But physicians, dentists, ambulance companies, and other health care providers are still taking their patients to court, a Connecticut Mirror-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation of state legal records shows.

Lawsuits by doctors and other nonhospital providers now dominate health care collections in Connecticut, the records show, accounting for more than 80% of cases filed against patients and their families in 2024.

That’s a major reversal from just five years earlier, when hospital system lawsuits made up three-quarters of health-related collection cases in the state’s courts.

The shift is moving medical debt collections into a less regulated realm. Most hospitals, because they are tax-exempt nonprofits, must make financial aid available to low-income patients and follow federal regulations that limit aggressive collection activities. Other medical providers, such as private medical groups, are generally exempt from these rules.

The lawsuits are typically over bills of less than $3,000, but the impact on patients can be devastating. Lawsuits are among the most ruinous byproducts of a health care debt problem that burdens an estimated 100 million people in the U.S.

Lawsuits can lead to garnished wages, liens on homes, and hundreds of dollars of added debt from interest and court fees. They also pile additional financial strains on struggling families, prevent patients from getting needed care, and sap trust in medical providers.

“It’s really messed up,” said Allie Cass-Wilson, a nurse in Bristol, Connecticut, who was sued over a $1,972 debt by an OB-GYN practice where she’d been a patient years earlier. “How can they do that to people?” She did not contest the lawsuit, court records show.

Cass-Wilson, who is 36 and lives in a small apartment just off an expressway on-ramp, said she learned of the outstanding debt only when she was sued. When she tried making an appointment, she said, she was told her doctor wouldn’t see her. “They said I was blacklisted,” Cass-Wilson said. “I was so confused. I couldn’t believe that my medical provider let my care be interrupted like this.”

Cass-Wilson ultimately sought medical care elsewhere.

Radiologists, Dentists, Ambulances

Overall, CT Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News identified more than 16,000 health care-related debt cases in Connecticut courts from 2019 to 2024. The database was assembled from online court records with the help of January Advisors, a data science consulting firm that helped extract and sort the data.

Over the six-year period, most of Connecticut’s more than 25,000 did not pursue patients in court for outstanding balances.

But records show that more than 400 medical providers, including several hospital systems, sued their patients. Among those filing lawsuits were radiologists, anesthesiologists, eye doctors, podiatrists, allergists, and pediatricians.

Dentists, periodontists, and other dental providers filed more than 1,000 lawsuits against patients. And ambulance companies sued more than 140 people.

Med-Aid, a company based outside New Haven, Connecticut, that provides orthopedic braces and other medical supplies to patients, sued more than 400 people, the court records show. The company’s president, Frank Dilieto, did not respond to repeated interview requests.

Cass-Wilson was sued by Briar Rose Network in Bristol, Connecticut, a member of a large network of OB-GYN practices across Connecticut called Physicians for Women’s Health. The network’s members sued close to 100 patients in 2024, records show.

Paula Greenberg, CEO of Women’s Health Connecticut, a private equity-backed company affiliated with Physicians for Women’s Health that manages business operations for the network, said the lawsuits represent a small fraction of the more than 300,000 patients the network sees every year.

“This is an organization committed to patients,” Greenberg said. She noted that the group offers options to help patients pay, including installment plans and financial aid.

Geoffrey Manton, president of Naugatuck Valley Radiological Associates, said his practice also will work with people who say they can’t pay. But, he said, patients sometimes stop responding to their bills.

“Hiding from your problems isn’t going to solve them,” Manton said. “If we didn’t take any action, there could be that person that is in that late-model Mercedes that just chooses not to pay any bills.” The group sued more than 125 patients from 2019 to 2024, according to the court records.

Many medical providers say that aggressive collections stem from the growing prevalence of high-deductible health plans that leave patients with thousands of dollars of bills before their coverage kicks in.

Greenberg and Manton said each of their physician groups must collect. “This is a business,” Greenberg said. “We have to look at our operating costs.”

Critics of medical collection lawsuits note that the patients are typically sued over relatively small debts that are likely to have little impact on multimillion-dollar medical practices.

The average patient debt that members of Physicians for Women’s Health sued over in 2024 was less than $1,100, court records show. The physician group’s annual revenues are typically in the tens of millions of dollars, according to Greenberg.

Even relatively small debts — which often include interest — can place substantial burdens on families struggling to keep up with their bills, especially while dealing with a serious illness, patient advocates say.

“We don’t have a realistic choice in using health care,” said Lisa Freeman, who heads the Connecticut Center for Patient Safety and has advocated for patients struggling with medical bills. “To then get sued for it, when people have less and less funds available for anything extra, that’s very disheartening.”

A Stroke, Then a Lawsuit

Matthew Millman, 54, lost his job as an IT support worker after having a stroke. Then Meriden Imaging Center sued him over an $1,891 bill.

Millman and his wife said they tried to explain their financial situation to the center, which is affiliated with Midstate Radiology Associates, a large physician group that operates imaging centers and doctors’ offices across Connecticut.

“It was very frustrating,” said Millman, who lives in an aging apartment owned by his wife’s family in New Britain. Millman, his wife, and their teenage daughter are barely getting by on his two part-time jobs — one bagging groceries, the other helping homebound seniors. Together, the jobs pay about $1,500 a month, he said.

The imaging center, after winning the collection case against Millman, tried to garnish his wages, though that was unsuccessful because Millman had lost his IT job.

“It’s all about money,” Millman said, shaking his head. “If you are trained in helping somebody with their health, it shouldn’t be about the money first. It should be about their health.”

Court records show that Midstate Radiology, Meriden Imaging Center and affiliates filed more than 1,000 collection lawsuits against patients from 2019 to 2024, making them the most litigious nonhospital providers in the state. As is common in medical debt lawsuits, the plaintiffs prevailed in most cases, records show.

Midstate president Gary Dee, a radiologist, didn’t respond to emails and messages left at his West Hartford office.

Across town from Millman’s apartment in New Britain, Joseph Lentz lives in a cramped apartment with his wife and daughter. He used to oversee operations at a Boy Scout camp but is now unemployed. Lentz lost his job during the pandemic. The family home went into foreclosure, he said.

In 2023, Orthopedic Associates of Hartford sued Lentz over a $3,644 bill the practice said he owed after having shoulder surgery in 2018.

“I’d pay it if I could, I guess,” said Lentz, 59. “But I don’t even know where next month’s rent is coming from. I’m trying to climb out as best I can. I guess this is just one more thing to shovel in.”

The orthopedic group filed more than 580 lawsuits against patients from 2019 to 2024, prevailing in most, records show.

The medical group declined interview requests. But chief executive David Mudano said in a statement: “As an independent physician practice, we strive to balance compassion for patients with the financial responsibility required to sustain our practice.”

Old Debts and Disputed Claims

Lentz, who did not contest the lawsuit, said he has no reason to doubt he owes the debt. But in many cases reviewed by CT Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and in interviews, patients being sued questioned the accuracy of their medical bills, citing care they thought health insurance should have covered or, in some cases, bills for services they never received.

This reflects with aggressive collection tactics like lawsuits when disputes over the accuracy of medical bills and delayed or denied insurance claims are so widespread in American health care.

A by the federal Consumer Financial Protection Bureau found that nearly half of the medical debt complaints fielded by the agency involved bills that consumers said were erroneous in some way or that consumers said they’d already paid.

“We know people are billed incorrectly,” said Lester Bird, who studies debt collection lawsuits at the nonprofit Pew Charitable Trusts. Bird noted that courts are ill equipped to sort through disputed medical charges or insurance claims, especially when there is little documentation in most debt collection lawsuits.

“It’s complicated before it gets to the courts,” Bird said, “and it’s very complicated when it gets into the courts.”

This can create headaches for physicians and other providers. But billing problems ultimately affect patients and their families most, said Connecticut state Sen. Saud Anwar, a Democrat who is also a physician. “Patients are left to deal with it.”

Andrew Skolnick, an attorney in Milford, outside New Haven, was sued in 2023 by an imaging center where his wife had received services in 2020.

Skolnick said that when the couple, who were covered through his job-based insurance, originally received the bill from Diagnostic Imaging of Milford, he tried to tell the imaging center it had submitted the claim to the wrong insurance plan, but he said they wouldn’t speak with him.

The center later filed the lawsuit, alleging he owed more than $2,000, plus almost $300 in interest.

Despite interview requests, officials at Diagnostic Imaging of Milford did not comment for this article.

Unlike most patients who are sued, Skolnick had the resources and expertise to contest the suit. He said he offered to pay what would have been his responsibility under the plan if the imaging center had filed his claim correctly. He ultimately settled for $1,700, court records show.

“It wasn’t a tremendous amount, but I knew that they had made a mistake,” Skolnick said. “The system is not working.”

More Protections?

Anwar, the state lawmaker and physician, expressed concern that lawsuits undermine patients’ faith in their doctors.

“It’s a sacred relationship,” he said. “If your physician, who is taking care of you, is suing you for money, that’s a problem.

Many hospitals, facing bad publicity from suing patients, have stopped taking patients to court over unpaid bills. Hospital collection lawsuits identified by CT Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News in Connecticut court records plunged from more than 4,900 in 2019 to fewer than 300 in 2024.

Also, in recent years, several states, including Connecticut, have expanded protections for patients with bills they can’t pay.

Connecticut now from consumer credit reports, and legislators are pushing to get hospitals to provide more financial aid to patients. Other states have restricted the use of wage garnishment and property liens to collect medical debt.

But state efforts to rein in aggressive medical debt collections have mostly focused on hospitals. That may need to change, said Connecticut state Sen. Matt Lesser, a Democrat who co-chairs the legislature’s Human Services Committee.

He is a key backer of a bill that would bar hospitals from billing patients who receive public benefits like food assistance or who make less than twice the federal poverty level, about $32,000 for an individual.

The restriction would not apply to bills from physicians and other nonhospital providers, however. “We may have to go bigger if that’s where the heart of the matter is,” Lesser said.

Connecticut Gov. Ned Lamont, a Democrat who spearheaded an initiative to for more than 150,000 state residents, also expressed concern about physicians suing the people in their care.

“Everyone should do the right thing by patients,” he said.

This article was produced in partnership with , a statewide nonprofit newsroom that covers public policy and politics.

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“I feel like I’m suffocating inside this shelter, trapped with no way out,” Carlos’ son said, according to one of the teens’ attorneys, when asked to describe how he felt after months at the Houston-area facility. “Every day, the same routine. Every day, feeling stuck. It makes me feel hopeless and terrified.”

During daily video calls, Carlos, who had temporary protected status, urged the siblings to be patient, to trust the process. Federal officials had vetted Carlos before he could be granted custody and told him his case was complete. He believed he would soon be back with his children, who, like him, had sought refuge from political violence in Venezuela.  

An immigration officer called Carlos on a Friday and asked him to attend a meeting at an ICE office the following Monday to discuss reunification with his children. Once Carlos arrived, officers tried to force him to sign documents he said he didn’t understand. When he refused, they stripped off his clothes, seized his ID and belongings, and chained him by the neck, waist, and legs.

“They tricked me,” Carlos said in a phone call from an immigration detention center in El Paso, Texas, where he was held for several months. “They used my children to grab me,” he said.  

In reporting on the family’s story, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News reviewed court documents, spoke with the family’s immigration attorneys, interviewed Carlos, and reviewed statements from his children, translated from Spanish. Carlos is a pseudonym, being used at the request of attorneys concerned that speaking out could jeopardize Carlos’ immigration case or further delay his reunion with his family.

Using Children to Arrest Parents

Since 2003, the Department of Health and Human Services’ Office of Refugee Resettlement has cared for immigrant children under 18 who arrive in the country without their parents, often fleeing violence, abuse, or trafficking. The office, which in February had more than 2,300 children in shelters or with foster families across the country, is supposed to promptly release them to vetted caregivers, typically parents or other family members already living in the country.

Congress placed this responsibility with the health agency over 20 years ago to prioritize the well-being of unaccompanied children and separate their care from immigration enforcement priorities.

Now the second Trump administration is using migrant children held by the resettlement office to lure their parents, such as Carlos, whether or not they have a criminal record. A ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found the resettlement office, , coordinates with the Department of Homeland Security to arrest people seeking custody of migrant children.

Arrest documents show Homeland Security Investigations, the arm of the agency that normally focuses on organized criminals and traffickers, will interview parents or other caregivers then arrest them if they are in the country illegally. Before Donald Trump returned to the White House, the resettlement office prohibited data sharing and collaboration with immigration enforcement, and it did not deny caregivers custody of children solely because of their immigration status. Those last year.

It’s unclear exactly how many caregivers have been baited into arrest. LAist indicating more than 100 have been arrested while trying to get their kids out of detention, but ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News could not independently verify that number with federal agencies.

Since February, the Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Homeland Security, and Justice Department have not responded to questions about caregiver arrests. Prior to leaving DHS last month, Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin said the administration protects children from being released to people who shouldn’t care for them. Andrew Nixon, an HHS spokesperson, referred questions related to immigration enforcement to DHS.

At the same time, the resettlement office has that make it harder for caregivers to gain custody of unaccompanied children. These include narrowing the range of accepted documents, requiring fingerprint-based background checks for every adult in the home and backup caregivers, and requiring in-person appointments to verify identification documents, sometimes with ICE agents present. The requirements keep “children safe from traffickers and other bad, dangerous people,” Nixon said.

As of January, the agency had detained at least 300 children already placed with vetted sponsors and asked their caregivers to reapply, according to the National Center for Youth Law and the Democracy Forward Foundation. The advocacy groups filed calling these actions “a quieter, new form of family separation.” 

Reverse Separation

Dulce, a Guatemalan mother in Virginia, said her 8-year-old son was sent to a government shelter after he was detained during a traffic stop last summer while visiting family members in a different state.

At first, Dulce expected to get her son back within days — she had passed the government’s sponsorship requirements in 2024 and was reunited with him three weeks after he first crossed the border. But resettlement agency officials asked her to repeat the entire process and resubmit documents, Dulce said. It took eight months to get him back.

Dulce is a pseudonym being used at her request because she fears speaking out could get her deported.

At one point, Dulce was told to attend an interview at an ICE office to show her identification as part of the process of reuniting with her son. She refused out of fear that she too might be detained, because she doesn’t have legal status. She believes ICE agents visited her home at one point.

“I stopped going home,” Dulce said. “I lived with some of my friends for days.”

Even though she lived just 45 minutes away, Dulce was allowed to visit her son only twice a month.

Until recently, most unaccompanied children landed in government custody after being detained at the border. But border crossings started to fall in 2024, and the number of people coming to the U.S. has dropped precipitously in President Trump’s second term.

Now, hundreds of kids have been taken to government shelters after being swept up inside the country, often during immigration raids or traffic stops, according to the advocates’ lawsuit. Many were already living with relatives, including guardians already vetted by the resettlement agency.

Releases have grinded nearly to a halt. According to the resettlement office, children in its custody stayed in government shelters or foster care for an average of one month in 2024. As of February, that had jumped to more than half a year.

When children do get released, it’s often only after their attorneys file a lawsuit in federal court challenging their detention as unconstitutional.

Authorities released Dulce’s son to her in February after the boy’s attorneys filed such a petition. Dulce said she’s relieved to have him back but still anxious that ICE could show up at their house.

Immigrants at Risk

During Trump’s first term, his administration was criticized for of children who had been released from custody. President Joe Biden was blamed for how his administration processed a surge of unaccompanied children that peaked in 2021 with about 22,000 in the resettlement office’s custody. Though most children were placed with legitimate sponsors, some were placed with people who hadn’t cleared , putting them at risk of .

The Trump administration says it is checking on those , and the Justice Department has prosecuted . On March 1, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem, who is set to leave her role at the , touted a , including the resettlement office, that DHS said had tracked down 145,000 unaccompanied children who had been placed with caregivers during Biden’s term.

Yet internal HHS reports about that initiative obtained by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News show that nearly 11,800 of those migrant children and nearly 500 of their caregivers were arrested as of Jan. 29. Only 125 of those migrant children and 55 of those caregivers were arrested for alleged criminal activity, suggesting the majority were for immigration violations.

HHS referred questions about the figures in the reports to DHS, which did not respond to requests for comment about the data. However, Michelle Brané, who was a DHS official in the Biden administration, said the figures show that most of the arrests were to detain and deport migrants. Previously, the administration targeted parents and caregivers who had paid for children to cross the border, trying to levy smuggling charges against them.

“They have really dropped that pretense in a lot of ways, and they are going for anyone openly,” Brané said. “These numbers clearly reflect that this is not about public safety or about safety of the children.”

Case on Hold

Carlos left Venezuela in 2022 because of death threats and, like thousands of others fleeing that country, was granted what’s called temporary protected status under the Biden administration. That protection for most Venezuelans by the Trump administration.

In January 2025, days before Trump was sworn in for his second term, Carlos’ children crossed the border from Mexico to the U.S., turned themselves over to border authorities, and were immediately placed in the resettlement agency’s custody. Carlos spent months submitting paperwork to reunite with them. He said he’s their only parent, because their mother left when they were toddlers.  

Officials visited his home twice and determined he was fit to care for them, according to court documents petitioning for his release from detention. He passed DNA testing, proving he’s the biological father, one of his attorneys said. His arrest documents show he has “no criminal history.” In July, Carlos was told his reunification case was complete and being sent for approval. But then, with little explanation, the case was put on hold.

Before his arrest by ICE, Carlos said, he drove 14 hours each way from his home to visit his children. Once there, he could see them for only one hour. When he was in detention, he said, he spoke to them about every two weeks in quick, monitored phone calls.

He’s trying to stay hopeful, but it’s hard.

According to documents completed by ICE officers during his arrest and submitted in his court case, Carlos was arrested under an initiative called Operation Guardian Trace, which requires immigration officers to detain potential caregivers if they are in the country without legal authorization and recommend that they be deported.

“This operation is designed to force parents to make an impossible choice between reuniting with their children and seeking safety,” said one of Carlos’ attorneys, Chiqui Sanchez Kennedy of the Galveston-Houston Immigrant Representation Project, a nonprofit that helps low-income immigrants.

‘I’m Going to Wait’

In March, a federal judge said officials had unlawfully detained Carlos and he was released on bond.

But his children still face an uncertain future for now. Government shelters often lack sufficient resources, , and social workers say lengthy stays in these facilities can result in additional trauma.

“Not only is it bad, full stop, but the longer you’re there, the worse it gets,” said Jonathan Beier, associate director of research and evaluation for the Acacia Center for Justice’s Unaccompanied Children Program, which coordinates legal services for unaccompanied minors.

Carlos’ children could also be sent back to the country they fled. Because of his detention, Carlos will have to redo much of the process to reunite with them, according to an attorney for the children, Alexa Sendukas, also with the Galveston-Houston Immigrant Representation Project.

In statements shared through Sendukas, Carlos’ daughter said she no longer wants to be around others and spends most of the time in her room. His son, now 15, described having panic attacks and feeling that he’s missing out on life, whether it’s the opportunities he longs for — to learn English, to study science — or watching basketball with his family.

“I remember when I first arrived at this shelter, I was so hopeful and had faith that I would be reunited with my dad soon,” he said.

Carlos’ daughter spent the day crying in bed when the siblings learned their father had been detained. For days, they didn’t know where he was. Now, they fear the only way out is through adoption or foster care.

“I am afraid,” she said. “I’m going to wait for my dad forever.”

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“Every little ache, like my knee hurts,” she said, made her worry that “this is the end of the road for me.”

So Zapp, a 40-year-old communications director in New York, became one of millions of Americans to start taking an anxiety medication in recent years. For her, it was the serotonin-boosting drug Lexapro.

“I love it. It’s been great,” she said. “It’s really helped me manage.”

The proportion of American adults who took anxiety medications jumped from 11.7% in 2019 to 14.3% in 2024, with most of the increase occurring during the covid pandemic, according to from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. That’s 8 million more people, bringing the total to roughly 38 million, with sharp increases among young adults, people with a college degree, and adults who identify as LGBTQ+.

Even as psychiatric medications gain public acceptance and become easier to access through telehealth appointments, the rise of a class of antidepressants called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, known as SSRIs, has triggered a backlash from supporters of the “Make America Healthy Again” movement who argue they are harmful. Doctors and researchers say medications such as Prozac, Zoloft, and Lexapro are front-line treatments for many anxiety disorders, including generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder, and are being misrepresented as addictive and broadly harmful even though they’ve been proved safe for extended use.

Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has decried broadening SSRI use. During his Jan. 29 confirmation hearing, he said he knows people, including family members, who had a than people have quitting heroin. More recently, he a possible link between the use of SSRIs and other psychiatric medications and violent behavior like school shootings.

Food and Drug Administration Commissioner Marty Makary that SSRI use among pregnant women could lead to poor birth outcomes.

SSRIs’ common side effects include . Some SSRIs also and cause other sexual side effects.

For many people, however, the side effects are mild and tolerable and the benefits of treating chronic anxiety are worth it, said , president of the Southern California Psychiatric Society. “The statements about SSRIs were just not grounded in any sort of evidence or fact,” Kelly said of Kennedy’s comments.

A showed that over half of people with generalized anxiety disorder taking an SSRI saw their anxiety symptoms reduced by at least 50%. Side effects prompted about 1 in 12 to stop taking an SSRI.

“When it’s being done right and when you’re also using appropriate therapy techniques, SSRIs can be really, really helpful,” said , a psychiatrist who practices in Los Angeles.

MAHA Blames Anxiety on Poor Diet, Lack of Exercise

Supporters of MAHA have partly blamed poor dietary choices and the increase of a sedentary lifestyle for the rise of a number of health problems, including anxiety, depression, and other mental health disorders. As a remedy, they have called for measures such as reducing consumption of ultraprocessed foods, which to depression and anxiety, and cutting back on screen time in favor of exercise.

Psychiatrists often encourage a and exercise as an for . Wood said those who can manage anxiety without medication should also consider talk therapy. The proportion of American adults using mental health counseling boomed from 2019 to 2024 as teletherapy grew in popularity, federal data shows. “Anxiety disorders are amongst our psychiatric disorders that really respond well to cognitive behavioral therapy,” she said.

