estimates based on each department’s jurisdiction.

The count of legislation came from reviewing bills in every state, prefiled bills for 2021 sessions, where available, and news reports. The bills include limits on quarantines, contact tracing, vaccine requirements and emergency executive powers.

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Chantee Mack, 44, died in May. More than 20 colleagues also caught the coronavirus, and some are suffering lasting problems.

Now, after a KHN and Associated Press story in July spurred an investigation, Prince George’s County officials say they have added an appeals process to their work-at-home policy and hired a consultant to identify “operational and management needs for improvement” in the department. Union officials say the county has also made personal protective equipment, such as masks and gloves, more available in recent months and put a greater emphasis on social distancing.

“We’re getting somewhere,” said Rhonda Wallace, leader of a local branch of the . “But we’re not there yet.”

In an email to KHN, health department spokesperson George Lettis said officials can’t release results of the county investigation because of personnel and medical information. But a shares the inquiry’s main conclusions: that the health department tried to get PPE in early March and advised employees about social distancing and proper hygiene via a newsletter.

“It must not be overlooked that this was a rapidly evolving situation,” said the letter from Dr. George Askew, deputy chief administrative officer for health, human services and education. “Best efforts were made to keep the community and Health Department employees safe and informed during this unprecedented time.” The letter does not acknowledge any lapses made by the county.

Some employees argue the investigation didn’t delve into the circumstances around Mack’s death and say the county should publicly acknowledge its role in what happened. At a news conference in July, County Executive Angela Alsobrooks said Mack’s death “deserves an investigation” and the county would “spare no time or expense.”

Mack, who worked in the department’s sexually transmitted diseases program, was denied permission to work from home in March even though she had health problems that put her at high risk for COVID-19 complications.

At least three other employees whose requests to work from home were denied around that time also got sick. Revonda Watts, a nurse and program manager, said she was allowed to work from home for one day before being called back to the office. Some of these employees worked face-to-face with the public at least part of the time.

A union document obtained by KHN detailed a conference call by department managers in which Diane Young, an associate director, laid out criteria for working from home, such as being 65 or older or having small children. She said decisions would be made case by case.

Meanwhile, protective masks, gowns and other safety equipment were in short supply nationally and at the health department, which distributed them only to certain workers. In early April, when Young asked Watts about PPE needs, Watts wrote in an email obtained by KHN: “N-95 masks are needed for all staff. We were given 1 mask to reuse. We have no face shields for the clinicians nor do we have gowns.”

Young responded that even though goggles were available, “face shields and gowns are in limited supply and will be used for those who are testing patients for COVID-19.”

Several employees described meetings and “morning huddles” in the office in March and April held without social distancing and during which few, if any, participants wore masks.

One employee after another got sick.

Watts, who is 58 and has asthma, developed bronchitis on top of COVID-19, then chest pain from spasms in her blood vessels. She spread the virus to her adult daughter.

Administrative aide Natania Bowen also spread the virus to her family, including her husband and 7-year-old daughter, who have since recovered. Bowen, a 47-year-old with asthma, experienced a bacterial lung infection along with COVID-19.

Receptionist Yolanda Potter, 53, had severe headaches for a month from her coronavirus infection. She developed a blood clot in her right leg and had to inject blood thinners into her stomach for 45 days to prevent it from breaking off and traveling to her lungs or brain. She and Carolyn Ferguson, an X-ray tech now on desk duty, suffer ongoing memory problems, while Bowen continues to have lung issues.

While Bowen now works from home, Watts, Potter and Ferguson are back at the office. As of mid-November, Lettis said, 141 health department employees were working fully on-site, 68 partly on-site and 196 at home.

Employees said they are pleased that social distancing is now the norm in the health department, that more places to sanitize hands exist and that PPE is easier to get. They’re also hopeful about the new policy on remote work.

The countywide rules include two levels of review for work-at-home requests: one by a supervisor and another by a higher-up boss who must give a reason if a worker’s request is denied. The employee can then ask the Office for Human Resource Management to review the denial.

Despite such measures, some employees still worry about contracting COVID-19 at work, especially as the state’s COVID dashboard puts the .

Several employees are seeking long-term disability leave or talking to lawyers about getting workers’ compensation. Watts said she is awaiting a workers’ comp hearing and has asked again for permission to work from home as she deals with crushing fatigue and numbness in her legs and hands. Since returning to the office, she said, she has had to bring her own mask from home.

“I get frustrated with not being able to just bounce back,” she said. The health department officials “really let us down and didn’t do their due diligence to make sure the staff was protected.”

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

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By February, as the disease crept across the U.S., Keeley said she found her calling: a career in public health. “This is something that’s going to be necessary,” Keeley remembered thinking. “This is something I can do. This is something I’m interested in.”

In August, Keeley began studying at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign to become an epidemiologist.

Public health programs in the United States have seen a surge in enrollment as the coronavirus has swept through the country, killing more than 246,000 people. As state and local public health departments struggle with unprecedented challenges — slashed budgets, surging demand, staff departures and even threats to workers’ safety — a new generation is entering the field.

Among the more than 100 schools and public health programs that use the common application — a single admissions application form that students can send to multiple schools — there was a 20% increase in applications to master’s in public health programs for the current academic year, to nearly 40,000, according to the Association of Schools and Programs of Public Health.

Some programs are seeing even bigger jumps. Applications to Brown University’s small master’s in public health program rose 75%, according to Annie Gjelsvik, a professor and director of the program.

Demand was so high as the pandemic hit full force in the spring that Brown extended its application deadline by over a month. Seventy students ultimately matriculated this fall, up from 41 last year.

“People interested in public health are interested in solving complex problems,” Gjelsvik said. “The COVID pandemic is a complex issue that’s in the forefront every day.”

It’s too early to say whether the jump in interest in public health programs is specific to that field or reflects a broader surge of interest in graduate programs in general, according to those who track graduate school admissions. Factors such as pandemic-related deferrals and disruptions in international student admissions make it difficult to compare programs across the board.

Magnolia E. Hernández, an assistant dean at Florida International University’s Robert Stempel College of Public Health and Social Work, said new student enrollments in its master’s in public health program grew 63% from last year. The school has especially seen an uptick in interest among Black students, from 21% of newly admitted students last fall to 26.8% this year.

Kelsie Campbell is one of them. She’s part Jamaican and part British. When she heard in both the British and American media that Black and ethnic minorities were being disproportionately hurt by the pandemic, she wanted to focus on why.

“Why is the Black community being impacted disproportionately by the pandemic? Why is that happening?” Campbell asked. “I want to be able to come to you and say ‘This is happening. These are the numbers and this is what we’re going to do.’”

The biochemistry major at Florida International said she plans to explore that when she begins her MPH program at Stempel College in the spring. She said she hopes to eventually put her public health degree to work helping her own community.

“There’s power in having people from your community in high places, somebody to fight for you, somebody to be your voice,” she said.

Public health students are already working on the front lines of the nation’s pandemic response in many locations. Students at Brown’s public health program, for example, are crunching infection data and tracing the spread of the disease for the Rhode Island Department of Health.

Some students who had planned to work in public health shifted their focus as they watched the devastation of COVID-19 in their communities. In college, Emilie Saksvig, 23, double-majored in civil engineering and public health. She was supposed to start working this year as a Peace Corps volunteer to help with water infrastructure in Kenya. She had dreamed of working overseas on global public health.

The pandemic forced her to cancel those plans, and she decided instead to pursue a master’s degree in public health at Emory University.

“The pandemic has made it so that it is apparent that the United States needs a lot of help, too,” she said. “It changed the direction of where I wanted to go.”

These students are entering a field that faced serious challenges even before the pandemic exposed the strains on the underfunded patchwork of state and local public health departments. An analysis by AP and KHN found that since 2010, per capita spending for state public health departments has dropped by 16%, and for local health departments by 18%. At least 38,000 state and local public health jobs have disappeared since the 2008 recession.

And the workforce is aging: Forty-two percent of governmental public health workers are over 50, according to the de Beaumont Foundation, and the field has high turnover. Before the pandemic, nearly half of public health workers said they planned to retire or leave their organizations for other reasons in the next five years. Poor pay topped the list of reasons. Some public health workers are paid so little that they qualify for public aid.

Brian Castrucci, CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for public health, said government public health jobs need to be a “destination job” for top graduates of public health schools.

“If we aren’t going after the best and the brightest, it means that the best and the brightest aren’t protecting our nation from those threats that can, clearly, not only devastate from a human perspective, but from an economic perspective,” Castrucci said.

The pandemic put that already-stressed public health workforce in the middle of what became a pitched political battle over how to contain the disease. As public health officials recommended closing businesses and requiring people to wear masks, many, including Dr. Anthony Fauci, the U.S. government’s top virus expert, faced threats and political reprisals, AP and KHN found. Many were pushed out of their jobs. An ongoing count by AP/KHN has found that more than 100 public health leaders in dozens of states have retired, quit or been fired since April.

Those threats have had the effect of crystallizing for students the importance of their work, said Patricia Pittman, a professor of health policy and management at George Washington University’s Milken Institute School of Public Health.

“Our students have been both indignant and also energized by what it means to become a public health professional,” Pittman said. “Indignant because many of the local and the national leaders who are trying to make recommendations around public health practices were being mistreated. And proud because they know that they are going to be part of that front-line public health workforce that has not always gotten the respect that it deserves.”

Saksvig compared public health workers to law enforcement in the way they both have responsibility for enforcing rules that can alter people’s lives.

“I feel like before the coronavirus, a lot of people didn’t really pay attention to public health,” she said. “Especially now when something like a pandemic is happening, public health people are just on the forefront of everything.”

KHN Midwest correspondent Lauren Weber and KHN senior correspondent Anna Maria Barry-Jester contributed to this report.

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

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The signed by Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom late Wednesday is a response to threats made to health officers across California during the coronavirus pandemic. More than a dozen public health leaders have left their jobs amid such harassment over their role in mask rules and stay-at-home orders.

“Our public health officers have all too often faced targeted harassment and stalking,” wrote Secretary of State Alex Padilla in a statement. This “program can help provide more peace of mind to the public health officials who have been on the frontlines of California’s COVID-19 response.”

A community college instructor accused of stalking and threatening Santa Clara health officer Sara Cody was arrested in late August. The Santa Clara County sheriff said it believes the suspect, Alan Viarengo, has ties to the “Boogaloo” movement, a right-wing, anti-government group that promotes violence and is associated with , including the murders of a federal security officer and a sheriff deputy in the Bay Area. Thousands of rounds of ammunition, 138 firearms and explosive materials were found in his home, the sheriff’s office said.

In Santa Cruz County, two top health officials have received death threats, including one allegedly signed by a far-right extremist group.

In May, a member of the public read aloud the home address of former Orange County health officer Nichole Quick at a supervisors’ meeting and called for protesters to go to her home. “You have seen firsthand how people have been forced to exercise their First Amendment. Be wise, and do not force the residents of this county into feeling they have no other choice than to exercise their Second Amendment,” said another attendee. Quick later resigned.

Protesters angry over mask mandates and stay-at-home orders have gone to the homes of health officers in multiple counties, including Orange and Contra Costa.

The executive order would allow health officials to register with the Secretary of State’s Safe at Home program. Those in the program are given an alternative mailing address to use for public records so that their home addresses are not revealed.

Threats of violence have added to the already immense pressure public health officials have experienced since the beginning of the year. Amid chronic underfunding and staffing shortages, they have been working to limit the spread of the coronavirus, while also deflecting political pressure from other officials and anger from the public over business closures and mask mandates.

“California’s local health officers have been working tirelessly since the start of the pandemic, using science to guide policy,” said Kat DeBurgh, the executive director of the Health Officers Association of California. “It is regrettable that this order was necessary — but we are grateful for it nevertheless.”

Nationwide, at least 61 state or local health leaders in 27 states have resigned, retired or been fired since April, according to a review by The Associated Press and KHN, a figure that has doubled since the newsrooms first began tracking the departures in June.

Thirteen of those departures have been in California, including 11 county health officials and the state’s two top public health officials.

Dr. Sonia Angell, former director of the California Department of Public Health and state public health officer, quit in early August after a series of glitches in the state’s infectious disease reporting system caused weeks-long delays in reporting cases of COVID-19.

In Placer County, north of Sacramento, health officer Dr. Aimee Sisson resigned effective Sept. 25 after the county Board of Supervisors voted to end its local COVID-19 health emergency. “It is with a heavy heart that I submit this letter of resignation,” she wrote in her resignation letter. “Today’s action by the Placer County Board of Supervisors made it clear that I can no longer effectively serve in my role.”

Organizations across the state have expressed concern over the treatment of health officials during the pandemic, including the California Medical Association.

“Basic science has become politicized in so many parts of our state, and our country,” wrote California Medical Association president Dr. Peter N. Bretan Jr. in a statement after Sisson’s departure. “Public health officers are public servants who seek to do what their job description states — to protect public health.”

The executive order also directs the state to assess impacts of the pandemic on health care providers and health care service plans, and halts evictions for commercial renters through March 31, 2021, among other pandemic-related matters.

KHN and California Healthline correspondent Angela Hart, KHN Midwest correspondent Lauren Weber and Associated Press writer Michelle R. Smith contributed to this report. 

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Ungar also spoke on about the story, explaining how the cuts hampered the state’s ability to respond to the pandemic. Watch here:

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Public health departments, which have struggled for months to test and trace everyone exposed to the novel coronavirus, are now being told to prepare to distribute COVID-19 vaccines as early as Nov. 1.

In a this summer, the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention told health departments across the country to draft vaccination plans by Oct. 1 “to coincide with the earliest possible release of COVID-19 vaccine.”

The CDC’s director, Dr. Robert Redfield, also wrote to governors last week about the urgent need to have vaccine distribution sites up and running by Nov. 1, . Redfield asked governors to expedite the process for setting up these facilities.

But health departments that have been underfunded for decades say they currently lack the staff, money and tools to educate people about vaccines and then to distribute, administer and track doses to some 330 million people. Nor do they know when, or if, they’ll get federal aid to do that.

“There is a tremendous amount of work to be done to be prepared for this vaccination program and it will not be complete by Nov. 1,” said Dr. Kelly Moore, associate director of immunization education at the Immunization Action Coalition, a national vaccine education and advocacy organization based in St. Paul, Minnesota. “States will need more financial resources than they have now.”

