“It was just too perfect,” said her mother, Shenelle Ball-Green, of those calm, hot weeks.

Then, early on July 5, four days shy of her scheduled cesarean section, Ball-Stribling began experiencing complications from preeclampsia, a potentially life-threatening blood pressure disorder. Speeding up to 110 mph, her husband drove her to the nearest hospital 25 miles away from their home in Belzoni, a Mississippi Delta town of about 1,900 people.

Minutes before reaching the facility, Ball-Stribling suffered a seizure in the passenger seat. Her husband pulled her from the car and performed CPR on the side of the road. It was too late. She and the couple’s unborn daughter, Harper, died on the side of U.S. Route 49.

The tragedy might have had a different outcome if the hospital in Belzoni, a five-minute drive from Ball-Stribling’s home, hadn’t closed 13 years ago. Today, Humphreys County has no hospital, no emergency room, no urgent care clinic, and no county health department. It is one of more than in the U.S. that have fully closed since 2005.

In Belzoni, self-proclaimed “The Heart of the Delta,” and its surrounding area, communities are close-knit, and Harmony’s story is well known. Now, her death has galvanized local and state leaders determined to bring a hospital back to the county that has suffered without one.

“It was a tremendous eye-opener for this community,” said state Rep. Timaka James-Jones, a Democrat who represents the district that includes Belzoni and is Ball-Stribling’s aunt. “It brought to light how we are so without.”

Poverty often shapes the health disparities Humphreys County residents experience. Approximately under age 65 lack health insurance coverage, compared with about 1 in 11 people nationwide. Humphreys County also has the of any Mississippi county, reflecting the economic challenges many residents face. These disparities are evident in the county’s infant mortality rate, which is at roughly 15 deaths for every 1,000 births.

James-Jones has watched these circumstances influence the lives — and deaths — of her loved ones. She said she wants to see a hospital reestablished before her four-year term is up in early 2028.

But that may be easier said than done. In Belzoni, local leaders hoping to restore healthcare services face a tangled web of policy challenges that are especially demanding for a small town with limited resources. Its story reflects what many : Once a rural community loses a hospital, bringing it back can be nearly impossible.

Humphreys County’s Healthcare Losses

Humphreys County Memorial Hospital opened in Belzoni in 1951 as part of a nationwide hospital building boom fueled by a Truman-era law called the Hill-Burton Act. The legislation provided billions of dollars in grants and loans to build and modernize healthcare facilities. At the time, had no hospital. When the building boom began to subside by 1970, in Mississippi had at least one hospital.

But by the 2000s, many rural hospitals in the U.S. confronted financial difficulties. Low patient volumes, an increase in outpatient care, and meager revenues left many on precarious footing. Many had high rates of uninsured patients or those covered through government programs such as Medicaid, which typically reimburse providers at lower rates than commercial insurers.

Humphreys County’s hospital was among those struggling facilities. It was burdened with , and county officials sold it in 2008 to a private company. It was renamed the Patients’ Choice Medical Center. The hospital shut down five years later after Ray Shoemaker, the company’s CEO, was convicted on healthcare fraud charges related to another hospital he owned.

“I do hope they reopen,” Shoemaker wrote in a recent text message to Mississippi Today. “The community needs a hospital.” He said he stepped down from the company before going to prison in 2012.

In 2017, the University of Mississippi Medical Center partnered with the county supervisors and U.S. Rep. Bennie Thompson, a Democrat whose district includes Humphreys County, to secure a from the U.S. Department of Agriculture to open an after-hours acute care clinic in Belzoni. The clinic shut down in 2020, and UMMC officials declined to say why.

G.A. Carmichael Family Health Center, a Canton-based federally qualified health center with five other locations in Mississippi, took it over but did not maintain the extended hours, again leaving Humphreys County residents without after-hours care. Other public health services in the county have closed outright. Three years ago, the county’s health department stopped providing clinical services, said Greg Flynn, a spokesperson for the Mississippi State Department of Health. The county department closed entirely last year, citing staffing shortages and low patient volumes.

In the years since the hospital closed, the county has lost a fourth of its population, falling to 7,000 people, . James-Jones said she does not believe the community can experience growth until healthcare services are reestablished.

“I don’t know how I can see us growing any other way,” she said.

‘Something’s Way Better Than Nothing’

Months after losing her daughter and unborn granddaughter, Ball-Green climbed the steps of the stately, tan, brick Humphreys County Courthouse to attend a crowded Board of Supervisors meeting.

She stood at the dais and urged the supervisors to reestablish emergency healthcare services in the county to protect other residents from the fates of her loved ones.

“I wanted to let them know at any given moment that could be your child, your mother,” she said. “We’re a small town. Everyone knows everyone.”

She remembered the disappointment she felt when the supervisors told her there was nothing they could do. But when the board’s makeup changed after the 2023 elections, she said, she saw these attitudes shift.

Among the newly elected officials was Reggie Pinkston, who is now the president of the board and previously worked as an EMT when the hospital was open. His own family has suffered the consequences of limited healthcare access. A cousin living in Louise, a town about 20 miles south of Belzoni in the county, had a stroke in 2021 and waited an hour for an ambulance to arrive. She died two days later.

Pinkston said witnessing residents’ delays in care has made expanding access to healthcare services one of his priorities.

“We’re losing too many people in our county because of lack of healthcare,” Pinkston said.

The board enlisted several consultants to develop a strategy for expanding healthcare access and identifying funding sources to support these efforts. In late 2025, Thompson secured for Humphreys County through the congressional Community Project Funding process, which allows lawmakers to request federal support for specific projects.

The funds will be used to expand services at G.A. Carmichael’s Belzoni location in a county-owned building on U.S. Route 49, Pinkston said. Expansion plans include extending its hours of operation overnight to 5 a.m., purchasing equipment, and a possible renovation of the facility. It could begin its expanded operations by September, said James Coleman Jr., the health center’s CEO.

Establishing an after-hours urgent care clinic is a starting point toward reestablishing emergency care services or a hospital, James-Jones said.

“Something’s way better than nothing,” she said.

‘Not for the Faint of Heart’

Despite that encouraging first step, Humphreys County faces steep obstacles to opening a hospital.

At the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, George Pink is a senior research fellow at the Cecil G. Sheps Center for Health Services Research and tracks rural hospital closures across the U.S. He said he’s aware of only a few communities that have successfully reopened a hospital after it closed.

“I can count that on one hand,” said Pink, who knows of roughly five such examples.

Communities face significant hurdles to reestablishing a hospital, including securing financing for construction or renovation, recruiting qualified staff, and covering substantial operating expenses during the licensing process before the facility can treat patients and generate revenue, said Brock Slabach, the National Rural Health Association’s chief operations officer and a former rural hospital administrator in southwestern Mississippi.

“Reopening a hospital is not for the faint of heart,” Slabach said. “Once they close, it’s very difficult to reopen them.”

To finance a potential hospital project in Humphreys County, local and state leaders said they plan to seek funding through the Rural Health Transformation Program, a federal initiative that will distribute $50 billion to states over five years. The federal government allocated Mississippi in December for the program’s first year.

The program is meant to offset budget cuts passed into law last summer that could harm rural hospitals. Republicans’ One Big Beautiful Bill Act Medicaid spending by $911 billion over 10 years and increase the number of uninsured people by 10 million, according to Congressional Budget Office estimates. Mississippi hospitals are beginning in 2029, according to Cindy Bradshaw, executive director of the Mississippi Division of Medicaid.

But , the program’s funding cannot be used for construction or major building expansions. Officials said the county will instead consider applying for funds through the program to support the recruitment of healthcare professionals.

The federal Rural Emergency Hospital designation is another way rural communities can keep emergency and outpatient services. Hospitals in that program receive over $3 million annually from the federal government and a higher Medicare reimbursement rate, but they .

Research by Pink’s team shows that many hospitals that converted to the model, which was established in 2023, saw an .

But there’s a catch. To receive the designation, a hospital must have been open in 2020, making Humphreys County ineligible. Mississippi’s junior U.S. senator, Republican Cindy Hyde-Smith, introduced legislation in 2024 to to 2014, a threshold that would have still excluded Humphreys County.

James-Jones said county leaders have urged Hyde-Smith to amend the proposed legislation so Humphreys County could qualify. Hyde-Smith did not respond to a request for comment for this article.

For county leaders, the path to widening healthcare access means navigating a thicket of state and federal policies, funding streams, and regulatory hurdles.