But medication can help.

Studies show the risks of taking SSRIs during pregnancy for mother and child. By contrast, “depression increases your risk for every complication for a mother and a baby,” Wood said, adding that recent statements by government officials about SSRI use during pregnancy are “potentially leading to real harm for these women.”

Some people who stop taking antidepressant medication , especially if they quit suddenly. But “the concept of addiction simply does not apply to these chemicals,” Kelly said, a statement .

Addiction, though, is a possibility with benzodiazepines such as Xanax that are often a second line of treatment for anxiety. These controlled substances can also in patients taking both types of drugs. During congressional hearings last year, Kennedy also decried benzodiazepine overuse as a problem.

While benzodiazepines are effective for short-term use, they require monitoring and care, Wood said.

“Those are really great meds for acute anxiety and not great as long-term anxiety medications, because they are habit-forming over time,” Wood said. “If you’re taking them on a daily basis, you’ll need more and more to get the same effect, and then you have to come down from them in a tapered way.”

And an are also occasionally taking beta-blockers such as propranolol for anxiety. Some people use beta-blockers to prevent a racing heart before a public speech or other big moments, even though they are not FDA-approved for treating anxiety and are prescribed “off-label.”

Beta-blockers , but they are “nonaddictive, really helpful for bringing down the autonomic nervous system, going from fight or flight to something more neutral, and really safe,” Wood said.

Social Shifts Drive Increased Use of Anxiety Meds

A number of could explain why so many more people are taking anxiety medication, increased social media use, more isolation, and heightened economic uncertainty, physicians and researchers say.

Plus, the medicines are relatively easy to get. Many people obtain SSRI and benzodiazepine prescriptions from their primary care physician. Others obtain the medications .

Many social media influencers , easing some stigma among young people and encouraging them to get help. About a third of teens said they get mental health information via social media.

Still, increased access to anxiety medication can be a problem when combined with a trend of self-diagnosis based on social media trends. A Google search for “” leads to sponsored promises of same-day treatment, though fine-print disclaimers clarify that a prescription is not guaranteed.

“I think increased access is good, but that’s not the same thing as, you know, ordering Xanax online,” Kelly said.

Young adults are largely driving an increase in anxiety medication use. The proportion of Americans ages 18 to 34 taking anxiety medication rose from 8.8% in 2019 — the first year such survey data became available — to 14.6% in 2024. By contrast, the rate didn’t change much among adults 65 and older, CDC data shows.

The pandemic and covid lockdowns greatly increased stress among many American adults, .

And data shows more women than men take anxiety medication. , a department chair and professor of sociology at the University of Pennsylvania, said that’s because they’re more likely to need them. They are also likelier than men to report when they feel anxious, and doctors are “inclined or see anxiety more readily in their female patients than their male patients,” Schnittker added.

Broader trends could also be at work. Schnittker said studies have shown anxiety growing more prevalent among ensuing generations for much of the 20th and 21st centuries. Schnittker, author of , said growing income inequality could be partly to blame, with people feeling stress over improving their economic status. Social and religious activities have been replaced by more isolation. And people have become more suspicious of others, creating a sense of unease around strangers.

For Zapp, the cancer survivor, it took a few months on Lexapro before she started seeing clear results. When she did, she said, it felt like her mind was less noisy, making it easier to focus. She also underwent talk therapy, but now her chronic anxiety is stabilized on medication alone.

“It definitely helped me get back to my day-to-day in a way that was productive and not just riddled with my anxieties throughout the day,” she said.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ Holly Hacker, Maia Rosenfeld, and Lydia Zuraw contributed to this report.

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After a routine doctor visit revealed Josie had lead poisoning, Hess quickly traced the source to the crumbling paint in her family’s century-old home in the Bayou St. John neighborhood. While it underwent lead remediation, the family stayed in a newer, lead-free house near Markey.

“Everyone was telling us the safest place to play was outside at playgrounds, so that’s where we went,” Hess said. Josie became a Markey regular, playing on the swings and slides.

Josie’s next blood test was a shock. “It skyrocketed,” Hess said. Josie’s lead levels had leaped to nearly five times the national health standard. The likely culprit, according to scientists at the time, was Josie’s favorite park. Soil testing found it had dangerously high levels of lead.

City officials took no action to inform Markey’s users or make the park safe. But parents started posting warning signs at the park and flooded City Hall with calls and emails. With Josie on her hip, Hess made an impassioned speech at a City Council meeting.

In short order, the city hired a company to test Markey and other parks and pledged to fix the lead problem wherever it was found.

“My impression was they were going to make them all lead-free parks,” Hess said.

But a Verite News investigation conducted over four months in 2025 found that lead pollution in New Orleans parks not only persists — it is more widespread than previously known. Dozens of city parks with playgrounds remain unsafe, including Markey and other parks that underwent a city-sponsored lead remediation in 2011.

The findings indicate that city officials fell short in their cleanup efforts then, and that a very large number of New Orleans children are exposed to excessive amounts of lead, said Howard Mielke, a retired Tulane University toxicologist and one of the nation’s top experts on lead contamination.

“It’s a failed program,” he said. “They didn’t do what they needed to do to bring the lead levels down in a single park.”

Verite News reporters tested hundreds of soil samples from 84 city parks with playgrounds in fall 2025. Adrienne Katner, a lead-contamination researcher with Louisiana State University, verified the results. The testing found that about half the parks had lead concentrations that exceeded the established in 2024 for soil in urban areas.

“If there’s evidence of kids playing in soils that are as high as you described, that’s kind of horrifying,” Gabriel Filippelli, an Indiana University biochemist who studies lead exposure, told Verite News.

Public health researchers and doctors say that children under 6 absorb lead-laden dust more easily than adults, contaminating their blood and harming the long-term development of their brains and nervous systems. There is no known safe exposure level for children, and even trace amounts can result in behavioral problems and lower cognitive abilities.

Larry Barabino is the CEO of the New Orleans Recreation Development Commission, which oversees most of the city’s parks. He said the city doesn’t routinely test for lead in parks, and he confirmed that the last significant effort to do so was in 2011.

He called Verite’s results “definitely concerning” and pledged to work with city officials, local experts, and a city environmental consultant, Materials Management Group, to potentially remediate unsafe parks.

“It’s definitely concerning if it’s at the level that’s considered a true risk or threat, and we would get it to Capital Projects immediately to get MMG out there,” Barabino said, referring to the . “If there’s anything that’s a true environmental concern or risk, that’s something that we believe in definitely making sure we take action.”

But New Orleans is in financial straits, with a of about $220 million, and it’s unclear what resources new mayor Helena Moreno would be able to devote to restart lead remediation efforts. In response to the financial crisis, Moreno has already eliminated dozens of positions and plans to furlough 700 employees one day per pay period to save money. Moreno’s administration did not respond to requests for comment.

Andrea Young heard pledges similar to Barabino’s 15 years ago. Like Hess, Young had a child who frequented Markey and had high lead levels in her blood. Alongside other mothers, she helped push the city to take action. Young thought they had succeeded but said she now realizes that the city didn’t do enough.

“It makes me question the value” of the work the city did, Young said, “and the safety we felt in letting our kids play there again.”

Testing New Orleans Parks

Lead is typically found in very small amounts in natural soil. The average lead abundance in U.S. soils is , equivalent to less than an ounce of lead per ton of soil.

But New Orleans, like many other cities, has a long history of lead contamination in its soil, from sources including lead-based paint, leaded gasoline, and emissions from waste incinerators and other industrial facilities. Lead particles spread easily by wind, eventually settling in the topsoil.

The federal hazard level for lead in soil was 400 ppm , when the Environmental Protection Agency lowered it to 200 ppm for most residential areas and 100 ppm in urban areas like New Orleans with multiple sources of lead exposure. Last fall, the Trump administration , arguing it was confusing to have two thresholds. It didn’t argue that the 100-ppm level was safe.

More of a guide than a mandate, the EPA screening levels can steer federal cleanup actions and are often adopted by state and city governments to inform local responses to lead contamination. California has long had a much of 80 ppm.

Mielke said the Trump administration’s change doesn’t align with the science, which has long shown that children are harmed when exposed to soil with levels below 100 ppm. He was one of several scientists who had pushed for lower thresholds after the EPA established its first screening levels more than 30 years ago.

He said the 100-ppm level should still be applied in urban areas, especially New Orleans.

Verite conducted soil tests on the 84 city parks that property inventories and maps list as having play structures. Samples were taken from surface soil, which is most likely to come into contact with children’s hands and toys or be inhaled when kicked up during play or blown by the wind.

The average soil sample collected by Verite contained lead levels of about 121 ppm. Elevated lead levels tended to follow the age of the neighborhood. The city’s older neighborhoods, including the Irish Channel and Algiers Point, had some of the highest lead levels, while places like Gentilly and New Orleans East, developed mostly after the 1950s, tended to have lower levels, according to Verite’s findings.

The highest lead levels were found at Evans Park in the Freret neighborhood. Beside a low-hanging oak branch, on ground worn bare by children’s play, Verite recorded lead at 5,998 ppm, nearly 60 times the 100-ppm urban soils threshold.

Verite spoke to more than a dozen parents at playgrounds throughout the city, and most were surprised at the levels of lead in the parks.

In the Irish Channel, Meg Potts watched her son run around the dusty Brignac playground. All of Verite’s samples at that park surpassed the threshold the EPA deemed safe for urban areas, reaching nearly 600 ppm.

Potts knew high lead levels existed in the city but said she didn’t realize her neighborhood park could be a source of exposure for her son.

“ I’m just, like, thinking about all of this now because he’s had to go in and have his lead tested,” she said. “He’s like right on the cusp of having too-high lead.”

Katner, the LSU researcher, said Verite’s results can serve as a starting point for city officials to conduct more comprehensive testing in parks, noting that even a single lead hot spot in a park is concerning.

“The kid playing in that part of the park is going to get the highest dose,” she said.

A Legacy of Lead

Before the 1970s, lead was ubiquitous. A that most of the U.S. population born before the 1980s was poisoned by dangerously high levels of lead in early childhood, resulting in an average loss of at least one IQ point.

Lead pollution from cars spread into areas near roads, especially major thoroughfares, until leaded gasoline was phased out by 1996. Similarly, emissions from trash incinerators and industrial sites contaminated the surrounding soil in some New Orleans neighborhoods until they were closed in the 1970s and ’80s.

Today, the most pervasive source of lead in soil is degraded paint. Lead-based paint was used extensively for homes and buildings until it was banned in 1978. In New Orleans, most of the houses were built before 1980, according to the . As the paint deteriorates, Tulane University epidemiologist Felicia Rabito said, it can chip or turn into toxic dust.

“ The leaded paint goes straight into the dust and it goes straight into the soils, which is a major source of exposure for young children in the city,” said Rabito, who studies lead poisoning and other health conditions.

Children under 6 are especially vulnerable, in part because they like to stick their hands in their mouths. A child eating a dropped Cheerio or putting their thumb in their mouth after playing on a seesaw can be enough to cause harm. Rabito recommended that parents avoid contaminated playgrounds.

The only way to know whether a child has lead poisoning is a medical test. By , Louisiana health care providers to ensure every child between 6 months and 6 years of age receives at least two blood tests, recommended at age 1 and age 2.

But the law does not include a way to enforce those testing requirements, so many health care providers don’t test, according to a from the Louisiana Department of Health. In 2022, fewer than 1 in 10 children under 6 were screened for lead poisoning in the city, according to data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

“ There’s not anything that we can say about lead poisoning or lead levels in children in Orleans Parish with any scientific certainty,” Rabito said. “ Parents really need to get their children tested.”

Limited Soil Testing, Patchy Fixes

In 2011, the last time there was outcry over lead pollution in parks, the New Orleans health commissioner at the time, Karen DeSalvo, said the city should do “everything we can to understand what the risk might be and to remediate it.” But she also called it “not the greatest challenge, honestly,” .

Then-Mayor Mitch Landrieu promised a comprehensive response.

“The city will take all necessary measures to investigate possible lead contamination in other parks and playgrounds and remediate them as soon as possible,” he said .

Two months later, testing and remediation were completed at several parks. Parents brought their children back to the reopened playgrounds.

Despite city leaders’ assurances of a broad response, only 16 parks were tested in 2011 and the city’s piecemeal cleanup covered only patches of contaminated soil rather than entire parks, according to documents obtained through public records requests.

That stunned the vocal group of parents who had pushed for cleaning up the Markey playground. Young, one of the mothers, said the scope of the 2011 testing and remediation was much more limited than she thought.

“If the majority of the parks they tested were high, what would make them think all the others are fine?” she said.

Verite’s testing found high levels of lead at several playgrounds that were remediated in 2011, including Markey.

The results disturbed Mielke, the Tulane toxicologist.

In 2010, Mielke led an effort to reduce lead exposure at 10 private child care center playgrounds in New Orleans. He and his team covered the entire footprint of each playground with water-pervious plastic fabric and then 6 inches of Mississippi River sediment from the Bonnet Carré Spillway, a source of clean, cheap, and easily accessible soil. Lead levels fell, with most playgrounds testing below 10 ppm.

In contrast, the city’s remediation was mostly limited to areas with lead levels above 400 ppm, leaving many hazardous areas exposed. Testing and remediation reports obtained by Verite typically showed MMG focused on two or three spots in each park, with the rest going untreated.

At Easton Park in Bayou St. John, for instance, the 2011 remediation covered four areas totaling about 4,700 square feet, but the park’s playground was left untouched. Verite measured four samples around the playground that exceeded the 100-ppm threshold, including 1,060-ppm and 603-ppm readings near Easton’s swing set.

One park, Evans in the Freret neighborhood, wasn’t remediated despite lead levels as high as 610 ppm in 2011. The reason wasn’t clear in progress reports submitted by MMG. In Verite’s 2025 tests, Evans recorded the highest level, with 5,998 ppm in one location.

MMG did not respond to requests for comment.

Landrieu did not respond to a request for comment. DeSalvo, who retired last summer as Google’s chief health officer, said “extremely limited resources” forced the city to weigh its response to lead contamination in parks with the many other health threats residents faced.

“We worked to address the range of exposures whenever possible with the resources we could muster,” she said.

A Road Map for Cleanup?

Filippelli, of Indiana University, said the city should conduct comprehensive testing of every park and do regular checkups.

But because lead contamination in New Orleans parks is extensive and city leaders are struggling to close a large budget deficit, Filippelli recommends that the city remediate the worst parks first.

He and Mielke don’t believe the city must go the expensive route of full remediation, which involves digging up lead-tainted soil and trucking it to a hazardous waste landfill. It’s usually unnecessary if a park is properly capped with clean soil, Filippelli said.

Verite obtained cost estimates for 10 of the 13 parks targeted for remediation in 2011. The total cost was $83,000 in 2011, or about $120,000 today. The work covered just more than 1.3 acres across the 10 properties. Filippelli estimated that similar work could be done today for about $20,000 per acre — about a fifth of what was spent to remediate just over an acre at New Orleans parks.

Remediation should be coupled with efforts to reduce contamination from nearby sources, primarily old houses shedding lead-based paint, Rabito said.

“When you clean up soil, you’re not going to do it much good if you haven’t identified what’s contaminating the soil,” she said.

Cleaning up New Orleans parks is also likely to require sustained public pressure, said the parents involved with the lead issue in 2011.

“I was not intending to kick butts or make anybody look bad,” Claudia Copeland said of her efforts to alert parents about the dangers at Markey. “But nothing would have happened unless all these parents were calling in to the city.”

Methodology

Verite News reporters Tristan Baurick and Halle Parker were trained to use , or XRF, a handheld device that can detect the unique traits of lead at trace levels, down to 10 parts per million. The analyzer is widely used by government and university scientists.

The reporters tested 531 soil samples over a month in late 2025, following protocols developed by retired Tulane University toxicologist Howard Mielke and vetted by three other lead-contamination researchers. The reporters tested surface soil in and around play structures and other areas of parks that children use. Of the more than 110 parks in New Orleans, Verite concentrated on the 84 that city property inventories and maps list as having play structures. The reporters took between three and 11 samples at each park, depending on the size, site accessibility, and levels of contamination. A GPS device was used to record each sample’s location.

Verite’s results were reviewed by Adrienne Katner, a lead-contamination researcher at Louisiana State University. She verified the accuracy of the testing by comparing it with a smaller set of park soil samples collected by her team last summer.

While valid, the method did have limitations. The results can’t be used to determine the state of a whole park. But even one elevated soil sample can provide a starting point for city officials to conduct more comprehensive testing.

This article was produced in collaboration with . The four-month investigation was supported by a Kozik Environmental Justice Reporting grant funded by the National Press Foundation and the National Press Club Journalism Institute. It was also produced as a project for the USC Annenberg Center for Health Journalism’s National Fellowship fund and Dennis A. Hunt Fund for Health Journalism.

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Bostic learned of a federal program designed to help people who suffer rare vaccine reactions.

The Vaccine Injury Compensation Program was created in 1986 after a flood of vaccine injury lawsuits drove drugmakers from the market. Congress aimed to offer a faster and more generous path to compensation for people injured by vaccines, while shielding manufacturers from liability. The VICP, commonly known as vaccine court, is taxpayer-funded. The government pays any award to claimants as well as attorneys fees.

Bostic filed a claim in 2022 for compensation to cover her son’s spiraling medical bills. She then contacted the Carlson Law Firm, which referred her to Arizona-based attorney Andrew Downing — who now serves as a senior adviser to Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

Downing declined to comment and HHS did not respond to requests for comment for this article.

Downing, who has represented hundreds of plaintiffs in vaccine court in Washington, D.C., signed on to take their case, according to reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. They agreed Downing would pursue the claim before the VICP.

Bostic shared documents and medical records as he requested them. Months passed as she waited for news on her son’s case.

After several months of making court filings, Downing told her it was time to opt out of the vaccine program and sue the drugmaker. When she refused to opt out, he withdrew from the case.

The government paid Downing $445 an hour for representing Bostic, for program attorneys with his experience, according to court records.

Three years later, Bostic said, she hasn’t received a dime for her son’s injury. Thomas, now 18, endures debilitating pain that doctors say may never go away.

Rather than help them work through the program, Bostic feels that Downing steered them away from it and toward a lawsuit against the manufacturer. The VICP ultimately dismissed her case.

Bostic was furious that the court paid Downing anything.

“Y’all could’ve gave that to me for my son,” she said. “How dare y’all.”

In Business With Washington

In June, Kennedy’s HHS also awarded Downing’s law firm, Brueckner Spitler Shelts, a to consult on an overhaul of the VICP. The contract has grown to $410,000. Downing is the only attorney listed on the firm’s website who has practiced in vaccine court.

Kennedy has routinely questioned vaccine safety and saying it shields drug companies from some liability “.” As a personal injury lawyer, Kennedy previously spearheaded civil litigation against vaccine maker Merck.

Downing and about a dozen other lawyers have transferred hundreds of clients from the vaccine program to civil suits, where the financial rewards — for patients and their lawyers — could run far higher, according to a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis of court records and program data. They’ve collected millions of taxpayer dollars in attorneys fees from vaccine court while launching precisely what it was designed to avoid: lawsuits against vaccine manufacturers.

This shift in legal strategy has fueled Kennedy’s crusade against Merck, and it could end up hurting some vaccine-injured clients, several experts said.

University of California Law-San Francisco professor Dorit Reiss has studied vaccine court for over a decade and has tracked the rise of anti-vaccine forces in American politics. She said VICP attorneys who are also suing vaccine makers have “incentives to direct more people” to lawsuits, “when it might not be in their best interest.”

A Delicate Balance

Kennedy has criticized the VICP as a barrier to accountability. But for Bostic, vaccine court offered an opportunity to hold the government to its promise of caring for casualties of widespread immunization.

Like any medication, vaccines can have side effects. Serious reactions to routine shots are rare, but for the unlucky few who bear this burden, the government promises recourse through its administrative program.

Vaccine court aims to strike a balance between protecting public health and helping individuals who may pay its price. The no-fault program allows claimants with vaccine-related injuries to get help without showing that the vaccine maker did anything wrong, even when the evidence doesn’t meet courtroom standards.

The program has made more than 12,500 awards, totaling roughly $5 billion in compensation. Historically, nearly half of claims have been resolved with some kind of award.

If patients aren’t satisfied with the outcome or don’t get a ruling within 240 days, they may leave the administrative program and sue the vaccine maker in civil court. Plaintiffs could potentially win larger awards. Lawyers could obtain higher fees, which they can’t in vaccine court.

But winning a civil suit is far more difficult, in part because plaintiffs have a greater burden of showing the vaccine caused their injury and that the maker was at fault. Since the VICP was created, no vaccine injury lawsuit has won a judgment in regular court, records show.

That hasn’t stopped some lawyers from trying. After the requisite 240 days, they have transferred hundreds of VICP claims into civil litigation against HPV vaccine manufacturer Merck, the ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis found.

The lawyers who represented those claims include Downing and other VICP attorneys with ties to Kennedy, court records show. Those include Kennedy advisers and people who work in the law office of his longtime personal lawyer Aaron Siri or with Children’s Health Defense, the anti-vaccine outfit Kennedy founded, as well as a former Kennedy co-counsel in suits against Merck over its HPV vaccine, Gardasil.

Downing, whose describes him as “one of the preeminent litigation attorneys in the Court of Federal Claims,” has not won an HPV vaccine injury claim in the past five years, records show. Vaccine court did compensate dozens of HPV vaccine claims in that time, but most — including nearly all of Downing’s — were withdrawn upon reaching the opt-out period.

VICP data and court records show that over the past five years, Downing and other lawyers withdrew roughly 400 Gardasil claims from vaccine court before a ruling was issued. The plaintiffs received nothing from the program. Hundreds of these cases joined the litigation against Merck, according to court records.

Once the opt-out period arrived in Bostic’s case, Downing informed her that he was preparing to withdraw her son’s claim and move the case back to the original law firm for a lawsuit against Merck.