Dozens of doctors, nurses and health officials interviewed by KHN and The Associated Press expressed concern about the country’s readiness to conduct mass vaccinations, as well as frustration with months of inconsistent information from the federal government.

The gaps include figuring out how officials will keep track of who has gotten which doses and how they’ll keep the workers who give the shots safe, with enough protective gear and syringes to do their jobs.

With of Americans saying they would get vaccinated, according to a poll from AP-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research, it also will be crucial to educate people about the benefits of vaccination, said Molly Howell, who manages the North Dakota Department of Health’s immunization program.

The unprecedented pace of vaccine development has left many Americans skeptical about the safety of COVID-19 immunizations; others simply don’t trust the federal government.

“We’re in a very deep-red state,” said Ann Lewis, CEO of CareSouth Carolina, a group of community health centers that serve mostly low-income people in five rural counties in South Carolina. “The message that is coming out is not a message of trust and confidence in medical or scientific evidence.”

Paying for the Rollout 

The U.S. has committed more than but hasn’t allocated money specifically for distributing and administering vaccines.

And while states, territories and 154 large cities and counties received billions in congressional emergency funding, that money can be used for a variety of purposes, including testing and overtime pay.

An ongoing investigation by KHN and the AP has detailed how state and local public health departments across the U.S. have been starved for decades, leaving them underfunded and without adequate resources to confront the coronavirus pandemic. The investigation further found that federal coronavirus funds have been slow to reach public health departments, forcing some communities to cancel non-coronavirus vaccine clinics and other essential services.

States are allowed to use some of the federal money they’ve already received to prepare for immunizations. But KHN and the AP found that many health departments are so overwhelmed with the current costs of the pandemic — such as testing and contact tracing — that they can’t reserve money for the vaccine work to come. Health departments will need to hire people to administer the vaccines and systems to track them, and pay for supplies such as protective medical masks, gowns and gloves, as well as warehouses and refrigerator space.

CareSouth Carolina is collaborating with the state health department on testing and the pandemic response. They used federal funding to purchase $140,000 retrofitted vans for mobile testing that they plan to continue to use to keep vaccines cold and deliver them to residents when the time comes, said Lewis.

But most vaccine costs will be new.

Pima County, Arizona, for example, is already at least $30 million short of what health officials need to fight the pandemic, let alone plan for vaccines, said Dr. Francisco Garcia, deputy county administrator and chief medical officer.

Some federal funds will expire soon. The $150 billion that states and local governments received from a fund in the CARES Act, for example, covers only expenses made through , said Gretchen Musicant, health commissioner in Minneapolis. That’s a problem, given vaccine distribution may not have even begun.

Although public health officials say they need more money, Congress left Washington for its summer recess without passing a new pandemic relief bill that would include additional funding for vaccine distribution.

“States are anxious to receive those funds as soon as possible, so they can do what they need to be prepared,” Moore said. “We can’t assume they can take existing funding and attempt the largest vaccination campaign in history.”

What’s the Plan?

Then there’s the basic question of scale. The federally funded Vaccines for Children program immunizes . In 2009 and 2010, the CDC scaled up to vaccinate against pandemic H1N1 influenza. And last winter, the country distributed 175 million vaccines for , according to the CDC.

But for the U.S. to reach herd immunity against the coronavirus, most experts say, the nation would likely need to vaccinate , which translates to 200 million people and — because the first vaccines will require two doses to be effective — 400 million shots.

Although the CDC has overseen immunization campaigns in the past, the Trump administration created a new program, Operation Warp Speed, to facilitate vaccine development and distribution. In August, the administration , which distributed H1N1 vaccines during that pandemic, will also distribute COVID-19 vaccines to doctors’ offices and clinics.

“With few exceptions, our commercial distribution partners will be responsible for handling all the vaccines,” Operation Warp Speed’s Paul Mango said in an email.

“We’re not going to have 300 million doses all at once,” said Mango, deputy chief of staff for policy at the Health and Human Services Department, despite earlier government pledges to have that many doses ready by the new year. “We believe we are maximizing our probability of success of having of vaccines by January 2021, which is our goal.”

Amesh Adalja, a senior scholar at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security, said it will take time for the vaccines to be widespread enough for life to return to what’s considered normal. “We have to be prepared to deal with this virus in the absence of significant vaccine-induced immunity for a period of maybe a year or longer,” Adalja said in August.

In for state vaccine managers, the CDC said doses will be distributed free of charge from a central location. Health departments’ local vaccination plans may be reviewed by both the CDC and Operation Warp Speed.

The CDC spent two days working with vaccine planners in five locations — North Dakota, Florida, California, Minnesota and Philadelphia — to discuss potential obstacles and solutions. No actual vaccines were distributed during the planning sessions, which focused on how to get vaccines to people in places as different as urban Philadelphia, where pharmacies abound, and rural North Dakota, which has few chain drugstores but many clinics run by the federal Indian Health Service, said Kris Ehresmann, who directs infectious disease control at the Minnesota Department of Health.

Those planning sessions have made Ehresmann feel more confident about who’s in charge of distributing vaccines. “We are getting more specific guidance from CDC on planning now,” she said. “We feel better about the process, though there are still a lot of unknowns.”

Outdated Technology Could Hamper Response

Still, many public health departments will struggle to adequately track who has been vaccinated and when, because a lack of funding in recent decades has left them in the technological dark ages, said Dr. Marcus Plescia, chief medical officer at the Association of State and Territorial Health Officials.

In Mississippi, for example, health officials still rely on faxes, said the state’s health officer, Dr. Thomas Dobbs. “You can’t manually handle 1,200 faxes a day and expect anything efficient to happen,” he said.

When COVID-19 vaccines become available, health providers will need to track where and when patients receive their vaccines, said Moore, the medical director of Tennessee’s immunization plan during the H1N1 influenza pandemic in 2009 and 2010. And with many different shots in the works, they will need to know exactly which one each patient got, she said.

People will need to receive their second COVID-19 dose 21 or 28 days after the first, so health providers will need to remind patients to receive their second shot, Moore said, and ensure that the second dose is the same brand as the first.

The CDC will require vaccinators to provide “ and reporting” for immunizations, so that the agency knows where every dose of COVID-19 vaccine is “at any point in time,” Moore said. Although “the sophistication of these systems has improved dramatically” in the past decade, she said, “many states will still face major challenges meeting data tracking and reporting expectations.”

The CDC is developing an app called the Vaccine Administration Monitoring System for health departments whose data systems don’t meet standards for COVID-19 response, said Claire Hannan, executive director of the Association of Immunization Managers, a nonprofit based in Rockville, Maryland.

“Those standards haven’t been released,” Hannan said, “so health departments are waiting to invest in necessary IT enhancements.” The CDC needs to release standards and data expectations as quickly as possible, she added.

Meanwhile, health departments are dealing with what Minnesota’s Ehresmann described as “legacy” vaccine registries, sometimes dating to the late 1980s.

A Historic Task

Overwhelmed public health teams are already working long hours to test patients and trace their contacts, a time-consuming process that will need to continue even after vaccines become available.

When vaccines are ready, health departments will need more staffers to identify people at high risk for COVID-19, who should get the vaccine first, Moore said. Public health staff also will be needed to educate the public about the importance of vaccines and to administer shots, she said, as well as monitor patients and report serious side effects.

At an , Dr. Ngozi Ezike, director of Illinois’ health department, said her state will need to recruit additional health professionals to administer the shots, including nursing students, medical students, dentists, dental hygienists and even veterinarians. Such vaccinators will need medical-grade masks, gowns and gloves to keep those workers safe as they handle needles amid the contagious coronavirus.

Many health officials say they feel burned by the country’s struggle to provide hospitals with ventilators last spring, when states found themselves for a limited supply. Those concerns are amplified by the country’s continuing difficulties ; supplying health workers with ; allocating drugs ; and recruiting — who track down everyone with whom people diagnosed with COVID-19 have been in contact.

Although Ehresmann said she’s concerned Minnesota could run out of syringes, she said the CDC has assured her they will provide them.

Given that vaccines are far more complex than personal protective equipment and other medical supplies — one vaccine candidate must be stored at — Plescia said people should be prepared for shortages, delays and mix-ups.

“It’s probably going to be even worse than the problems with testing and PPE,” Plescia said.

Associated Press writer Michelle R. Smith and KHN Midwest correspondent Lauren Weber contributed to this report.

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

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Wilson, a retiree who worked as a public health department nurse supervisor in Duval County for 35 years, had just been diagnosed with COVID-19-induced pneumonia. She had a telemedicine appointment with her doctor.

Staring back from her screen was Dr. Rogers Cain, who runs a tidy little family medical clinic a couple of blocks from the Trout River in north Jacksonville, a predominantly Black area where the coronavirus is running roughshod. Wilson, 81, was one of Cain’s patients who’d tested positive — he had seven other COVID patients that morning before noon. Three of her grown children had contracted the virus, too.

“It started as a drip, drip, drip in May,” said Cain, his voice muffled by his mask. “Now it’s more like a faucet running.”

Cain and Wilson are nervous. Over the past two decades, both watched as the county health department was gutted of money and people, hampering Duval’s ability to respond to outbreaks, including a small cluster of tuberculosis cases in 2012. And now they face the menace of COVID-19 in a city once slated to host this week’s Republican National Convention, in one of the states leading the latest U.S. surge.

Florida is both a microcosm and a cautionary tale for America. intended to protect communities against disease, staffing and funding fell faster and further in the Sunshine State, leaving it especially unprepared for the worst health crisis in a century.

Although Florida’s population grew by 2.4 million since 2010 to make it the nation’s third-most-populous state, a joint investigation by KHN and The Associated Press has found, the state slashed its local health departments’ staffing — from 12,422 full-time equivalent workers to 9,125 in 2019, the latest data available.

According to an analysis of state data, the state-run local health departments spent 41% less per resident in 2019 than in 2010, dropping from $57 to $34 after adjusting for inflation. Departments nationwide have also cut spending, but by less than half as much ― an average of 18%, according to data from the National Association of County and City Health Officials.

Even before the pandemic hit, that meant fewer investigators to track, trace and contain diseases such as hepatitis. It meant fewer public health nurses to teach people how to protect themselves from HIV/AIDS or the flu. When the wave of COVID-19 inundated Florida, the state was caught flat-footed when it mattered most, its main lines of defense eviscerated.

Now, confirmed cases have soared past 588,000 and deaths have risen to more than 10,000. Concerns over the virus prompted Republicans to cancel plans for an in-person convention in Jacksonville, opting for a pared-down version in North Carolina.

Health experts blame the funding cuts on the Great Recession and choices by a series of governors who wanted to move publicly funded state services to for-profit companies.

And when the pandemic took hold, they say, residents got mixed messages about prevention strategies like wearing masks from Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis and other political leaders. Voices within the health departments were muzzled.

“The reality, unfortunately, is people are going to die because of the irresponsibility of the decisions being made by the people crafting the budgets,” said , president of the , a nonprofit in Washington, D.C., offering tools and training. “Public health can’t help us get out of this situation without our elected officials giving us the resources.”

State officials neither answered specific, repeated questions from KHN and The Associated Press about changes in public health funding, nor made staffers available for deeper explanations.

Dr. , a former deputy secretary of Florida’s state health department, said failing to prepare for a foreseeable disaster “is governmental malpractice.” The nation’s pandemic response is only as good as the weakest link, he said. Since the virus respects no borders, other states feel the ripples of Florida’s failings.

Those failings are clear in Duval County, which had employed the equivalent of 852 full-time workers and spent $91 per person in 2008 but in 2019 had only 422 workers and spent just $34 per resident, according to the KHN-AP analysis of state data. That’s less than the of a single COVID test. Former county health director Dr. Jeff Goldhagen said the county’s team has been “dismantled to the extent that it could not really manage an outbreak.”

Yet it must.

Cain’s private north Jacksonville medical clinic alone has had about 60 confirmed COVID cases and eight deaths. “We are all on fire right now,” he said. “You have to have a fire department that is adequately equipped to put out the fire. ”

Dwindling Budgets

Florida faced similar shortcomings around the time of the last great pandemic, the 1918 flu. Back then, according to a , public health workers faced too many demands and their efforts were “to some extent scattered and transitory.” The state could have used at least three more district health officers, the report said: “It is a source of regret and a matter of grave concern to public health workers that the funds available are not sufficient.”

County-based health departments began in 1930, providing more robust services closer to home. About 50 years later, legislation created state-administered primary care programs in which county health departments provided low-income Floridians with the type of basic health care and treatment most people now get at private doctors’ offices.

The 1990s saw a move toward privatization, particularly as Medicaid managed care took hold, said a . Still, per-person spending on local public health rose until the late 1990s, when adjusted for inflation to 2019 dollars, peaking at $59.

Wilson, the retired public health nurse stricken with COVID-19, recalled how Duval County’s department started feeling the financial pain during former Republican Gov. Jeb Bush’s administration in the early 2000s and kept losing nurses and other staff until they were “very, very short.”

Beitsch, who worked for the state health department in the 1990s, said the downward trend continued under former Republican governors Charlie Crist and Rick Scott, fueled by a growing belief in shrinking government that flourished in many states. Florida’s leaders exerted more control over public health, Beitsch said, and “the amount of local autonomy has been diminishing with successive administrations.”

The recession that began in late 2007 sparked public health reductions across the nation that were especially harsh in Florida. By 2011, budget cuts and lack of money were the most frequently cited challenges in a Florida public health workforce survey, which pointed to growing needs. In the following years, the state had some of the nation’s highest rates of heart disease and diabetes.

Squeezed departments struggled and sometimes stumbled. A from the state health department’s inspector general for the 2018-19 fiscal year, for example, found a series of lost and inconsistent shipments of lab specimens from county health departments to the state lab — not long before the pandemic would make labs more important than ever.

As governor, Scott presided over the state from 2011 to 2019, when funding and staffing dropped most. Now a U.S. senator, he said through a spokesperson that he was unapologetic for health department cuts, which he characterized as a move toward “making government more efficient” without endangering public health.

“I’m sure that he had no problem with the cuts that were being made,” said , an associate professor in health administration at Florida Atlantic University. “To put it all on him is not fair because a bunch of little henchmen from the counties had to vote that way. … We keep voting in people who undervalue public health.”