Some recent state-level policy changes have created opportunities for healthcare expansion in Humphreys County. In March, Republican Gov. Tate Reeves exempting Humphreys County from Mississippi’s certificate of need requirements, which are meant to prevent unnecessary healthcare expansions.

The exemption could make the county more attractive to prospective healthcare providers. But the financial challenges that contributed to the closure of Patients’ Choice Medical Center in 2013 remain, and Mississippi lawmakers have continued to reject Medicaid expansion, limiting a potential source of reimbursement for rural hospitals and clinics.

Industry officials expect hospitals’ financial pressures to intensify as Medicaid funding cuts take effect. The latest challenge is predicting how these cuts will affect the bottom lines of these facilities and whether additional cuts will come in the future, said Richard Roberson, president and CEO of the Mississippi Hospital Association.

“If someone’s trying to run a business, they’ve got to be able to know what those numbers look like,” Roberson said. “And it’s really hard to try to project that out right now.”

‘Now I Understand’

For Ball-Green, giving in to these obstacles would be a disservice to the Humphreys County residents who face health emergencies similar to the one her daughter experienced.

It has been five years since the funeral, but Ball-Green remembers it clearly. The day was stormy, but attendees brightened the gathering by wearing yellow, Ball-Stribling’s favorite color.

As friends and family gathered to pay their respects, her mother thought back on a relative’s funeral four months earlier. At that service, Ball-Stribling sang the gospel classic You Are My Strength to a roomful of mourners.

“She was singing, and she looked at me,” Ball-Green said, describing a peaceful but eerie expression on her daughter’s face in that moment — a sign of something to come, though she didn’t yet know what. “She turned around, and it was just that look, you know?”

Months later, as she sat at her daughter’s funeral, she began to interpret the foreboding glance differently. She came to believe it was a sign that Ball-Stribling’s gift for helping others by sharing her story would not end with her death.

That purpose had taken shape years earlier in her work as a teacher and continued as she shared about her fertility struggles and IVF journey in the final months of her life. Ball-Green said the community became deeply invested in her and Harper’s story.

In the years since, this gift has endured, she said. Ball-Stribling’s story has continued to resonate throughout Humphreys County, serving as a reminder of what residents stand to lose if they do not reopen the hospital.

“I think back on when she looked back at me,” Ball-Green said. “Now I understand.”

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If you or someone you know may be experiencing a mental health crisis, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting “988.”

Eight days before my 33rd birthday in April, a social worker at a crisis clinic near Denver determined I was an imminent danger to myself. She placed me on an involuntary 72-hour mental health hold.

What came next wasn’t treatment, but a search for a bed. Clinic staffers called area hospitals with inpatient psychiatric units, asking if they had available beds. They didn’t. So, I was told I had to spend the night at the clinic, which is open 24/7. I settled into a recliner, trying to make myself comfortable as my mind drifted in a blank, disassociated haze. Sleep came in brief bursts.

Since the 1950s, the United States has seen a nationwide due in part to deinstitutionalization and the rise of antipsychotics. But that has created a critical shortage for those needing help. From 2011 to 2023, the number of hospitals with inpatient psychiatric units , according to a 2025 study. Another study from that year found that this country has 28.4 inpatient psychiatric beds per 100,000 people — not even half the 60-bed ratio researchers frequently refer to as the .

The shortage has created what the American Psychiatric Association : emergency rooms overwhelmed with people suffering from severe mental health illnesses, inpatient stays prematurely shortened to speed up bed turnover, and acutely ill individuals left without critical care.

“Where are these people going?” said , an assistant health policy professor at Rutgers University, who co-authored those 2025 studies. “For people who don’t receive this care, they don’t just go away. How is it affecting them? Society? Their families?”

Meanwhile, the White House shut down the part of the national suicide hotline catering to LGBTQ+ youth, President Donald Trump’s 2027 budget proposal calls for cuts to agencies , and Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. recently announced a plan to .”

A Fractured System

I was already intimately familiar with the country’s fractured mental healthcare system before I was involuntarily committed. What I had yet to experience myself, I saw through my wife: waitlists, outpatient programs stretched beyond capacity, and inpatient psychiatric care so scarce that access often depends on surviving a crisis severe enough to justify it.

She died by suicide after we had separated.

As the years passed, grief and anxiety pushed me from observer to patient.

At the crisis clinic, I woke up the following morning disoriented and groggy. In the bathroom — its door deliberately unable to latch, swinging both ways so staffers could enter in case of an emergency — I stood at the sink and watched the faucet run, trying to piece together how I had ended up here.

America’s history of treating mental illness is long and complicated.

The 19th and 20th centuries saw the removal of people with severe mental disorders from jails and — squalid facilities designed to house the poor — to state asylums that (though they ultimately became ). From the 1860s to the 1930s, the number of psychiatric hospitals increased dramatically, according to the American Psychiatric Association, and by 1955, the number of psychiatric beds in the U.S. peaked at more than half a million.

However, owing to the development of antipsychotics, the belief that psychiatric institutions were inhumane, and President John F. Kennedy’s 1963 to free thousands of Americans from a life in institutions, many state hospitals shut down. An estimated for adults and kids are left in a country where more than 14 million experience severe mental illness each year.

Two years after JFK’s legislation passed, a new policy prohibited federal Medicaid funds from covering inpatient psychiatric care in facilities . The goal was to encourage states to move patients out of large, often substandard psychiatric institutions into community-based care settings.

The consequences of these changes, however, have been far-ranging. People with severe mental illnesses are often forced to as they wait for a bed to open. The length of stay in state psychiatric hospitals , according to research by the Treatment Advocacy Center, a national organization focused on eliminating barriers to the treatment of severe mental illness. And some people with mental illness .

From 1986 to 2014, as the behavioral health crisis intensified, mental health expenditures in the U.S. rose from $32 billion to $186 billion — though the proportion of that spending allocated to inpatient care .

This period also recorded major policy shifts affecting inpatient hospitalization rates, notably the 1999 U.S. Supreme Court decision in Olmstead v. L.C. The ruling shifted care away from psychiatric facilities by mandating states to people with developmental and mental disabilities.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” said Leslie Carpenter, legislative advocacy manager at the Treatment Advocacy Center. “A lot of these bills, including the Community Mental Health Act, were really well intended and ended up with adverse consequences.”

For me, that next day at the clinic passed both painfully slowly and in a blur. A staff member I hadn’t met before told me they were still reaching out to hospitals across the region. The search for a bed continued.

‘No One Wants To Pay for Any of This Care’

Last year, members of Congress introduced two bills to change the 16-bed Medicaid funding cap at inpatient psychiatric facilities, the and the , which would increase the cap to 36 beds. Both have stalled in the House.

According to the Congressional Budget Office, a federal agency that analyzes budgetary and economic issues, eliminating the 16-bed limit would increase Medicaid expenditures from 2024 to 2033.

“No one wants to pay for any of this care that people need,” said Colorado state Sen. , a Democrat who has witnessed limitations to Colorado’s mental healthcare system firsthand because her son has schizoaffective disorder.

In lieu of federal action, states are stepping up to bridge the gaps.

Colorado, 15 other states, and Washington, D.C., now operate under waivers allowing Medicaid to fund inpatient facilities for mental health treatment, according to KFF data. Seven additional states have waivers pending. One 2025 study found that these waivers may be tied to fewer hospitalizations, emergency department visits, and incarcerations .

Yet even local efforts to improve mental healthcare face resistance. In California, Colorado, Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, and New York, locals have pushed back against proposed psychiatric facilities for minors, claiming such facilities will worsen safety and lower property values. Behavioral health advocates have disputed these claims and argued they are rooted in stigma.

That psychiatric facility in Colorado was . The state has nearly 20 inpatient beds per 100,000 people, , according to 2022 data across all 50 states plus Washington, D.C., collected by the Treatment Advocacy Center. Wyoming ranked first with 47.3 beds per 100,000 residents, although, as the least populous state, it has only 275 total inpatient beds compared with California’s 5,703. Minnesota ranked last, with only 4.3 inpatient beds per 100,000 residents.

While increasing the number of inpatient psychiatric beds is vital, mental health advocates are also calling for , such as peer support specialists and clubhouses, where people with serious mental illnesses can learn life skills and find community.

When it came time for me to use our mental health safety net, I was among the fortunate ones: At noon the day after my hold began, a bed opened at a hospital in Denver — a rare stroke of luck in a system in which many people wait days or weeks for the care they need. An ambulance transferred me to the hospital at 3 p.m., marking 21 hours into my 72-hour hold.

Two days later, on my last day at the psychiatric hospital, I stood outside the nurse’s station awaiting discharge papers.