“That,” he wrote in an email, “was the plan all along.”

Fighting for Compensation

Thomas, who hopes to enroll in community college and become a computer programmer, has intermittent numbness in his fingers and stabbing sensations in his arm nearly every day. The pain often radiates across his back or up his neck, and he’s developed migraines. Once an active kid who dreamed of playing basketball professionally, he now spends his time playing video games and trying to sleep during lulls in his pain.

Bostic’s claim on behalf of her son made him one of about 1,000 people who have filed with vaccine court for HPV vaccine injuries. More than 200 have received compensation — just over one for every million shots given. Court records show program awards were typically $50,000 to $100,000, with some also covering past medical bills or future health care expenses.

Richard Hughes IV, a health care attorney and former pharmaceutical executive who teaches vaccine law at George Washington University Law School, reviewed Thomas’ records and said cases like his were exactly what the vaccine program was designed to address.

“That just seems straightforward,” Hughes said of Thomas’ claim. “That should have gotten compensated.”

Bostic wanted the federal agencies that had approved and recommended Gardasil to answer for her son’s injuries. The single mother hoped compensation from the program would allow Thomas to see specialists including neurologists, afford natural treatments, and enroll in physical therapy.

“He would have had the best of the best health care,” she said.

When Downing took their case, Bostic said, he told her during a phone call that vaccine court’s $250,000 limit on pain and suffering was too low for her son’s injury. Bostic said Downing advised she could get more money by suing Merck, though that could take longer.

“I said, ‘No, that will take years. My son needs help now,’” Bostic recalled.

Bostic said she told Downing she wanted a fund set up for Thomas’ health care as soon as possible.

In the following weeks, Bostic sent paperwork to Downing’s office but had difficulty getting in touch with him, email and text messages show. Downing’s show a gap in his work on the case from late September until mid-November.

In November 2022, Downing emailed Bostic, “The opt out date for K.T.’s case is set for April 23, 2023. At that point, we will be in a position to opt K.T.’s case out of the Vaccine Program and move the case back over to the Carlson Law Firm for handling in the Merck litigation.”

Bostic said she was confused at the time by that language. But she remembers being emphatic in a follow-up phone call with Downing, repeatedly telling him she would not opt out.

After that, Bostic said, she didn’t hear from Downing for months despite calling his office and leaving messages with secretaries.

Downing’s billing records show that he and his paralegals spent fewer than nine hours on Bostic’s case in that stretch. This included time spent requesting, reviewing, and filing medical records, as well as drafting and filing extension requests. The billing records did not include any communication with Bostic during that time.

The court granted each of Downing’s extension requests, pushing back the deadline a month at a time.

In April 2023, Downing sent Bostic an email noting that 240 days had passed, so he could drop their government claim and they could sue Merck.

“Gardasil cases do not receive very fair treatment in the Vaccine Program,” Downing wrote, adding that he would withdraw as her attorney if Bostic stayed in the program.

Bostic chose to stick with vaccine court, later telling the vaccine court judge by email that she’d advised her attorney “I was not trying to become a millionaire.”

That exchange of emails in April is when Bostic said she learned Downing was already representing plaintiffs in lawsuits over Gardasil. The litigation encompassed hundreds of other patients who — most of them under Downing’s counsel — had filed VICP claims in recent years.

Running out the 240-day clock, critics say, is allowed but subverts the program’s intent.

Some legal experts criticize the way Downing handled Bostic’s case.

“They trusted him to file the VICP case,” Reiss said. “It’s his job to zealously advocate for his clients. In this case, his clients want to go through VICP. It’s his job to fight for them in VICP, not to wait for 240 days.”

When Downing joined HHS as a senior adviser to Kennedy, court records show, he handed off his remaining vaccine court cases to other attorneys in firms involved in the litigation against Merck.

A New Approach

The vaccine program has long faced criticism for giving claimants too little, too late. Even VICP advocates see the need for reform, with eight officials deciding a growing , driving up wait times. The cap on pain and suffering payments has not changed since 1986. But the court can award further compensation like a fund for lifetime medical care that can reach millions.

Most vaccine-injured individuals are better off in the administrative program than in civil litigation, legal experts said.

Renée Gentry, director of GWU’s Vaccine Injury Litigation Clinic and a founding member of the Vaccine Injured Petitioners Bar Association, has represented hundreds of families alleging vaccine injuries. Most of them, she said, aren’t focused on big payouts; rather, they “want their kid taken care of or they want to be taken care of.”

For claims that often fail in vaccine court, however, Gentry said a lawsuit may be the best option. According to Gentry, HPV vaccine claims like Thomas’ are particularly challenging to win in the VICP.

“If you’re not going to win, then you want those clients to have at least an opportunity at something,” she said.

For Mark Sadaka, a prominent vaccine court lawyer representing some claims in Merck litigation, sending clients to regular court is a last resort.

Sadaka said certain Gardasil injury claimants, such as those alleging mental rather than physical harm, might be better off in litigation. But by sticking it out in the VICP, Sadaka has won HPV vaccine injury claims that were the first of their kind, including for narcolepsy, alopecia, and even a deadly arrhythmia.

“He’s going to get taken care of for the rest of his life,” Sadaka said of his client who won compensation for narcolepsy in 2023. “And he doesn’t have to pay me anything.”

Sadaka, like all program lawyers, gets an hourly rate from the VICP. He said that he could make much more money representing the same claims in traditional litigation, since he could get a cut of any awards.

“It’s a better thing for me to file in regular court and get a higher fee, but for the client, sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn’t,” Sadaka said. “My role is to explain both sides in gross detail for them and give them as much information as possible so they can make an informed decision.”

According to Sadaka, some lawyers in the VICP automatically advise their clients to leave vaccine court and file a lawsuit.

“If they can extract settlements, they’re going to be very happy to put that money in their pockets,” Hughes noted.

Winning a lawsuit or reaching a major settlement could also spell trouble for nationwide vaccine access, replaying the events that gave rise to vaccine court in the 1980s.

Some vaccine lawyers and policymakers believe Kennedy and his colleagues might welcome a return to those days.

“If they can bring down the system, that’s a feather in their cap,” Hughes said.

Lawyers cannot win contingency fees in vaccine court. They get paid for time spent on reasonable claims whether they win or lose. Downing made more than $1 million representing clients before the VICP in recent years, according to court records.

A shows that since fiscal year 2020, the program has paid scores of attorneys about $280 million — including over $43 million for cases they did not win.

In each of the last two fiscal years, lawyers got roughly $9 million for VICP claims in which their clients got nothing. That was more than the program had ever previously paid to attorneys for unsuccessful claims, according to vaccine court data.

‘Learning How To Cope’

After discovering her attorney would not pursue VICP compensation for her son, Bostic decided to advocate for Thomas herself.

“Please help me,” she wrote in a letter to the court.

VICP staff gave Bostic extra time to find a new lawyer and gather records.

The following months proved difficult for the family. Bostic was hospitalized with a life-threatening condition. Her mother’s health declined. She was laid off and lost her family’s health insurance.

By the time Bostic could take Thomas to a pediatric neurologist to get medical records for his VICP case, she said, the doctor had moved hours away to Orlando.

Bostic repeatedly missed deadlines and failed to communicate with program staff as required, court records show. Emails, docket entries, and letters suggest she may have misunderstood some court orders and not received others.

When Thomas’ medical records remained incomplete for another year, the presiding official dismissed Bostic’s claim, writing that while he had sympathy for what she and her son had endured, “the case cannot be allowed to remain pending indefinitely.”

Thomas said he can no longer play basketball with friends. He can’t even help his mother carry groceries into the house.

“I got to live with this, and there’s pain,” he said.

Bostic now works from home as a bank fraud analyst. With an income just above the cutoff for government assistance, she puts in overtime in hopes of affording health insurance for Thomas and her six other children.

“People are asking, ‘How’s your son doing?’” Bostic said. “I normally say, ‘Still the same. We just learning how to cope with it.’”

Methodology

The ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis began with court records for cases in the U.S. Court of Federal Claims, which includes vaccine court. We first identified all cases since 2006 (when the HPV vaccine was introduced) in which the “nature of suit” field explicitly mentioned human papillomavirus, or in which “nature of suit” was categorized as “other” vaccine injury/death and the case text included the word “papillomavirus.” The latter made up about 10% of identified cases, mostly claims filed before the HPV vaccine was added to the program or claims involving multiple vaccines. We cross-referenced the number of cases with data from VICP reports to verify completeness.

After identifying the relevant vaccine court cases, we pulled these claims’ filing and closing dates and took the difference to find the number of days that each case spent in vaccine court. To estimate total attorneys fees awarded for these claims, we added the fee amounts recorded in dozens of the VICP rulings and derived a minimum estimate based on the number of such cases.

We then searched federal court records for litigation over Merck’s HPV vaccine, Gardasil, and pulled the names of the plaintiffs and attorneys involved. To gauge the scale of claims diverted from the VICP to litigation, we searched for each attorney in the Gardasil-related vaccine court cases and searched for the last name of each plaintiff in the titles of those cases.

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The April wind was chilly at one of the tribes’ highest vistas in remote southeastern Idaho.

“Our goal is to bring fiber out here,” Goli said, sweeping one hand across the horizon. The landscape below is scattered with homes, bordered in the east by snowcapped mountain peaks and to the west by “The Bottoms,” where tribal bison graze along the Snake River.

In between, on any given day, a cancer patient drives to the reservation’s casino to call doctors. A young mother asks one child not to play video games so another can do homework. Tribal field nurses update charts in paper notebooks at patients’ homes, then drive back to the clinic to pull up records, send orders, or check prescriptions.

Three years ago, the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes were awarded more than $22 million during the first round of the federal Tribal Broadband Connectivity Program. But tribes that were awarded millions in a second round of funding saw their payments held up under the Trump administration. Last month, federal leaders to tribal broadband programs as part of a larger effort to “reduce red tape.” The National Telecommunications and Information Administration said it plans to “promote flexibility” and launch a new grant in the spring.

Federal regulators declined to provide details. The announcement comes after a year of upheaval for federal broadband programs, including the elimination of Digital Equity Act funding, which President Donald Trump has and a restructured $42 billion Broadband, Equity, Access, and Deployment program, which U.S. Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick said was influenced by “.”

Across Indian Country and on the Fort Hall Reservation, high-speed despite billions set aside for tribes. In early November, U.S. Sens. Maria Cantwell (D-Wash.) and Brian Schatz (D-Hawaii) why funds already awarded had not been released to tribes and whether federal regulators were providing adequate technical assistance.

So far, the $3 billion tribal program has announced $2.24 billion in awards for 275 projects nationwide. But tribes that won awards have drawn down only about $500 million, according to a from the Commerce Department’s Office of Inspector General.

The agency on the broadband programs, offering tribal leaders two dates in January for online meetings.

The Shoshone-Bannock Tribes have drawn down less than 2% of their awarded funding and the program has not yet connected a single household, Goli said. NTIA spokesperson Stephen Yusko said the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes are still slated to get their full grant award and, he confirmed, future spending will not be subject to the administration’s recalibrations.

Gaps in high-speed internet can be profound and urgent on tribal lands. Tribal members are historically underserved and, on average, live with the highest rates of chronic illnesses and die than the average U.S. resident.

Diabetes and high suicide rates are among the most pernicious tribal health challenges — and federal research confirms telehealth . A showed that people tend to live sicker and die younger in America when they live in dead zones, or places where poor internet access intersects with shortages of health care providers, leaving patients who need it most unable to use telehealth.

“We’re in survival mode,” said Nancy Eschief Murillo, a longtime Shoshone-Bannock leader. The tribes, which have an on-site clinic, need more health care both in person and with telehealth, she said. “Right now, our reservation? We don’t have accessibility.”

‘Not 100% Accurate’

Inside a trailer that serves as the temporary headquarters for Fort Hall’s tribal broadband office, Goli sat at a desk in June and scanned the Federal Communications Commission’s most recent online map of the reservation.

As the tribes’ broadband project manager, Goli didn’t like what she saw on the map. Blue hexagons highlighted varying rates of high-speed coverage and signified that high-speed internet is available on much of the reservation. Companies have told federal regulators they provide fast transmission speeds to homes there.

“These are untrue,” Goli said. Fort Hall has about 2,400 households, and nearly all of them live without high-speed internet, she said.

When it comes to tracking who on a reservation has high-speed internet, “everybody acknowledges, including the FCC, that the map is not 100% accurate,” said Robert Griffin, co-chair of the Fiber Broadband Association Tribal Committee, an industry trade group. He is also the broadband director for the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma.

Attempting to correct the maps is one of the many tasks Goli has taken on since becoming the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes’ broadband project manager in January 2023 — seven months after the tribes won the award.

A series of hurdles, including flaws in the plan initially approved by the federal government and a cyberattack, have delayed the project, she said. The attack hit in August 2024 and for months shut down nearly all phones and computers on the reservation.

“We didn’t have access to any of our information,” Goli told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News this month, adding that the tribes are still “in recovery mode” from the attack.

Goli, who grew up on the reservation and still plays basketball at the tribal gym, left her job as a data analyst in Seattle to return home to be with family and to work. For two years, and with no broadband industry experience, Goli has overseen the multimillion-dollar grant without a staff.

Her first task, she said, was to collect data that could help create a realistic plan to deliver broadband to every home on the reservation. “Data tells a story,” Goli said.

Fort Hall and many other tribal lands are remote with rugged, expansive terrain. To build fiber-optic cables underground, the tribes must navigate lava rock and work with the Bureau of Indian Affairs to get permits. To build communications towers, the tribes must ensure they follow migratory bird rules for American bald eagles. To provide wireless connections, the tribes must buy or license spectrum from federal regulators, Goli said.

When the federal tribal broadband program launched, more than — pitching projects totaling $5 billion  — submitted requests to the NTIA. During a later round of funding, asked for more than $2.6 billion, even though only $980 million was available. There are 574 federally recognized tribes in the United States.

The tribal program funding was not enough to “build out Indian Country,” said Joe Valandra, chief executive and chairman of the broadband consulting firm Tribal Ready. Valandra is a member of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe of South Dakota.

Congress created the tribal program to be used in combination with funds from the larger $42 billion Broadband, Equity, Access, and Deployment, or BEAD, program, Valandra said.

But now, it seems “the administration has no appetite for expensive broadband infrastructure builds in rural areas,” said Jessica Auer, a senior researcher with the community broadband networks team at the Institute for Local Self-Reliance, a research and advocacy nonprofit.

Auer, who has of tribal programs, said the administration may think the money already given to states for BEAD, as well as the use of satellite internet connections, will be enough for tribal lands.

“They seem to have a strong interest in declaring this problem solved,” she said. Low-earth-orbit satellites, though, are costly for the consumer and do not always offer the consistent high speeds they should, she said.

Goli’s plan does not include the use of satellites. On Fort Hall, the few households that have fast speeds now buy Starlink, but tribal leaders say the $80 to $120 monthly subscription costs are too expensive for most members.

The newly revised plan will use a hybrid of fiber-optic cables and wireless internet to ensure that people can “live their lives, whether it be health, education, telehealth,” Goli said.

The Test

Ladd Edmo, a councilman for the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, thinks the tribal broadband project is taking too long.

Goli “is doing the best she can,” Edmo said.

But when he thinks about the millions waiting to be spent, Edmo said, he worries federal regulators “can just grab it back.”

“I’m not afraid of the current administration,” said Edmo, who is in his fifth term on the tribes’ business council. “I just think that they’re looking for money everywhere they can.”

Edmo lives about half a mile from the Fort Hall townsite and said he can’t really use his internet because he “gets a tremendous amount of buffering.” When he travels to doctors for his prostate cancer treatment, Edmo has them print paper schedules to keep track of his treatment.

He said he is not a big fan of telehealth, “probably because I don’t know how to use it.”

For 53-year-old Carol Cervantes Osborne, who also lives on the reservation, having internet is a necessity. Osborne is in constant pain from severe rheumatoid arthritis.

“I’m just all broke down,” Osborne said as she stared at the open pasture last June. She talked about how she misses riding cattle roundups. At times, Osborne has been bed-bound because of her arthritis and bad knees. She said she tapped her credit line, which uses land and cattle as collateral, and signed up for Starlink so that she can connect with doctors remotely through telehealth appointments.

“I’m poor because of it, but we’ve got to have it,” Osborne said.

Meanwhile, nearly 15 months after the cyberattack, Goli said the tribes are beginning to hire vendors.

“Things happen very slow when it comes to processing things in the tribal government,” Goli said, adding there are a lot of “checks and balances.”

This month — as the holidays approached — Goli said she was excited.

“We’ve actually started our first segment of fiber,” Goli said. The engineering work is done, and they have begun issuing permits, she said. The fiber-optic lines, built by a private vendor, will cover a two-mile segment on the northern end of the reservation. The line will come from outside the reservation and connect to the tribes’ data hub, which is an old radio station still being converted into broadband offices.

“It’s our first segment, and we’re really using this as a test,” Goli said.

Eventually, the old radio station will be central to operations, with fiber-optic cable lines that web out over about 800 square miles to reach the reservation’s five district lodges. Each lodge will establish a communications tower, which will use the fiber line to power wireless antennas that will then provide high-speed internet to the reservation’s most remote homes.

Goli said the tribes are applying for another extension — and, she said, they would not be the only award winners of the Tribal Broadband Connectivity Program to ask for more time. Working with tribes, she said, takes time.

“It really saddens me that we’ve been left behind all these years,” Goli said, but “this is our opportunity. We want to do it right, slow and steady.”

Sarah Jane Tribble, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ chief rural correspondent, spent more than a year interviewing Frances Goli through calls, texts, and emails. She traveled to Fort Hall Reservation twice, having received tribal approval to visit the land: in spring 2024 and again in summer 2025. Tribble also reviewed publicly requested copies of the tribal contract and interviewed dozens of industry and regulatory broadband experts.

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Hunt died five days later. Her death certificate said the foot injury was a “significant” factor. Genesis denied wrongdoing but agreed to pay $3.5 million in a settlement Hunt’s son signed in August 2024.

Yet Genesis hasn’t paid most of that debt, court records show. It may never have to.

Once the nation’s largest nursing home chain, it was spending $8 million a month defending and settling lawsuits over resident injuries and deaths in recent years. But the company is now poised to wipe the liability slate clean by seeking refuge in the most protective corner of the legal system for the nursing home industry: bankruptcy court.

The Genesis case, one of 11 large senior care bankruptcies this year, illustrates how health care companies can dodge public and financial accountability for alleged negligence through delays, confidentiality clauses, and bankruptcy maneuvers, a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found.

When it filed for bankruptcy in Dallas in July, Genesis estimated its total liability for nearly a thousand settled and pending lawsuits at $259 million. A ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News review of the terms of 155 settlement agreements and shows Genesis officials knew insolvency was possible yet included provisions in its settlement agreements allowing it to defer payment, often for a year or more.

As a result, Genesis paid nothing in 85 cases and only a portion in the other 70, according to civil court records and bankruptcy claims made available through people with access to them. It still owes $41 million of the $58 million it had agreed to pay in those cases, the records show.

“It just feels like they killed my mom and got away with it,” said Vanessa Betancourt, whose mother, Nellie Betancourt, a retired nurse, fractured her hip at a Genesis home in Albuquerque, New Mexico — an injury the medical examiner’s report said led to her death. Genesis agreed to a $650,000 settlement with Betancourt’s family in April under the condition it would not need to pay the first of seven installments for another year, according to the settlement document.

Genesis denied wrongdoing in all lawsuits and settlements. In a written statement, the company did not answer questions about individual personal injury cases. The statement said Genesis remained “focused on delivering high-quality, compassionate care to our patients and residents without disruption” during bankruptcy.

One lawsuit Genesis settled for nearly $1 million alleged nursing home managers ignored repeated warnings about a male resident’s behavior before he sexually assaulted a female Alzheimer’s patient, according to court records. In a case the company resolved for $500,000, a Genesis nursing home was accused of delaying the hospitalization of a resident who had vomited brown mucus. He died of a bowel obstruction. Genesis has paid nothing for either settlement, according to bankruptcy claims.

Creditors, including families of the deceased, are expected to salvage a fraction of what they were promised, if anything. On Dec. 10, the company’s owners were scheduled to seek approval by the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Northern District of Texas to sell its nursing homes and other assets to its largest investor, a private equity firm. In court papers, lawyers for residents and other creditors say the complex plan will from pursuing Genesis’ new ownership and other companies the company’s collapse.

John Anthony, a bankruptcy attorney representing 340 personal injury claims against Genesis, said, “They never had any intention to honor these deals.”

Low Ratings and Fines

During years of financial turmoil, Genesis has frequently struggled to provide top-notch care, federal records show. Using its five-star system, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services affiliated with Genesis as below average or much below average. CMS Genesis homes $10 million for violating federal health standards over the past three years.

In 2022, a Genesis home after two deaths and multiple violations. The company this year after residents twice were evacuated over safety concerns.

In its filing, Genesis said it cared for about 15,000 residents in 165 nursing homes and 10 assisted living facilities in 18 states. They are centered in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, New Mexico, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Maine, Alabama, Maryland, and North Carolina, according to the bankruptcy filing.

The company said it owed $709 million in secured debt to lenders and the IRS. Under bankruptcy rules, those debts, backed by Genesis collateral, take precedence over the $1.6 billion in unsecured debt Genesis said it owes. Unsecured creditors include a pension fund; contractors that provided health services and equipment; Pennsylvania, New Mexico, and West Virginia for unpaid provider taxes; and former residents and their families who sued.

Dangers in Memory Care

Sandia Ridge Center, a Genesis home in Albuquerque, was repeatedly faulted by health regulators for not preventing sexual misbehavior in its memory care unit. In November 2021, CMS for lacking enough nurses to prevent sexual abuse among residents. An inspection report the following August inappropriate sexual contact. Police were called to investigate sexual assault allegations in and of 2023, police reports show; neither resulted in criminal charges.