Democratic state Sen. Janet Cruz, a legislator who has represented the Tampa region for a dozen years and sat on health care committees, said she watched lawmakers systematically cut money for health departments. When she questioned it, she said, some colleagues claimed the need wasn’t as great because the state was moving toward private family health care centers. “Public health in Florida has been wholly underfunded,” she said.

Some places have suffered more than others. Departments serving at least half a million residents spent $29 per person in 2019 on average, compared with $90 per person in departments serving 50,000 or fewer — a difference starker than the typical gap between larger and smaller departments nationally, according to an KHN-AP analysis. Experts can’t say exactly why the gap is wider in Florida, which has a state-run system, but point to politics and historical decisions about budgets.

Duval County’s health department spending was the equivalent of $34 per person, down 63% since 2008. Typically, about 22 workers, or 5% of the total staff, have been dedicated to preparing for and tracking disease outbreaks.

But when the pandemic hit, many there and elsewhere were diverted to fight the coronavirus, leaving little time for their typical duties such as mosquito abatement and tracking sexually transmitted infections such as syphilis.

“Current events demonstrate how bad a decision” the deep cuts to public health were, said , a professor of public health and family medicine at the University of South Florida. “It’s really come back to haunt us.”

Mixed and Muzzled Messages

The pandemic caught fire in Florida this summer as the state’s rapid reopening allowed people to flock to beaches, Disney World, movie theaters and bars.

The state has had more than half a million confirmed cases ― among them, players and workers for baseball’s Miami Marlins ― and 35,000 hospitalizations, yet DeSantis still hasn’t issued a mask mandate. Some local governments have. Jacksonville adopted one in late June, and about a week later Republican Mayor Lenny Curry announced he and his family were self-quarantining because he’d been exposed to someone who tested positive for the virus.

, director of infection prevention at the University of Florida-Jacksonville, lauded the mayor for the mask requirement, saying, “We know that masking works.” But he pointed out that other counties have different rules and that the inconsistent messaging breeds confusion.

St. Johns County began requiring masks in late July but only in county facilities. And DeSantis has appeared in public without a mask numerous times, including at

target=”_blank” rel=”noopener noreferrer”>an Aug. 13 coronavirus update

briefing during which some other speakers wore them.

“One voice is so critical during a pandemic,” said Dr. Jonathan Kantor, a Jacksonville epidemiologist and dermatologist. “We have to have one voice, and consistent leadership that is modeling behavior if we want to get people to change their behaviors.”

Instead, experts in Florida said, public health workers have been silenced or told by top state officials what to say. For example, that state leaders told school boards they needed health department approval to keep schools closed, then instructed health directors not to give it.

“All the communication is directed by the state, and localities are very limited in what they can do,” said Levine, the University of South Florida professor. “Anything to do with a mandate, there’s resistance to do at a state level. This includes the hot debate on masks. The locals have to extend the state messaging.” Local health officials “are being told bluntly: ‘Shut up,’” Bernet said. “They literally cannot speak.”

Beitsch, who now chairs the department of behavioral sciences and social medicine at Florida State University, said such limitations ― and similar mixed messages and silencing of medical experts at the national level ― fuels the politicization of public health and undermining of science.

“People think they should be listening to politicians and state legislative leaders about their health care. They’re not listening to health experts and the epidemiologists who say if you just wear a mask and if you just wash your hands, we can really, really reduce the spread of the virus,” said Cruz, the state senator. “People are confused, and they think this is a hoax and it’s nothing more than the flu.”

Meanwhile, the COVID caseload continues to rise, surpassing 25,000 in Duval County, with minorities stricken disproportionately, as elsewhere in the nation. In a county that’s 29% Black and 60% white, Black residents with COVID have been hospitalized at more than double the rate of white residents. Rates are also high for Floridians grouped together as “other,” including Native American, Asian and multiracial residents.

Duval County’s overall caseload is rising so fast that Goldhagen, the former health department director, said the agency has given up on contact tracing, which means trying to curb the virus by identifying and warning people who have been exposed.

“It’s impossible,” Goldhagen said. “Dismantling the system was a complete disregard for the health and well-being of the citizens of Florida.”

With an unequipped public health system, Wilson, the retired public health nurse, said it falls to everyone to lead Jacksonville, and Florida, out of the coronavirus crisis.

“My hope is that everybody begins to take this virus seriously, and wear their mask and stay social distancing. It can work if we do that,” said Wilson, whose condition has improved. “So, that’s my hope. Eventually there will be a vaccine that will curtail this virus. But until then, it’s up to us to help do that. And if we’re not serious about it, then we’re doomed.”

This story is a collaboration between KHN and The Associated Press.

Methodology

Spending and staffing data for Florida’s local health departments is from the Florida Department of Health. Florida Atlantic University professor Patrick Bernet provided additional state data on staffing by program area. KHN-AP adjusted spending data for inflation using the Bureau of Economic Analysis’ state and local government deflator.

COVID-19 data by race is from the Florida Department of Health. KHN-AP calculated rates per 10,000 people using data on race, regardless of ethnicity, from the U.S. Census Bureau’s 2018 American Community Survey. Statewide COVID-19 cases per day are from Johns Hopkins University.

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While Musicant diverted workers from violence prevention and other core programs to the COVID-19 response, state officials debated how to distribute $1.87 billion Minnesota received in federal aid.

As she waited for federal help, the got $6 million in federal money to continue operations, and a debt collection company outside Minneapolis received at least $5 million from the federal Paycheck Protection Program, according to federal data.

It was not until Aug. 5 — months after Congress approved aid for the pandemic — that Musicant’s department finally received $1.7 million, the equivalent of $4 per Minneapolis resident.

“It’s more a hope and a prayer that we’ll have enough money,” Musicant said.

Since the pandemic began, Congress has set aside trillions of dollars to ease the crisis. A joint KHN and Associated Press investigation finds that many communities with big outbreaks have spent little of that federal money on local public health departments for work such as testing and contact tracing. Others, like Minnesota, were slow to do so.

For example, the states, territories and 154 large cities and counties that received allotments from the $150 billion Coronavirus Relief Fund reported spending only 25% of it through June 30, according to reports that recipients submitted to the U.S. Treasury Department.

Many localities have deployed more money since that June 30 reporting deadline, and both Republican and Democratic governors say they need more to avoid layoffs and cuts to vital state services. Still, as cases in the U.S. top 5.2 million and deaths soar past 167,000, Republicans in Congress are pointing to the slow spending to argue against sending more money to state and local governments to help with their pandemic response.

“States and localities have only spent about a fourth of the money we already sent them in the springtime,” Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said Tuesday. Congressional Democrats’ efforts to get more money for states, he said, “aren’t based on math. They aren’t based on the pandemic.”

Negotiations over a new pandemic relief bill broke down last week, in part because Democrats and Republicans could not agree on funding for state and local governments.

KHN and the AP requested detailed spending breakdowns from recipients of money from the Coronavirus Relief Fund — created in March as part of the $1.9 trillion CARES Act — and received responses from 23 states and 62 cities and counties. Those entities dedicated 23% of their spending from the fund through June to public health and 7% to public health and safety payroll.

An additional 22% was transferred to local governments, some of which will eventually pass it down to health departments. The rest went to other priorities, such as distance learning.

So little money has flowed to some local health departments for many reasons: Bureaucracy has bogged things down, politics have crept into the process, and understaffed departments have struggled to take time away from critical needs to navigate the red tape required to justify asking for extra dollars.

“It does not make sense to me how anyone thinks this is a way to do business,” said E. Oscar Alleyne, chief of programs and services at the National Association of County and City Health Officials. “We are never going to get ahead of the pandemic response if we are still handicapped.”

Last month, KHN and the AP detailed how state and local public health departments across the U.S. have been starved for decades. Over 38,000 public health worker jobs have been lost since 2008, and per capita spending on local health departments has been cut by 18% since 2010. That’s left them underfunded and without adequate resources to confront the coronavirus pandemic.

“Public health has been cut and cut and cut over the years, but we’re so valuable every time you turn on the television,” said Jan Morrow, the director and 41-year veteran of Ripley County health department in rural Missouri. “We are picking up all the pieces, but the money is not there. They’ve cut our budget until there’s nothing left.”

Politics and Red Tape

Why did the Minneapolis health department have to wait so long for CARES Act money?

Congress mandated that the Coronavirus Relief Fund be distributed to states and local governments based on population. Minneapolis, with 430,000 residents, missed the threshold of 500,000 people that would have allowed it to receive money directly.

The state of Minnesota, however, received $1.87 billion, a portion of which was meant to be sent to local communities. Lawmakers initially sent some state money to tide communities over until the federal money came through — the Minneapolis health department got about $430,000 in state money to help pay for things like testing.

But when it came time to decide how to use the CARES Act money, lawmakers in Minnesota’s Republican-controlled Senate and Democratic-controlled House were at loggerheads.

Myron Frans, commissioner of Minnesota Management and Budget, said that disagreement, on top of the economic crisis and pandemic, left the legislature in turmoil.

After the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, the city erupted in protests over racial injustice, making a difficult situation even more challenging.

Democratic Gov. Tim Walz favored targeting some of the money to harder-hit communities, a move that might have helped Minneapolis, where cases have surged since mid-July. But lawmakers couldn’t agree. Negotiations dragged on, and a special session merely prolonged the standoff.

Finally, the governor divvied up the money using a population-based formula developed earlier by Republican and Democratic legislative leaders that did not take into account COVID-19 caseloads or racial disparities.

“We knew we needed to get it out the door,” Frans said.

The state then sent hundreds of millions of dollars to local communities. Still, even after the money got to Minneapolis a month ago, Musicant had to wait as city leaders made difficult choices about how to spend the money as the economy cratered and the list of needs grew.

“Even when it gets to the local government, you still have to figure out how to get it to local public health,” Musicant said.

Meanwhile, some in Minneapolis have noticed a lack of services. Dr. Jackie Kawiecki has been providing help to people at a volunteer medical station near the place where Floyd was killed ― an area that at times has drawn hundreds or thousands of people per day. She said the city did not do enough free, easy-to-access testing in its neighborhoods this summer.

“I still don’t think that the amount of testing offered is adequate, from a public health standpoint,” Kawiecki said.

A coalition of groups that includes the National Governors Association has blamed the spending delays on the federal government, saying the final guidance on how states could spend the money came late in June, shortly before the reporting period ended. The coalition said state and local governments had moved “expeditiously and responsibly” to use the money as they deal with skyrocketing costs for health care, emergency response and other vital programs.

New York’s Nassau County was among six counties, cities and states that had spent at least 75% of its funds by June 30.

While most of the money was not spent before then, the National Association of State Budget Officers says a July 23 survey of 45 states and territories found they had allocated, or set aside, an average of 74% of the money.

But if they have, that money has been slow to make it to many local health departments.

As of mid-July in Missouri, at least 50 local health departments had yet to receive any of the federal money they requested, according to a state survey. The money must first flow through local county commissioners, some of whom aren’t keen on sending money to public health agencies.

“You closed their businesses down in order to save their people’s lives and so that hurt the economy,” said Larry Jones, executive director of the Missouri Center for Public Health Excellence, an organization of public health leaders. “So they’re mad at you and don’t want to give you money.”

The winding path federal money takes as it makes its way to states and cities also could exacerbate the stark economic and health inequalities in the U.S. if equity isn’t considered in decision-making, said Wizdom Powell, director of the University of Connecticut Health Disparities Institute.

“Problems are so vast you could unintentionally further entrench inequities just by how you distribute funds,” Powell said.

‘Everything Fell Behind’

The amounts eventually distributed can induce head-scratching.

Some cities received large federal grants, including Louisville, Kentucky, whose health department was given $42 million by April, more than doubling its annual budget. Because of the way the money was distributed, Louisville’s health department alone received more money from the CARES Act than the entire government of the city of Minneapolis, which received $32 million in total.

Philadelphia’s health department was awarded $100 million from a separate fund from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Honolulu County, where COVID cases have remained relatively low, received $124,454 for every positive case it had reported as of Aug. 9, while El Paso County in Texas got just $1,685 per case. Multnomah County, Oregon — with nearly a quarter of its state’s COVID-19 cases — landed only 2%, or $28 million, of the state’s $1.6 billion allotment.

Rural Saline County in Missouri received the same funding as counties of similar size, even though the virus hit the area particularly hard. In April, outbreaks began tearing through a Cargill meatpacking plant and a local factory there. By late May, the health department confirmed 12 positive cases at a local jail.

Tara Brewer, Saline’s health department administrator, said phone lines were ringing off the hook, jamming the system. Eventually, several department employees handed out their personal cellphone numbers to take calls from residents looking to be tested or seeking care for coronavirus symptoms.

“Everything fell behind,” Brewer said.

The school vaccination clinic in April was canceled, and a staffer who works as a Spanish translator for the Women, Infants and Children nutritional program was enlisted to contact-trace for additional COVID-19 exposures. All food inspections stopped.

It was late July when $250,000 in federal CARES Act money finally reached the 11-person health department, Brewer said — four months after Congress approved the spending and three months after the county’s first outbreak.

That was far too late for Brewer to hire the army of contact tracers that might have helped slow the spread of the virus back in April. She said the money already has been spent on antibody testing and reimbursements for groceries and medical equipment the department had bought for quarantined residents.

Another problem: Some local health officials say that the laborious process required to qualify for some of the federal aid discourages overworked public health officials from even trying to secure more money and that funds can be uneven in arriving.

Lisa Macon Harrison, public health director for Granville Vance Public Health in rural Oxford, North Carolina, said it’s tough to watch major hospital systems — some of which are sitting on billions in reserves — receive direct deposits, while her department received only about $122,000 through three grants by the end of July. Her team filled out a 25-page application just to get one of them.

She is now waiting to receive an estimated $400,000 more. By contrast, the Duke University Hospital System, which includes a facility that serves Granville, already has received over $67.3 million from the federal Provider Relief Fund.

“I just don’t understand the extra layers of onus for the bureaucracy, especially if hundreds of millions of dollars are going to the hospitals and we have to be responsible to apply for 50 grants,” she said.

The money comes from dozens of funds, including several programs within the CARES Act. Nebraska alone received money from 76 federal COVID relief funding sources.

Robert Miller, director of health for the Eastern Highlands Health District in Connecticut, which covers 10 towns, received $29,596 of the $2.5 million the state distributed to local departments from the CDC fund and nothing from CARES. It was only enough to pay for some contact tracing and employee mileage.