A man I had not seen before looked at me and asked, “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you being admitted?”

“Yeah,” he responded. “This is my third time being hospitalized in a year.”

I shook his hand. “Good luck,” I said, and I walked out the door.

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But after surgery, Bates said, she couldn’t get out of bed or walk to the bathroom without help. She complained of intense pain radiating down her left leg, weakness in her knee, and a numbing sensation below it, according to hospital records. Bates, who worked as an Uber Eats driver, didn’t have the strength to drive a car.

Still, Bates said, the hospital told her it was time to go.

“They didn’t do any further X-rays or CTs or MRIs to figure out why my knee was numb,” she said. “And they were just like, you know, ‘It’ll go away.’”

Doctors said she was medically stable, Bates said, and because she had no health insurance, they could not send her to a rehabilitation hospital or a skilled nursing facility, which can charge thousands of dollars a day for such care.

“They were just like, We need the bed for somebody who has insurance,” she said. “That’s of course, you know, what they say without saying it.”

At least one firearm injury is treated in an American emergency room every . Tens of thousands die from their injuries every year. Many more, like Bates, are left to face long recoveries, steep medical debt, and enduring trauma.

How insurance affects the care of gunshot wound victims has remained shrouded in mystery — until now, due to a new analysis by The Trace and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News of data that Florida hospitals compile to collect payments from insurance companies and file with the state.

When uninsured patients arrive at hospitals in Florida with gunshot wounds, on average they spend significantly fewer days in the hospital — in some cases half the time — than those with health insurance, according to the data analysis.

Among the most severely injured patients, the uninsured stayed three fewer days in the hospital on average than their counterparts with insurance.

The data was obtained exclusively for this reporting on gun violence hospitalizations in the state, aided by Florida state law.

The newsrooms spent more than a year analyzing the records, which did not identify patients. The data contained patients’ insurance status, their residential ZIP code, their race, and other demographic info. Reporters reviewed academic studies and government documents and interviewed health policy experts, doctors, activists, and victims of gun violence or their relatives.

The results are a first-of-its-kind look at what happens to the insured and the uninsured who are shot and admitted to the hospital for treatment.

Across Florida, the analysis of hospital billing data from 2018 to 2024 obtained from the Florida Agency for Health Care Administration shows:

• Uninsured patients make up a quarter of the more than 20,000 gunshot wound hospitalizations identified, making them the largest single group treated for firearm injuries.
• Uninsured gunshot victims had hospital stays of about six days on average, only three-quarters of the time spent by patients with private insurance and less than half the average stay for patients on traditional Medicaid, the public health insurance program for poor and disabled people.
• The gap in hospital care persisted regardless of hospital size, location, or ownership type, including at facilities that receive taxpayer money with a mandate to treat all patients regardless of their ability to pay.
• Of the gunshot wound patients, nearly half were Black, making the group highly overrepresented. About a quarter of nonwhite patients were uninsured, versus fewer than a fifth of white patients.

The inequality echoes a in U.S. healthcare against Black and Latino patients, groups that and a .

The U.S. has deaths than other wealthy nations, and no group suffers more than Black Americans like Bates. Black people are far to become victims of a firearm homicide than white people, according to the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health.

Patient outreach workers say hospital personnel might perceive gunshot victims as gang members or troublemakers who deserve blame for getting shot. rehab centers refuse to admit gunshot victims more often than other patients, and some medical records from hospitals were littered with racist or insensitive descriptions of patients and their behavior.

The damage can be lasting: Patients who after a traumatic injury have a higher risk of serious complications, including infection, hemorrhage, nerve damage, and death, especially if wounds — and mental health concerns — are left untreated.

, a University of Florida professor and vice chair for research in community health and family medicine, said there’s evidence that financial incentives drive care — for patients and for hospitals.

Regardless of how often the care team is told to follow quality protocols, Mainous said, “ultimately there’s a business aspect to it, whether the physician is thinking about it or not, whether the nurses think about it or not. But somebody is.”

The Florida data findings come at a time when Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis and state lawmakers have pushed to make guns cheaper and more widely available, despite a in the state from 2014 to 2023, and when President Donald Trump’s administration has rolled back legislation from the Joe Biden presidency to curb gun violence and .

allows eligible residents to carry a concealed firearm and to openly carry a firearm without a state-issued license. State law also prevents cities and counties from enacting stricter gun control measures.

In early June, Florida Attorney General James Uthmeier to strike down the state’s three-day waiting period for receiving a purchased gun, arguing it is unconstitutional. Uthmeier’s request is part of a proposed settlement of a lawsuit brought by the National Rifle Association.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and The Trace requested to speak with administrators at nine of Florida’s large hospital systems to ask why the disparities exist. None agreed to an interview.

Sarah Cannon, communications director at Tallahassee Memorial HealthCare, would not agree to an interview or address Bates’ account of her care for gunshot injuries.

“Clinical decisions, including acute medical intervention, readiness for discharge, and post-acute care needs, are guided by the patient’s condition and response to treatment,” she said in an email.

Cannon said the hospital offers support to patients after discharge, including from social workers who coordinate care and access to services including post-acute care placement, home healthcare, and primary care or specialty follow-up.

Bates said she had to coordinate her own care after being released from the hospital. She said nobody called to schedule a follow-up test of her leg’s muscle function, and her medical records show she did not receive one.

“If I had had insurance,” she said, “they would have definitely kept me there for at least another week to work with me on my standing and walking.”

‘It’s a Business’

Some of Florida’s largest hospitals showed huge differences in length of stay for gun injuries, the ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News-Trace analysis showed. In Miami at Jackson Memorial, the average number of days in the hospital for uninsured patients was 6.6; for those with private insurance, it was 10.7; and for those on traditional Medicaid, it was 15.4. Jackson Memorial did not respond to requests for comment.

Tampa General Hospital reported 4.9 days for uninsured patients, 8 days for those with private insurance, and 13.6 days for Medicaid patients. “To suggest that care decisions for trauma-related patients, and in this case, gun shot victims, are influenced by insurance status is not only absurd, it’s inaccurate,” Amanda Bevis, a hospital spokesperson, said in a written statement. “At Tampa General, every patient is treated equally, based on clinical need and urgency, not insurance coverage.”

And at UF Health Jacksonville, it was 7.2 days for the uninsured, 8.5 days for the privately insured, and 13.8 days for patients on traditional Medicaid. UF Health declined to comment.

Broward Health in Fort Lauderdale reported 7.5 days for uninsured patients, 10.5 days for privately insured patients, and 12.2 days for those on traditional Medicaid. “Insurance status does not impact treatment plans for patients,” Jennifer Smith, a Broward Health spokesperson, said in an email. “Our physicians always proceed in the best interest of the patient regardless of reimbursement or what length of stay may be required.”

Memorial Regional Hospital in Hollywood reported 6.7 days for uninsured patients, 8.8 days for privately insured patients, and 9.5 days for those on traditional Medicaid. Tania Ordaz, a hospital spokesperson, said in an email that she disagreed with the findings: “Treatment decisions are based on the patient’s clinical condition and what is necessary to ensure a safe and appropriate transition of care, not on the patient’s insurance status.”

Trauma surgeons and academics said the Florida data aligns with research nationwide on where gun violence occurs and who’s most affected. Some said they fear the differences contribute to long-standing disparities in America’s healthcare system along the lines of race and class.

The Florida hospital data showed gunshot injuries are concentrated in a handful of ZIP codes marked by poverty, disinvestment, redlining, and other injustices stemming from racial discrimination.

“Why would people without insurance be discharged earlier?” Mainous said. “Because they’re in better health? I think we’ve got a lot of data that would suggest that’s not true.”

Once they leave the hospital, people with commercial insurance or traditional Medicaid are more than twice as likely to receive follow-up care from another provider — such as a rehab center or home health service — as uninsured patients.

Those patients are staying longer, in part, because hospital case managers coordinate their transfers to other facilities, which can be time-consuming and take days.

“You have to go through insurance authorization and approval,” said , a trauma surgeon formerly at Jackson Memorial in Miami who now practices in Oregon. He said patients with private insurance might have access to rehab, preventive care, and training for both the patient and their caregiver to “help them transition to a completely new phase of life.”

For patients without insurance, he said, “sometimes our hands are a little bit tied.”

“The hospital is telling us that this patient has to leave the hospital because they’re medically ready,” he said, “and so I guess we’re discharging them to their car or to their tent, and it doesn’t feel right, but I think that would probably explain some of the differences” in length of stay.