Then in April 2023, a 61-year-old male resident with alcohol-related dementia sexually assaulted a female resident with Alzheimer’s in the dining room, according to a and an . When the resident screamed for him to stop and that he was hurting her, he responded “shut up bitch I know you like this,” according to a lawsuit brought on behalf of the woman, identified in court papers as R.S.

Sandia Ridge management had been aware of the male resident’s behavioral issues for months, according to employee depositions in the case. Police had investigated a against him the previous year without bringing charges. In one deposition, a former activities assistant testified he hit her and twice pushed her into a bathroom while announcing, “I want to have sex with you.” When she reported him to a senior Genesis manager, she said in the deposition, the manager put his finger over his lips and said, “Shhh.”

The activities worker testified that R.S. used to happily sing along with Elvis Presley songs. After the assault, the worker said, R.S. “don’t sing anymore.”

Inspectors cited the home for failing to protect R.S. The same report said the home didn’t provide a therapist for another female resident who was being sexually harassed. Medicare fined Sandia Ridge Center $91,247. Genesis denied liability but settled R.S.’ lawsuit for $925,000 in May, according to the bankruptcy claim.

“We just felt we have to hold them accountable,” R.S.’ daughter said in an interview, speaking on the condition that she and her mother not be identified, because of the nature of the assault. “Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m naive, but the only way to do that is to sue someone, right?”

Genesis has not paid any of the settlement, according to the family’s claim filing.

Growth and Debt

Genesis’ downfall can be , when affiliates of two private equity firms acquired the company in a $1.5 billion leveraged buyout, taking on substantial debt, according to its bankruptcy filing. Private equity also has been involved in other health care bankruptcies, including those of the nursing home chain, the prison health care contractor , and two for-profit hospital systems, and .

In 2011, Genesis raised $2.4 billion by transferring substantially all its nursing home buildings and other real estate to Welltower, a publicly traded real estate investment trust, according to Genesis’ bankruptcy filing. Genesis then rented the buildings back from Welltower, which made leasing costs a significant expense.

Genesis went on a nationwide buying spree. At its peak in 2016, it had grown to more than 500 nursing homes. In a court declaration, Louis Robichaux IV, a consultant overseeing Genesis’ bankruptcy restructuring, wrote that as the company expanded, it became harder to manage and “mired in corporate inefficiencies.” Robichaux wrote that Genesis’ financial woes were exacerbated by rapidly increasing labor costs and lawsuits, including some predating the covid pandemic.

Starting in 2021, Genesis avoided bankruptcy after from a founded by Joel Landau, the owner of a , according to Robichaux’s filing.

But Genesis continued to teeter on the edge of insolvency. In for 2022 and 2023 submitted to a California oversight agency, management and auditors said rent and debt obligations raised “substantial doubt about the company’s ability to continue as a going concern.”

In a court filing, a committee appointed by the U.S. Trustee’s Office to represent the unsecured creditors in the bankruptcy accused Landau and Welltower of that allowed Welltower to keep getting its rents while Landau could run the company and “siphon value to himself.” The committee alleged their efforts forced the company into insolvency while “staffing levels and patient care declined precipitously.” Landau and Welltower did not respond to requests for comment.

Drawn-Out Lawsuits

Erin Pearson sued Genesis over the death of her father, James Sanderson, a retired mining company executive who died in 2018 after spending less than a month at Bear Canyon Rehabilitation Center in Albuquerque. In the memory care unit, Sanderson fell repeatedly, suffered medication errors made by nursing home staff, and developed a bowel obstruction and sepsis, according to the lawsuit, filed in 2019. Pearson’s lawyers said he was not hospitalized until eight days after nurses noticed he was vomiting brown mucus.

After the judge rejected Genesis’ request to force Pearson into arbitration, Genesis appealed. It took 2½ years before an appeals court affirmed the original decision to let the case go forward in court, records show.

This past May, more than five years after suing, Pearson reached a $500,000 settlement, with the first payment required by November, according to a copy of the agreement. Nothing was paid, according to the bankruptcy claim.

“It was so drawn out and for so long,” Pearson said in an interview, calling Genesis’ bankruptcy “despicable.”

Payouts Postponed

Jennifer Foote, an Albuquerque attorney who represents clients in multiple lawsuits against Genesis, including Pearson’s, said the company frequently filed appeals. “They did not usually win them on these issues,” she said, “and our sense was that they were doing it as a delay tactic.”

Genesis started using installment payments around 2018, said Dusti Harvey, Foote’s law partner. “The payments wouldn’t start for several months out,” Harvey said. Foote said Genesis’ lawyers often wanted to time the payments to start the month the trial in the case was scheduled to occur.

Families had to wait even when comparatively small amounts of money were involved, settlement agreements show. Genesis’ settlement agreements also included a confidentiality clause prohibiting discussion of the incidents.

Genesis agreed to pay $42,000 in a November 2024 settlement, but the first payment was not due until nine months later. It was not paid, according to the bankruptcy claim.

A $250,000 settlement signed in October 2023 did not start paying out until the following September. When Genesis declared bankruptcy — 21 months after the case was resolved — it still owed $100,000, according to the family’s claim.

‘We Never Found Out the Truth’

Settling cases allowed Genesis to avoid the expense and publicity of a trial, at which details of how its nursing homes functioned might have been revealed. In October 2020, Margarett Johnson, a retired school bus driver, fell out of her wheelchair at a Genesis nursing home in Waldorf, Maryland, fracturing her jawbone, nose, and neck, according to a lawsuit brought by her family. Johnson was sent to a trauma center and placed on a ventilator. She died three months later, at age 76, from ventilator-associated pneumonia, the lawsuit said.

“It looked like she was hit by a truck,” Angelina Harley, one of her daughters, said in an interview. “I knew my mom was not going to come home. I knew the Lord was not going to punish her more.”

The company denied negligence and blamed the accident on Johnson’s jacket getting tangled in the wheel of her wheelchair, according to the lawsuit. Harley and her sister Angela Swann were dubious.

“We never found out the truth,” Harley said. “They wanted to settle out of court.”

The company denied liability but agreed to a $950,000 settlement in October 2024. It never paid the final $112,500 installment, according to a letter Johnson’s five children sent to the bankruptcy judge.

“If you settle out of court, you know doggone well you did something wrong,” Harley said.

Maddening Judges

By summer 2025, judges in some civil cases had run out of patience.

Alma Brown, a retired day care manager and accordion teacher living in a Genesis nursing home in Clovis, New Mexico, suffered falls, infections, bedsores, and other neglect that hastened her death in 2023, according to her estate’s lawsuit. In Santa Fe District Court, Judge Kathleen McGarry Ellenwood castigated Genesis after it failed to pay $2 million of the $3 million settlement to Brown’s estate or explain the delay.

Genesis “obviously benefited by not having to go to trial,” McGarry Ellenwood said in one hearing, according to a court transcript. “They assure me that they’re not trying to renege on their contract, but it certainly seems like they haven’t lived up to what the bargain was.”

Genesis declared bankruptcy the day McGarry Ellenwood announced she would impose more than $100,000 in fines, plus $10,000 more each day until the settlement was paid.

In Pennsylvania, Greg Hunt petitioned a judge to punish Genesis after it stopped payments of the $3.5 million settlement after the death of his mother, Nancy, the resident with the gangrenous foot. She had spent eight months in 2019 at Brandywine Hall, a Genesis facility in West Chester that was later sold and renamed.

In a filing with the Common Pleas Court of Montgomery County, Genesis admitted it was in arrears but asked the judge for more time, citing “unforeseen and exigent financial challenges.” Genesis said care for patients at its nursing homes would suffer if it had to pay immediately.

Unswayed, Judge Richard Haaz in June ordered Genesis to pay up, along with punitive interest. But the bankruptcy court stayed that order. Genesis still owes $1.4 million of the $2 million it was supposed to pay, according to Hunt’s claim. (The rest of the $3.5 million settlement is supposed to be paid by an insurer in January 2026.) Ian Norris, Hunt’s lawyer, declined to comment, citing confidentiality provisions in the settlement.

Court records indicate Genesis lawyers never disclosed in either case that it was preparing to declare bankruptcy.

‘Bankruptcy as a Tool’

In the first nine months of 2025, 10 other senior living companies with liabilities over $10 million entered Chapter 11 bankruptcy, according to , a consulting firm.

Hamid Rafatjoo, a bankruptcy lawyer representing nursing homes who is not involved in the Genesis bankruptcy case, said filings may increase as the industry has become costlier to run and class action lawsuits have become a fixture.

“Nursing homes get sued all the time for everything,” Rafatjoo said. “A lot of operators wait too long to use bankruptcy as a tool.”

On Dec. 1, Genesis announced the , saying it had elected to to a private equity firm controlled by Landau. In a court filing, Anthony, the attorney for the personal injury claimants, in Landau’s favor despite an “objectively better and higher competing bid” from another private equity investor that would have provided more money to creditors. Genesis said in its statement that Landau’s group had increased its bid during the auction.

Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) and two other senators last month to intervene in the case, out of concern that “individuals who already own or control Genesis are trying to sell it to themselves, wiping away legal and other creditor debts in the process.” Lawyers representing those in charge of the auction did not respond to a request for comment.

Families of former Genesis residents said they fear the capacity to purge lawsuits through bankruptcy emboldens nursing home owners who provide deficient care.

“They can file bankruptcy again,” said Gabe Betancourt, whose wife, Nellie, died after her stay at Uptown Rehabilitation Center in Albuquerque. “And we’re the ones that will pay for it, with our memories, our lives.”

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Not one U.S. citizen has applied.

West River Health Services in Hettinger, a town of about 1,000 residents in the southwestern part of the state, has four options, and none is good.

The hospital could fork over $100,000 for the Trump administration’s new H-1B visa fee and hire one of the more than 30 applicants from the Philippines or Nigeria. The fee is the equivalent of what some rural hospitals would pay two lab techs in a year, said Holzkamm, who is West River’s lab manager.

West River could ask the Department of Homeland Security to waive the fee. But it’s unclear how long the waiver process would take and if the government would grant one. The hospital could continue trying to recruit someone inside the U.S. for the job. Or, Holzkamm said, it could leave the position unfilled, adding to the workload of the current “skeleton crew.”

The U.S. health care system depends on foreign-born professionals to fill its ranks of doctors, nurses, technicians, and other health providers, particularly in chronically understaffed facilities in rural America.

But a new presidential proclamation aimed at the tech industry’s use of H-1B visas is making it harder for West River and other rural providers to hire those staffers.

“The health care industry wasn’t even considered. They’re going to be collateral damage, and to such an extreme degree that it was clearly not thought about at all,” said Eram Alam, a Harvard associate professor whose new book examines the history of foreign doctors in the U.S.

Elissa Taub, a Memphis, Tennessee-based attorney who assists hospitals with the H-1B application process, has been hearing concerns from her clients.

“It’s not like there’s a surplus of American physicians or nurses waiting in the wings to fill in those positions,” she said.

Until recently, West River and other employers paid up to $5,000 each time they applied to sponsor an H-1B worker. The visas are reserved for highly skilled foreign workers.

The new $100,000 fee — part of a by President Donald Trump — applies to workers living outside the U.S. but not those who were already in the U.S. on a visa.

West River lab tech Kathrine Abelita is one of nine employees — six technicians and three nurses — at the hospital who are current or former H-1B visa holders. Abelita is from the Philippines and has worked at West River since 2018. She’s now a permanent U.S. resident.

“It’s going to be a big problem for rural health care,” she said of the new fee. She said most younger American workers want to live in urban areas.

Sixteen percent of registered nurses, 14% of physician assistants, and 14% of nurse practitioners and midwives who work in U.S. hospitals are immigrants, according to a . Nearly a quarter of physicians in the U.S. went to medical school outside the U.S. or Canada, according to .

The , two , and have asked the administration to give the health care industry exemptions from the new fee. The new cost will disproportionally harm rural communities that already struggle to afford and recruit enough providers, the groups argue.

“A blanket exception for healthcare providers is the simplest path forward,” the National Rural Health Association and National Association of Rural Health Clinics wrote in a joint letter.

The proclamation allows fee exemptions for individuals, workers at specific companies, and those in entire industries when “in the national interest.” says the fee will be waived only in an “extraordinarily rare circumstance.” That includes showing that there is “no American worker” available for the position and that requiring a company to spend $100,000 would “significantly undermine” U.S. interests.

Taub called those standards “exceptionally high.”

Representatives of the NRHA and the American Medical Association, which organized a letter from the medical societies, said they’ve received no response after sending requests to Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem in late September and early October. The AHA declined to say whether it had heard back.

Homeland Security officials directed ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ inquiries to the White House, which did not answer questions about individual waiver timelines or the possibility of a categorical exemption for the health care industry.

Instead, White House spokesperson Taylor Rogers sent a statement defending the new fee, saying it will “put American workers first.” Her comments echo Trump’s proclamation, which focuses on accusations that the tech industry is abusing the H-1B program by replacing American workers with lower-paid foreign ones. But the order applies to all trades.

Alam, the Harvard professor, said the U.S.’ reliance on international providers does raise legitimate concerns, such as about how it takes professionals away from lower-income countries facing even greater health concerns and staffing shortages than the U.S.

This decades-long dependency, she said, stems from population booms, medical schools’ historical exclusion of nonwhite men, and the “much, much cheaper” cost of importing providers trained abroad than expanding health education in the U.S.

Internationally trained doctors tend to work in rural and urban areas that are poor and underserved, according to and .

Nearly 1,000 H-1B providers were employed in rural areas this year, the two rural health organizations wrote in their letter to the Trump administration.

J-1 visas, the most common type held by foreign doctors during their residencies and other postgraduate training in the U.S., require them to return to their home country for two years before applying for an H-1B.

But a government program called the Conrad 30 Waiver Program allows up to 1,500 J-1 holders a year to remain in the U.S. and apply for an H-1B in exchange for working for three years in a provider shortage area, which includes many rural communities.

Trump’s proclamation says employers that sponsor H-1B workers already inside the U.S., such as doctors with these waivers, won’t have to pay the six-figure fee, a nuance clarified in guidance released about a month later.

But employers will have to pay the new fee when hiring doctors and others who apply while living outside the U.S.

Alyson Kornele, CEO of West River Health Services, said most of the foreign nurses and lab techs it hires are outside the U.S. when they apply.

Ivan Mitchell, CEO of Great Plains Health in North Platte, Nebraska, said most of his hospital’s H-1B physicians were inside the U.S. on other visas when they applied. But he said physical therapists, nurses, and lab techs typically apply from abroad.

Holzkamm said it took five to eight months to hire H-1B applicants at her lab before the new fee was introduced.

Bobby Mukkamala, a surgeon and the president of the American Medical Association, said Republican and Democratic lawmakers are concerned about the ramifications for rural health care.

They include Senate Majority Leader John Thune, who said he planned to reach out about possible exemptions.

“We want to make it easier, not harder, and less expensive, not more expensive, for people who need the workforce,” the Republican told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News in September.

Thune’s office did not respond to questions about whether the senator has heard from the administration regarding potential waivers for health workers.

The Trump administration is facing at least two lawsuits attempting to block the new fee. includes a company that recruits foreign nurses and a union that represents medical graduates. , by the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, mentions concerns about the physician shortage and health systems’ ability to afford the new fee.

Kornele said West River won’t be able to afford a $100,000 fee so it’s doubling down on local recruiting and retention.

But Holzkamm said she hasn’t been successful in finding lab techs from North Dakota colleges, even those who intern at the hospital. She said West River can’t compete with the salaries offered in bigger cities.

“It’s a bad cycle right now. We’re in a lot of trouble,” she said.

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

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The ambulances frequently travel back and forth to in Asheville, the largest and most central hospital in the region. Trips can take more than two hours, according to Mark Snelson, director of , the local emergency medical service.

“When we get busy and all three of them are gone, we have no ambulances in our county,” he said.

Snelson and others in Madison County aren’t seeking more ambulances. They want a hospital closer than Mission. And the state agrees. In 2022, North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services officials said Madison and three other mountain counties needed 67 more acute care hospital beds. The state raised that to 93 beds in 2024, then to 222 by Oct. 15.

But the only indication of a new hospital thus far is a 25-acre field of graded dirt with a sign planted beside the highway reading “FUTURE HOME OF AdventHealth Weaverville.”

For the past three years, Mission Hospital’s owner has contested Florida-headquartered ’s attempt to build the hospital on land bought for $7.5 million in rural Weaverville, just minutes south of Madison County. It was , an event that would have defied the of rural hospital closures.

The irony is that the very law that calls for the new hospital — the state’s certificate of need, or CON, law — has been used to prevent further construction. Such laws are intended to cap unfettered health care expansion by allowing new hospitals and expansions only when a state can document a need for them. But the legal process has tied up the proposed Weaverville hospital in court, just as other such laws have done with projects in ; ; and .

All states had certificate of need laws until 1987, when the federal government repealed a mandate requiring them. Today, North Carolina is one of with the laws still on the books. Twelve others have repealed them or let them expire, and some, and , have significantly weakened theirs amid concerns they limit health care access and boost costs. President Donald Trump’s Federal Trade Commission and Department of Justice are among those questioning the need for the laws.

In North Carolina, too, opposition to the state’s certificate of need law has surfaced in both the General Assembly, where a has been dormant since April, and more prominently in the state Superior Court.

But some , health care economists, and certificate of need lawyers argue that, though the laws create bureaucracy that can delay projects, that’s not justification to do away with them.

The principle behind certificates of need is to hold at bay what is unnecessary expansion and price inflation brought on by a free market, which makes health care more expensive for everyone.

“If the principle is worth preserving, don’t abandon the principle,” said , a health care attorney with the Benesch law firm and former counsel for . “Improve the process to allow the principle to flourish.”

Who Should Fill the Need?

Mission Health is the largest health care network and the largest employer in the Tar Heel State’s share of the Appalachians. Nashville-based bought the century-old, nonprofit, six-hospital system for $1.5 billion in 2019, converting it to a for-profit operation that serves an 18-county region. (The Dogwood Health Trust, a nonprofit established as part of HCA’s purchase of Mission Health, helps fund ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ coverage.)

Though AdventHealth already owns one hospital in the North Carolina mountains about a 30-minute drive from the Weaverville site, its bid to build a new one represents a threat to HCA’s stronghold. Mission argues it is best positioned to meet the needs the state says exist in the Madison County region.

“Not all acute care beds are the same,” Mission Health spokesperson Nancy Lindell said. “Instead of adding more beds at facilities that are unable to provide the complex medical and surgical care needed, the region would be better served by expanding bed capacity at Mission Hospital.”

An eastern North Carolina eye surgeon’s against the state’s health agency and top state officials alleged the state’s certificate of need law “has nothing to do with protecting the health or safety of real patients.” The ophthalmologist, Jay Singleton, has argued the law prevented him from performing surgeries at his own center because the state didn’t see a need to duplicate services already provided at the local hospital, where he was obligated to operate.

In early November, Republican state Treasurer Brad Briner, the , and several academics who study such laws nationally filed amicus briefs supporting Singleton’s case and urging a judge to reject the state’s attempt to dismiss it.

“I’ve characterized CON law as a permission slip to compete,” said , a George Mason University economics and law professor who co-authored the brief. “It’s as if, when a McDonald’s wanted to open up a shop next to Burger King, they have to go to the state regulator to ask if that’s OK.”

Stratmann argued that, instead of , more competition would give hospitals and providers greater leverage in negotiating with insurance companies.

That view aligns with a stance the federal government has held for almost 40 years. With varying degrees of fervor under Democratic and Republican leadership, the Federal Trade Commission and Department of Justice have argued that the laws are anticompetitive and bad for consumers. The Justice Department did not respond to questions about its current position, and the FTC declined to comment on the record.

“CON laws create barriers to entry and expansion, limit consumer choice, and stifle innovation,” the Federal Trade Commission wrote in an April letter to Rhode Island Gov. Dan McKee, a Democrat, as the state’s legislature considered, but ultimately abandoned, amendments to its certificate of need law. “For these reasons, the Agencies have consistently suggested that states repeal or retrench their CON laws.”

‘It’s Personal’

In a to Trump and congressional leaders, Senate Democrats named five North Carolina hospitals on a list of rural hospitals in danger of closing if the president’s then-pending spending and tax-cut legislation, called the One Big Beautiful Bill, became law, citing research from the .

Two of the five North Carolina hospitals on that list, and , are part of the Mission Health system. Both had three consecutive years of negative profit margins, like hundreds of others on the list. Lindell, the Mission Health spokesperson, said HCA is committed to keeping those two facilities open.

Even so, Madison County Health Department Director Tammy Cody said the needs in the region remain and the certificate of need appeals process has slowed down getting help.

“This isn’t theoretical — it’s personal,” she said. “Every delay means a mother in labor risks a longer ride, an elder with chest pain waits longer for help, or a worker injured on the job faces unnecessary complications.”

AdventHealth spokesperson Victoria Dunkle said the hospital system supports the state’s law partly because it “protects rural access to health care and ensures the community has a voice in the process.” The legal process has kept families waiting, she said, but AdventHealth plans to move forward with the Weaverville hospital “as soon as possible.”

Snelson, the ambulance service director, voiced a question many in the region have asked since the hope of a new rural hospital surfaced.

“Why is it a bad thing for another hospital to come in here to take some of the stress off of Mission?” he asked. “Within a day of it opening, it’s going to be full.”

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Since the Nov. 5 deadline passed for states to apply for their shares of the new $50 billion federal Rural Health Transformation Program funding, officials at the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services have declined to publicly release the applications. Federal officials are using those submissions, most of them more than 100 pages long, to decide how to divide the money among states. They’ve pledged to announce the allocations by Dec. 31.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News is working to collect and post complete application materials, by state, here and will update this repository as new materials, released in response to public records requests, arrive.

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But physicians, dentists, ambulance companies, and other health care providers are still taking their patients to court, a Connecticut Mirror-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation of state legal records shows.

Lawsuits by doctors and other nonhospital providers now dominate health care collections in Connecticut, the records show, accounting for more than 80% of cases filed against patients and their families in 2024.