Miller said that he could theoretically apply for a little more from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, but that the reporting requirements — which include collecting every receipt — are extremely cumbersome for an already overburdened department.

So he wonders: “Is the squeeze worth the juice?”

Back in Minneapolis, Musicant said the new money from CARES allowed the department to run a free COVID-19 testing site Saturday, at a church that serves the Hispanic community about a mile from the site of Floyd’s killing.

It will take more money to do everything the community needs, she says, but with Congress deadlocked, she’s not sure they’ll get it anytime soon.

AP writers Camille Fassett and Steve Karnowski contributed to this report.

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A KHN review of hundreds of pieces of legislation found that, in all 50 states, legislators have proposed bills to curb such public health powers since the covid-19 pandemic began. While some governors vetoed bills that passed, at least 26 states pushed through laws that permanently weaken government authority to protect public health. In three additional states, an executive order, ballot initiative or limited long-held public health powers. More bills are pending in a handful of states whose legislatures are still in session.

In Arkansas, legislators except in private businesses or state-run health care settings, calling them “a burden on the public peace, health, and safety of the citizens of this state.” In Idaho, county commissioners, who typically have no public health expertise, . And in and , school boards, rather than health officials, have the power to close schools.

President Joe Biden last Thursday announced sweeping vaccination mandates and other covid measures, saying he was forced to act partly because of such legislation: “My plan also takes on elected officials in states that are undermining you and these lifesaving actions.”

All told:

• In at least 16 states, legislators have limited the power of public health officials to order mask mandates, or quarantines or isolation. In some cases, they gave themselves or local elected politicians the authority to prevent the spread of infectious disease.
• At least 17 states passed laws banning covid vaccine mandates or passports, or made it easier to get around vaccine requirements.
• At least nine states have new laws banning or limiting mask mandates. Executive orders or a court ruling limit mask requirements in five more.

Much of this legislation takes effect as covid hospitalizations in some areas are climbing to the highest numbers at any point in the pandemic, and children are back in school.

“We really could see more people sick, hurt, hospitalized or even die, depending on the extremity of the legislation and curtailing of the authority,” said , head of the National Association of County and City Health Officials.

Public health academics and officials are frustrated that they, instead of the virus, have become the enemy. They argue this will have consequences that last long beyond this pandemic, diminishing their ability to fight the latest covid surge and future disease outbreaks, such as being able to quarantine people during a measles outbreak.

“It’s kind of like having your hands tied in the middle of a boxing match,” said Kelley Vollmar, executive director of the Jefferson County Health Department in Missouri.

But proponents of the new limits say they are a necessary check on executive powers and give lawmakers a voice in prolonged emergencies. Arkansas state Sen. , a Republican who co-sponsored his state’s to ban mask mandates, said he was trying to reflect the will of the people.

“What the people of Arkansas want is the decision to be left in their hands, to them and their family,” Garner said. “It’s time to take the power away from the so-called experts, whose ideas have been woefully inadequate.”

After initially signing the bill, Republican Gov. Asa Hutchinson expressed regret, calling a special legislative session in early August to ask lawmakers to carve out an exception for schools. They declined. The law is by an Arkansas judge who deemed it unconstitutional. Legal battles are ongoing in other states as well.

A Deluge of Bills

In Ohio, legislators to overturn health orders and . In and , schools cannot require masks. In Alabama, state and local governments and schools cannot require covid vaccinations.

Montana’s legislature passed some of the most restrictive laws of all, powers, increasing local elected officials’ over local health boards, preventing limits on and — including in health care settings — from requiring vaccinations for covid, the flu or anything else.

Legislators there also passed : If jurisdictions add public health rules stronger than state public health measures, they could lose 20% of some grants.

Losing the ability to order quarantines has left Karen Sullivan, health officer for Montana’s Butte-Silver Bow department, terrified about what’s to come — not only during the covid pandemic but for future measles and whooping cough outbreaks.

“In the midst of delta and other variants that are out there, we’re quite frankly a nervous wreck about it,” Sullivan said. “Relying on morality and goodwill is not a good public health practice.”

While some public health officials tried to fight the national wave of legislation, the underfunded public health workforce was consumed by trying to implement the largest vaccination campaign in U.S. history and had little time for political action.

Freeman said her city and county health officials’ group has meager influence and resources, especially in comparison with the , a corporate-backed conservative group that promoted a model to restrict the emergency powers of governors and other officials. The draft legislation appears to have inspired dozens of state-level bills, according to the KHN review. At least 15 states passed laws limiting emergency powers. In some states, governors can no longer institute mask mandates or close businesses, and their executive orders can be overturned by legislators.

When North Dakota’s legislative session began in January, a long slate of bills sought to rein in public health powers, including one with language similar to ALEC’s. The state didn’t have a health director to argue against the new limits because three had resigned in 2020.

Fighting the bills not only took time, but also seemed dangerous, said Renae Moch, public health director for Bismarck, who testified against a measure . She then received an onslaught of hate mail and demands for her to be fired.

Lawmakers overrode the governor’s veto to pass the bill into law. The North Dakota legislature also banned businesses from asking whether patrons are vaccinated against or and .

The new laws are meant to reduce the power of governors and restore the balance of power between states’ executive branches and legislatures, said Jonathon Hauenschild, director of the ALEC task force on communications and technology. “Governors are elected, but they were delegating a lot of authority to the public health official, often that they had appointed,” Hauenschild said.

‘Like Turning Off a Light Switch’

When the Indiana legislature to pass a bill that gave county commissioners the power to review public health orders, it was devastating for Dr. David Welsh, the public health officer in rural Ripley County.

People immediately stopped calling him to report covid violations, because they knew the county commissioners could overturn his authority. It was “like turning off a light switch,” Welsh said.

Another county in Indiana has already seen its health department’s mask mandate by the local commissioners, Welsh said.

He’s considering stepping down after more than a quarter century in the role. If he does, he’ll join at least 303 public health leaders who have retired, resigned or been fired since the pandemic began, according to an ongoing KHN and AP analysis. That means 1 in 5 Americans have lost a local health leader during the pandemic.

“This is a deathblow,” said , CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for public health. He called the legislative assault the last straw for many seasoned public health officials who have battled the pandemic without sufficient resources, while also being vilified.

Public health groups expect further combative legislation. ALEC’s Hauenschild said the group is looking into a Michigan law that allowed the legislature to limit the governor’s emergency powers without Democratic Gov. Gretchen Whitmer’s signature. 

Curbing the authority of public health officials has also become campaign fodder, particularly among Republican candidates running further on the right. While Republican Idaho Gov. Brad Little was traveling out of state, Lt. Gov. Janice McGeachin signed a surprise executive order banning mask mandates that she for her upcoming campaign against him. He later reversed the ban, , “I do not like petty politics. I do not like political stunts over the rule of law.”

At least one former lawmaker — former — said some of today’s politicians may come to regret these laws.

Fawbush was a sponsor of during the AIDS crisis. It banned employers from requiring health care workers, as a condition of employment, to get an HIV vaccine, if one became available. 

But 32 years later, that means Oregon cannot require health care workers to be vaccinated against covid. Calling lawmaking a “messy business,” Fawbush said he certainly wouldn’t have pushed the bill through if he had known then what he does now.

“Legislators need to obviously deal with immediate situations,” Fawbush said. “But we have to look over the horizon. It’s part of the job responsibility to look at consequences.”

KHN data reporter Hannah Recht, Montana correspondent Katheryn Houghton and Associated Press writer Michelle R. Smith contributed to this report.

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Public health officials who have juggled bare-bones budgets for years are happy to have the additional money. Yet they worry it will soon dry up as the pandemic recedes, continuing a boom-bust funding cycle that has plagued the U.S. public health system for decades. If budgets are slashed again, they warn, that could leave the nation where it was before covid: unprepared for a health crisis.

“We need funds that we can depend on year after year,” said Dr. Mysheika Roberts, the health commissioner of Columbus, Ohio.

When Roberts started in Columbus in 2006, an emergency preparedness grant paid for more than 20 staffers. By the time the coronavirus pandemic hit, it paid for about 10. Relief money that came through last year helped the department staff up its covid response teams. While the funding has helped the city cope with the immediate crisis, Roberts wonders if history will repeat itself.

After the pandemic is over, public health officials across the U.S. fear, they’ll be back to scraping together money from a patchwork of sources to provide basic services to their communities — much like after 9/11, SARS and Ebola.

When the mosquito-borne Zika virus tore through South America in 2016, causing serious birth defects in newborn babies, members of Congress couldn’t agree how, and how much, to spend in the U.S. for prevention efforts, such as education and mosquito abatement. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention took money from its Ebola efforts, and from state and local health department funding, to pay for the initial Zika response. Congress eventually allocated $1.1 billion for Zika, but by then mosquito season had passed in much of the U.S.

“Something happens, we throw a ton of money at it, and then in a year or two we go back to our shrunken budgets and we can’t do the minimum things we have to do day in and day out, let alone be prepared for the next emergency,” said Chrissie Juliano, executive director of the Big Cities Health Coalition, which represents leaders of more than two dozen public health departments.

Funding for Public Health Emergency Preparedness, which pays for emergency capabilities for state and local health departments, dropped by about half between the 2003 and 2021 fiscal years, accounting for inflation, according to , a public health research and advocacy organization.

Even the federal , established with the Affordable Care Act to provide $2 billion a year for public health, was raided for cash over the past decade. If the money hadn’t been touched, eventually local and state health departments would have gotten an additional $12.4 billion.

Several lawmakers, led by Democratic U.S. Sen. Patty Murray of Washington, are looking to end the boom-bust cycle with that would eventually provide $4.5 billion annually in core public health funding. Health departments carry out essential government functions — such as managing water safety, issuing death certificates, tracking sexually transmitted diseases and preparing for infectious outbreaks.

Spending for state public health departments dropped by 16% per capita from 2010 to 2019, and spending for local health departments fell by 18%, KHN and The Associated Press found in a July investigation. At least 38,000 public health jobs were lost at the state and local level between the 2008 recession and 2019. Today, many public health workers are hired on a temporary or part-time basis. Some are paid so poorly they qualify for public aid. Those factors reduce departments’ ability to retain people with expertise.

Compounding those losses, the pandemic has prompted an exodus of public health officials because of harassment, political pressure and exhaustion. A yearlong analysis by the AP and KHN found at least 248 leaders of state and local health departments resigned, retired or were fired between April 1, 2020, and March 31, 2021. Nearly 1 in 6 Americans lost a local public health leader during the pandemic. Experts say it is the largest exodus of public health leaders in American history.

Brian Castrucci, CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for public health, calls Congress’ giant influx of cash in response to the crisis “wallpaper and drapes” because it doesn’t restore public health’s crumbling foundation.

“I worry at the end of this we’re going to hire up a bunch of contact tracers — and then lay them off soon thereafter,” Castrucci said. “We are continuing to kind of go from disaster to disaster without ever talking about the actual infrastructure.”

Castrucci and others say dependable money is needed for high-skill professionals, such as epidemiologists — data-driven disease detectives — and for technology upgrades that would help track outbreaks and get information to the public.

In Ohio, the computer system used to report cases to the state predates the invention of the iPhone. State officials had said for years they wanted to upgrade it, but they lacked the money and political will. Many departments across the country have relied on to report covid cases.

During the pandemic, Ohio’s that nearly 96% of local health departments it surveyed had problems with the state’s disease reporting system. Roberts said workers interviewing patients had to navigate several pages of questions, a major burden when handling 500 cases daily.

The system was so outdated that some information could be entered only in a non-searchable comment box, and officials struggled to pull data from the system to report to the public — such as how many people who tested positive had attended a Black Lives Matter rally, which last summer was a key question for people trying to understand whether protests contributed to the virus’s spread.

Ohio is working on a new system, but Roberts worries that, without a dependable budget, the state won’t be able to keep that one up to date either. 

“You’re going to need to upgrade that,” Roberts said. “And you’re going to need dollars to support that.”

In Washington, the public health director for Seattle and King County, Patty Hayes, said she is asked all the time why there isn’t a single, central place to register for a vaccine appointment. The answer comes down to money: Years of underfunding left departments across the state with antiquated computer systems that were not up to the task when covid hit.

Hayes recalls a time when her department would conduct mass vaccination drills, but that system was dismantled when the money dried up after the specter of 9/11 faded.

Roughly six years ago, an analysis found that her department was about $25 million short of what it needed annually for core public health work. Hayes said the past year has shown that’s an underestimate. For example, climate change is prompting more public health concerns, such as the effect on residents when wildfire smoke engulfed much of the Pacific Northwest in September.

Public health officials in some areas may struggle to make the case for more stable funding because a large swath of the public has questioned — and often been openly hostile toward — the mask mandates and business restrictions that public health officials have imposed through the pandemic.

In Missouri, some county commissioners who were frustrated at public health restrictions withheld money from the departments.

In Knox County, Tennessee, Mayor Glenn Jacobs narrated posted in the fall that showed a photo of health officials after referencing “sinister forces.” Later, someone spray-painted “DEATH” on the department office building. The Board of Health was stripped of its powers in March and given an advisory role. A spokesperson for the mayor’s office declined to comment on the video.

“This is going to change the position of public health and what we can and cannot do across the country,” said Dr. Martha Buchanan, the head of the health department. “I know it’s going to change it here.”

A found at least 24 states were crafting legislation that would limit or remove public health powers.

Back in Seattle, locally based companies have pitched in money and staff members for vaccine sites. Microsoft is hosting one location, while Starbucks offered customer service expertise to help design the sites. Hayes is grateful, but she wonders why a critical government function didn’t have the resources it needed during a pandemic.

If public health had been getting dependable funding, her staff could have been working more effectively with the data and preparing for emerging threats in the state where the was confirmed.

“They’ll look back at this response to the pandemic in this country as a great example of a failure of a country to prioritize the health of its citizens, because it didn’t commit to public health,” she said. “That will be part of the story.”

KHN senior correspondent Anna Maria Barry-Jester and Montana correspondent Katheryn Houghton contributed to this report.

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Tisha Coleman has lived in close-knit Linn County, Kansas, for 42 years and never felt so alone.

As the public health administrator, she’s struggled every day of to keep her rural county along the Missouri border safe. In this community with no hospital, she’s failed to persuade her neighbors to wear masks and take precautions against COVID-19, even as cases rise. In return, she’s been harassed, sued, vilified — and called a Democrat, an insult in her circles.