, a trauma surgeon at Jackson Memorial, said hospital staff work to ensure that uninsured patients with long recoveries learn to care for wounds and to enlist family help at home.

Valenzuela said the county-owned hospital does not send uninsured patients home to fend for themselves. She goes into neighborhoods and follows up with patients as part of a Miami-Dade County violence intervention program, whose social workers help them access food, employment, and more to heal and feel safe.

“We know that full recovery is beyond just the hospital and even the rehab centers, even the best ones,” Valenzuela said, pointing to housing and navigating the healthcare system as factors.

runs the Miami-Dade program, which connects victims of gun violence with social workers who visit bedside at the hospital and an intensive care unit-trained nurse who visits at home to provide wound care and other services.

Rawlins said young, Black gunshot patients without health insurance are often at a loss when they leave the hospital about how to schedule a follow-up appointment or manage their mental health.

“After they have been shot and they’re getting out of the hospital and they’re still in crisis,” he said, “their concern is more: How am I going to now pay the rent? How am I going to live? Who’s going to take care of me?”

Often, he said, his uninsured clients leave the hospital before they are ready.

“That’s the reality of it: It’s a business,” he said. “It’s like a hotel. You know, checkout time: You got to go. We got to make room for someone, for a next customer.”

How Long Is Long Enough?

Alea Bates said the hospital discharged her with crutches and one prescription: a seven-day supply of the painkiller Percocet.

A family member drove Bates home. She wore a leg brace, with bandages on her back, stomach, hand, forearm, and feet. When she tried to get out of the car, Bates said, her knee gave and she fell.

Surgeons, health policy experts, and researchers say physicians follow evidence-based best practices for treating gunshot wounds and that a shorter hospital stay does not necessarily reflect a lower-level of care.

, an assistant professor of surgery at the University of Pennsylvania who conducts research on violence reduction, offered one explanation.

In published in The Journal of Trauma and Acute Care Surgery, Kaufman and colleagues found that patients who were admitted while uninsured but then enrolled in Medicaid during their hospitalization — and who needed ongoing rehabilitative care after discharge — spent more time in the hospital and had higher costs.

“I have personally been in situations where I felt like I did the best I could for a patient, but they would say, ‘You’re kicking me out,’” she said. “Sometimes, what the doctor is telling you doesn’t match what you are feeling in your body.”

But Kaufman said: “I’m not going to tell you hospitals never discriminate. That would not be realistic. I would say it is more indirect.”

Kaufman said she couldn’t judge whether Bates stayed in the hospital long enough because she was not her doctor. Still, she said, Bates “didn’t get what she needed from our healthcare system.”

Unlike many states, Florida excludes most single adults without children, like Bates, from Medicaid eligibility, making it exceedingly uncommon for a Medicaid patient to have been admitted as an uninsured adult.

Gunshot survivors endure bleeding and oozing flesh wounds and pain, and they experience . “These experiences are common, but they are not talked about,” Kaufman said. “Mental health is part of the recovery process.”

Recovering the ability to walk or use an arm or a leg after a gunshot wound requires rehab and physical therapy that can be out of financial reach for uninsured patients, said , a pediatric surgeon and an associate professor at the University of Maryland who that uninsured patients hospitalized for traumatic injuries have shorter stays than insured patients.

A shorter stay, he said, “suggests that these patients are not getting the same level of care, and that’s going to put them at risk for functional deficits down the road.”

He said it is impossible to arrive at a set number of days that any patient should remain in a hospital. Factors include the severity of their injury, their age, and any other illnesses they have.

“We’re looking for that Goldilocks length of stay,” Englum said, “and unfortunately, it is not perfectly defined for any specific admission, and it’s not perfectly defined for any specific patient.”

‘Oh, Shit. He Shot Me.’

Bates had delivered her last order for the night when she was shot. It was December 2019: As she was walking back to her car, she heard two loud bangs. Just kids playing pranks, she thought to herself. Then she turned toward the sound and saw a gun pointed at her.

“In that split second it registered in my mind, like, ‘Oh, shit. He shot me,’” Bates said. “I had some brief, like, burning, but it wasn’t registering in my brain right away what it was.”

Within seconds, Bates said, the stranger emptied the clip of his handgun into her body, even after she fell to the ground. He shot her seven times — twice in the back and once each in the pelvis, stomach, left forearm, right thumb, and right foot.

Bates screamed. She reached for her cellphone to call 911. She said residents came out of their apartments. Someone took her phone to tell the emergency dispatcher the address. Another person pressed towels on her wounds to slow the bleeding. An ambulance rushed her to Tallahassee Memorial.

Bates said she did not believe race was a factor in the care she received. But she believed that the circumstances surrounding her shooting — that it happened while she was working, and that she did not know the shooter — affected the way doctors and nurses viewed her.

Language in medical records can sometimes signal a bias in clinicians and perpetuate differences in care that patients receive, said , an associate professor at the Boston University School of Public Health who conducts research on exposure to gun violence.

Jay said bias based on patients’ race, income, or insurance status can deny some people necessary treatment once they leave the hospital.

He said his research suggests the healthcare system treats gunshot survivors and motor vehicle accident victims differently based on perceptions of “whether the victim was in no way at fault. They made assumptions when a person was violently shot.”

“The results are consistent with what we hear so much from hospital outreach workers for gunshot victims,” he said. “They say there is substantial bias. There is an assumption that they contributed to their condition with risky behavior.”

The preoperative notes in Bates’ medical records describe her as “a pleasant 39-year-old female who sustained multiple gunshot wounds to her abdomen, pelvis and extremities last night after performing Uber Eats delivery.”

Bates said it mattered to her caregivers what she was doing when she was shot.

“The nurses and doctors, they all talk about that stuff,” she said. “They were like, ‘Oh, my God, you were ambushed. That’s so scary.’

“I was working. Like, I don’t know these people. And the fact that they were teenagers, I think that that is what maybe changed the narrative,” she said. “Because I feel a lot of times people blame you for what happened.

“But when I was asked and I told them what happened and my story and how I got there,” she said, “I think just the shock in people’s eyes of like, ‘Oh, my God. So you really were, like, you know, minding your business.’”

She added: “And it also wasn’t in a sketchy part of town, if I can just say that. I was in a predominantly white complex. So I think that’s what saved me.”

‘Less Than a Human Being’

Bates had received care at the hospital before as an insured patient.

She had lost her job in the legal department of a state agency — along with her insurance — two months before she was shot.

As an uninsured patient, Bates said, “they kind of just dismiss you. It makes you feel like less than a human being.”

She said she felt ignored when she told doctors she didn’t feel safe going home after four days. She said the physical therapist working with her at the hospital had persuaded the facility to let her stay an extra day.

“We would like, as a medical community, I think as a society, to see everybody get the same care,” said Englum, the University of Maryland trauma surgeon. “Regardless of what color their skin is, what insurance status they have — we want them to get appropriate care.”

The reason for racial or ethnic differences in care is hard to tease out, Englum said. Is it that there’s mistrust of the medical system in some Black and Latino communities, leading people to avoid going to rehab because they don’t want to be there? Is it an income issue? Is it that medical providers see some patients and, due to implicit or explicit bias, think, “That’s as good as they’re going to get?”

“Getting that care is what you need to get your full functional outcome back. And if you’re not getting it,” he said, “patients are suffering that didn’t have to.”

At home, Bates said, she depended on family members to help her out of bed, drive her places, even help her feel safe out in public.

“I really didn’t know how to stand or move or walk around,” she said. “I had to figure it out.”

She still fears loud noises, which remind her of being shot. Bates said she and her dog stay indoors on July Fourth and New Year’s Eve.

“The fireworks were going off, and I was paralyzed,” Bates said of her first New Year’s Eve after being shot. “I was literally sitting there crying. My cousin actually came outside and put my noise-canceling headphones on and turned the music on so that I couldn’t hear anymore. That’s the only way that I could move from outside to inside.”

Bates said her follow-up care included getting her stitches removed at an orthopedic clinic that has physicians who work at the hospital and had performed the initial surgery.

During the visit, Bates said, the orthopedic clinic’s staff reminded her of the unpaid balance from her surgery, which was about $1,200 for physician services. She still owed the hospital $52,000 for treatment, according to her medical bills, and an additional $5,300 for the anesthesiologist. Bates was not working at the time.

Bates said a community outpatient clinic provided physical therapy at a reduced cost and that the victim advocate unit at the Tallahassee Police Department helped find her mental health counseling and get her financial aid from Florida’s .