That’s a major reversal from just five years earlier, when hospital system lawsuits made up three-quarters of health-related collection cases in the state’s courts.

The shift is moving medical debt collections into a less regulated realm. Most hospitals, because they are tax-exempt nonprofits, must make financial aid available to low-income patients and follow federal regulations that limit aggressive collection activities. Other medical providers, such as private medical groups, are generally exempt from these rules.

The lawsuits are typically over bills of less than $3,000, but the impact on patients can be devastating. Lawsuits are among the most ruinous byproducts of a health care debt problem that burdens an estimated 100 million people in the U.S.

Lawsuits can lead to garnished wages, liens on homes, and hundreds of dollars of added debt from interest and court fees. They also pile additional financial strains on struggling families, prevent patients from getting needed care, and sap trust in medical providers.

“It’s really messed up,” said Allie Cass-Wilson, a nurse in Bristol, Connecticut, who was sued over a $1,972 debt by an OB-GYN practice where she’d been a patient years earlier. “How can they do that to people?” She did not contest the lawsuit, court records show.

Cass-Wilson, who is 36 and lives in a small apartment just off an expressway on-ramp, said she learned of the outstanding debt only when she was sued. When she tried making an appointment, she said, she was told her doctor wouldn’t see her. “They said I was blacklisted,” Cass-Wilson said. “I was so confused. I couldn’t believe that my medical provider let my care be interrupted like this.”

Cass-Wilson ultimately sought medical care elsewhere.

Radiologists, Dentists, Ambulances

Overall, CT Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News identified more than 16,000 health care-related debt cases in Connecticut courts from 2019 to 2024. The database was assembled from online court records with the help of January Advisors, a data science consulting firm that helped extract and sort the data.

Over the six-year period, most of Connecticut’s more than 25,000 did not pursue patients in court for outstanding balances.

But records show that more than 400 medical providers, including several hospital systems, sued their patients. Among those filing lawsuits were radiologists, anesthesiologists, eye doctors, podiatrists, allergists, and pediatricians.

Dentists, periodontists, and other dental providers filed more than 1,000 lawsuits against patients. And ambulance companies sued more than 140 people.

Med-Aid, a company based outside New Haven, Connecticut, that provides orthopedic braces and other medical supplies to patients, sued more than 400 people, the court records show. The company’s president, Frank Dilieto, did not respond to repeated interview requests.

Cass-Wilson was sued by Briar Rose Network in Bristol, Connecticut, a member of a large network of OB-GYN practices across Connecticut called Physicians for Women’s Health. The network’s members sued close to 100 patients in 2024, records show.

Paula Greenberg, CEO of Women’s Health Connecticut, a private equity-backed company affiliated with Physicians for Women’s Health that manages business operations for the network, said the lawsuits represent a small fraction of the more than 300,000 patients the network sees every year.

“This is an organization committed to patients,” Greenberg said. She noted that the group offers options to help patients pay, including installment plans and financial aid.

Geoffrey Manton, president of Naugatuck Valley Radiological Associates, said his practice also will work with people who say they can’t pay. But, he said, patients sometimes stop responding to their bills.

“Hiding from your problems isn’t going to solve them,” Manton said. “If we didn’t take any action, there could be that person that is in that late-model Mercedes that just chooses not to pay any bills.” The group sued more than 125 patients from 2019 to 2024, according to the court records.

Many medical providers say that aggressive collections stem from the growing prevalence of high-deductible health plans that leave patients with thousands of dollars of bills before their coverage kicks in.

Greenberg and Manton said each of their physician groups must collect. “This is a business,” Greenberg said. “We have to look at our operating costs.”

Critics of medical collection lawsuits note that the patients are typically sued over relatively small debts that are likely to have little impact on multimillion-dollar medical practices.

The average patient debt that members of Physicians for Women’s Health sued over in 2024 was less than $1,100, court records show. The physician group’s annual revenues are typically in the tens of millions of dollars, according to Greenberg.

Even relatively small debts — which often include interest — can place substantial burdens on families struggling to keep up with their bills, especially while dealing with a serious illness, patient advocates say.

“We don’t have a realistic choice in using health care,” said Lisa Freeman, who heads the Connecticut Center for Patient Safety and has advocated for patients struggling with medical bills. “To then get sued for it, when people have less and less funds available for anything extra, that’s very disheartening.”

A Stroke, Then a Lawsuit

Matthew Millman, 54, lost his job as an IT support worker after having a stroke. Then Meriden Imaging Center sued him over an $1,891 bill.

Millman and his wife said they tried to explain their financial situation to the center, which is affiliated with Midstate Radiology Associates, a large physician group that operates imaging centers and doctors’ offices across Connecticut.

“It was very frustrating,” said Millman, who lives in an aging apartment owned by his wife’s family in New Britain. Millman, his wife, and their teenage daughter are barely getting by on his two part-time jobs — one bagging groceries, the other helping homebound seniors. Together, the jobs pay about $1,500 a month, he said.

The imaging center, after winning the collection case against Millman, tried to garnish his wages, though that was unsuccessful because Millman had lost his IT job.

“It’s all about money,” Millman said, shaking his head. “If you are trained in helping somebody with their health, it shouldn’t be about the money first. It should be about their health.”

Court records show that Midstate Radiology, Meriden Imaging Center and affiliates filed more than 1,000 collection lawsuits against patients from 2019 to 2024, making them the most litigious nonhospital providers in the state. As is common in medical debt lawsuits, the plaintiffs prevailed in most cases, records show.

Midstate president Gary Dee, a radiologist, didn’t respond to emails and messages left at his West Hartford office.

Across town from Millman’s apartment in New Britain, Joseph Lentz lives in a cramped apartment with his wife and daughter. He used to oversee operations at a Boy Scout camp but is now unemployed. Lentz lost his job during the pandemic. The family home went into foreclosure, he said.

In 2023, Orthopedic Associates of Hartford sued Lentz over a $3,644 bill the practice said he owed after having shoulder surgery in 2018.

“I’d pay it if I could, I guess,” said Lentz, 59. “But I don’t even know where next month’s rent is coming from. I’m trying to climb out as best I can. I guess this is just one more thing to shovel in.”

The orthopedic group filed more than 580 lawsuits against patients from 2019 to 2024, prevailing in most, records show.

The medical group declined interview requests. But chief executive David Mudano said in a statement: “As an independent physician practice, we strive to balance compassion for patients with the financial responsibility required to sustain our practice.”

Old Debts and Disputed Claims

Lentz, who did not contest the lawsuit, said he has no reason to doubt he owes the debt. But in many cases reviewed by CT Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and in interviews, patients being sued questioned the accuracy of their medical bills, citing care they thought health insurance should have covered or, in some cases, bills for services they never received.

This reflects with aggressive collection tactics like lawsuits when disputes over the accuracy of medical bills and delayed or denied insurance claims are so widespread in American health care.

A by the federal Consumer Financial Protection Bureau found that nearly half of the medical debt complaints fielded by the agency involved bills that consumers said were erroneous in some way or that consumers said they’d already paid.

“We know people are billed incorrectly,” said Lester Bird, who studies debt collection lawsuits at the nonprofit Pew Charitable Trusts. Bird noted that courts are ill equipped to sort through disputed medical charges or insurance claims, especially when there is little documentation in most debt collection lawsuits.

“It’s complicated before it gets to the courts,” Bird said, “and it’s very complicated when it gets into the courts.”

This can create headaches for physicians and other providers. But billing problems ultimately affect patients and their families most, said Connecticut state Sen. Saud Anwar, a Democrat who is also a physician. “Patients are left to deal with it.”

Andrew Skolnick, an attorney in Milford, outside New Haven, was sued in 2023 by an imaging center where his wife had received services in 2020.

Skolnick said that when the couple, who were covered through his job-based insurance, originally received the bill from Diagnostic Imaging of Milford, he tried to tell the imaging center it had submitted the claim to the wrong insurance plan, but he said they wouldn’t speak with him.

The center later filed the lawsuit, alleging he owed more than $2,000, plus almost $300 in interest.

Despite interview requests, officials at Diagnostic Imaging of Milford did not comment for this article.

Unlike most patients who are sued, Skolnick had the resources and expertise to contest the suit. He said he offered to pay what would have been his responsibility under the plan if the imaging center had filed his claim correctly. He ultimately settled for $1,700, court records show.

“It wasn’t a tremendous amount, but I knew that they had made a mistake,” Skolnick said. “The system is not working.”

More Protections?

Anwar, the state lawmaker and physician, expressed concern that lawsuits undermine patients’ faith in their doctors.

“It’s a sacred relationship,” he said. “If your physician, who is taking care of you, is suing you for money, that’s a problem.

Many hospitals, facing bad publicity from suing patients, have stopped taking patients to court over unpaid bills. Hospital collection lawsuits identified by CT Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News in Connecticut court records plunged from more than 4,900 in 2019 to fewer than 300 in 2024.

Also, in recent years, several states, including Connecticut, have expanded protections for patients with bills they can’t pay.

Connecticut now from consumer credit reports, and legislators are pushing to get hospitals to provide more financial aid to patients. Other states have restricted the use of wage garnishment and property liens to collect medical debt.

But state efforts to rein in aggressive medical debt collections have mostly focused on hospitals. That may need to change, said Connecticut state Sen. Matt Lesser, a Democrat who co-chairs the legislature’s Human Services Committee.

He is a key backer of a bill that would bar hospitals from billing patients who receive public benefits like food assistance or who make less than twice the federal poverty level, about $32,000 for an individual.

The restriction would not apply to bills from physicians and other nonhospital providers, however. “We may have to go bigger if that’s where the heart of the matter is,” Lesser said.

Connecticut Gov. Ned Lamont, a Democrat who spearheaded an initiative to for more than 150,000 state residents, also expressed concern about physicians suing the people in their care.

“Everyone should do the right thing by patients,” he said.

This article was produced in partnership with , a statewide nonprofit newsroom that covers public policy and politics.

This <a target="_blank" href="/news/medical-debt-connecticut-doctors-sue-patients/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">

“I feel like I’m suffocating inside this shelter, trapped with no way out,” Carlos’ son said, according to one of the teens’ attorneys, when asked to describe how he felt after months at the Houston-area facility. “Every day, the same routine. Every day, feeling stuck. It makes me feel hopeless and terrified.”

During daily video calls, Carlos, who had temporary protected status, urged the siblings to be patient, to trust the process. Federal officials had vetted Carlos before he could be granted custody and told him his case was complete. He believed he would soon be back with his children, who, like him, had sought refuge from political violence in Venezuela.  

An immigration officer called Carlos on a Friday and asked him to attend a meeting at an ICE office the following Monday to discuss reunification with his children. Once Carlos arrived, officers tried to force him to sign documents he said he didn’t understand. When he refused, they stripped off his clothes, seized his ID and belongings, and chained him by the neck, waist, and legs.

“They tricked me,” Carlos said in a phone call from an immigration detention center in El Paso, Texas, where he was held for several months. “They used my children to grab me,” he said.  

In reporting on the family’s story, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News reviewed court documents, spoke with the family’s immigration attorneys, interviewed Carlos, and reviewed statements from his children, translated from Spanish. Carlos is a pseudonym, being used at the request of attorneys concerned that speaking out could jeopardize Carlos’ immigration case or further delay his reunion with his family.

Using Children to Arrest Parents

Since 2003, the Department of Health and Human Services’ Office of Refugee Resettlement has cared for immigrant children under 18 who arrive in the country without their parents, often fleeing violence, abuse, or trafficking. The office, which in February had more than 2,300 children in shelters or with foster families across the country, is supposed to promptly release them to vetted caregivers, typically parents or other family members already living in the country.

Congress placed this responsibility with the health agency over 20 years ago to prioritize the well-being of unaccompanied children and separate their care from immigration enforcement priorities.

Now the second Trump administration is using migrant children held by the resettlement office to lure their parents, such as Carlos, whether or not they have a criminal record. A ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found the resettlement office, , coordinates with the Department of Homeland Security to arrest people seeking custody of migrant children.

Arrest documents show Homeland Security Investigations, the arm of the agency that normally focuses on organized criminals and traffickers, will interview parents or other caregivers then arrest them if they are in the country illegally. Before Donald Trump returned to the White House, the resettlement office prohibited data sharing and collaboration with immigration enforcement, and it did not deny caregivers custody of children solely because of their immigration status. Those last year.

It’s unclear exactly how many caregivers have been baited into arrest. LAist indicating more than 100 have been arrested while trying to get their kids out of detention, but ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News could not independently verify that number with federal agencies.

Since February, the Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Homeland Security, and Justice Department have not responded to questions about caregiver arrests. Prior to leaving DHS last month, Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin said the administration protects children from being released to people who shouldn’t care for them. Andrew Nixon, an HHS spokesperson, referred questions related to immigration enforcement to DHS.

At the same time, the resettlement office has that make it harder for caregivers to gain custody of unaccompanied children. These include narrowing the range of accepted documents, requiring fingerprint-based background checks for every adult in the home and backup caregivers, and requiring in-person appointments to verify identification documents, sometimes with ICE agents present. The requirements keep “children safe from traffickers and other bad, dangerous people,” Nixon said.

As of January, the agency had detained at least 300 children already placed with vetted sponsors and asked their caregivers to reapply, according to the National Center for Youth Law and the Democracy Forward Foundation. The advocacy groups filed calling these actions “a quieter, new form of family separation.” 

Reverse Separation

Dulce, a Guatemalan mother in Virginia, said her 8-year-old son was sent to a government shelter after he was detained during a traffic stop last summer while visiting family members in a different state.

At first, Dulce expected to get her son back within days — she had passed the government’s sponsorship requirements in 2024 and was reunited with him three weeks after he first crossed the border. But resettlement agency officials asked her to repeat the entire process and resubmit documents, Dulce said. It took eight months to get him back.

Dulce is a pseudonym being used at her request because she fears speaking out could get her deported.

At one point, Dulce was told to attend an interview at an ICE office to show her identification as part of the process of reuniting with her son. She refused out of fear that she too might be detained, because she doesn’t have legal status. She believes ICE agents visited her home at one point.

“I stopped going home,” Dulce said. “I lived with some of my friends for days.”

Even though she lived just 45 minutes away, Dulce was allowed to visit her son only twice a month.

Until recently, most unaccompanied children landed in government custody after being detained at the border. But border crossings started to fall in 2024, and the number of people coming to the U.S. has dropped precipitously in President Trump’s second term.

Now, hundreds of kids have been taken to government shelters after being swept up inside the country, often during immigration raids or traffic stops, according to the advocates’ lawsuit. Many were already living with relatives, including guardians already vetted by the resettlement agency.

Releases have grinded nearly to a halt. According to the resettlement office, children in its custody stayed in government shelters or foster care for an average of one month in 2024. As of February, that had jumped to more than half a year.

When children do get released, it’s often only after their attorneys file a lawsuit in federal court challenging their detention as unconstitutional.

Authorities released Dulce’s son to her in February after the boy’s attorneys filed such a petition. Dulce said she’s relieved to have him back but still anxious that ICE could show up at their house.

Immigrants at Risk

During Trump’s first term, his administration was criticized for of children who had been released from custody. President Joe Biden was blamed for how his administration processed a surge of unaccompanied children that peaked in 2021 with about 22,000 in the resettlement office’s custody. Though most children were placed with legitimate sponsors, some were placed with people who hadn’t cleared , putting them at risk of .

The Trump administration says it is checking on those , and the Justice Department has prosecuted . On March 1, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem, who is set to leave her role at the , touted a , including the resettlement office, that DHS said had tracked down 145,000 unaccompanied children who had been placed with caregivers during Biden’s term.

Yet internal HHS reports about that initiative obtained by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News show that nearly 11,800 of those migrant children and nearly 500 of their caregivers were arrested as of Jan. 29. Only 125 of those migrant children and 55 of those caregivers were arrested for alleged criminal activity, suggesting the majority were for immigration violations.

HHS referred questions about the figures in the reports to DHS, which did not respond to requests for comment about the data. However, Michelle Brané, who was a DHS official in the Biden administration, said the figures show that most of the arrests were to detain and deport migrants. Previously, the administration targeted parents and caregivers who had paid for children to cross the border, trying to levy smuggling charges against them.

“They have really dropped that pretense in a lot of ways, and they are going for anyone openly,” Brané said. “These numbers clearly reflect that this is not about public safety or about safety of the children.”

Case on Hold

Carlos left Venezuela in 2022 because of death threats and, like thousands of others fleeing that country, was granted what’s called temporary protected status under the Biden administration. That protection for most Venezuelans by the Trump administration.

In January 2025, days before Trump was sworn in for his second term, Carlos’ children crossed the border from Mexico to the U.S., turned themselves over to border authorities, and were immediately placed in the resettlement agency’s custody. Carlos spent months submitting paperwork to reunite with them. He said he’s their only parent, because their mother left when they were toddlers.  

Officials visited his home twice and determined he was fit to care for them, according to court documents petitioning for his release from detention. He passed DNA testing, proving he’s the biological father, one of his attorneys said. His arrest documents show he has “no criminal history.” In July, Carlos was told his reunification case was complete and being sent for approval. But then, with little explanation, the case was put on hold.

Before his arrest by ICE, Carlos said, he drove 14 hours each way from his home to visit his children. Once there, he could see them for only one hour. When he was in detention, he said, he spoke to them about every two weeks in quick, monitored phone calls.

He’s trying to stay hopeful, but it’s hard.

According to documents completed by ICE officers during his arrest and submitted in his court case, Carlos was arrested under an initiative called Operation Guardian Trace, which requires immigration officers to detain potential caregivers if they are in the country without legal authorization and recommend that they be deported.

“This operation is designed to force parents to make an impossible choice between reuniting with their children and seeking safety,” said one of Carlos’ attorneys, Chiqui Sanchez Kennedy of the Galveston-Houston Immigrant Representation Project, a nonprofit that helps low-income immigrants.

‘I’m Going to Wait’

In March, a federal judge said officials had unlawfully detained Carlos and he was released on bond.

But his children still face an uncertain future for now. Government shelters often lack sufficient resources, , and social workers say lengthy stays in these facilities can result in additional trauma.

“Not only is it bad, full stop, but the longer you’re there, the worse it gets,” said Jonathan Beier, associate director of research and evaluation for the Acacia Center for Justice’s Unaccompanied Children Program, which coordinates legal services for unaccompanied minors.

Carlos’ children could also be sent back to the country they fled. Because of his detention, Carlos will have to redo much of the process to reunite with them, according to an attorney for the children, Alexa Sendukas, also with the Galveston-Houston Immigrant Representation Project.

In statements shared through Sendukas, Carlos’ daughter said she no longer wants to be around others and spends most of the time in her room. His son, now 15, described having panic attacks and feeling that he’s missing out on life, whether it’s the opportunities he longs for — to learn English, to study science — or watching basketball with his family.

“I remember when I first arrived at this shelter, I was so hopeful and had faith that I would be reunited with my dad soon,” he said.

Carlos’ daughter spent the day crying in bed when the siblings learned their father had been detained. For days, they didn’t know where he was. Now, they fear the only way out is through adoption or foster care.

“I am afraid,” she said. “I’m going to wait for my dad forever.”

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“Every little ache, like my knee hurts,” she said, made her worry that “this is the end of the road for me.”

So Zapp, a 40-year-old communications director in New York, became one of millions of Americans to start taking an anxiety medication in recent years. For her, it was the serotonin-boosting drug Lexapro.

“I love it. It’s been great,” she said. “It’s really helped me manage.”

The proportion of American adults who took anxiety medications jumped from 11.7% in 2019 to 14.3% in 2024, with most of the increase occurring during the covid pandemic, according to from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. That’s 8 million more people, bringing the total to roughly 38 million, with sharp increases among young adults, people with a college degree, and adults who identify as LGBTQ+.

Even as psychiatric medications gain public acceptance and become easier to access through telehealth appointments, the rise of a class of antidepressants called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, known as SSRIs, has triggered a backlash from supporters of the “Make America Healthy Again” movement who argue they are harmful. Doctors and researchers say medications such as Prozac, Zoloft, and Lexapro are front-line treatments for many anxiety disorders, including generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder, and are being misrepresented as addictive and broadly harmful even though they’ve been proved safe for extended use.

Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has decried broadening SSRI use. During his Jan. 29 confirmation hearing, he said he knows people, including family members, who had a than people have quitting heroin. More recently, he a possible link between the use of SSRIs and other psychiatric medications and violent behavior like school shootings.

Food and Drug Administration Commissioner Marty Makary that SSRI use among pregnant women could lead to poor birth outcomes.

SSRIs’ common side effects include . Some SSRIs also and cause other sexual side effects.

For many people, however, the side effects are mild and tolerable and the benefits of treating chronic anxiety are worth it, said , president of the Southern California Psychiatric Society. “The statements about SSRIs were just not grounded in any sort of evidence or fact,” Kelly said of Kennedy’s comments.

A showed that over half of people with generalized anxiety disorder taking an SSRI saw their anxiety symptoms reduced by at least 50%. Side effects prompted about 1 in 12 to stop taking an SSRI.

“When it’s being done right and when you’re also using appropriate therapy techniques, SSRIs can be really, really helpful,” said , a psychiatrist who practices in Los Angeles.

MAHA Blames Anxiety on Poor Diet, Lack of Exercise

Supporters of MAHA have partly blamed poor dietary choices and the increase of a sedentary lifestyle for the rise of a number of health problems, including anxiety, depression, and other mental health disorders. As a remedy, they have called for measures such as reducing consumption of ultraprocessed foods, which to depression and anxiety, and cutting back on screen time in favor of exercise.

Psychiatrists often encourage a and exercise as an for . Wood said those who can manage anxiety without medication should also consider talk therapy. The proportion of American adults using mental health counseling boomed from 2019 to 2024 as teletherapy grew in popularity, federal data shows. “Anxiety disorders are amongst our psychiatric disorders that really respond well to cognitive behavioral therapy,” she said.

But medication can help.