Even her husband hasn’t listened to her, refusing to require customers to wear masks at the family’s hardware store in Mound City.

“People have shown their true colors,” Coleman said. “I’m sure that I’ve lost some friends over this situation.”

By November, the months of fighting over masks and quarantines were already wearing her down. Then she got COVID-19, likely from her husband, who she thinks picked it up at the hardware store. Her mother got it, too, and died on Sunday, 11 days after she was put on a ventilator.

Across the U.S., state and local public health officials such as Coleman have found themselves at the center of a political storm as they combat . Amid a fractured federal response, the usually invisible army of workers charged with preventing the spread of infectious diseases has . Their expertise on how to fight the coronavirus is often disregarded.

Some have become the target of far-right activists, conservative groups and anti-vaccination extremists, who have coalesced around common goals — fighting mask orders, quarantines and contact tracing with protests, threats and personal attacks.

The backlash has moved beyond the angry fringe. In the courts, public health powers are being undermined. Lawmakers in at least 24 states have crafted legislation to weaken public health powers, which could make it more difficult for communities to respond to other health emergencies in the future.

“What we’ve taken for granted for 100 years in public health is now very much in doubt,” said Lawrence Gostin, an expert in public health law at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.

It is a further erosion of the nation’s already fragile public health infrastructure. At least 181 state and local public health leaders in 38 states have resigned, retired or been fired since April 1, according to an by The Associated Press and KHN. According to experts, this is the largest exodus of public health leaders in American history. An untold number of lower-level staffers has also left.

“I’ve never seen or studied a pandemic that has been as politicized, as vitriolic and as challenged as this one, and I’ve studied a lot of epidemics,” said Dr. Howard Markel, a medical historian at the University of Michigan. “All of that has been very demoralizing for the men and women who don’t make a great deal of money, don’t get a lot of fame, but work 24/7.”

One in 8 Americans — 40 million people — lives in a community that has lost its local public health department leader during the pandemic. Top public health officials in 20 states have left state-level departments, including in North Dakota, which has lost three state health officers since May, one after another.

Many of the state and local officials left due to political blowback or pandemic pressure. Some departed to take higher-profile positions or due to health concerns. Others were fired for poor performance. Dozens retired.

KHN and AP reached out to public health workers and experts in every state and the National Association of County and City Health Officials; examined public records and news reports; and interviewed hundreds to gather the list.

Collectively, the loss of expertise and experience has created a leadership vacuum in the profession, public health experts say. Many health departments are in flux as the nation rolls out and faces what are expected to be the worst months of the pandemic.

“We don’t have a long line of people outside of the door who want those jobs,” said Dr. Gianfranco Pezzino, health officer in Shawnee County, Kansas, who had decided to retire from his job at the end of the year, he said, because he’s burned out. “It’s a huge loss that will be felt probably for generations to come.”

But Pezzino could not even make it to Dec. 31. On Monday, after county commissioners , he . 

“You value the pressure from people with special economic interests more than science and good public health practice,” he to the commissioners. “In full conscience I cannot continue to serve as the health officer for a board that puts being able to patronize bars and sports venues in front of the health, lives and well-being of a majority of its constituents.”

Existing Problems

The departures accelerate problems that had already weakened the nation’s public health system. that per capita spending for state public health departments had dropped by 16%, and for local health departments by 18%, since 2010. At least 38,000 state and local public health jobs have disappeared since the 2008 recession.

Those diminishing resources were already prompting high turnover. Before the pandemic, nearly half of public health workers said in a survey they planned to retire or leave in the next five years. The top reason given was low pay.

Such reduced staffing in departments that have the power and responsibility to manage everything from water inspections to childhood immunizations left public health workforces ill-equipped when COVID-19 arrived. Then, when pandemic shutdowns cut tax revenues, some state and local governments cut their public health workforces further.

“Now we’re at this moment where we need this knowledge and leadership the most, everything has come together to cause that brain drain,” said Chrissie Juliano, executive director of the Big Cities Health Coalition, which represents leaders of more than two dozen public health departments.

Politics as Public Health Poison

Public health experts broadly agree that and save lives and livelihoods. Scientists say that and curtailing indoor activities can also help.

But with the pandemic coinciding with , simple acts such as wearing a mask morphed into , with right-wing conservatives saying such requirements stomped on individual freedom.

On the campaign trail, President Donald Trump ridiculed President-elect Joe Biden for wearing a mask and egged on by tweeting

Coleman, a Christian and a Republican, said that’s just what happened in Linn County. “A lot of people are shamed into not wearing a mask … because you’re considered a Democrat,” she said. “I’ve been called a ‘sheep.’”

The politicization has put some local governments at odds with their own health officials. In California, near Lake Tahoe, the Placer County Board of Supervisors voted to end a local health emergency and declared support for a widely discredited “herd immunity” strategy, which would let the virus spread. The idea is endorsed by many conservatives, including , as a way to keep the economy running, but it has been denounced by public health experts who say millions more people will unnecessarily suffer and die. The supervisors also endorsed a false conspiracy theory claiming many COVID-19 deaths are not actually from COVID-19.

The meeting occurred just days after county Public Health Officer Dr. Aimee Sisson explained to the board the rigorous standards used for counting COVID-19 deaths. Sisson quit the next day.

In Idaho, protests against public health measures are intensifying. Hundreds of protesters, some armed, and health board members’ homes in Boise on Dec. 8, screaming and blaring air horns. They included members of the anti-vaccination group Health Freedom Idaho.

Dr. Peter Hotez, dean of the National School of Tropical Medicine at Baylor College of Medicine, has tracked the anti-vaccine movement and said it has linked up with political extremists on the right, and taken on a larger anti-science role, pushing back against other public health measures such as contact tracing and physical distancing.

Members of a group called the Freedom Angels in California, which sprung up in 2019 around a state law to tighten vaccine requirements, have been organizing protests at health departments, posing with guns and calling themselves a militia on the group’s Facebook page.

The latest Idaho protests came after a July skirmish in which Ammon Bundy who tried to stop him and his maskless supporters from entering a health meeting.

Bundy, whose family led armed standoffs against federal agents in 2014 and 2016, has become , most recently forming a multistate network called People’s Rights that has organized protests against public health measures.

“We don’t believe they have a right to tell us that we have to put a manmade filter over our face to go outside,” Bundy said. “It’s not about, you know, the mandates or the mask. It’s about them not having that right to do it.”

Kelly Aberasturi, vice chair for the Southwest District Health, which covers six counties, said the worker Bundy shoved was “just trying to do his job.”

Aberasturi, a self-described “extremist” right-wing Republican, said he, too, has been subjected to the backlash. Aberasturi doesn’t support mask mandates, but he did back the board’s recommendation that people in the community wear masks. He said people who believe even a recommendation goes too far have threatened to protest at his house.

The Mask Fight in Kansas

The public health workforce in Kansas has been hit hard — 17 of the state’s 100 health departments have lost their leaders since the end of March. 

Democratic Gov. Laura Kelly in July, but the state legislature allowed counties to opt out. A recent showed the 24 Kansas counties that had upheld the mandate saw a 6% decrease in COVID-19, while the 81 counties that opted out entirely saw a 100% increase.

Coleman, who pushed unsuccessfully for Linn County to uphold the rule, was sued for putting a community member into quarantine, a lawsuit she won. In late November, she spoke at a to discuss a new mask mandate — it was her first day back in the office after her own bout with COVID-19.

She pleaded for a plan to help stem the surge in cases. One resident referenced Thomas Jefferson, saying, “I prefer a dangerous freedom over a peaceful slavery.” Another falsely argued that masks caused elevated carbon dioxide. Few, besides Coleman, wore a mask at the meeting.

Commissioner Mike Page supported the mask order, noting that a close friend was fighting COVID-19 in the hospital and saying he was “ashamed” that members of the community had sued their public health workers while other communities supported theirs.

In the end, the commissioners encouraged community members to wear masks but opted out of a county-wide rule, writing they had determined that they are “not necessary to protect the public health and safety of the county.”

Coleman was disappointed but not surprised. “At least I know I’ve done everything I can to attempt to protect the people,” she said.

The next day, Coleman discussed Christmas decorations with her mother as she drove her to the hospital.

Stripping of Powers

The state bill that let Linn County opt out of the governor’s mask mandate is one of dozens of efforts to erode public health powers in state legislatures across the country.

For decades, government authorities have had the legal power to stop foodborne illnesses and infectious diseases by closing businesses and quarantining individuals, among other measures.

When people contract tuberculosis, for example, the local health department might isolate them, require them to wear a mask when they leave their homes, require family members to get tested, relocate them so they can isolate and make sure they take their medicine. Such measures are meant to protect everyone and avoid the shutdown of businesses and schools.

Now, opponents of those measures are turning to state legislatures and even the Supreme Court to strip public officials of those powers, defund local health departments or even dissolve them. The American Legislative Exchange Council, a corporate-backed group of conservative lawmakers, has published for .

Lawmakers in Missouri, Louisiana, Ohio, Virginia and at least 20 other states have crafted bills to limit public health powers. In some states, the efforts have failed; in others, legislative leaders have embraced them enthusiastically.

Tennessee’s Republican House leadership is backing a bill to constrain the state’s six local health departments, granting their powers to mayors instead. The bill stems from clashes between the mayor of Knox County and the local health board over mask mandates and business closures.

In Idaho, lawmakers to review the authority of local health districts in the next session. The move doesn’t sit right with Aberasturi, who said it’s hypocritical coming from state lawmakers who profess to believe in local control.

Meanwhile, governors in Wisconsin, Kansas and Michigan, among others, have been sued by their own legislators, state think tanks or others for using their executive powers to restrict business operations and require masks. In Ohio, a group of lawmakers is seeking to impeach Republican Gov. Mike DeWine over his pandemic rules.

The U.S. Supreme Court in 1905 found it was constitutional for officials to issue orders to protect the public health, in a case upholding a Cambridge, Massachusetts, requirement to get a smallpox vaccine. But a indicated the majority of justices are willing to put new constraints on those powers.

“It is time — past time — to make plain that, while the pandemic poses many grave challenges, there is no world in which the Constitution tolerates color-coded executive edicts that reopen liquor stores and bike shops but shutter churches, synagogues, and mosques,” Justice Neil Gorsuch wrote.

Gostin, the health law professor, said the decision could embolden state legislators and governors to weaken public health authority, creating “a snowballing effect on the erosion of public health powers and, ultimately, public’s trust in public health and science.”

Who’s Left?

Many health officials who have stayed in their jobs have faced not only political backlash but also threats of personal violence. Armed paramilitary groups have put public health in their sights.

In California, a man with ties to the right-wing, anti-government Boogaloo movement was accused of stalking and threatening Santa Clara’s health officer. The suspect was arrested and has pleaded not guilty. The Boogaloo movement is associated with multiple murders, including of a Bay Area sheriff deputy and federal security officer.

Linda Vail, health officer for Michigan’s Ingham County, has received emails and letters at her home saying she’d be “taken down like the governor,” which Vail took to be a reference to . Even as other health officials are leaving, Vail is choosing to stay despite the threats.

“I can completely understand why some people, they’re just done,” she said. “There are other places to go work.”

In mid-November, Danielle Swanson, public health administrator in Republic County, Kansas, said she was planning to resign as soon as she and enough of her COVID-19-positive staff emerged from isolation. Someone threatened to go to her department with a gun because of a quarantine, and she’s received hand-delivered hate mail and calls from screaming residents.

“It’s very stressful. It’s hard on me; it’s hard on my family that I do not see,” she said. “For the longest time, I held through it thinking there’s got to be an end in sight.”

Swanson said some of her employees have told her once she goes, they probably will not stay.

As public health officials depart across the country, the question of who takes their places has plagued Dr. Oxiris Barbot, who in August amid a clash with Democratic Mayor Bill de Blasio. During the height of the pandemic, the mayor empowered the city’s hospital system to lead the fight against COVID-19, passing over her highly regarded department.

“I’m concerned about the degree to which they will have the fortitude to tell elected officials what they need to hear instead of what they want to hear,” Barbot said.

In Kentucky, 189 employees, about 1 in 10, left local health departments from March through Nov. 21, according to Sara Jo Best, public health director of the Lincoln Trail District Health Department. That comes after a decade of decline: Staff numbers fell 49% from 2009 to 2019. She said workers are exhausted and can’t catch up on the overwhelming number of contact tracing investigations, much less run COVID-19 testing, combat flu season and prepare for COVID-19 vaccinations.

And the remaining workforce is aging. According to the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for local public health, 42% of governmental public health workers are over age 50.

Back in Linn County, cases are rising. As of Dec. 14, 1 out of every 24 residents has tested positive.

The day after her mother was put on a ventilator, Coleman fought to hold back tears as she described the 71-year-old former health care worker with a strong work ethic.

“Of course, I could give up and throw in the towel, but I’m not there yet,” she said, adding that she will “continue to fight to prevent this happening to someone else.”

Coleman, whose mother died Sunday, has noticed more people are wearing masks these days.

But at the family hardware store, they are still not required.

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

Methodology

KHN and AP counted how many state and local public health leaders have left their jobs since April 1, or who plan to leave by Dec. 31.

The analysis includes the exits of top department officials regardless of the reason. Some departments have more than one top position and some had multiple top officials leave from the same position over the course of the pandemic.

To compile the list, reporters reached out to public health associations and experts in every state and interviewed hundreds of public health employees. They also received information from the National Association of County and City Health Officials, and combed news reports and public records, such as meeting minutes and news releases.

The population served by each local health department is calculated using the Census Bureau 2019 Population Estimates based on each department’s jurisdiction.

The count of legislation came from reviewing bills in every state, prefiled bills for 2021 sessions, where available, and news reports. The bills include limits on quarantines, contact tracing, vaccine requirements and emergency executive powers.

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Chantee Mack, 44, died in May. More than 20 colleagues also caught the coronavirus, and some are suffering lasting problems.

Now, after a KHN and Associated Press story in July spurred an investigation, Prince George’s County officials say they have added an appeals process to their work-at-home policy and hired a consultant to identify “operational and management needs for improvement” in the department. Union officials say the county has also made personal protective equipment, such as masks and gloves, more available in recent months and put a greater emphasis on social distancing.