By 2021, Bates developed a cyst on the gunshot wound to her right thumb, which required surgery. But, she said, the clinic would not perform the surgery until she paid her $1,200 balance. She said friends paid the bill so she could have the surgery.

Bates’ knee bothered her. “Even with going through physical therapy,” she said, “it was still like I couldn’t feel it.”

Bates said she now has private health insurance that pays for her mental health therapy. She pays for physical therapy out-of-pocket.

“It’s crazy that in this country somebody else can hurt you,” Bates said, and “you have to pay for what they did to you.”

“So it’s like you’re triple-paying: You’re paying every day mentally, you’re paying with the bills, and you’re paying by them saying, We know that this is not your fault, but we still have to make our money.”

Methodology

The Trace and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News examined more than 20 million inpatient hospitalizations in Florida from 2018 to 2024, using data obtained from the Florida Agency for Health Care Administration. We identified 20,255 gunshot wound-related visits using the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s injury surveillance case definition, which relies on diagnosis codes. We limited the analysis to initial encounters and excluded patients who died in the hospital or left against medical advice. We excluded cases in the top 1% for hospital length of stay (68 days or more) to prevent these outliers from disproportionately influencing results.

Our primary finding compares the average length of stay of uninsured patients with that of privately insured patients. We chose privately insured patients as the reference group because many researchers believe their care on average is long enough to be effective but not longer than medically necessary. Overall, uninsured patients had hospital stays that were about 25% shorter on average than privately insured patients’ and 50% shorter than those of patients on traditional Medicaid. In most cases we also found that, within the same hospital, uninsured patients had shorter stays than privately insured ones.

To assess whether age or injury severity explained the shorter lengths of stay for uninsured patients, we calculated and fit regression models for Florida’s highest-volume gunshot wound hospitals. We found that, in nearly all cases, the gap narrowed slightly but did not disappear.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News data editor Holly K. Hacker contributed to this report.

This article was produced in partnership with The Trace, a nonprofit newsroom covering gun violence in America. .

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By the end of the month, she was in a hospital bed.

Hvatum, a part-time computer science professor, has a weakened immune system due to a rare condition known as primary immunodeficiency, which makes it difficult for her body to fight infections. Prior to her 2005 diagnosis, she had four bouts of shingles, a painful rash caused by a virus.

For more than a decade she relied on an expensive medicine to treat her chronic condition — and relied on her insurance to pay for it.

Then the denial letters came.

The Medical Service

To give her weakened immune system a boost, she relies on Hizentra, which is made up of antibodies collected from donated blood plasma.

At her home, near St. Louis, Hvatum can administer the complex medicine herself. She uses a large syringe to draw the medicine from a vial and loads the syringe into a plastic apparatus that looks like a toy Nerf gun. She cranks a blue plastic dial that triggers a steady drip of the medicine, and it snakes through plastic tubing until it enters her leg through a needle.

The Bill

$8,141.94: The full charges for a 28-day supply of Hizentra without insurance coverage.

After her Medicare Advantage plan through Humana denied payment for the drug in January, she missed several weekly doses.

The Billing Problem: Prior Authorization

Hvatum got tangled up in the controversial process known as prior authorization, which often requires patients or their medical team to get an insurance company’s approval before obtaining medicines or treatment. 

At the start of the year, after Hvatum switched Medicare Advantage plans, she received a letter saying that Humana, her new carrier, had denied her “prior authorization prescription request” for Hizentra. The authorization from her previous insurer didn’t carry over. 

Without the medicine, Hvatum developed a urinary tract infection that sent her to the emergency room on Jan. 30. Though it is a common infection, her doctor advised her to go there because people with her condition can get sick and deteriorate quickly, she said. 

That ER visit turned into an overnight hospital stay. That turned into hospital charges of more than $18,000, and again her insurance denied payment, saying this time that she wasn’t sick enough to require hospital care.

Hvatum’s experience with prior authorization is not unique.

Medicare Advantage plans reviewed nearly 53 million prior authorization requests in 2024, . That’s equivalent to nearly two reviews for every person enrolled in the program.

It’s common for Medicare Advantage plans to deny payment for care — which helps them make a profit, said Carrie Graham, director of the Medicare Policy Initiative at Georgetown University’s Center on Health Insurance Reforms.

The government pays a monthly sum to Medicare Advantage insurers to cover care for each member. “They make a profit if the care that person receives in that year is less than the amount they receive,” Graham said.

More than half of eligible Medicare beneficiaries choose Medicare Advantage insurance coverage. In 2026, roughly 35 million selected one of these private policies offered by insurance companies.

Humana is a dominant player in the space. Nearly half of all Medicare Advantage enrollees nationwide are covered by UnitedHealth Group or Humana, according to KFF.

The killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson prompted renewed scrutiny of prior authorization. Last summer, months after his death, the nation’s largest insurers, including Humana, signed a pledge that outlined a handful of commitments to ease the burden on patients.

For example, insurers vowed to reduce the number of services that would require prior authorization approval. They also promised to reduce delays by honoring existing prior authorizations for a 90-day period when patients switched plans.

That’s not what happened in Hvatum’s case.

Humana said this pledge to honor existing approvals comes with limitations. “These commitments are for medical services only and do not apply to prescription medications,” spokesperson Mark Taylor said.  

Humana declined to comment on the specifics of Hvatum’s case, even though she agreed to waive her privacy rights, giving the insurer permission to comment.

While acknowledging that the prior authorization process can be deeply frustrating for patients, Humana said it “builds important checks and balances into the healthcare system by verifying that treatments and care delivery are in the best interest of patient safety and quality of care, while safeguarding taxpayer dollars.”

In July 2025, it would remove one-third of prior authorization requirements for outpatient services.

“We are committed to making the process faster and more seamless for patients and providers,” Humana said in a statement Taylor provided to ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

The Resolution

Hvatum appealed, and Humana in late January reversed its initial payment denial for Hizentra, enabling her to afford her medicine again.

But the approval came with a catch: It expires at the end of the year, after which she would need to obtain approval all over again.

Hvatum has since switched to a different drug — and she might not stick around for any more medical-bill fights like this one. She and her husband are considering a move to Norway, a place with universal healthcare. He is a citizen there, which could give her a path to public health coverage.

The industry’s promises to change are too little, too late for Hvatum. 

By her account, she has done her part. Running is her outlet, maybe an obsession, and it keeps her healthy. Scores of medals and trophies are tucked about her home. Some sit on a white wicker end table, next to family photos, candles, and framed St. Louis Cardinals memorabilia. Above a large bay window in the kitchen, medals hang from ribbons of all colors, made to look almost like custom window drapery.

“I have done everything I possibly can to be healthy,” Hvatum said, sitting at her dining room table in her running gear. Her printed T-shirt read, “If found on ground, please drag across the finish line.”

The Takeaway

Data shows patients should appeal prior authorizations, because those who do often get their denials reversed, Graham said. In fact, 81% of Medicare Advantage appeals were partially or fully overturned in 2024, according to KFF.

Relatively few people appeal, because “it’s an exhausting process,” Graham said. It puts the onus on patients — and doctors get frustrated, too.

It’s not just Medicare Advantage plans that subject enrollees to prior authorization approvals. It’s prevalent in other types of coverage, and it has prompted blowback from the public. Graham believes the public outcry instigated the industry’s pledge to change.

Hvatum is well versed in filing appeals. She submitted another appeal to Humana after the insurer denied payment for her January hospital stay. Humana again reversed its denial of payment in her case.

Hvatum blames Humana for her January trip to the hospital. Had Humana approved her Hizentra, she said, she could have avoided hospital care altogether.

In March, she had a stroke. Humana denied coverage of that hospital stay, too.

Humana determined that it was not reasonable for the physician who admitted Hvatum to think she would need to stay at least two nights, the threshold for approval. “You had a small stroke,” Humana’s denial letter stated.

Hvatum noted the letter was dated March 25, two days after she was hospitalized. Humana reversed its denial two weeks after Hvatum appealed.

“They love to send you the denials fast,” Hvatum said. “Approvals take longer.”

Bill of the Month is a crowdsourced investigation by and that dissects and explains medical bills. Since 2018, this series has helped many patients and readers get their medical bills reduced, and it has been cited in statehouses, at the U.S. Capitol, and at the White House. Do you have a confusing or outrageous medical bill you want to share? !

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“OK, cool,” his mother, J, remembered saying. (J asked to be identified by only her first initial, and Bug by his nickname, because the family fears harassment.)

“‘What do you need to be supported?’” she recalled asking next. “He asked to get healthcare.” 