Studies show the risks of taking SSRIs during pregnancy for mother and child. By contrast, “depression increases your risk for every complication for a mother and a baby,” Wood said, adding that recent statements by government officials about SSRI use during pregnancy are “potentially leading to real harm for these women.”

Some people who stop taking antidepressant medication , especially if they quit suddenly. But “the concept of addiction simply does not apply to these chemicals,” Kelly said, a statement .

Addiction, though, is a possibility with benzodiazepines such as Xanax that are often a second line of treatment for anxiety. These controlled substances can also in patients taking both types of drugs. During congressional hearings last year, Kennedy also decried benzodiazepine overuse as a problem.

While benzodiazepines are effective for short-term use, they require monitoring and care, Wood said.

“Those are really great meds for acute anxiety and not great as long-term anxiety medications, because they are habit-forming over time,” Wood said. “If you’re taking them on a daily basis, you’ll need more and more to get the same effect, and then you have to come down from them in a tapered way.”

And an are also occasionally taking beta-blockers such as propranolol for anxiety. Some people use beta-blockers to prevent a racing heart before a public speech or other big moments, even though they are not FDA-approved for treating anxiety and are prescribed “off-label.”

Beta-blockers , but they are “nonaddictive, really helpful for bringing down the autonomic nervous system, going from fight or flight to something more neutral, and really safe,” Wood said.

Social Shifts Drive Increased Use of Anxiety Meds

A number of could explain why so many more people are taking anxiety medication, increased social media use, more isolation, and heightened economic uncertainty, physicians and researchers say.

Plus, the medicines are relatively easy to get. Many people obtain SSRI and benzodiazepine prescriptions from their primary care physician. Others obtain the medications .

Many social media influencers , easing some stigma among young people and encouraging them to get help. About a third of teens said they get mental health information via social media.

Still, increased access to anxiety medication can be a problem when combined with a trend of self-diagnosis based on social media trends. A Google search for “” leads to sponsored promises of same-day treatment, though fine-print disclaimers clarify that a prescription is not guaranteed.

“I think increased access is good, but that’s not the same thing as, you know, ordering Xanax online,” Kelly said.

Young adults are largely driving an increase in anxiety medication use. The proportion of Americans ages 18 to 34 taking anxiety medication rose from 8.8% in 2019 — the first year such survey data became available — to 14.6% in 2024. By contrast, the rate didn’t change much among adults 65 and older, CDC data shows.

The pandemic and covid lockdowns greatly increased stress among many American adults, .

And data shows more women than men take anxiety medication. , a department chair and professor of sociology at the University of Pennsylvania, said that’s because they’re more likely to need them. They are also likelier than men to report when they feel anxious, and doctors are “inclined or see anxiety more readily in their female patients than their male patients,” Schnittker added.

Broader trends could also be at work. Schnittker said studies have shown anxiety growing more prevalent among ensuing generations for much of the 20th and 21st centuries. Schnittker, author of , said growing income inequality could be partly to blame, with people feeling stress over improving their economic status. Social and religious activities have been replaced by more isolation. And people have become more suspicious of others, creating a sense of unease around strangers.

For Zapp, the cancer survivor, it took a few months on Lexapro before she started seeing clear results. When she did, she said, it felt like her mind was less noisy, making it easier to focus. She also underwent talk therapy, but now her chronic anxiety is stabilized on medication alone.

“It definitely helped me get back to my day-to-day in a way that was productive and not just riddled with my anxieties throughout the day,” she said.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ Holly Hacker, Maia Rosenfeld, and Lydia Zuraw contributed to this report.

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After a routine doctor visit revealed Josie had lead poisoning, Hess quickly traced the source to the crumbling paint in her family’s century-old home in the Bayou St. John neighborhood. While it underwent lead remediation, the family stayed in a newer, lead-free house near Markey.

“Everyone was telling us the safest place to play was outside at playgrounds, so that’s where we went,” Hess said. Josie became a Markey regular, playing on the swings and slides.

Josie’s next blood test was a shock. “It skyrocketed,” Hess said. Josie’s lead levels had leaped to nearly five times the national health standard. The likely culprit, according to scientists at the time, was Josie’s favorite park. Soil testing found it had dangerously high levels of lead.

City officials took no action to inform Markey’s users or make the park safe. But parents started posting warning signs at the park and flooded City Hall with calls and emails. With Josie on her hip, Hess made an impassioned speech at a City Council meeting.

In short order, the city hired a company to test Markey and other parks and pledged to fix the lead problem wherever it was found.

“My impression was they were going to make them all lead-free parks,” Hess said.

But a Verite News investigation conducted over four months in 2025 found that lead pollution in New Orleans parks not only persists — it is more widespread than previously known. Dozens of city parks with playgrounds remain unsafe, including Markey and other parks that underwent a city-sponsored lead remediation in 2011.

The findings indicate that city officials fell short in their cleanup efforts then, and that a very large number of New Orleans children are exposed to excessive amounts of lead, said Howard Mielke, a retired Tulane University toxicologist and one of the nation’s top experts on lead contamination.

“It’s a failed program,” he said. “They didn’t do what they needed to do to bring the lead levels down in a single park.”

Verite News reporters tested hundreds of soil samples from 84 city parks with playgrounds in fall 2025. Adrienne Katner, a lead-contamination researcher with Louisiana State University, verified the results. The testing found that about half the parks had lead concentrations that exceeded the established in 2024 for soil in urban areas.

“If there’s evidence of kids playing in soils that are as high as you described, that’s kind of horrifying,” Gabriel Filippelli, an Indiana University biochemist who studies lead exposure, told Verite News.

Public health researchers and doctors say that children under 6 absorb lead-laden dust more easily than adults, contaminating their blood and harming the long-term development of their brains and nervous systems. There is no known safe exposure level for children, and even trace amounts can result in behavioral problems and lower cognitive abilities.

Larry Barabino is the CEO of the New Orleans Recreation Development Commission, which oversees most of the city’s parks. He said the city doesn’t routinely test for lead in parks, and he confirmed that the last significant effort to do so was in 2011.

He called Verite’s results “definitely concerning” and pledged to work with city officials, local experts, and a city environmental consultant, Materials Management Group, to potentially remediate unsafe parks.

“It’s definitely concerning if it’s at the level that’s considered a true risk or threat, and we would get it to Capital Projects immediately to get MMG out there,” Barabino said, referring to the . “If there’s anything that’s a true environmental concern or risk, that’s something that we believe in definitely making sure we take action.”

But New Orleans is in financial straits, with a of about $220 million, and it’s unclear what resources new mayor Helena Moreno would be able to devote to restart lead remediation efforts. In response to the financial crisis, Moreno has already eliminated dozens of positions and plans to furlough 700 employees one day per pay period to save money. Moreno’s administration did not respond to requests for comment.

Andrea Young heard pledges similar to Barabino’s 15 years ago. Like Hess, Young had a child who frequented Markey and had high lead levels in her blood. Alongside other mothers, she helped push the city to take action. Young thought they had succeeded but said she now realizes that the city didn’t do enough.

“It makes me question the value” of the work the city did, Young said, “and the safety we felt in letting our kids play there again.”

Testing New Orleans Parks

Lead is typically found in very small amounts in natural soil. The average lead abundance in U.S. soils is , equivalent to less than an ounce of lead per ton of soil.

But New Orleans, like many other cities, has a long history of lead contamination in its soil, from sources including lead-based paint, leaded gasoline, and emissions from waste incinerators and other industrial facilities. Lead particles spread easily by wind, eventually settling in the topsoil.

The federal hazard level for lead in soil was 400 ppm , when the Environmental Protection Agency lowered it to 200 ppm for most residential areas and 100 ppm in urban areas like New Orleans with multiple sources of lead exposure. Last fall, the Trump administration , arguing it was confusing to have two thresholds. It didn’t argue that the 100-ppm level was safe.

More of a guide than a mandate, the EPA screening levels can steer federal cleanup actions and are often adopted by state and city governments to inform local responses to lead contamination. California has long had a much of 80 ppm.

Mielke said the Trump administration’s change doesn’t align with the science, which has long shown that children are harmed when exposed to soil with levels below 100 ppm. He was one of several scientists who had pushed for lower thresholds after the EPA established its first screening levels more than 30 years ago.

He said the 100-ppm level should still be applied in urban areas, especially New Orleans.

Verite conducted soil tests on the 84 city parks that property inventories and maps list as having play structures. Samples were taken from surface soil, which is most likely to come into contact with children’s hands and toys or be inhaled when kicked up during play or blown by the wind.

The average soil sample collected by Verite contained lead levels of about 121 ppm. Elevated lead levels tended to follow the age of the neighborhood. The city’s older neighborhoods, including the Irish Channel and Algiers Point, had some of the highest lead levels, while places like Gentilly and New Orleans East, developed mostly after the 1950s, tended to have lower levels, according to Verite’s findings.

The highest lead levels were found at Evans Park in the Freret neighborhood. Beside a low-hanging oak branch, on ground worn bare by children’s play, Verite recorded lead at 5,998 ppm, nearly 60 times the 100-ppm urban soils threshold.

Verite spoke to more than a dozen parents at playgrounds throughout the city, and most were surprised at the levels of lead in the parks.

In the Irish Channel, Meg Potts watched her son run around the dusty Brignac playground. All of Verite’s samples at that park surpassed the threshold the EPA deemed safe for urban areas, reaching nearly 600 ppm.

Potts knew high lead levels existed in the city but said she didn’t realize her neighborhood park could be a source of exposure for her son.

“ I’m just, like, thinking about all of this now because he’s had to go in and have his lead tested,” she said. “He’s like right on the cusp of having too-high lead.”

Katner, the LSU researcher, said Verite’s results can serve as a starting point for city officials to conduct more comprehensive testing in parks, noting that even a single lead hot spot in a park is concerning.

“The kid playing in that part of the park is going to get the highest dose,” she said.

A Legacy of Lead

Before the 1970s, lead was ubiquitous. A that most of the U.S. population born before the 1980s was poisoned by dangerously high levels of lead in early childhood, resulting in an average loss of at least one IQ point.

Lead pollution from cars spread into areas near roads, especially major thoroughfares, until leaded gasoline was phased out by 1996. Similarly, emissions from trash incinerators and industrial sites contaminated the surrounding soil in some New Orleans neighborhoods until they were closed in the 1970s and ’80s.

Today, the most pervasive source of lead in soil is degraded paint. Lead-based paint was used extensively for homes and buildings until it was banned in 1978. In New Orleans, most of the houses were built before 1980, according to the . As the paint deteriorates, Tulane University epidemiologist Felicia Rabito said, it can chip or turn into toxic dust.

“ The leaded paint goes straight into the dust and it goes straight into the soils, which is a major source of exposure for young children in the city,” said Rabito, who studies lead poisoning and other health conditions.

Children under 6 are especially vulnerable, in part because they like to stick their hands in their mouths. A child eating a dropped Cheerio or putting their thumb in their mouth after playing on a seesaw can be enough to cause harm. Rabito recommended that parents avoid contaminated playgrounds.

The only way to know whether a child has lead poisoning is a medical test. By , Louisiana health care providers to ensure every child between 6 months and 6 years of age receives at least two blood tests, recommended at age 1 and age 2.

But the law does not include a way to enforce those testing requirements, so many health care providers don’t test, according to a from the Louisiana Department of Health. In 2022, fewer than 1 in 10 children under 6 were screened for lead poisoning in the city, according to data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

“ There’s not anything that we can say about lead poisoning or lead levels in children in Orleans Parish with any scientific certainty,” Rabito said. “ Parents really need to get their children tested.”

Limited Soil Testing, Patchy Fixes

In 2011, the last time there was outcry over lead pollution in parks, the New Orleans health commissioner at the time, Karen DeSalvo, said the city should do “everything we can to understand what the risk might be and to remediate it.” But she also called it “not the greatest challenge, honestly,” .

Then-Mayor Mitch Landrieu promised a comprehensive response.

“The city will take all necessary measures to investigate possible lead contamination in other parks and playgrounds and remediate them as soon as possible,” he said .

Two months later, testing and remediation were completed at several parks. Parents brought their children back to the reopened playgrounds.

Despite city leaders’ assurances of a broad response, only 16 parks were tested in 2011 and the city’s piecemeal cleanup covered only patches of contaminated soil rather than entire parks, according to documents obtained through public records requests.

That stunned the vocal group of parents who had pushed for cleaning up the Markey playground. Young, one of the mothers, said the scope of the 2011 testing and remediation was much more limited than she thought.

“If the majority of the parks they tested were high, what would make them think all the others are fine?” she said.

Verite’s testing found high levels of lead at several playgrounds that were remediated in 2011, including Markey.

The results disturbed Mielke, the Tulane toxicologist.

In 2010, Mielke led an effort to reduce lead exposure at 10 private child care center playgrounds in New Orleans. He and his team covered the entire footprint of each playground with water-pervious plastic fabric and then 6 inches of Mississippi River sediment from the Bonnet Carré Spillway, a source of clean, cheap, and easily accessible soil. Lead levels fell, with most playgrounds testing below 10 ppm.

In contrast, the city’s remediation was mostly limited to areas with lead levels above 400 ppm, leaving many hazardous areas exposed. Testing and remediation reports obtained by Verite typically showed MMG focused on two or three spots in each park, with the rest going untreated.

At Easton Park in Bayou St. John, for instance, the 2011 remediation covered four areas totaling about 4,700 square feet, but the park’s playground was left untouched. Verite measured four samples around the playground that exceeded the 100-ppm threshold, including 1,060-ppm and 603-ppm readings near Easton’s swing set.

One park, Evans in the Freret neighborhood, wasn’t remediated despite lead levels as high as 610 ppm in 2011. The reason wasn’t clear in progress reports submitted by MMG. In Verite’s 2025 tests, Evans recorded the highest level, with 5,998 ppm in one location.

MMG did not respond to requests for comment.

Landrieu did not respond to a request for comment. DeSalvo, who retired last summer as Google’s chief health officer, said “extremely limited resources” forced the city to weigh its response to lead contamination in parks with the many other health threats residents faced.

“We worked to address the range of exposures whenever possible with the resources we could muster,” she said.

A Road Map for Cleanup?

Filippelli, of Indiana University, said the city should conduct comprehensive testing of every park and do regular checkups.

But because lead contamination in New Orleans parks is extensive and city leaders are struggling to close a large budget deficit, Filippelli recommends that the city remediate the worst parks first.

He and Mielke don’t believe the city must go the expensive route of full remediation, which involves digging up lead-tainted soil and trucking it to a hazardous waste landfill. It’s usually unnecessary if a park is properly capped with clean soil, Filippelli said.

Verite obtained cost estimates for 10 of the 13 parks targeted for remediation in 2011. The total cost was $83,000 in 2011, or about $120,000 today. The work covered just more than 1.3 acres across the 10 properties. Filippelli estimated that similar work could be done today for about $20,000 per acre — about a fifth of what was spent to remediate just over an acre at New Orleans parks.

Remediation should be coupled with efforts to reduce contamination from nearby sources, primarily old houses shedding lead-based paint, Rabito said.

“When you clean up soil, you’re not going to do it much good if you haven’t identified what’s contaminating the soil,” she said.

Cleaning up New Orleans parks is also likely to require sustained public pressure, said the parents involved with the lead issue in 2011.

“I was not intending to kick butts or make anybody look bad,” Claudia Copeland said of her efforts to alert parents about the dangers at Markey. “But nothing would have happened unless all these parents were calling in to the city.”

Methodology

Verite News reporters Tristan Baurick and Halle Parker were trained to use , or XRF, a handheld device that can detect the unique traits of lead at trace levels, down to 10 parts per million. The analyzer is widely used by government and university scientists.

The reporters tested 531 soil samples over a month in late 2025, following protocols developed by retired Tulane University toxicologist Howard Mielke and vetted by three other lead-contamination researchers. The reporters tested surface soil in and around play structures and other areas of parks that children use. Of the more than 110 parks in New Orleans, Verite concentrated on the 84 that city property inventories and maps list as having play structures. The reporters took between three and 11 samples at each park, depending on the size, site accessibility, and levels of contamination. A GPS device was used to record each sample’s location.

Verite’s results were reviewed by Adrienne Katner, a lead-contamination researcher at Louisiana State University. She verified the accuracy of the testing by comparing it with a smaller set of park soil samples collected by her team last summer.

While valid, the method did have limitations. The results can’t be used to determine the state of a whole park. But even one elevated soil sample can provide a starting point for city officials to conduct more comprehensive testing.

This article was produced in collaboration with . The four-month investigation was supported by a Kozik Environmental Justice Reporting grant funded by the National Press Foundation and the National Press Club Journalism Institute. It was also produced as a project for the USC Annenberg Center for Health Journalism’s National Fellowship fund and Dennis A. Hunt Fund for Health Journalism.

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Bostic learned of a federal program designed to help people who suffer rare vaccine reactions.

The Vaccine Injury Compensation Program was created in 1986 after a flood of vaccine injury lawsuits drove drugmakers from the market. Congress aimed to offer a faster and more generous path to compensation for people injured by vaccines, while shielding manufacturers from liability. The VICP, commonly known as vaccine court, is taxpayer-funded. The government pays any award to claimants as well as attorneys fees.

Bostic filed a claim in 2022 for compensation to cover her son’s spiraling medical bills. She then contacted the Carlson Law Firm, which referred her to Arizona-based attorney Andrew Downing — who now serves as a senior adviser to Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

Downing declined to comment and HHS did not respond to requests for comment for this article.

Downing, who has represented hundreds of plaintiffs in vaccine court in Washington, D.C., signed on to take their case, according to reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. They agreed Downing would pursue the claim before the VICP.

Bostic shared documents and medical records as he requested them. Months passed as she waited for news on her son’s case.

After several months of making court filings, Downing told her it was time to opt out of the vaccine program and sue the drugmaker. When she refused to opt out, he withdrew from the case.

The government paid Downing $445 an hour for representing Bostic, for program attorneys with his experience, according to court records.

Three years later, Bostic said, she hasn’t received a dime for her son’s injury. Thomas, now 18, endures debilitating pain that doctors say may never go away.

Rather than help them work through the program, Bostic feels that Downing steered them away from it and toward a lawsuit against the manufacturer. The VICP ultimately dismissed her case.

Bostic was furious that the court paid Downing anything.

“Y’all could’ve gave that to me for my son,” she said. “How dare y’all.”

In Business With Washington

In June, Kennedy’s HHS also awarded Downing’s law firm, Brueckner Spitler Shelts, a to consult on an overhaul of the VICP. The contract has grown to $410,000. Downing is the only attorney listed on the firm’s website who has practiced in vaccine court.

Kennedy has routinely questioned vaccine safety and saying it shields drug companies from some liability “.” As a personal injury lawyer, Kennedy previously spearheaded civil litigation against vaccine maker Merck.

Downing and about a dozen other lawyers have transferred hundreds of clients from the vaccine program to civil suits, where the financial rewards — for patients and their lawyers — could run far higher, according to a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis of court records and program data. They’ve collected millions of taxpayer dollars in attorneys fees from vaccine court while launching precisely what it was designed to avoid: lawsuits against vaccine manufacturers.

This shift in legal strategy has fueled Kennedy’s crusade against Merck, and it could end up hurting some vaccine-injured clients, several experts said.

University of California Law-San Francisco professor Dorit Reiss has studied vaccine court for over a decade and has tracked the rise of anti-vaccine forces in American politics. She said VICP attorneys who are also suing vaccine makers have “incentives to direct more people” to lawsuits, “when it might not be in their best interest.”

A Delicate Balance

Kennedy has criticized the VICP as a barrier to accountability. But for Bostic, vaccine court offered an opportunity to hold the government to its promise of caring for casualties of widespread immunization.

Like any medication, vaccines can have side effects. Serious reactions to routine shots are rare, but for the unlucky few who bear this burden, the government promises recourse through its administrative program.

Vaccine court aims to strike a balance between protecting public health and helping individuals who may pay its price. The no-fault program allows claimants with vaccine-related injuries to get help without showing that the vaccine maker did anything wrong, even when the evidence doesn’t meet courtroom standards.

The program has made more than 12,500 awards, totaling roughly $5 billion in compensation. Historically, nearly half of claims have been resolved with some kind of award.

If patients aren’t satisfied with the outcome or don’t get a ruling within 240 days, they may leave the administrative program and sue the vaccine maker in civil court. Plaintiffs could potentially win larger awards. Lawyers could obtain higher fees, which they can’t in vaccine court.

But winning a civil suit is far more difficult, in part because plaintiffs have a greater burden of showing the vaccine caused their injury and that the maker was at fault. Since the VICP was created, no vaccine injury lawsuit has won a judgment in regular court, records show.

That hasn’t stopped some lawyers from trying. After the requisite 240 days, they have transferred hundreds of VICP claims into civil litigation against HPV vaccine manufacturer Merck, the ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis found.

The lawyers who represented those claims include Downing and other VICP attorneys with ties to Kennedy, court records show. Those include Kennedy advisers and people who work in the law office of his longtime personal lawyer Aaron Siri or with Children’s Health Defense, the anti-vaccine outfit Kennedy founded, as well as a former Kennedy co-counsel in suits against Merck over its HPV vaccine, Gardasil.

Downing, whose describes him as “one of the preeminent litigation attorneys in the Court of Federal Claims,” has not won an HPV vaccine injury claim in the past five years, records show. Vaccine court did compensate dozens of HPV vaccine claims in that time, but most — including nearly all of Downing’s — were withdrawn upon reaching the opt-out period.

VICP data and court records show that over the past five years, Downing and other lawyers withdrew roughly 400 Gardasil claims from vaccine court before a ruling was issued. The plaintiffs received nothing from the program. Hundreds of these cases joined the litigation against Merck, according to court records.

Once the opt-out period arrived in Bostic’s case, Downing informed her that he was preparing to withdraw her son’s claim and move the case back to the original law firm for a lawsuit against Merck.

“That,” he wrote in an email, “was the plan all along.”