“We’re getting somewhere,” said Rhonda Wallace, leader of a local branch of the . “But we’re not there yet.”

In an email to KHN, health department spokesperson George Lettis said officials can’t release results of the county investigation because of personnel and medical information. But a shares the inquiry’s main conclusions: that the health department tried to get PPE in early March and advised employees about social distancing and proper hygiene via a newsletter.

“It must not be overlooked that this was a rapidly evolving situation,” said the letter from Dr. George Askew, deputy chief administrative officer for health, human services and education. “Best efforts were made to keep the community and Health Department employees safe and informed during this unprecedented time.” The letter does not acknowledge any lapses made by the county.

Some employees argue the investigation didn’t delve into the circumstances around Mack’s death and say the county should publicly acknowledge its role in what happened. At a news conference in July, County Executive Angela Alsobrooks said Mack’s death “deserves an investigation” and the county would “spare no time or expense.”

Mack, who worked in the department’s sexually transmitted diseases program, was denied permission to work from home in March even though she had health problems that put her at high risk for COVID-19 complications.

At least three other employees whose requests to work from home were denied around that time also got sick. Revonda Watts, a nurse and program manager, said she was allowed to work from home for one day before being called back to the office. Some of these employees worked face-to-face with the public at least part of the time.

A union document obtained by KHN detailed a conference call by department managers in which Diane Young, an associate director, laid out criteria for working from home, such as being 65 or older or having small children. She said decisions would be made case by case.

Meanwhile, protective masks, gowns and other safety equipment were in short supply nationally and at the health department, which distributed them only to certain workers. In early April, when Young asked Watts about PPE needs, Watts wrote in an email obtained by KHN: “N-95 masks are needed for all staff. We were given 1 mask to reuse. We have no face shields for the clinicians nor do we have gowns.”

Young responded that even though goggles were available, “face shields and gowns are in limited supply and will be used for those who are testing patients for COVID-19.”

Several employees described meetings and “morning huddles” in the office in March and April held without social distancing and during which few, if any, participants wore masks.

One employee after another got sick.

Watts, who is 58 and has asthma, developed bronchitis on top of COVID-19, then chest pain from spasms in her blood vessels. She spread the virus to her adult daughter.

Administrative aide Natania Bowen also spread the virus to her family, including her husband and 7-year-old daughter, who have since recovered. Bowen, a 47-year-old with asthma, experienced a bacterial lung infection along with COVID-19.

Receptionist Yolanda Potter, 53, had severe headaches for a month from her coronavirus infection. She developed a blood clot in her right leg and had to inject blood thinners into her stomach for 45 days to prevent it from breaking off and traveling to her lungs or brain. She and Carolyn Ferguson, an X-ray tech now on desk duty, suffer ongoing memory problems, while Bowen continues to have lung issues.

While Bowen now works from home, Watts, Potter and Ferguson are back at the office. As of mid-November, Lettis said, 141 health department employees were working fully on-site, 68 partly on-site and 196 at home.

Employees said they are pleased that social distancing is now the norm in the health department, that more places to sanitize hands exist and that PPE is easier to get. They’re also hopeful about the new policy on remote work.

The countywide rules include two levels of review for work-at-home requests: one by a supervisor and another by a higher-up boss who must give a reason if a worker’s request is denied. The employee can then ask the Office for Human Resource Management to review the denial.

Despite such measures, some employees still worry about contracting COVID-19 at work, especially as the state’s COVID dashboard puts the .

Several employees are seeking long-term disability leave or talking to lawyers about getting workers’ compensation. Watts said she is awaiting a workers’ comp hearing and has asked again for permission to work from home as she deals with crushing fatigue and numbness in her legs and hands. Since returning to the office, she said, she has had to bring her own mask from home.

“I get frustrated with not being able to just bounce back,” she said. The health department officials “really let us down and didn’t do their due diligence to make sure the staff was protected.”

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

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By February, as the disease crept across the U.S., Keeley said she found her calling: a career in public health. “This is something that’s going to be necessary,” Keeley remembered thinking. “This is something I can do. This is something I’m interested in.”

In August, Keeley began studying at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign to become an epidemiologist.

Public health programs in the United States have seen a surge in enrollment as the coronavirus has swept through the country, killing more than 246,000 people. As state and local public health departments struggle with unprecedented challenges — slashed budgets, surging demand, staff departures and even threats to workers’ safety — a new generation is entering the field.

Among the more than 100 schools and public health programs that use the common application — a single admissions application form that students can send to multiple schools — there was a 20% increase in applications to master’s in public health programs for the current academic year, to nearly 40,000, according to the Association of Schools and Programs of Public Health.

Some programs are seeing even bigger jumps. Applications to Brown University’s small master’s in public health program rose 75%, according to Annie Gjelsvik, a professor and director of the program.

Demand was so high as the pandemic hit full force in the spring that Brown extended its application deadline by over a month. Seventy students ultimately matriculated this fall, up from 41 last year.

“People interested in public health are interested in solving complex problems,” Gjelsvik said. “The COVID pandemic is a complex issue that’s in the forefront every day.”

It’s too early to say whether the jump in interest in public health programs is specific to that field or reflects a broader surge of interest in graduate programs in general, according to those who track graduate school admissions. Factors such as pandemic-related deferrals and disruptions in international student admissions make it difficult to compare programs across the board.

Magnolia E. Hernández, an assistant dean at Florida International University’s Robert Stempel College of Public Health and Social Work, said new student enrollments in its master’s in public health program grew 63% from last year. The school has especially seen an uptick in interest among Black students, from 21% of newly admitted students last fall to 26.8% this year.

Kelsie Campbell is one of them. She’s part Jamaican and part British. When she heard in both the British and American media that Black and ethnic minorities were being disproportionately hurt by the pandemic, she wanted to focus on why.

“Why is the Black community being impacted disproportionately by the pandemic? Why is that happening?” Campbell asked. “I want to be able to come to you and say ‘This is happening. These are the numbers and this is what we’re going to do.’”

The biochemistry major at Florida International said she plans to explore that when she begins her MPH program at Stempel College in the spring. She said she hopes to eventually put her public health degree to work helping her own community.

“There’s power in having people from your community in high places, somebody to fight for you, somebody to be your voice,” she said.

Public health students are already working on the front lines of the nation’s pandemic response in many locations. Students at Brown’s public health program, for example, are crunching infection data and tracing the spread of the disease for the Rhode Island Department of Health.

Some students who had planned to work in public health shifted their focus as they watched the devastation of COVID-19 in their communities. In college, Emilie Saksvig, 23, double-majored in civil engineering and public health. She was supposed to start working this year as a Peace Corps volunteer to help with water infrastructure in Kenya. She had dreamed of working overseas on global public health.

The pandemic forced her to cancel those plans, and she decided instead to pursue a master’s degree in public health at Emory University.

“The pandemic has made it so that it is apparent that the United States needs a lot of help, too,” she said. “It changed the direction of where I wanted to go.”

These students are entering a field that faced serious challenges even before the pandemic exposed the strains on the underfunded patchwork of state and local public health departments. An analysis by AP and KHN found that since 2010, per capita spending for state public health departments has dropped by 16%, and for local health departments by 18%. At least 38,000 state and local public health jobs have disappeared since the 2008 recession.

And the workforce is aging: Forty-two percent of governmental public health workers are over 50, according to the de Beaumont Foundation, and the field has high turnover. Before the pandemic, nearly half of public health workers said they planned to retire or leave their organizations for other reasons in the next five years. Poor pay topped the list of reasons. Some public health workers are paid so little that they qualify for public aid.

Brian Castrucci, CEO of the de Beaumont Foundation, which advocates for public health, said government public health jobs need to be a “destination job” for top graduates of public health schools.

“If we aren’t going after the best and the brightest, it means that the best and the brightest aren’t protecting our nation from those threats that can, clearly, not only devastate from a human perspective, but from an economic perspective,” Castrucci said.

The pandemic put that already-stressed public health workforce in the middle of what became a pitched political battle over how to contain the disease. As public health officials recommended closing businesses and requiring people to wear masks, many, including Dr. Anthony Fauci, the U.S. government’s top virus expert, faced threats and political reprisals, AP and KHN found. Many were pushed out of their jobs. An ongoing count by AP/KHN has found that more than 100 public health leaders in dozens of states have retired, quit or been fired since April.

Those threats have had the effect of crystallizing for students the importance of their work, said Patricia Pittman, a professor of health policy and management at George Washington University’s Milken Institute School of Public Health.

“Our students have been both indignant and also energized by what it means to become a public health professional,” Pittman said. “Indignant because many of the local and the national leaders who are trying to make recommendations around public health practices were being mistreated. And proud because they know that they are going to be part of that front-line public health workforce that has not always gotten the respect that it deserves.”

Saksvig compared public health workers to law enforcement in the way they both have responsibility for enforcing rules that can alter people’s lives.

“I feel like before the coronavirus, a lot of people didn’t really pay attention to public health,” she said. “Especially now when something like a pandemic is happening, public health people are just on the forefront of everything.”

KHN Midwest correspondent Lauren Weber and KHN senior correspondent Anna Maria Barry-Jester contributed to this report.

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

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The signed by Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom late Wednesday is a response to threats made to health officers across California during the coronavirus pandemic. More than a dozen public health leaders have left their jobs amid such harassment over their role in mask rules and stay-at-home orders.

“Our public health officers have all too often faced targeted harassment and stalking,” wrote Secretary of State Alex Padilla in a statement. This “program can help provide more peace of mind to the public health officials who have been on the frontlines of California’s COVID-19 response.”

A community college instructor accused of stalking and threatening Santa Clara health officer Sara Cody was arrested in late August. The Santa Clara County sheriff said it believes the suspect, Alan Viarengo, has ties to the “Boogaloo” movement, a right-wing, anti-government group that promotes violence and is associated with , including the murders of a federal security officer and a sheriff deputy in the Bay Area. Thousands of rounds of ammunition, 138 firearms and explosive materials were found in his home, the sheriff’s office said.

In Santa Cruz County, two top health officials have received death threats, including one allegedly signed by a far-right extremist group.

In May, a member of the public read aloud the home address of former Orange County health officer Nichole Quick at a supervisors’ meeting and called for protesters to go to her home. “You have seen firsthand how people have been forced to exercise their First Amendment. Be wise, and do not force the residents of this county into feeling they have no other choice than to exercise their Second Amendment,” said another attendee. Quick later resigned.

Protesters angry over mask mandates and stay-at-home orders have gone to the homes of health officers in multiple counties, including Orange and Contra Costa.

The executive order would allow health officials to register with the Secretary of State’s Safe at Home program. Those in the program are given an alternative mailing address to use for public records so that their home addresses are not revealed.

Threats of violence have added to the already immense pressure public health officials have experienced since the beginning of the year. Amid chronic underfunding and staffing shortages, they have been working to limit the spread of the coronavirus, while also deflecting political pressure from other officials and anger from the public over business closures and mask mandates.

“California’s local health officers have been working tirelessly since the start of the pandemic, using science to guide policy,” said Kat DeBurgh, the executive director of the Health Officers Association of California. “It is regrettable that this order was necessary — but we are grateful for it nevertheless.”

Nationwide, at least 61 state or local health leaders in 27 states have resigned, retired or been fired since April, according to a review by The Associated Press and KHN, a figure that has doubled since the newsrooms first began tracking the departures in June.

Thirteen of those departures have been in California, including 11 county health officials and the state’s two top public health officials.

Dr. Sonia Angell, former director of the California Department of Public Health and state public health officer, quit in early August after a series of glitches in the state’s infectious disease reporting system caused weeks-long delays in reporting cases of COVID-19.

In Placer County, north of Sacramento, health officer Dr. Aimee Sisson resigned effective Sept. 25 after the county Board of Supervisors voted to end its local COVID-19 health emergency. “It is with a heavy heart that I submit this letter of resignation,” she wrote in her resignation letter. “Today’s action by the Placer County Board of Supervisors made it clear that I can no longer effectively serve in my role.”

Organizations across the state have expressed concern over the treatment of health officials during the pandemic, including the California Medical Association.

“Basic science has become politicized in so many parts of our state, and our country,” wrote California Medical Association president Dr. Peter N. Bretan Jr. in a statement after Sisson’s departure. “Public health officers are public servants who seek to do what their job description states — to protect public health.”

The executive order also directs the state to assess impacts of the pandemic on health care providers and health care service plans, and halts evictions for commercial renters through March 31, 2021, among other pandemic-related matters.

KHN and California Healthline correspondent Angela Hart, KHN Midwest correspondent Lauren Weber and Associated Press writer Michelle R. Smith contributed to this report. 

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Ungar also spoke on about the story, explaining how the cuts hampered the state’s ability to respond to the pandemic. Watch here:

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Public health departments, which have struggled for months to test and trace everyone exposed to the novel coronavirus, are now being told to prepare to distribute COVID-19 vaccines as early as Nov. 1.

In a this summer, the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention told health departments across the country to draft vaccination plans by Oct. 1 “to coincide with the earliest possible release of COVID-19 vaccine.”

The CDC’s director, Dr. Robert Redfield, also wrote to governors last week about the urgent need to have vaccine distribution sites up and running by Nov. 1, . Redfield asked governors to expedite the process for setting up these facilities.

But health departments that have been underfunded for decades say they currently lack the staff, money and tools to educate people about vaccines and then to distribute, administer and track doses to some 330 million people. Nor do they know when, or if, they’ll get federal aid to do that.

“There is a tremendous amount of work to be done to be prepared for this vaccination program and it will not be complete by Nov. 1,” said Dr. Kelly Moore, associate director of immunization education at the Immunization Action Coalition, a national vaccine education and advocacy organization based in St. Paul, Minnesota. “States will need more financial resources than they have now.”

Dozens of doctors, nurses and health officials interviewed by KHN and The Associated Press expressed concern about the country’s readiness to conduct mass vaccinations, as well as frustration with months of inconsistent information from the federal government.

The gaps include figuring out how officials will keep track of who has gotten which doses and how they’ll keep the workers who give the shots safe, with enough protective gear and syringes to do their jobs.

With of Americans saying they would get vaccinated, according to a poll from AP-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research, it also will be crucial to educate people about the benefits of vaccination, said Molly Howell, who manages the North Dakota Department of Health’s immunization program.

The unprecedented pace of vaccine development has left many Americans skeptical about the safety of COVID-19 immunizations; others simply don’t trust the federal government.