This was the kind of moment J had been anticipating since the family had moved earlier that year from Texas to Massachusetts, for its more liberal and inclusive politics. She felt confident they could find the right medical experts. But she hadn’t realized that access to gender-affirming treatment could disappear even when their state’s laws and leaders supported it.

Individual hospitals all over the U.S., in red and blue states, have responded to President Donald Trump’s attacks on transgender healthcare by deciding to withdraw care on their own. At least did so in the first months of the Trump administration as it threatened to pull back federal funding or initiate fraud or wrongful-claim investigations, and such services have continued to drop off since.

Bug and his younger sister were born in Austin, Texas, but J and her husband became worried after the state outlawed abortion; dismantled diversity, equity, and inclusion programs; and limited medical and civil rights for queer and transgender people. The parents worried the support services they needed for the siblings, both of whom have autism, might be affected, too.

“I had a fear of being like the frog in the boiling water and not realizing what was happening until it was too late,” J said. “I needed to get the kids out of Texas.”

So when Bug came out as trans, J was relieved they’d landed in a state that not only has a to who offer but also is requiring commercial insurance, which Bug’s family has, to cover it.

After Bug’s gender announcement, J’s queries led her to the largest hospital system in the region, Springfield, Massachusetts-based , where they began the months-long process of getting set up to start hormone therapy.

Bug, an artistic 14-year-old who loves horses, cats, and making short films with friends, was too old for , but he was excited about the prospect of starting on testosterone. That would cause his voice to deepen, facial hair to grow, and muscles to get bigger.

“Every part of it sounds fun,” he said.

But this past February, two weeks before Bug was scheduled to start testosterone, Baystate announced it would no longer provide gender-affirming medications to minors, offering only counseling. A letter to patients’ families did not explain why.

Baystate spokesperson Heather Duggan sent a statement that said the decision to end treatment for minors reflected the fact that Baystate could lose “hundreds of millions of dollars in government reimbursement” as a result of the Trump administration’s plans. “Nearly 70 percent of Baystate Health’s patients rely on Medicaid and Medicare for coverage,” it said.

All Bug knew was that the care he’d eagerly awaited was about to vanish.

“I felt frustrated that they would do that,” Bug said.

“I bet there’s tons and tons of kids who are like: ‘OK, I’m going for trans-affirming healthcare. Yay!’” he said. “And then, like, tons and tons of kids were disappointed and sad and frustrated.”

J said it felt as if the floor had fallen out from under them. “Maybe this is naive, but I didn’t think that would happen in Massachusetts,” she said.

Baystate is among the providers still choosing not to offer puberty blockers and hormones as the issue wends its way through the courts. This spring, in , a federal judge concluded that it was unlawful for the Department of Health and Human Services to threaten federal funding for providers that offered gender-affirming care to minors. In June, another federal judge cleared 16 states, including Massachusetts, with another lawsuit against the administration over its push to criminalize gender-affirming care.

The American Academy of Pediatrics declined an interview request but said in a that young patients and their families should make decisions about gender-affirming care with their doctors, “delivered with compassion, and offered without political interference.”

One mother of a former Baystate patient said that before her child came out as a transgender girl, she had been severely depressed, battling suicidal thoughts. (The mother asked that only her first initial, L, be used, because the family also fears harassment.)

After Baystate doctors prescribed puberty blockers and estrogen, her daughter’s mood and grades rose markedly, L said. So when she received the letter announcing Baystate was ending the medical treatment, she was furious. L said she and other parents filed civil rights complaints with the Massachusetts attorney general.

The attorney general’s office did not respond to a request for comment.

“There’s a sense of, ‘How could you?’” L said. “And there’s also the awareness of the impact just pulling care could have on a youth — from a physical health perspective but also from a mental health perspective.”

L and J both found alternatives for their children. L asked the family’s primary care doctor to take over hormone prescriptions. Bug’s family was referred to in Northampton, Massachusetts, that said it has taken on about 50 of Baystate’s former patients.

“Transhealth has been staffing ourselves up for a while now in anticipation of the fact that this may be happening across the state,” said.

Erwin said Transhealth can weather the funding threats because the clinic gets large private donations and is not as dependent on Medicaid and Medicare as most hospitals. But Erwin said that doesn’t entirely reassure the broader LGBTQ+ community, including transgender adults.

“When you see something like that go down, people get scared that it’s ultimately going to happen to everyone,” Erwin said.

In May, Colorado’s Supreme Court in that state to resume medical treatments for transgender youths, while in Texas compelled a children’s hospital there to do the opposite — start the nation’s first “detransition clinic.” The Trump administration has continued to pressure providers, including by of transgender minors.

After Bug’s false start at Baystate, he was able to start taking testosterone at the new clinic in the spring.

His mother, J, said that the treatment is going smoothly and that Bug has learned how to give himself the injections. But J is nervous that the federal government will find other ways to stop his treatment again. She sometimes second-guesses the family’s move from Texas to Massachusetts, wondering whether they should have gone to Canada instead.

This article is from a partnership that includes , , and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

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Under a law enacted last year, five of Indiana’s largest nonprofit hospital systems cannot charge patients covered by job-based health plans more than an established price cap. Hospitals that fail to keep prices below the threshold by 2029 risk losing their tax-exempt status — which would mean owing millions of dollars in state taxes.

Even before that penalty kicks in, the law requires these hospitals, which control nearly half the state’s hospital market, to offer direct-to-employer contracts — bypassing insurers — and stay within limits set by the state. Hospitals that don’t comply face a $10,000-a-day penalty.

Many other Indiana hospitals must comply with this provision beginning in September.

Indiana’s law comes amid growing frustration with rising insurance costs and hospital prices, the of growing healthcare costs.

Government price controls, of course, are nothing new in healthcare. Since the mid-1960s, the federal government has set prices it pays hospitals for treating Medicare enrollees, as states do for Medicaid patients. Those two government programs cover more than 135 million people nationwide.

But hospitals face no such government limit on what they charge for the more than 165 million Americans covered by employer-paid insurance.

Indiana isn’t the only state targeting hospital prices. Vermont also limits how much hospitals can charge for people covered by employer plans.

Washington and Oregon have made similar attempts, on a smaller scale, targeting state employee health plans. Oregon’s hospitals cannot charge the state employee plan more than two times the Medicare rate for services. This caps the state payment for a service at $200 if Medicare pays $100. Within the first two years, the plan saved more than $100 million.

Legislation has been proposed in Colorado and New York to enact similar price controls.

Hospital leaders and other opponents of price controls argue that the strategy doesn’t address the root causes of high hospital prices, such as rising labor, drug, and technology costs, and that the caps will force hospitals to cut services. Another challenge is that few employers contract directly with hospitals.

On most policy issues, Indiana and Vermont likely agree on very little, “except for this is one area where they both see that hospital prices are high,” said Brown University economist Christopher Whaley.

Wielding state power to control prices is a strategy typically led by Democrats. But Mike Braun, the Republican governor who helped muscle through the changes over the objections of the Indiana hospital industry, said the healthcare system is too broken to leave alone.

“Government has to intervene, because healthcare is run like an unregulated utility,” he told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

The five Indiana nonprofit hospital systems involved are Ascension St. Vincent, Community Health Network, Franciscan Health, Indiana University Health, and Parkview Health.

The price cap will be based on the statewide average for inpatient and outpatient hospital prices. Indiana will use Medicare as a yardstick by which to measure commercial prices, a comparison commonly used by researchers. This will show how much higher commercial prices are than the government program’s.

By June 30, the state is expected to issue a report showing average hospital prices in the state and where individual hospitals fall on the spectrum.

For years, have found that Indiana hospital prices are some of the highest in the nation.

The , produced in November, found three of the five nonprofit hospital systems exceeded a voluntary benchmark when excluding practitioner services, such as doctor fees.

However, all five hospital systems were below the voluntary benchmark when doctor services were wrapped into the overall score. This finding illustrates how prices for doctor visits may obscure overall hospital prices by bringing down the average, researchers and lobbyists for employers told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

Rand researchers found that while Indiana is home to some of the highest-paid hospitals, its doctors are among the lowest paid in the nation. That’s partly because the doctors don’t have the same negotiating leverage as the handful of large health systems.

This disparity has sparked a debate over which prices should be used to calculate the upcoming cap. Including doctor services would likely allow hospitals to keep prices high because they would be offset by low doctor prices, said Whaley, who has co-authored Rand’s pricing reports. This would let hospitals off the hook from doing the work to “move the needle” on lowering prices, he said.