Fighting for Compensation

Thomas, who hopes to enroll in community college and become a computer programmer, has intermittent numbness in his fingers and stabbing sensations in his arm nearly every day. The pain often radiates across his back or up his neck, and he’s developed migraines. Once an active kid who dreamed of playing basketball professionally, he now spends his time playing video games and trying to sleep during lulls in his pain.

Bostic’s claim on behalf of her son made him one of about 1,000 people who have filed with vaccine court for HPV vaccine injuries. More than 200 have received compensation — just over one for every million shots given. Court records show program awards were typically $50,000 to $100,000, with some also covering past medical bills or future health care expenses.

Richard Hughes IV, a health care attorney and former pharmaceutical executive who teaches vaccine law at George Washington University Law School, reviewed Thomas’ records and said cases like his were exactly what the vaccine program was designed to address.

“That just seems straightforward,” Hughes said of Thomas’ claim. “That should have gotten compensated.”

Bostic wanted the federal agencies that had approved and recommended Gardasil to answer for her son’s injuries. The single mother hoped compensation from the program would allow Thomas to see specialists including neurologists, afford natural treatments, and enroll in physical therapy.

“He would have had the best of the best health care,” she said.

When Downing took their case, Bostic said, he told her during a phone call that vaccine court’s $250,000 limit on pain and suffering was too low for her son’s injury. Bostic said Downing advised she could get more money by suing Merck, though that could take longer.

“I said, ‘No, that will take years. My son needs help now,’” Bostic recalled.

Bostic said she told Downing she wanted a fund set up for Thomas’ health care as soon as possible.

In the following weeks, Bostic sent paperwork to Downing’s office but had difficulty getting in touch with him, email and text messages show. Downing’s show a gap in his work on the case from late September until mid-November.

In November 2022, Downing emailed Bostic, “The opt out date for K.T.’s case is set for April 23, 2023. At that point, we will be in a position to opt K.T.’s case out of the Vaccine Program and move the case back over to the Carlson Law Firm for handling in the Merck litigation.”

Bostic said she was confused at the time by that language. But she remembers being emphatic in a follow-up phone call with Downing, repeatedly telling him she would not opt out.

After that, Bostic said, she didn’t hear from Downing for months despite calling his office and leaving messages with secretaries.

Downing’s billing records show that he and his paralegals spent fewer than nine hours on Bostic’s case in that stretch. This included time spent requesting, reviewing, and filing medical records, as well as drafting and filing extension requests. The billing records did not include any communication with Bostic during that time.

The court granted each of Downing’s extension requests, pushing back the deadline a month at a time.

In April 2023, Downing sent Bostic an email noting that 240 days had passed, so he could drop their government claim and they could sue Merck.

“Gardasil cases do not receive very fair treatment in the Vaccine Program,” Downing wrote, adding that he would withdraw as her attorney if Bostic stayed in the program.

Bostic chose to stick with vaccine court, later telling the vaccine court judge by email that she’d advised her attorney “I was not trying to become a millionaire.”

That exchange of emails in April is when Bostic said she learned Downing was already representing plaintiffs in lawsuits over Gardasil. The litigation encompassed hundreds of other patients who — most of them under Downing’s counsel — had filed VICP claims in recent years.

Running out the 240-day clock, critics say, is allowed but subverts the program’s intent.

Some legal experts criticize the way Downing handled Bostic’s case.

“They trusted him to file the VICP case,” Reiss said. “It’s his job to zealously advocate for his clients. In this case, his clients want to go through VICP. It’s his job to fight for them in VICP, not to wait for 240 days.”

When Downing joined HHS as a senior adviser to Kennedy, court records show, he handed off his remaining vaccine court cases to other attorneys in firms involved in the litigation against Merck.

A New Approach

The vaccine program has long faced criticism for giving claimants too little, too late. Even VICP advocates see the need for reform, with eight officials deciding a growing , driving up wait times. The cap on pain and suffering payments has not changed since 1986. But the court can award further compensation like a fund for lifetime medical care that can reach millions.

Most vaccine-injured individuals are better off in the administrative program than in civil litigation, legal experts said.

Renée Gentry, director of GWU’s Vaccine Injury Litigation Clinic and a founding member of the Vaccine Injured Petitioners Bar Association, has represented hundreds of families alleging vaccine injuries. Most of them, she said, aren’t focused on big payouts; rather, they “want their kid taken care of or they want to be taken care of.”

For claims that often fail in vaccine court, however, Gentry said a lawsuit may be the best option. According to Gentry, HPV vaccine claims like Thomas’ are particularly challenging to win in the VICP.

“If you’re not going to win, then you want those clients to have at least an opportunity at something,” she said.

For Mark Sadaka, a prominent vaccine court lawyer representing some claims in Merck litigation, sending clients to regular court is a last resort.

Sadaka said certain Gardasil injury claimants, such as those alleging mental rather than physical harm, might be better off in litigation. But by sticking it out in the VICP, Sadaka has won HPV vaccine injury claims that were the first of their kind, including for narcolepsy, alopecia, and even a deadly arrhythmia.

“He’s going to get taken care of for the rest of his life,” Sadaka said of his client who won compensation for narcolepsy in 2023. “And he doesn’t have to pay me anything.”

Sadaka, like all program lawyers, gets an hourly rate from the VICP. He said that he could make much more money representing the same claims in traditional litigation, since he could get a cut of any awards.

“It’s a better thing for me to file in regular court and get a higher fee, but for the client, sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn’t,” Sadaka said. “My role is to explain both sides in gross detail for them and give them as much information as possible so they can make an informed decision.”

According to Sadaka, some lawyers in the VICP automatically advise their clients to leave vaccine court and file a lawsuit.

“If they can extract settlements, they’re going to be very happy to put that money in their pockets,” Hughes noted.

Winning a lawsuit or reaching a major settlement could also spell trouble for nationwide vaccine access, replaying the events that gave rise to vaccine court in the 1980s.

Some vaccine lawyers and policymakers believe Kennedy and his colleagues might welcome a return to those days.

“If they can bring down the system, that’s a feather in their cap,” Hughes said.

Lawyers cannot win contingency fees in vaccine court. They get paid for time spent on reasonable claims whether they win or lose. Downing made more than $1 million representing clients before the VICP in recent years, according to court records.

A shows that since fiscal year 2020, the program has paid scores of attorneys about $280 million — including over $43 million for cases they did not win.

In each of the last two fiscal years, lawyers got roughly $9 million for VICP claims in which their clients got nothing. That was more than the program had ever previously paid to attorneys for unsuccessful claims, according to vaccine court data.

‘Learning How To Cope’

After discovering her attorney would not pursue VICP compensation for her son, Bostic decided to advocate for Thomas herself.

“Please help me,” she wrote in a letter to the court.

VICP staff gave Bostic extra time to find a new lawyer and gather records.

The following months proved difficult for the family. Bostic was hospitalized with a life-threatening condition. Her mother’s health declined. She was laid off and lost her family’s health insurance.

By the time Bostic could take Thomas to a pediatric neurologist to get medical records for his VICP case, she said, the doctor had moved hours away to Orlando.

Bostic repeatedly missed deadlines and failed to communicate with program staff as required, court records show. Emails, docket entries, and letters suggest she may have misunderstood some court orders and not received others.

When Thomas’ medical records remained incomplete for another year, the presiding official dismissed Bostic’s claim, writing that while he had sympathy for what she and her son had endured, “the case cannot be allowed to remain pending indefinitely.”

Thomas said he can no longer play basketball with friends. He can’t even help his mother carry groceries into the house.

“I got to live with this, and there’s pain,” he said.

Bostic now works from home as a bank fraud analyst. With an income just above the cutoff for government assistance, she puts in overtime in hopes of affording health insurance for Thomas and her six other children.

“People are asking, ‘How’s your son doing?’” Bostic said. “I normally say, ‘Still the same. We just learning how to cope with it.’”

Methodology

The ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis began with court records for cases in the U.S. Court of Federal Claims, which includes vaccine court. We first identified all cases since 2006 (when the HPV vaccine was introduced) in which the “nature of suit” field explicitly mentioned human papillomavirus, or in which “nature of suit” was categorized as “other” vaccine injury/death and the case text included the word “papillomavirus.” The latter made up about 10% of identified cases, mostly claims filed before the HPV vaccine was added to the program or claims involving multiple vaccines. We cross-referenced the number of cases with data from VICP reports to verify completeness.

After identifying the relevant vaccine court cases, we pulled these claims’ filing and closing dates and took the difference to find the number of days that each case spent in vaccine court. To estimate total attorneys fees awarded for these claims, we added the fee amounts recorded in dozens of the VICP rulings and derived a minimum estimate based on the number of such cases.

We then searched federal court records for litigation over Merck’s HPV vaccine, Gardasil, and pulled the names of the plaintiffs and attorneys involved. To gauge the scale of claims diverted from the VICP to litigation, we searched for each attorney in the Gardasil-related vaccine court cases and searched for the last name of each plaintiff in the titles of those cases.

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The April wind was chilly at one of the tribes’ highest vistas in remote southeastern Idaho.

“Our goal is to bring fiber out here,” Goli said, sweeping one hand across the horizon. The landscape below is scattered with homes, bordered in the east by snowcapped mountain peaks and to the west by “The Bottoms,” where tribal bison graze along the Snake River.

In between, on any given day, a cancer patient drives to the reservation’s casino to call doctors. A young mother asks one child not to play video games so another can do homework. Tribal field nurses update charts in paper notebooks at patients’ homes, then drive back to the clinic to pull up records, send orders, or check prescriptions.

Three years ago, the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes were awarded more than $22 million during the first round of the federal Tribal Broadband Connectivity Program. But tribes that were awarded millions in a second round of funding saw their payments held up under the Trump administration. Last month, federal leaders to tribal broadband programs as part of a larger effort to “reduce red tape.” The National Telecommunications and Information Administration said it plans to “promote flexibility” and launch a new grant in the spring.

Federal regulators declined to provide details. The announcement comes after a year of upheaval for federal broadband programs, including the elimination of Digital Equity Act funding, which President Donald Trump has and a restructured $42 billion Broadband, Equity, Access, and Deployment program, which U.S. Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick said was influenced by “.”

Across Indian Country and on the Fort Hall Reservation, high-speed despite billions set aside for tribes. In early November, U.S. Sens. Maria Cantwell (D-Wash.) and Brian Schatz (D-Hawaii) why funds already awarded had not been released to tribes and whether federal regulators were providing adequate technical assistance.

So far, the $3 billion tribal program has announced $2.24 billion in awards for 275 projects nationwide. But tribes that won awards have drawn down only about $500 million, according to a from the Commerce Department’s Office of Inspector General.

The agency on the broadband programs, offering tribal leaders two dates in January for online meetings.

The Shoshone-Bannock Tribes have drawn down less than 2% of their awarded funding and the program has not yet connected a single household, Goli said. NTIA spokesperson Stephen Yusko said the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes are still slated to get their full grant award and, he confirmed, future spending will not be subject to the administration’s recalibrations.

Gaps in high-speed internet can be profound and urgent on tribal lands. Tribal members are historically underserved and, on average, live with the highest rates of chronic illnesses and die than the average U.S. resident.

Diabetes and high suicide rates are among the most pernicious tribal health challenges — and federal research confirms telehealth . A showed that people tend to live sicker and die younger in America when they live in dead zones, or places where poor internet access intersects with shortages of health care providers, leaving patients who need it most unable to use telehealth.

“We’re in survival mode,” said Nancy Eschief Murillo, a longtime Shoshone-Bannock leader. The tribes, which have an on-site clinic, need more health care both in person and with telehealth, she said. “Right now, our reservation? We don’t have accessibility.”

‘Not 100% Accurate’

Inside a trailer that serves as the temporary headquarters for Fort Hall’s tribal broadband office, Goli sat at a desk in June and scanned the Federal Communications Commission’s most recent online map of the reservation.

As the tribes’ broadband project manager, Goli didn’t like what she saw on the map. Blue hexagons highlighted varying rates of high-speed coverage and signified that high-speed internet is available on much of the reservation. Companies have told federal regulators they provide fast transmission speeds to homes there.

“These are untrue,” Goli said. Fort Hall has about 2,400 households, and nearly all of them live without high-speed internet, she said.

When it comes to tracking who on a reservation has high-speed internet, “everybody acknowledges, including the FCC, that the map is not 100% accurate,” said Robert Griffin, co-chair of the Fiber Broadband Association Tribal Committee, an industry trade group. He is also the broadband director for the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma.

Attempting to correct the maps is one of the many tasks Goli has taken on since becoming the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes’ broadband project manager in January 2023 — seven months after the tribes won the award.

A series of hurdles, including flaws in the plan initially approved by the federal government and a cyberattack, have delayed the project, she said. The attack hit in August 2024 and for months shut down nearly all phones and computers on the reservation.

“We didn’t have access to any of our information,” Goli told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News this month, adding that the tribes are still “in recovery mode” from the attack.

Goli, who grew up on the reservation and still plays basketball at the tribal gym, left her job as a data analyst in Seattle to return home to be with family and to work. For two years, and with no broadband industry experience, Goli has overseen the multimillion-dollar grant without a staff.

Her first task, she said, was to collect data that could help create a realistic plan to deliver broadband to every home on the reservation. “Data tells a story,” Goli said.

Fort Hall and many other tribal lands are remote with rugged, expansive terrain. To build fiber-optic cables underground, the tribes must navigate lava rock and work with the Bureau of Indian Affairs to get permits. To build communications towers, the tribes must ensure they follow migratory bird rules for American bald eagles. To provide wireless connections, the tribes must buy or license spectrum from federal regulators, Goli said.

When the federal tribal broadband program launched, more than — pitching projects totaling $5 billion  — submitted requests to the NTIA. During a later round of funding, asked for more than $2.6 billion, even though only $980 million was available. There are 574 federally recognized tribes in the United States.

The tribal program funding was not enough to “build out Indian Country,” said Joe Valandra, chief executive and chairman of the broadband consulting firm Tribal Ready. Valandra is a member of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe of South Dakota.

Congress created the tribal program to be used in combination with funds from the larger $42 billion Broadband, Equity, Access, and Deployment, or BEAD, program, Valandra said.

But now, it seems “the administration has no appetite for expensive broadband infrastructure builds in rural areas,” said Jessica Auer, a senior researcher with the community broadband networks team at the Institute for Local Self-Reliance, a research and advocacy nonprofit.

Auer, who has of tribal programs, said the administration may think the money already given to states for BEAD, as well as the use of satellite internet connections, will be enough for tribal lands.

“They seem to have a strong interest in declaring this problem solved,” she said. Low-earth-orbit satellites, though, are costly for the consumer and do not always offer the consistent high speeds they should, she said.

Goli’s plan does not include the use of satellites. On Fort Hall, the few households that have fast speeds now buy Starlink, but tribal leaders say the $80 to $120 monthly subscription costs are too expensive for most members.

The newly revised plan will use a hybrid of fiber-optic cables and wireless internet to ensure that people can “live their lives, whether it be health, education, telehealth,” Goli said.

The Test

Ladd Edmo, a councilman for the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, thinks the tribal broadband project is taking too long.

Goli “is doing the best she can,” Edmo said.

But when he thinks about the millions waiting to be spent, Edmo said, he worries federal regulators “can just grab it back.”

“I’m not afraid of the current administration,” said Edmo, who is in his fifth term on the tribes’ business council. “I just think that they’re looking for money everywhere they can.”

Edmo lives about half a mile from the Fort Hall townsite and said he can’t really use his internet because he “gets a tremendous amount of buffering.” When he travels to doctors for his prostate cancer treatment, Edmo has them print paper schedules to keep track of his treatment.

He said he is not a big fan of telehealth, “probably because I don’t know how to use it.”

For 53-year-old Carol Cervantes Osborne, who also lives on the reservation, having internet is a necessity. Osborne is in constant pain from severe rheumatoid arthritis.

“I’m just all broke down,” Osborne said as she stared at the open pasture last June. She talked about how she misses riding cattle roundups. At times, Osborne has been bed-bound because of her arthritis and bad knees. She said she tapped her credit line, which uses land and cattle as collateral, and signed up for Starlink so that she can connect with doctors remotely through telehealth appointments.

“I’m poor because of it, but we’ve got to have it,” Osborne said.

Meanwhile, nearly 15 months after the cyberattack, Goli said the tribes are beginning to hire vendors.

“Things happen very slow when it comes to processing things in the tribal government,” Goli said, adding there are a lot of “checks and balances.”

This month — as the holidays approached — Goli said she was excited.

“We’ve actually started our first segment of fiber,” Goli said. The engineering work is done, and they have begun issuing permits, she said. The fiber-optic lines, built by a private vendor, will cover a two-mile segment on the northern end of the reservation. The line will come from outside the reservation and connect to the tribes’ data hub, which is an old radio station still being converted into broadband offices.

“It’s our first segment, and we’re really using this as a test,” Goli said.

Eventually, the old radio station will be central to operations, with fiber-optic cable lines that web out over about 800 square miles to reach the reservation’s five district lodges. Each lodge will establish a communications tower, which will use the fiber line to power wireless antennas that will then provide high-speed internet to the reservation’s most remote homes.

Goli said the tribes are applying for another extension — and, she said, they would not be the only award winners of the Tribal Broadband Connectivity Program to ask for more time. Working with tribes, she said, takes time.

“It really saddens me that we’ve been left behind all these years,” Goli said, but “this is our opportunity. We want to do it right, slow and steady.”

Sarah Jane Tribble, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ chief rural correspondent, spent more than a year interviewing Frances Goli through calls, texts, and emails. She traveled to Fort Hall Reservation twice, having received tribal approval to visit the land: in spring 2024 and again in summer 2025. Tribble also reviewed publicly requested copies of the tribal contract and interviewed dozens of industry and regulatory broadband experts.

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Hunt died five days later. Her death certificate said the foot injury was a “significant” factor. Genesis denied wrongdoing but agreed to pay $3.5 million in a settlement Hunt’s son signed in August 2024.

Yet Genesis hasn’t paid most of that debt, court records show. It may never have to.

Once the nation’s largest nursing home chain, it was spending $8 million a month defending and settling lawsuits over resident injuries and deaths in recent years. But the company is now poised to wipe the liability slate clean by seeking refuge in the most protective corner of the legal system for the nursing home industry: bankruptcy court.

The Genesis case, one of 11 large senior care bankruptcies this year, illustrates how health care companies can dodge public and financial accountability for alleged negligence through delays, confidentiality clauses, and bankruptcy maneuvers, a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found.

When it filed for bankruptcy in Dallas in July, Genesis estimated its total liability for nearly a thousand settled and pending lawsuits at $259 million. A ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News review of the terms of 155 settlement agreements and shows Genesis officials knew insolvency was possible yet included provisions in its settlement agreements allowing it to defer payment, often for a year or more.

As a result, Genesis paid nothing in 85 cases and only a portion in the other 70, according to civil court records and bankruptcy claims made available through people with access to them. It still owes $41 million of the $58 million it had agreed to pay in those cases, the records show.

“It just feels like they killed my mom and got away with it,” said Vanessa Betancourt, whose mother, Nellie Betancourt, a retired nurse, fractured her hip at a Genesis home in Albuquerque, New Mexico — an injury the medical examiner’s report said led to her death. Genesis agreed to a $650,000 settlement with Betancourt’s family in April under the condition it would not need to pay the first of seven installments for another year, according to the settlement document.

Genesis denied wrongdoing in all lawsuits and settlements. In a written statement, the company did not answer questions about individual personal injury cases. The statement said Genesis remained “focused on delivering high-quality, compassionate care to our patients and residents without disruption” during bankruptcy.

One lawsuit Genesis settled for nearly $1 million alleged nursing home managers ignored repeated warnings about a male resident’s behavior before he sexually assaulted a female Alzheimer’s patient, according to court records. In a case the company resolved for $500,000, a Genesis nursing home was accused of delaying the hospitalization of a resident who had vomited brown mucus. He died of a bowel obstruction. Genesis has paid nothing for either settlement, according to bankruptcy claims.

Creditors, including families of the deceased, are expected to salvage a fraction of what they were promised, if anything. On Dec. 10, the company’s owners were scheduled to seek approval by the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Northern District of Texas to sell its nursing homes and other assets to its largest investor, a private equity firm. In court papers, lawyers for residents and other creditors say the complex plan will from pursuing Genesis’ new ownership and other companies the company’s collapse.

John Anthony, a bankruptcy attorney representing 340 personal injury claims against Genesis, said, “They never had any intention to honor these deals.”

Low Ratings and Fines

During years of financial turmoil, Genesis has frequently struggled to provide top-notch care, federal records show. Using its five-star system, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services affiliated with Genesis as below average or much below average. CMS Genesis homes $10 million for violating federal health standards over the past three years.

In 2022, a Genesis home after two deaths and multiple violations. The company this year after residents twice were evacuated over safety concerns.

In its filing, Genesis said it cared for about 15,000 residents in 165 nursing homes and 10 assisted living facilities in 18 states. They are centered in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, New Mexico, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Maine, Alabama, Maryland, and North Carolina, according to the bankruptcy filing.

The company said it owed $709 million in secured debt to lenders and the IRS. Under bankruptcy rules, those debts, backed by Genesis collateral, take precedence over the $1.6 billion in unsecured debt Genesis said it owes. Unsecured creditors include a pension fund; contractors that provided health services and equipment; Pennsylvania, New Mexico, and West Virginia for unpaid provider taxes; and former residents and their families who sued.

Dangers in Memory Care

Sandia Ridge Center, a Genesis home in Albuquerque, was repeatedly faulted by health regulators for not preventing sexual misbehavior in its memory care unit. In November 2021, CMS for lacking enough nurses to prevent sexual abuse among residents. An inspection report the following August inappropriate sexual contact. Police were called to investigate sexual assault allegations in and of 2023, police reports show; neither resulted in criminal charges.

Then in April 2023, a 61-year-old male resident with alcohol-related dementia sexually assaulted a female resident with Alzheimer’s in the dining room, according to a and an . When the resident screamed for him to stop and that he was hurting her, he responded “shut up bitch I know you like this,” according to a lawsuit brought on behalf of the woman, identified in court papers as R.S.