“We’re in a very deep-red state,” said Ann Lewis, CEO of CareSouth Carolina, a group of community health centers that serve mostly low-income people in five rural counties in South Carolina. “The message that is coming out is not a message of trust and confidence in medical or scientific evidence.”

Paying for the Rollout 

The U.S. has committed more than but hasn’t allocated money specifically for distributing and administering vaccines.

And while states, territories and 154 large cities and counties received billions in congressional emergency funding, that money can be used for a variety of purposes, including testing and overtime pay.

An ongoing investigation by KHN and the AP has detailed how state and local public health departments across the U.S. have been starved for decades, leaving them underfunded and without adequate resources to confront the coronavirus pandemic. The investigation further found that federal coronavirus funds have been slow to reach public health departments, forcing some communities to cancel non-coronavirus vaccine clinics and other essential services.

States are allowed to use some of the federal money they’ve already received to prepare for immunizations. But KHN and the AP found that many health departments are so overwhelmed with the current costs of the pandemic — such as testing and contact tracing — that they can’t reserve money for the vaccine work to come. Health departments will need to hire people to administer the vaccines and systems to track them, and pay for supplies such as protective medical masks, gowns and gloves, as well as warehouses and refrigerator space.

CareSouth Carolina is collaborating with the state health department on testing and the pandemic response. They used federal funding to purchase $140,000 retrofitted vans for mobile testing that they plan to continue to use to keep vaccines cold and deliver them to residents when the time comes, said Lewis.

But most vaccine costs will be new.

Pima County, Arizona, for example, is already at least $30 million short of what health officials need to fight the pandemic, let alone plan for vaccines, said Dr. Francisco Garcia, deputy county administrator and chief medical officer.

Some federal funds will expire soon. The $150 billion that states and local governments received from a fund in the CARES Act, for example, covers only expenses made through , said Gretchen Musicant, health commissioner in Minneapolis. That’s a problem, given vaccine distribution may not have even begun.

Although public health officials say they need more money, Congress left Washington for its summer recess without passing a new pandemic relief bill that would include additional funding for vaccine distribution.

“States are anxious to receive those funds as soon as possible, so they can do what they need to be prepared,” Moore said. “We can’t assume they can take existing funding and attempt the largest vaccination campaign in history.”

What’s the Plan?

Then there’s the basic question of scale. The federally funded Vaccines for Children program immunizes . In 2009 and 2010, the CDC scaled up to vaccinate against pandemic H1N1 influenza. And last winter, the country distributed 175 million vaccines for , according to the CDC.

But for the U.S. to reach herd immunity against the coronavirus, most experts say, the nation would likely need to vaccinate , which translates to 200 million people and — because the first vaccines will require two doses to be effective — 400 million shots.

Although the CDC has overseen immunization campaigns in the past, the Trump administration created a new program, Operation Warp Speed, to facilitate vaccine development and distribution. In August, the administration , which distributed H1N1 vaccines during that pandemic, will also distribute COVID-19 vaccines to doctors’ offices and clinics.

“With few exceptions, our commercial distribution partners will be responsible for handling all the vaccines,” Operation Warp Speed’s Paul Mango said in an email.

“We’re not going to have 300 million doses all at once,” said Mango, deputy chief of staff for policy at the Health and Human Services Department, despite earlier government pledges to have that many doses ready by the new year. “We believe we are maximizing our probability of success of having of vaccines by January 2021, which is our goal.”

Amesh Adalja, a senior scholar at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security, said it will take time for the vaccines to be widespread enough for life to return to what’s considered normal. “We have to be prepared to deal with this virus in the absence of significant vaccine-induced immunity for a period of maybe a year or longer,” Adalja said in August.

In for state vaccine managers, the CDC said doses will be distributed free of charge from a central location. Health departments’ local vaccination plans may be reviewed by both the CDC and Operation Warp Speed.

The CDC spent two days working with vaccine planners in five locations — North Dakota, Florida, California, Minnesota and Philadelphia — to discuss potential obstacles and solutions. No actual vaccines were distributed during the planning sessions, which focused on how to get vaccines to people in places as different as urban Philadelphia, where pharmacies abound, and rural North Dakota, which has few chain drugstores but many clinics run by the federal Indian Health Service, said Kris Ehresmann, who directs infectious disease control at the Minnesota Department of Health.

Those planning sessions have made Ehresmann feel more confident about who’s in charge of distributing vaccines. “We are getting more specific guidance from CDC on planning now,” she said. “We feel better about the process, though there are still a lot of unknowns.”

Outdated Technology Could Hamper Response

Still, many public health departments will struggle to adequately track who has been vaccinated and when, because a lack of funding in recent decades has left them in the technological dark ages, said Dr. Marcus Plescia, chief medical officer at the Association of State and Territorial Health Officials.

In Mississippi, for example, health officials still rely on faxes, said the state’s health officer, Dr. Thomas Dobbs. “You can’t manually handle 1,200 faxes a day and expect anything efficient to happen,” he said.

When COVID-19 vaccines become available, health providers will need to track where and when patients receive their vaccines, said Moore, the medical director of Tennessee’s immunization plan during the H1N1 influenza pandemic in 2009 and 2010. And with many different shots in the works, they will need to know exactly which one each patient got, she said.

People will need to receive their second COVID-19 dose 21 or 28 days after the first, so health providers will need to remind patients to receive their second shot, Moore said, and ensure that the second dose is the same brand as the first.

The CDC will require vaccinators to provide “ and reporting” for immunizations, so that the agency knows where every dose of COVID-19 vaccine is “at any point in time,” Moore said. Although “the sophistication of these systems has improved dramatically” in the past decade, she said, “many states will still face major challenges meeting data tracking and reporting expectations.”

The CDC is developing an app called the Vaccine Administration Monitoring System for health departments whose data systems don’t meet standards for COVID-19 response, said Claire Hannan, executive director of the Association of Immunization Managers, a nonprofit based in Rockville, Maryland.

“Those standards haven’t been released,” Hannan said, “so health departments are waiting to invest in necessary IT enhancements.” The CDC needs to release standards and data expectations as quickly as possible, she added.

Meanwhile, health departments are dealing with what Minnesota’s Ehresmann described as “legacy” vaccine registries, sometimes dating to the late 1980s.

A Historic Task

Overwhelmed public health teams are already working long hours to test patients and trace their contacts, a time-consuming process that will need to continue even after vaccines become available.

When vaccines are ready, health departments will need more staffers to identify people at high risk for COVID-19, who should get the vaccine first, Moore said. Public health staff also will be needed to educate the public about the importance of vaccines and to administer shots, she said, as well as monitor patients and report serious side effects.

At an , Dr. Ngozi Ezike, director of Illinois’ health department, said her state will need to recruit additional health professionals to administer the shots, including nursing students, medical students, dentists, dental hygienists and even veterinarians. Such vaccinators will need medical-grade masks, gowns and gloves to keep those workers safe as they handle needles amid the contagious coronavirus.

Many health officials say they feel burned by the country’s struggle to provide hospitals with ventilators last spring, when states found themselves for a limited supply. Those concerns are amplified by the country’s continuing difficulties ; supplying health workers with ; allocating drugs ; and recruiting — who track down everyone with whom people diagnosed with COVID-19 have been in contact.

Although Ehresmann said she’s concerned Minnesota could run out of syringes, she said the CDC has assured her they will provide them.

Given that vaccines are far more complex than personal protective equipment and other medical supplies — one vaccine candidate must be stored at — Plescia said people should be prepared for shortages, delays and mix-ups.

“It’s probably going to be even worse than the problems with testing and PPE,” Plescia said.

Associated Press writer Michelle R. Smith and KHN Midwest correspondent Lauren Weber contributed to this report.

This story is a collaboration between The Associated Press and KHN.

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Wilson, a retiree who worked as a public health department nurse supervisor in Duval County for 35 years, had just been diagnosed with COVID-19-induced pneumonia. She had a telemedicine appointment with her doctor.

Staring back from her screen was Dr. Rogers Cain, who runs a tidy little family medical clinic a couple of blocks from the Trout River in north Jacksonville, a predominantly Black area where the coronavirus is running roughshod. Wilson, 81, was one of Cain’s patients who’d tested positive — he had seven other COVID patients that morning before noon. Three of her grown children had contracted the virus, too.

“It started as a drip, drip, drip in May,” said Cain, his voice muffled by his mask. “Now it’s more like a faucet running.”

Cain and Wilson are nervous. Over the past two decades, both watched as the county health department was gutted of money and people, hampering Duval’s ability to respond to outbreaks, including a small cluster of tuberculosis cases in 2012. And now they face the menace of COVID-19 in a city once slated to host this week’s Republican National Convention, in one of the states leading the latest U.S. surge.

Florida is both a microcosm and a cautionary tale for America. intended to protect communities against disease, staffing and funding fell faster and further in the Sunshine State, leaving it especially unprepared for the worst health crisis in a century.

Although Florida’s population grew by 2.4 million since 2010 to make it the nation’s third-most-populous state, a joint investigation by KHN and The Associated Press has found, the state slashed its local health departments’ staffing — from 12,422 full-time equivalent workers to 9,125 in 2019, the latest data available.

According to an analysis of state data, the state-run local health departments spent 41% less per resident in 2019 than in 2010, dropping from $57 to $34 after adjusting for inflation. Departments nationwide have also cut spending, but by less than half as much ― an average of 18%, according to data from the National Association of County and City Health Officials.

Even before the pandemic hit, that meant fewer investigators to track, trace and contain diseases such as hepatitis. It meant fewer public health nurses to teach people how to protect themselves from HIV/AIDS or the flu. When the wave of COVID-19 inundated Florida, the state was caught flat-footed when it mattered most, its main lines of defense eviscerated.

Now, confirmed cases have soared past 588,000 and deaths have risen to more than 10,000. Concerns over the virus prompted Republicans to cancel plans for an in-person convention in Jacksonville, opting for a pared-down version in North Carolina.

Health experts blame the funding cuts on the Great Recession and choices by a series of governors who wanted to move publicly funded state services to for-profit companies.

And when the pandemic took hold, they say, residents got mixed messages about prevention strategies like wearing masks from Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis and other political leaders. Voices within the health departments were muzzled.

“The reality, unfortunately, is people are going to die because of the irresponsibility of the decisions being made by the people crafting the budgets,” said , president of the , a nonprofit in Washington, D.C., offering tools and training. “Public health can’t help us get out of this situation without our elected officials giving us the resources.”

State officials neither answered specific, repeated questions from KHN and The Associated Press about changes in public health funding, nor made staffers available for deeper explanations.

Dr. , a former deputy secretary of Florida’s state health department, said failing to prepare for a foreseeable disaster “is governmental malpractice.” The nation’s pandemic response is only as good as the weakest link, he said. Since the virus respects no borders, other states feel the ripples of Florida’s failings.

Those failings are clear in Duval County, which had employed the equivalent of 852 full-time workers and spent $91 per person in 2008 but in 2019 had only 422 workers and spent just $34 per resident, according to the KHN-AP analysis of state data. That’s less than the of a single COVID test. Former county health director Dr. Jeff Goldhagen said the county’s team has been “dismantled to the extent that it could not really manage an outbreak.”

Yet it must.

Cain’s private north Jacksonville medical clinic alone has had about 60 confirmed COVID cases and eight deaths. “We are all on fire right now,” he said. “You have to have a fire department that is adequately equipped to put out the fire. ”

Dwindling Budgets

Florida faced similar shortcomings around the time of the last great pandemic, the 1918 flu. Back then, according to a , public health workers faced too many demands and their efforts were “to some extent scattered and transitory.” The state could have used at least three more district health officers, the report said: “It is a source of regret and a matter of grave concern to public health workers that the funds available are not sufficient.”

County-based health departments began in 1930, providing more robust services closer to home. About 50 years later, legislation created state-administered primary care programs in which county health departments provided low-income Floridians with the type of basic health care and treatment most people now get at private doctors’ offices.

The 1990s saw a move toward privatization, particularly as Medicaid managed care took hold, said a . Still, per-person spending on local public health rose until the late 1990s, when adjusted for inflation to 2019 dollars, peaking at $59.

Wilson, the retired public health nurse stricken with COVID-19, recalled how Duval County’s department started feeling the financial pain during former Republican Gov. Jeb Bush’s administration in the early 2000s and kept losing nurses and other staff until they were “very, very short.”

Beitsch, who worked for the state health department in the 1990s, said the downward trend continued under former Republican governors Charlie Crist and Rick Scott, fueled by a growing belief in shrinking government that flourished in many states. Florida’s leaders exerted more control over public health, Beitsch said, and “the amount of local autonomy has been diminishing with successive administrations.”

The recession that began in late 2007 sparked public health reductions across the nation that were especially harsh in Florida. By 2011, budget cuts and lack of money were the most frequently cited challenges in a Florida public health workforce survey, which pointed to growing needs. In the following years, the state had some of the nation’s highest rates of heart disease and diabetes.

Squeezed departments struggled and sometimes stumbled. A from the state health department’s inspector general for the 2018-19 fiscal year, for example, found a series of lost and inconsistent shipments of lab specimens from county health departments to the state lab — not long before the pandemic would make labs more important than ever.

As governor, Scott presided over the state from 2011 to 2019, when funding and staffing dropped most. Now a U.S. senator, he said through a spokesperson that he was unapologetic for health department cuts, which he characterized as a move toward “making government more efficient” without endangering public health.

“I’m sure that he had no problem with the cuts that were being made,” said , an associate professor in health administration at Florida Atlantic University. “To put it all on him is not fair because a bunch of little henchmen from the counties had to vote that way. … We keep voting in people who undervalue public health.”

Democratic state Sen. Janet Cruz, a legislator who has represented the Tampa region for a dozen years and sat on health care committees, said she watched lawmakers systematically cut money for health departments. When she questioned it, she said, some colleagues claimed the need wasn’t as great because the state was moving toward private family health care centers. “Public health in Florida has been wholly underfunded,” she said.

Some places have suffered more than others. Departments serving at least half a million residents spent $29 per person in 2019 on average, compared with $90 per person in departments serving 50,000 or fewer — a difference starker than the typical gap between larger and smaller departments nationally, according to an KHN-AP analysis. Experts can’t say exactly why the gap is wider in Florida, which has a state-run system, but point to politics and historical decisions about budgets.