Indiana Hospital Association President Scott Tittle said it’s unfair to exclude doctor services.

Hospitals often acquire physician practices to help drive admissions, . But Tittle said it also helps keep doctor offices open and preserves access for residents. That comes at a cost, he said.

“We know it is absolutely part of the complete cost of care,” Tittle said.

Despite the hospital lobby’s efforts, Tittle said, the state will exclude doctor services from the cap.

Regardless, Tittle said it’s unnecessary to put price caps in state law. “Hospitals can and have done the hard work to reduce their pricing,” he said.

For employers, rising healthcare costs are a headache. They’re unpredictable and make it difficult to budget each year.

Doug Bawel, chairman of Jasper Holdings, an automotive parts company based in Jasper, Indiana, has tried various strategies to wrestle high healthcare costs. For his workers, he’s purchased diabetes drugs from New Zealand and housed on-site health clinics.

Under the law enacted last year, Indiana hospitals must offer direct contracts to employers for a variety of procedures priced at or below 260% of what Medicare pays for hospital care. That’s setting a ceiling at slightly more than 2.5 times what Medicare pays.

Bawel expects the state’s price controls on direct deals to significantly strengthen his negotiating leverage with hospitals. He belongs to a consortium of southern Indiana employers that buy services directly from area hospitals.

This move represents a departure from the status quo for the business lobby. Ashton Eller, a healthcare lobbyist for the Indiana Manufacturers Association, said the group generally opposes government price controls. But it believes this is a step in the right direction, he said.

“Is this a silver bullet that will bring down prices overnight? We don’t pretend it is,” he said.

No matter what happens in the Hoosier State, Indiana’s experiment with price controls has attracted attention.

“As employers and states are dealing with double-digit premium increases, there is tremendous interest in healthcare affordability, and what happens in Indiana is being closely watched by many states and Washington, D.C.,” Whaley said.

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, with approximately 120,000 members, has put forward two ballot initiatives to cap the pay of medical executives and require community clinics to spend the vast bulk of their revenues on patient care.

The California Hospital Association has responded with its own ballot proposal that would make it tougher for unions to spend money on political initiatives in the future. It would require approval by a union’s rank-and-file membership for any spending of $1 million or more on statewide measures, or $100,000 or more on local ones.

The competing measures, which have drawn enough verified signatures to qualify for the November ballot, come at a time when the rising cost of healthcare is emerging as a .

The Service Employees International Union affiliate has seized upon affordability angst to resurrect a proposal for a cap on healthcare executive compensation, which it has failed to achieve multiple times before. The proposed measure garnered more than 1 million petition signatures.

“This initiative reflects the serious crisis we face and that affordability is a real thing,” said Vikas Saini, president of the Lown Institute, a Massachusetts-based healthcare think tank. “I think it also reflects grassroots anger and a desire to do something.”

Mikey Vaughn, a certified nursing assistant at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, said that the Los Angeles hospital, despite its reputation as the go-to place for the rich and famous, often lacks supplies and staffing levels that he and his colleagues need to do their jobs effectively and without undue stress.

“The executive pay initiative would, I hope, be used to hire staff and to actually provide better resources for our patients,” said Vaughn, a member of SEIU-UHW’s executive board and political committee.

Thomas Priselac, then-president and CEO of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, in fiscal year 2024, according to the organization’s most recent available federal tax filing. Kaiser Permanente’s CEO, Gregory Adams, made . Warner Thomas, head of Sutter Health, made .

Cedars-Sinai spokesperson Duke Helfand said if the measure passed, the hospital would be unable to recruit and retain physicians, nurses, and specialists, dramatically impairing its ability to provide healthcare.

“Such a scenario would be disastrous not only for Cedars-Sinai but for hospitals across Los Angeles and California,” Helfand said.

The union wants to cap compensation at $450,000 a year for senior hospital and medical group executives, as well as other administrative and managerial staff. However, the initiative does not stipulate how dollars diverted from payroll must be spent.

The union has dubbed the latest proposal the “Health Care Executive Compensation Act of 2026.” A heavyweights opposing it — hospitals, physicians, and clinics, among others — has rebranded it the “Health Care Endangerment Act.”

Carmela Coyle, CEO of the hospital association, called the measure a cynical political ploy. “It’s bad policy and it’s going to have bad consequences across California,” she said.

Glenn Melnick, a healthcare economist at the University of Southern California, said that even if the initiative were fully implemented and pay cuts enacted, he doubts it would reduce the cost of healthcare for patients.

SEIU-UHW does not have an estimate of the total amount the initiative would claw back from pay packages that exceed the limit.

Opponents of the initiative note that it doesn’t target only executive pay but would affect medical practitioners who are also managers. That could include chief medical officers and chief nursing officers, as well as heads of surgery, emergency rooms, oncology, obstetrics, cardiology, and other specialties, they say.

It would be up to each hospital, health system, and physician group to report which staff members exceed the cap and by how much.

Ultimately, who is subject to the pay cap “probably will have to be battled out in court,” said the hospital association’s Coyle. “That’s why we are throwing everything we can at it.”

The second SEIU-UHW ballot initiative, on community clinics, is already in court. , which represents clinics, filed a federal lawsuit in April seeking to invalidate it before it reaches the November ballot.

The proposed measure would require to spend at least 90% of their revenues on activities directly related to their mission of providing care for low-income populations. If it were to pass, over 90% of those clinic organizations would be on the hook for penalties totaling $1.7 billion in the first year alone and “would face similarly crippling penalties every year,” commissioned by the primary care association and conducted by the Berkeley Research Group, an international consulting company.

Louise McCarthy, president and CEO of the Community Clinic Association of Los Angeles County, said many pivotal services the clinics provide — translation and transportation, for example — would likely not be counted toward the spending requirement.

“They are targeting a group of what they see as employers and we see as the safety net,” she said.

The lawsuit cites the harm to clinics and claims the proposed spending requirement would interfere with federal authority.

Renée Saldaña, a spokesperson for SEIU-UHW, characterized the lawsuit against the initiative as “a really desperate attempt by the clinic industry to try and avoid accountability.”

SEIU-UHW, , is also behind a controversial proposal that would impose a one-time 5% levy on California residents with fortunes over $1 billion to backfill the funding gap created by federal cuts coming down the pike under Republicans’ One Big Beautiful Bill Act. The law, passed last July and signed by President Donald Trump, is projected to squeeze over $900 billion from the Medicaid health coverage program for low-income people by 2034, including as much as in California.

The hospital association, the community clinic group, and the California Medical Association, which represents physicians, oppose the wealth tax proposal. But Saldaña said all three of the union’s ballot proposals tie into an overarching strategy to counter the widening healthcare disparities caused by the federal law. Referring to the proposed pay cap, she said, “We believe the primary concern of healthcare providers, including executives, should be to serve the community, heal patients, and not be in healthcare just to enrich themselves.”

Over the years, the union has submitted dozens of local and statewide ballot initiatives, including ones to cap the pay of hospital executives, regulate dialysis clinics, and raise the minimum wage of healthcare workers.

The hospital association calculates that SEIU-UHW has spent nearly $125 million on local and statewide initiatives since 2012. But healthcare industry groups have spent far more opposing them. The hospital association data shows that the union spent nearly $36 million on three ballot proposals to regulate the dialysis industry, but dialysis companies poured in $302 million to defeat them, according to state campaign finance records.

The union’s ongoing political efforts “threaten patient access to quality health care,” according to the hospital association’s ballot initiative, which could limit how much unions spend on future ballot measures.

Saldaña hinted at a possible lawsuit should that measure pass, saying that “we don’t see the legal viability” of it. The proposal, she said, is an attempt “to silence the front-line healthcare workers.”

Ultimately, a ballot initiative won’t cure the ills that plague healthcare in the United States, said the Lown Institute’s Saini. What’s needed, he said, is “an evaluation and reimagination of healthcare.”

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LISTEN: After a guilty verdict for negligent homicide, a former nurse has found receptive audiences on the speaking circuit. She says she hopes her story can help shed light on problems in the healthcare industry.

When RaDonda Vaught got her first speaking request, it had been a year since that day in a Nashville courtroom, when she listened as a jury read her guilty verdict for negligent homicide and neglect of an impaired adult.

That was in 2022. Vaught was sentenced to three years of probation for administering the wrong medication and killing a patient at Vanderbilt University Medical Center in 2017.

She also lost her nursing license. So Vaught became a full-time farmer. She and her husband live on a in Bethpage, Tennessee, tucked in the rolling hills north of Nashville. They sell eggs at farmers markets on Saturdays and supply meat to local butchers and restaurants.