Sandia Ridge management had been aware of the male resident’s behavioral issues for months, according to employee depositions in the case. Police had investigated a against him the previous year without bringing charges. In one deposition, a former activities assistant testified he hit her and twice pushed her into a bathroom while announcing, “I want to have sex with you.” When she reported him to a senior Genesis manager, she said in the deposition, the manager put his finger over his lips and said, “Shhh.”

The activities worker testified that R.S. used to happily sing along with Elvis Presley songs. After the assault, the worker said, R.S. “don’t sing anymore.”

Inspectors cited the home for failing to protect R.S. The same report said the home didn’t provide a therapist for another female resident who was being sexually harassed. Medicare fined Sandia Ridge Center $91,247. Genesis denied liability but settled R.S.’ lawsuit for $925,000 in May, according to the bankruptcy claim.

“We just felt we have to hold them accountable,” R.S.’ daughter said in an interview, speaking on the condition that she and her mother not be identified, because of the nature of the assault. “Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m naive, but the only way to do that is to sue someone, right?”

Genesis has not paid any of the settlement, according to the family’s claim filing.

Growth and Debt

Genesis’ downfall can be , when affiliates of two private equity firms acquired the company in a $1.5 billion leveraged buyout, taking on substantial debt, according to its bankruptcy filing. Private equity also has been involved in other health care bankruptcies, including those of the nursing home chain, the prison health care contractor , and two for-profit hospital systems, and .

In 2011, Genesis raised $2.4 billion by transferring substantially all its nursing home buildings and other real estate to Welltower, a publicly traded real estate investment trust, according to Genesis’ bankruptcy filing. Genesis then rented the buildings back from Welltower, which made leasing costs a significant expense.

Genesis went on a nationwide buying spree. At its peak in 2016, it had grown to more than 500 nursing homes. In a court declaration, Louis Robichaux IV, a consultant overseeing Genesis’ bankruptcy restructuring, wrote that as the company expanded, it became harder to manage and “mired in corporate inefficiencies.” Robichaux wrote that Genesis’ financial woes were exacerbated by rapidly increasing labor costs and lawsuits, including some predating the covid pandemic.

Starting in 2021, Genesis avoided bankruptcy after from a founded by Joel Landau, the owner of a , according to Robichaux’s filing.

But Genesis continued to teeter on the edge of insolvency. In for 2022 and 2023 submitted to a California oversight agency, management and auditors said rent and debt obligations raised “substantial doubt about the company’s ability to continue as a going concern.”

In a court filing, a committee appointed by the U.S. Trustee’s Office to represent the unsecured creditors in the bankruptcy accused Landau and Welltower of that allowed Welltower to keep getting its rents while Landau could run the company and “siphon value to himself.” The committee alleged their efforts forced the company into insolvency while “staffing levels and patient care declined precipitously.” Landau and Welltower did not respond to requests for comment.

Drawn-Out Lawsuits

Erin Pearson sued Genesis over the death of her father, James Sanderson, a retired mining company executive who died in 2018 after spending less than a month at Bear Canyon Rehabilitation Center in Albuquerque. In the memory care unit, Sanderson fell repeatedly, suffered medication errors made by nursing home staff, and developed a bowel obstruction and sepsis, according to the lawsuit, filed in 2019. Pearson’s lawyers said he was not hospitalized until eight days after nurses noticed he was vomiting brown mucus.

After the judge rejected Genesis’ request to force Pearson into arbitration, Genesis appealed. It took 2½ years before an appeals court affirmed the original decision to let the case go forward in court, records show.

This past May, more than five years after suing, Pearson reached a $500,000 settlement, with the first payment required by November, according to a copy of the agreement. Nothing was paid, according to the bankruptcy claim.

“It was so drawn out and for so long,” Pearson said in an interview, calling Genesis’ bankruptcy “despicable.”

Payouts Postponed

Jennifer Foote, an Albuquerque attorney who represents clients in multiple lawsuits against Genesis, including Pearson’s, said the company frequently filed appeals. “They did not usually win them on these issues,” she said, “and our sense was that they were doing it as a delay tactic.”

Genesis started using installment payments around 2018, said Dusti Harvey, Foote’s law partner. “The payments wouldn’t start for several months out,” Harvey said. Foote said Genesis’ lawyers often wanted to time the payments to start the month the trial in the case was scheduled to occur.

Families had to wait even when comparatively small amounts of money were involved, settlement agreements show. Genesis’ settlement agreements also included a confidentiality clause prohibiting discussion of the incidents.

Genesis agreed to pay $42,000 in a November 2024 settlement, but the first payment was not due until nine months later. It was not paid, according to the bankruptcy claim.

A $250,000 settlement signed in October 2023 did not start paying out until the following September. When Genesis declared bankruptcy — 21 months after the case was resolved — it still owed $100,000, according to the family’s claim.

‘We Never Found Out the Truth’

Settling cases allowed Genesis to avoid the expense and publicity of a trial, at which details of how its nursing homes functioned might have been revealed. In October 2020, Margarett Johnson, a retired school bus driver, fell out of her wheelchair at a Genesis nursing home in Waldorf, Maryland, fracturing her jawbone, nose, and neck, according to a lawsuit brought by her family. Johnson was sent to a trauma center and placed on a ventilator. She died three months later, at age 76, from ventilator-associated pneumonia, the lawsuit said.

“It looked like she was hit by a truck,” Angelina Harley, one of her daughters, said in an interview. “I knew my mom was not going to come home. I knew the Lord was not going to punish her more.”

The company denied negligence and blamed the accident on Johnson’s jacket getting tangled in the wheel of her wheelchair, according to the lawsuit. Harley and her sister Angela Swann were dubious.

“We never found out the truth,” Harley said. “They wanted to settle out of court.”

The company denied liability but agreed to a $950,000 settlement in October 2024. It never paid the final $112,500 installment, according to a letter Johnson’s five children sent to the bankruptcy judge.

“If you settle out of court, you know doggone well you did something wrong,” Harley said.

Maddening Judges

By summer 2025, judges in some civil cases had run out of patience.

Alma Brown, a retired day care manager and accordion teacher living in a Genesis nursing home in Clovis, New Mexico, suffered falls, infections, bedsores, and other neglect that hastened her death in 2023, according to her estate’s lawsuit. In Santa Fe District Court, Judge Kathleen McGarry Ellenwood castigated Genesis after it failed to pay $2 million of the $3 million settlement to Brown’s estate or explain the delay.

Genesis “obviously benefited by not having to go to trial,” McGarry Ellenwood said in one hearing, according to a court transcript. “They assure me that they’re not trying to renege on their contract, but it certainly seems like they haven’t lived up to what the bargain was.”

Genesis declared bankruptcy the day McGarry Ellenwood announced she would impose more than $100,000 in fines, plus $10,000 more each day until the settlement was paid.

In Pennsylvania, Greg Hunt petitioned a judge to punish Genesis after it stopped payments of the $3.5 million settlement after the death of his mother, Nancy, the resident with the gangrenous foot. She had spent eight months in 2019 at Brandywine Hall, a Genesis facility in West Chester that was later sold and renamed.

In a filing with the Common Pleas Court of Montgomery County, Genesis admitted it was in arrears but asked the judge for more time, citing “unforeseen and exigent financial challenges.” Genesis said care for patients at its nursing homes would suffer if it had to pay immediately.

Unswayed, Judge Richard Haaz in June ordered Genesis to pay up, along with punitive interest. But the bankruptcy court stayed that order. Genesis still owes $1.4 million of the $2 million it was supposed to pay, according to Hunt’s claim. (The rest of the $3.5 million settlement is supposed to be paid by an insurer in January 2026.) Ian Norris, Hunt’s lawyer, declined to comment, citing confidentiality provisions in the settlement.

Court records indicate Genesis lawyers never disclosed in either case that it was preparing to declare bankruptcy.

‘Bankruptcy as a Tool’

In the first nine months of 2025, 10 other senior living companies with liabilities over $10 million entered Chapter 11 bankruptcy, according to , a consulting firm.

Hamid Rafatjoo, a bankruptcy lawyer representing nursing homes who is not involved in the Genesis bankruptcy case, said filings may increase as the industry has become costlier to run and class action lawsuits have become a fixture.

“Nursing homes get sued all the time for everything,” Rafatjoo said. “A lot of operators wait too long to use bankruptcy as a tool.”

On Dec. 1, Genesis announced the , saying it had elected to to a private equity firm controlled by Landau. In a court filing, Anthony, the attorney for the personal injury claimants, in Landau’s favor despite an “objectively better and higher competing bid” from another private equity investor that would have provided more money to creditors. Genesis said in its statement that Landau’s group had increased its bid during the auction.

Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) and two other senators last month to intervene in the case, out of concern that “individuals who already own or control Genesis are trying to sell it to themselves, wiping away legal and other creditor debts in the process.” Lawyers representing those in charge of the auction did not respond to a request for comment.

Families of former Genesis residents said they fear the capacity to purge lawsuits through bankruptcy emboldens nursing home owners who provide deficient care.

“They can file bankruptcy again,” said Gabe Betancourt, whose wife, Nellie, died after her stay at Uptown Rehabilitation Center in Albuquerque. “And we’re the ones that will pay for it, with our memories, our lives.”

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Not one U.S. citizen has applied.

West River Health Services in Hettinger, a town of about 1,000 residents in the southwestern part of the state, has four options, and none is good.

The hospital could fork over $100,000 for the Trump administration’s new H-1B visa fee and hire one of the more than 30 applicants from the Philippines or Nigeria. The fee is the equivalent of what some rural hospitals would pay two lab techs in a year, said Holzkamm, who is West River’s lab manager.

West River could ask the Department of Homeland Security to waive the fee. But it’s unclear how long the waiver process would take and if the government would grant one. The hospital could continue trying to recruit someone inside the U.S. for the job. Or, Holzkamm said, it could leave the position unfilled, adding to the workload of the current “skeleton crew.”

The U.S. health care system depends on foreign-born professionals to fill its ranks of doctors, nurses, technicians, and other health providers, particularly in chronically understaffed facilities in rural America.

But a new presidential proclamation aimed at the tech industry’s use of H-1B visas is making it harder for West River and other rural providers to hire those staffers.

“The health care industry wasn’t even considered. They’re going to be collateral damage, and to such an extreme degree that it was clearly not thought about at all,” said Eram Alam, a Harvard associate professor whose new book examines the history of foreign doctors in the U.S.

Elissa Taub, a Memphis, Tennessee-based attorney who assists hospitals with the H-1B application process, has been hearing concerns from her clients.

“It’s not like there’s a surplus of American physicians or nurses waiting in the wings to fill in those positions,” she said.

Until recently, West River and other employers paid up to $5,000 each time they applied to sponsor an H-1B worker. The visas are reserved for highly skilled foreign workers.

The new $100,000 fee — part of a by President Donald Trump — applies to workers living outside the U.S. but not those who were already in the U.S. on a visa.

West River lab tech Kathrine Abelita is one of nine employees — six technicians and three nurses — at the hospital who are current or former H-1B visa holders. Abelita is from the Philippines and has worked at West River since 2018. She’s now a permanent U.S. resident.

“It’s going to be a big problem for rural health care,” she said of the new fee. She said most younger American workers want to live in urban areas.

Sixteen percent of registered nurses, 14% of physician assistants, and 14% of nurse practitioners and midwives who work in U.S. hospitals are immigrants, according to a . Nearly a quarter of physicians in the U.S. went to medical school outside the U.S. or Canada, according to .

The , two , and have asked the administration to give the health care industry exemptions from the new fee. The new cost will disproportionally harm rural communities that already struggle to afford and recruit enough providers, the groups argue.

“A blanket exception for healthcare providers is the simplest path forward,” the National Rural Health Association and National Association of Rural Health Clinics wrote in a joint letter.

The proclamation allows fee exemptions for individuals, workers at specific companies, and those in entire industries when “in the national interest.” says the fee will be waived only in an “extraordinarily rare circumstance.” That includes showing that there is “no American worker” available for the position and that requiring a company to spend $100,000 would “significantly undermine” U.S. interests.

Taub called those standards “exceptionally high.”

Representatives of the NRHA and the American Medical Association, which organized a letter from the medical societies, said they’ve received no response after sending requests to Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem in late September and early October. The AHA declined to say whether it had heard back.

Homeland Security officials directed ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ inquiries to the White House, which did not answer questions about individual waiver timelines or the possibility of a categorical exemption for the health care industry.

Instead, White House spokesperson Taylor Rogers sent a statement defending the new fee, saying it will “put American workers first.” Her comments echo Trump’s proclamation, which focuses on accusations that the tech industry is abusing the H-1B program by replacing American workers with lower-paid foreign ones. But the order applies to all trades.

Alam, the Harvard professor, said the U.S.’ reliance on international providers does raise legitimate concerns, such as about how it takes professionals away from lower-income countries facing even greater health concerns and staffing shortages than the U.S.

This decades-long dependency, she said, stems from population booms, medical schools’ historical exclusion of nonwhite men, and the “much, much cheaper” cost of importing providers trained abroad than expanding health education in the U.S.

Internationally trained doctors tend to work in rural and urban areas that are poor and underserved, according to and .

Nearly 1,000 H-1B providers were employed in rural areas this year, the two rural health organizations wrote in their letter to the Trump administration.

J-1 visas, the most common type held by foreign doctors during their residencies and other postgraduate training in the U.S., require them to return to their home country for two years before applying for an H-1B.

But a government program called the Conrad 30 Waiver Program allows up to 1,500 J-1 holders a year to remain in the U.S. and apply for an H-1B in exchange for working for three years in a provider shortage area, which includes many rural communities.

Trump’s proclamation says employers that sponsor H-1B workers already inside the U.S., such as doctors with these waivers, won’t have to pay the six-figure fee, a nuance clarified in guidance released about a month later.

But employers will have to pay the new fee when hiring doctors and others who apply while living outside the U.S.

Alyson Kornele, CEO of West River Health Services, said most of the foreign nurses and lab techs it hires are outside the U.S. when they apply.

Ivan Mitchell, CEO of Great Plains Health in North Platte, Nebraska, said most of his hospital’s H-1B physicians were inside the U.S. on other visas when they applied. But he said physical therapists, nurses, and lab techs typically apply from abroad.

Holzkamm said it took five to eight months to hire H-1B applicants at her lab before the new fee was introduced.

Bobby Mukkamala, a surgeon and the president of the American Medical Association, said Republican and Democratic lawmakers are concerned about the ramifications for rural health care.

They include Senate Majority Leader John Thune, who said he planned to reach out about possible exemptions.

“We want to make it easier, not harder, and less expensive, not more expensive, for people who need the workforce,” the Republican told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News in September.

Thune’s office did not respond to questions about whether the senator has heard from the administration regarding potential waivers for health workers.

The Trump administration is facing at least two lawsuits attempting to block the new fee. includes a company that recruits foreign nurses and a union that represents medical graduates. , by the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, mentions concerns about the physician shortage and health systems’ ability to afford the new fee.

Kornele said West River won’t be able to afford a $100,000 fee so it’s doubling down on local recruiting and retention.

But Holzkamm said she hasn’t been successful in finding lab techs from North Dakota colleges, even those who intern at the hospital. She said West River can’t compete with the salaries offered in bigger cities.

“It’s a bad cycle right now. We’re in a lot of trouble,” she said.

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

This <a target="_blank" href="/rural-health/h1b-visa-fee-rural-hospitals-foreign-worker-shortages-north-dakota/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">

The ambulances frequently travel back and forth to in Asheville, the largest and most central hospital in the region. Trips can take more than two hours, according to Mark Snelson, director of , the local emergency medical service.

“When we get busy and all three of them are gone, we have no ambulances in our county,” he said.

Snelson and others in Madison County aren’t seeking more ambulances. They want a hospital closer than Mission. And the state agrees. In 2022, North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services officials said Madison and three other mountain counties needed 67 more acute care hospital beds. The state raised that to 93 beds in 2024, then to 222 by Oct. 15.

But the only indication of a new hospital thus far is a 25-acre field of graded dirt with a sign planted beside the highway reading “FUTURE HOME OF AdventHealth Weaverville.”

For the past three years, Mission Hospital’s owner has contested Florida-headquartered ’s attempt to build the hospital on land bought for $7.5 million in rural Weaverville, just minutes south of Madison County. It was , an event that would have defied the of rural hospital closures.

The irony is that the very law that calls for the new hospital — the state’s certificate of need, or CON, law — has been used to prevent further construction. Such laws are intended to cap unfettered health care expansion by allowing new hospitals and expansions only when a state can document a need for them. But the legal process has tied up the proposed Weaverville hospital in court, just as other such laws have done with projects in ; ; and .

All states had certificate of need laws until 1987, when the federal government repealed a mandate requiring them. Today, North Carolina is one of with the laws still on the books. Twelve others have repealed them or let them expire, and some, and , have significantly weakened theirs amid concerns they limit health care access and boost costs. President Donald Trump’s Federal Trade Commission and Department of Justice are among those questioning the need for the laws.

In North Carolina, too, opposition to the state’s certificate of need law has surfaced in both the General Assembly, where a has been dormant since April, and more prominently in the state Superior Court.

But some , health care economists, and certificate of need lawyers argue that, though the laws create bureaucracy that can delay projects, that’s not justification to do away with them.

The principle behind certificates of need is to hold at bay what is unnecessary expansion and price inflation brought on by a free market, which makes health care more expensive for everyone.

“If the principle is worth preserving, don’t abandon the principle,” said , a health care attorney with the Benesch law firm and former counsel for . “Improve the process to allow the principle to flourish.”

Who Should Fill the Need?

Mission Health is the largest health care network and the largest employer in the Tar Heel State’s share of the Appalachians. Nashville-based bought the century-old, nonprofit, six-hospital system for $1.5 billion in 2019, converting it to a for-profit operation that serves an 18-county region. (The Dogwood Health Trust, a nonprofit established as part of HCA’s purchase of Mission Health, helps fund ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News’ coverage.)

Though AdventHealth already owns one hospital in the North Carolina mountains about a 30-minute drive from the Weaverville site, its bid to build a new one represents a threat to HCA’s stronghold. Mission argues it is best positioned to meet the needs the state says exist in the Madison County region.

“Not all acute care beds are the same,” Mission Health spokesperson Nancy Lindell said. “Instead of adding more beds at facilities that are unable to provide the complex medical and surgical care needed, the region would be better served by expanding bed capacity at Mission Hospital.”

An eastern North Carolina eye surgeon’s against the state’s health agency and top state officials alleged the state’s certificate of need law “has nothing to do with protecting the health or safety of real patients.” The ophthalmologist, Jay Singleton, has argued the law prevented him from performing surgeries at his own center because the state didn’t see a need to duplicate services already provided at the local hospital, where he was obligated to operate.

In early November, Republican state Treasurer Brad Briner, the , and several academics who study such laws nationally filed amicus briefs supporting Singleton’s case and urging a judge to reject the state’s attempt to dismiss it.

“I’ve characterized CON law as a permission slip to compete,” said , a George Mason University economics and law professor who co-authored the brief. “It’s as if, when a McDonald’s wanted to open up a shop next to Burger King, they have to go to the state regulator to ask if that’s OK.”

Stratmann argued that, instead of , more competition would give hospitals and providers greater leverage in negotiating with insurance companies.

That view aligns with a stance the federal government has held for almost 40 years. With varying degrees of fervor under Democratic and Republican leadership, the Federal Trade Commission and Department of Justice have argued that the laws are anticompetitive and bad for consumers. The Justice Department did not respond to questions about its current position, and the FTC declined to comment on the record.

“CON laws create barriers to entry and expansion, limit consumer choice, and stifle innovation,” the Federal Trade Commission wrote in an April letter to Rhode Island Gov. Dan McKee, a Democrat, as the state’s legislature considered, but ultimately abandoned, amendments to its certificate of need law. “For these reasons, the Agencies have consistently suggested that states repeal or retrench their CON laws.”

‘It’s Personal’

In a to Trump and congressional leaders, Senate Democrats named five North Carolina hospitals on a list of rural hospitals in danger of closing if the president’s then-pending spending and tax-cut legislation, called the One Big Beautiful Bill, became law, citing research from the .

Two of the five North Carolina hospitals on that list, and , are part of the Mission Health system. Both had three consecutive years of negative profit margins, like hundreds of others on the list. Lindell, the Mission Health spokesperson, said HCA is committed to keeping those two facilities open.

Even so, Madison County Health Department Director Tammy Cody said the needs in the region remain and the certificate of need appeals process has slowed down getting help.

“This isn’t theoretical — it’s personal,” she said. “Every delay means a mother in labor risks a longer ride, an elder with chest pain waits longer for help, or a worker injured on the job faces unnecessary complications.”

AdventHealth spokesperson Victoria Dunkle said the hospital system supports the state’s law partly because it “protects rural access to health care and ensures the community has a voice in the process.” The legal process has kept families waiting, she said, but AdventHealth plans to move forward with the Weaverville hospital “as soon as possible.”

Snelson, the ambulance service director, voiced a question many in the region have asked since the hope of a new rural hospital surfaced.

“Why is it a bad thing for another hospital to come in here to take some of the stress off of Mission?” he asked. “Within a day of it opening, it’s going to be full.”

This <a target="_blank" href="/health-industry/certificate-of-need-laws-north-carolina-hospital-bureaucracy-dirt-field/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">

Since the Nov. 5 deadline passed for states to apply for their shares of the new $50 billion federal Rural Health Transformation Program funding, officials at the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services have declined to publicly release the applications. Federal officials are using those submissions, most of them more than 100 pages long, to decide how to divide the money among states. They’ve pledged to announce the allocations by Dec. 31.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News is working to collect and post complete application materials, by state, here and will update this repository as new materials, released in response to public records requests, arrive.

This <a target="_blank" href="/rural-health/tracking-applications-for-rural-health-transformation-funds/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">