Duval County’s health department spending was the equivalent of $34 per person, down 63% since 2008. Typically, about 22 workers, or 5% of the total staff, have been dedicated to preparing for and tracking disease outbreaks.

But when the pandemic hit, many there and elsewhere were diverted to fight the coronavirus, leaving little time for their typical duties such as mosquito abatement and tracking sexually transmitted infections such as syphilis.

“Current events demonstrate how bad a decision” the deep cuts to public health were, said , a professor of public health and family medicine at the University of South Florida. “It’s really come back to haunt us.”

Mixed and Muzzled Messages

The pandemic caught fire in Florida this summer as the state’s rapid reopening allowed people to flock to beaches, Disney World, movie theaters and bars.

The state has had more than half a million confirmed cases ― among them, players and workers for baseball’s Miami Marlins ― and 35,000 hospitalizations, yet DeSantis still hasn’t issued a mask mandate. Some local governments have. Jacksonville adopted one in late June, and about a week later Republican Mayor Lenny Curry announced he and his family were self-quarantining because he’d been exposed to someone who tested positive for the virus.

, director of infection prevention at the University of Florida-Jacksonville, lauded the mayor for the mask requirement, saying, “We know that masking works.” But he pointed out that other counties have different rules and that the inconsistent messaging breeds confusion.

St. Johns County began requiring masks in late July but only in county facilities. And DeSantis has appeared in public without a mask numerous times, including at

target=”_blank” rel=”noopener noreferrer”>an Aug. 13 coronavirus update

briefing during which some other speakers wore them.

“One voice is so critical during a pandemic,” said Dr. Jonathan Kantor, a Jacksonville epidemiologist and dermatologist. “We have to have one voice, and consistent leadership that is modeling behavior if we want to get people to change their behaviors.”

Instead, experts in Florida said, public health workers have been silenced or told by top state officials what to say. For example, that state leaders told school boards they needed health department approval to keep schools closed, then instructed health directors not to give it.

“All the communication is directed by the state, and localities are very limited in what they can do,” said Levine, the University of South Florida professor. “Anything to do with a mandate, there’s resistance to do at a state level. This includes the hot debate on masks. The locals have to extend the state messaging.” Local health officials “are being told bluntly: ‘Shut up,’” Bernet said. “They literally cannot speak.”

Beitsch, who now chairs the department of behavioral sciences and social medicine at Florida State University, said such limitations ― and similar mixed messages and silencing of medical experts at the national level ― fuels the politicization of public health and undermining of science.

“People think they should be listening to politicians and state legislative leaders about their health care. They’re not listening to health experts and the epidemiologists who say if you just wear a mask and if you just wash your hands, we can really, really reduce the spread of the virus,” said Cruz, the state senator. “People are confused, and they think this is a hoax and it’s nothing more than the flu.”

Meanwhile, the COVID caseload continues to rise, surpassing 25,000 in Duval County, with minorities stricken disproportionately, as elsewhere in the nation. In a county that’s 29% Black and 60% white, Black residents with COVID have been hospitalized at more than double the rate of white residents. Rates are also high for Floridians grouped together as “other,” including Native American, Asian and multiracial residents.

Duval County’s overall caseload is rising so fast that Goldhagen, the former health department director, said the agency has given up on contact tracing, which means trying to curb the virus by identifying and warning people who have been exposed.

“It’s impossible,” Goldhagen said. “Dismantling the system was a complete disregard for the health and well-being of the citizens of Florida.”

With an unequipped public health system, Wilson, the retired public health nurse, said it falls to everyone to lead Jacksonville, and Florida, out of the coronavirus crisis.

“My hope is that everybody begins to take this virus seriously, and wear their mask and stay social distancing. It can work if we do that,” said Wilson, whose condition has improved. “So, that’s my hope. Eventually there will be a vaccine that will curtail this virus. But until then, it’s up to us to help do that. And if we’re not serious about it, then we’re doomed.”

This story is a collaboration between KHN and The Associated Press.

Methodology

Spending and staffing data for Florida’s local health departments is from the Florida Department of Health. Florida Atlantic University professor Patrick Bernet provided additional state data on staffing by program area. KHN-AP adjusted spending data for inflation using the Bureau of Economic Analysis’ state and local government deflator.

COVID-19 data by race is from the Florida Department of Health. KHN-AP calculated rates per 10,000 people using data on race, regardless of ethnicity, from the U.S. Census Bureau’s 2018 American Community Survey. Statewide COVID-19 cases per day are from Johns Hopkins University.

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While Musicant diverted workers from violence prevention and other core programs to the COVID-19 response, state officials debated how to distribute $1.87 billion Minnesota received in federal aid.

As she waited for federal help, the got $6 million in federal money to continue operations, and a debt collection company outside Minneapolis received at least $5 million from the federal Paycheck Protection Program, according to federal data.

It was not until Aug. 5 — months after Congress approved aid for the pandemic — that Musicant’s department finally received $1.7 million, the equivalent of $4 per Minneapolis resident.

“It’s more a hope and a prayer that we’ll have enough money,” Musicant said.

Since the pandemic began, Congress has set aside trillions of dollars to ease the crisis. A joint KHN and Associated Press investigation finds that many communities with big outbreaks have spent little of that federal money on local public health departments for work such as testing and contact tracing. Others, like Minnesota, were slow to do so.

For example, the states, territories and 154 large cities and counties that received allotments from the $150 billion Coronavirus Relief Fund reported spending only 25% of it through June 30, according to reports that recipients submitted to the U.S. Treasury Department.

Many localities have deployed more money since that June 30 reporting deadline, and both Republican and Democratic governors say they need more to avoid layoffs and cuts to vital state services. Still, as cases in the U.S. top 5.2 million and deaths soar past 167,000, Republicans in Congress are pointing to the slow spending to argue against sending more money to state and local governments to help with their pandemic response.

“States and localities have only spent about a fourth of the money we already sent them in the springtime,” Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said Tuesday. Congressional Democrats’ efforts to get more money for states, he said, “aren’t based on math. They aren’t based on the pandemic.”

Negotiations over a new pandemic relief bill broke down last week, in part because Democrats and Republicans could not agree on funding for state and local governments.

KHN and the AP requested detailed spending breakdowns from recipients of money from the Coronavirus Relief Fund — created in March as part of the $1.9 trillion CARES Act — and received responses from 23 states and 62 cities and counties. Those entities dedicated 23% of their spending from the fund through June to public health and 7% to public health and safety payroll.

An additional 22% was transferred to local governments, some of which will eventually pass it down to health departments. The rest went to other priorities, such as distance learning.

So little money has flowed to some local health departments for many reasons: Bureaucracy has bogged things down, politics have crept into the process, and understaffed departments have struggled to take time away from critical needs to navigate the red tape required to justify asking for extra dollars.

“It does not make sense to me how anyone thinks this is a way to do business,” said E. Oscar Alleyne, chief of programs and services at the National Association of County and City Health Officials. “We are never going to get ahead of the pandemic response if we are still handicapped.”

Last month, KHN and the AP detailed how state and local public health departments across the U.S. have been starved for decades. Over 38,000 public health worker jobs have been lost since 2008, and per capita spending on local health departments has been cut by 18% since 2010. That’s left them underfunded and without adequate resources to confront the coronavirus pandemic.

“Public health has been cut and cut and cut over the years, but we’re so valuable every time you turn on the television,” said Jan Morrow, the director and 41-year veteran of Ripley County health department in rural Missouri. “We are picking up all the pieces, but the money is not there. They’ve cut our budget until there’s nothing left.”

Politics and Red Tape

Why did the Minneapolis health department have to wait so long for CARES Act money?

Congress mandated that the Coronavirus Relief Fund be distributed to states and local governments based on population. Minneapolis, with 430,000 residents, missed the threshold of 500,000 people that would have allowed it to receive money directly.

The state of Minnesota, however, received $1.87 billion, a portion of which was meant to be sent to local communities. Lawmakers initially sent some state money to tide communities over until the federal money came through — the Minneapolis health department got about $430,000 in state money to help pay for things like testing.

But when it came time to decide how to use the CARES Act money, lawmakers in Minnesota’s Republican-controlled Senate and Democratic-controlled House were at loggerheads.

Myron Frans, commissioner of Minnesota Management and Budget, said that disagreement, on top of the economic crisis and pandemic, left the legislature in turmoil.

After the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, the city erupted in protests over racial injustice, making a difficult situation even more challenging.

Democratic Gov. Tim Walz favored targeting some of the money to harder-hit communities, a move that might have helped Minneapolis, where cases have surged since mid-July. But lawmakers couldn’t agree. Negotiations dragged on, and a special session merely prolonged the standoff.

Finally, the governor divvied up the money using a population-based formula developed earlier by Republican and Democratic legislative leaders that did not take into account COVID-19 caseloads or racial disparities.

“We knew we needed to get it out the door,” Frans said.

The state then sent hundreds of millions of dollars to local communities. Still, even after the money got to Minneapolis a month ago, Musicant had to wait as city leaders made difficult choices about how to spend the money as the economy cratered and the list of needs grew.

“Even when it gets to the local government, you still have to figure out how to get it to local public health,” Musicant said.

Meanwhile, some in Minneapolis have noticed a lack of services. Dr. Jackie Kawiecki has been providing help to people at a volunteer medical station near the place where Floyd was killed ― an area that at times has drawn hundreds or thousands of people per day. She said the city did not do enough free, easy-to-access testing in its neighborhoods this summer.

“I still don’t think that the amount of testing offered is adequate, from a public health standpoint,” Kawiecki said.

A coalition of groups that includes the National Governors Association has blamed the spending delays on the federal government, saying the final guidance on how states could spend the money came late in June, shortly before the reporting period ended. The coalition said state and local governments had moved “expeditiously and responsibly” to use the money as they deal with skyrocketing costs for health care, emergency response and other vital programs.

New York’s Nassau County was among six counties, cities and states that had spent at least 75% of its funds by June 30.

While most of the money was not spent before then, the National Association of State Budget Officers says a July 23 survey of 45 states and territories found they had allocated, or set aside, an average of 74% of the money.

But if they have, that money has been slow to make it to many local health departments.

As of mid-July in Missouri, at least 50 local health departments had yet to receive any of the federal money they requested, according to a state survey. The money must first flow through local county commissioners, some of whom aren’t keen on sending money to public health agencies.

“You closed their businesses down in order to save their people’s lives and so that hurt the economy,” said Larry Jones, executive director of the Missouri Center for Public Health Excellence, an organization of public health leaders. “So they’re mad at you and don’t want to give you money.”

The winding path federal money takes as it makes its way to states and cities also could exacerbate the stark economic and health inequalities in the U.S. if equity isn’t considered in decision-making, said Wizdom Powell, director of the University of Connecticut Health Disparities Institute.

“Problems are so vast you could unintentionally further entrench inequities just by how you distribute funds,” Powell said.

‘Everything Fell Behind’

The amounts eventually distributed can induce head-scratching.

Some cities received large federal grants, including Louisville, Kentucky, whose health department was given $42 million by April, more than doubling its annual budget. Because of the way the money was distributed, Louisville’s health department alone received more money from the CARES Act than the entire government of the city of Minneapolis, which received $32 million in total.

Philadelphia’s health department was awarded $100 million from a separate fund from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Honolulu County, where COVID cases have remained relatively low, received $124,454 for every positive case it had reported as of Aug. 9, while El Paso County in Texas got just $1,685 per case. Multnomah County, Oregon — with nearly a quarter of its state’s COVID-19 cases — landed only 2%, or $28 million, of the state’s $1.6 billion allotment.

Rural Saline County in Missouri received the same funding as counties of similar size, even though the virus hit the area particularly hard. In April, outbreaks began tearing through a Cargill meatpacking plant and a local factory there. By late May, the health department confirmed 12 positive cases at a local jail.

Tara Brewer, Saline’s health department administrator, said phone lines were ringing off the hook, jamming the system. Eventually, several department employees handed out their personal cellphone numbers to take calls from residents looking to be tested or seeking care for coronavirus symptoms.

“Everything fell behind,” Brewer said.

The school vaccination clinic in April was canceled, and a staffer who works as a Spanish translator for the Women, Infants and Children nutritional program was enlisted to contact-trace for additional COVID-19 exposures. All food inspections stopped.

It was late July when $250,000 in federal CARES Act money finally reached the 11-person health department, Brewer said — four months after Congress approved the spending and three months after the county’s first outbreak.

That was far too late for Brewer to hire the army of contact tracers that might have helped slow the spread of the virus back in April. She said the money already has been spent on antibody testing and reimbursements for groceries and medical equipment the department had bought for quarantined residents.

Another problem: Some local health officials say that the laborious process required to qualify for some of the federal aid discourages overworked public health officials from even trying to secure more money and that funds can be uneven in arriving.

Lisa Macon Harrison, public health director for Granville Vance Public Health in rural Oxford, North Carolina, said it’s tough to watch major hospital systems — some of which are sitting on billions in reserves — receive direct deposits, while her department received only about $122,000 through three grants by the end of July. Her team filled out a 25-page application just to get one of them.

She is now waiting to receive an estimated $400,000 more. By contrast, the Duke University Hospital System, which includes a facility that serves Granville, already has received over $67.3 million from the federal Provider Relief Fund.

“I just don’t understand the extra layers of onus for the bureaucracy, especially if hundreds of millions of dollars are going to the hospitals and we have to be responsible to apply for 50 grants,” she said.

The money comes from dozens of funds, including several programs within the CARES Act. Nebraska alone received money from 76 federal COVID relief funding sources.

Robert Miller, director of health for the Eastern Highlands Health District in Connecticut, which covers 10 towns, received $29,596 of the $2.5 million the state distributed to local departments from the CDC fund and nothing from CARES. It was only enough to pay for some contact tracing and employee mileage.

Miller said that he could theoretically apply for a little more from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, but that the reporting requirements — which include collecting every receipt — are extremely cumbersome for an already overburdened department.

So he wonders: “Is the squeeze worth the juice?”

Back in Minneapolis, Musicant said the new money from CARES allowed the department to run a free COVID-19 testing site Saturday, at a church that serves the Hispanic community about a mile from the site of Floyd’s killing.

It will take more money to do everything the community needs, she says, but with Congress deadlocked, she’s not sure they’ll get it anytime soon.

AP writers Camille Fassett and Steve Karnowski contributed to this report.

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