The controversial trial had been national news, and now the healthcare industry wanted to hear from her. So Vaught started giving speeches across the country about what happened that day in the hospital. She says her hope is that others in an industry increasingly turning toward automation and artificial intelligence can understand the multiple factors that contributed to the deadly medication mix-up.

She says she’s painfully aware that it could appear she is profiting from a tragedy of her making.

“It wasn’t something that I wanted to happen. It wasn’t even something that was on my radar to think about,” Vaught said of the speaking requests. “The opportunities just kept presenting themselves.”

The speaking engagements provide her with an income that replaces what she made as a nurse, a career she can never return to. Last year, she told her story more than 20 times, and she is paid $5,000 to $10,000 per event.

But her speaking engagements also provoke criticism. After she told her story at length on Nashville Public Radio’s in March, a retired nurse, Gary Wood, fired off an email to the station. Such medical mistakes could never be justified, he wrote: “It put a stain on a proud and dedicated profession.” Yet, Vaught often finds a receptive audience, eager to hear her perspective.

“I’ve seen her a few times now in person, and I’ve never seen RaDonda tell the story and not be upset,” said Charlene Verga, who invited Vaught to be the closing speaker at the ’s clinical nursing conference last year.

“RaDonda speaking the way she is, she literally is transforming her mistake into a teaching moment,” Verga said.

Vaught expected the speaking gigs would be short-lived. But the reviews were good. And she realized she was comfortable in front of a crowd.

“It was emotionally overwhelming and a little cathartic, but I’m going to tell you, you could have heard a pin drop,” Vaught said of her first talk in 2023 to hundreds of industrial professionals at a meeting organized by , a Knoxville, Tennessee-based company that specializes in root cause analysis.

Vaught has turned her story into a cautionary tale that she hopes will make hospitals safer. She says that humans are going to make mistakes and that systems in healthcare need to be designed so people can fail without killing someone.

“This whole mockery of our healthcare system — people feeling afraid to talk about mistakes and come forward when they happen — it doesn’t save people. It kills them,” she said in a presentation to the .

Onstage, Vaught confronts the painful and embarrassing details directly, often choking back tears when talking about the patient who died — Charlene Murphey.

It wasn’t just one mistake that led to the death.

A doctor had ordered a sedative called Versed to settle Murphey’s claustrophobia before an imaging procedure. Vaught typed “VE” into the search function to retrieve Versed from the electronic medicine cabinet. When it did not dispense, she overrode the system.

In Vaught’s trial, fellow nurses testified that during a time when the hospital was upgrading some of its technology, they could use overrides to bypass delays.

When Vaught took that step, one of the drug options available was vecuronium, a powerful paralytic. Vaught overlooked multiple warnings about the danger of vecuronium, including on the bottle’s cap, which said “Warning: Paralyzing Agent,” according to court records.

Vaught administered the vecuronium and also left the patient alone.

While not disputing most of the facts, Vaught pleaded not guilty to all charges, claiming there were other factors, such as a new electronic health record system that was causing widespread problems in the hospital. A lead investigator for the prosecution testified in the criminal case that Vanderbilt also shared some responsibility.

As previously reported by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News, Vanderbilt did not initially report the error to regulators as required and told the medical examiner that the patient died of natural causes. The medical center fired Vaught and negotiated a settlement with the Murpheys that keeps the family from talking publicly about her death.

Once the case became a criminal matter, though, the details entered the public record. Vaught is not bound by the hospital’s settlement, allowing her to share whatever she feels comfortable sharing with whomever she wants.

Vanderbilt spokesperson Craig Boerner declined to comment about Vaught’s public speaking or what the medical center learned from the incident.

The two largest companies that make drug-dispensing cabinets, Omnicell and BD, have updated their machines with recommendations from the . One update requires the user to type in more than the first two letters of a medication to pull up a list of options.

Many hospitals also tweaked their drug administration protocols, such as by requiring wristband barcode checks anywhere a patient gets medication in a hospital.

Reacting to Vaught’s case, the state legislature in Kentucky that became law in 2024 providing immunity for on-the-job healthcare mistakes. Support wasn’t just bipartisan. It was unanimous.

Nursing consultant went to nursing school with Vaught and has worked directly with her as a nurse. Vaught’s criminal case inspired him to go to law school, he said. He now plans to help other nurses defend themselves in similar cases, even though he sees the need for accountability.

If it had been up to him, he also would have fired Vaught, Garvey said. He also thinks that the Tennessee Board of Nursing should have taken action immediately. Only after the patient’s death escalated to a criminal matter did the board revisit the case and revoke Vaught’s license.

But the defendants’ side of the story is rarely ever told, Garvey said, because they are advised by their lawyers not to talk.

Now that she has a platform, Garvey said, it’s therapeutic for Vaught. Her talks resonate with anxious nurses across the nation, he said, and promote a much-needed discussion about collective responsibility.

“We can’t change what happened. We can only change what we do moving forward,” Garvey said. “Having the individual who can tell you the play-by-play — that was there when it actually happened — is incredibly valuable.”

This article is from a partnership that includes ,Ìý, and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

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WILLIAMSTON, N.C. — Two years after her brother’s death, Debra Pierce still wonders whether the 50-year-old would have survived his heart attack if her local hospital hadn’t closed.

“The sad thing is we’ll never know if he could have been saved that night or not, because we don’t have a higher level of care in this county,” Pierce said as she stood outside the mobile home where she last hugged her brother.

Emergency crews from a neighboring town worked on Stanley Sears for a half hour but couldn’t revive him for the long drive to the closest hospital, records show.

In the tall grass — which would be mowed if Sears were still alive — Pierce swiped through the photos on her phone. She stopped at a picture that showed Sears smiling. Pierce chuckled and then sighed: “Bless him.”

The local hospital had closed a year before Sears’ death, leaving behind a gutted healthcare system. Martin County does not have paramedics on its ambulances, and it can be 20 miles or more to the closest — and often overcrowded — emergency rooms.

The healthcare gaps in Martin County illustrate the finite reach of a $50 billion rural health fund that Republicans crafted to strengthen support for President Donald Trump’s signature tax and spending measure, the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, last year. Though the cash has not been doled out, Republican candidates in competitive midterm elections — including the closely watched battle for the congressional district that encompasses Martin County — are casting the fund as a lifeline that will shore up critical rural health services across America.

The money has been highly anticipated in North Carolina, where most residents live in rural counties. Pierce, a Republican who blames county officials for the hospital closure, said she has faith Trump will help them. “Old man’s doing his job up in there,” she said.

On paper, Martin County — home to about 22,000 people — looks like a top contender to receive at least some of the $213 million that’s been earmarked for North Carolina.

Yet County Manager Drew Batts said it won’t be the answer for his residents.

“The $50 billion is not something that is specifically going to help our situation,” Batts said as he walked into the shuttered hospital in April. “It’s not going to help us get this place reopened.”

Martin County won’t get direct relief from Trump’s rural health fund — because its hospital isn’t open. North Carolina is distributing the money among existing health and social service organizations. Plus, federal regulators on how much can be spent on construction and building renovations.

‘We Can Only Pray’

Martin General Hospital closed abruptly in 2023, surprising employees and shocking patients, who had to be wheeled out on stretchers and transported elsewhere to finish treatment. The closure even stunned local elected leaders, who say the company operating the county-owned hospital, Quorum Health, did not notify them it intended to shut down operations and file for bankruptcy. Quorum spokesperson Lisa Anderson said the company had told county commissioners of the hospital’s ongoing financial challenges.

Politicians have spent the years since trying to reopen the hospital, with county taxpayers pouring an estimated $2.9 million into maintenance, utilities, and other costs in the hopes of resuming operations, Batts said.

The county is now considering spending at least $1.5 million, he said, to create two higher-level paramedic units with quick-response vehicles, specially equipped with electrocardiogram equipment or other “advanced lifesaving support.”

Pierce said she is praying the county can add paramedics and reopen the hospital.

“There’s some answered prayers happening every day,” she said. “So, we can only pray and hope, you know?”

‘They Just Want To Not Die’

With its nine hospitals, the region’s largest health system is ECU Health, connected to East Carolina University. The system has become a de facto safety net for 29 counties. Batts and Brian Floyd, the Greenville-based system’s chief operating officer, have lobbied state and federal lawmakers, walking them through the shuttered hospital and asking for help.

“It’s a real healthcare crisis that has already proven itself to have lost lives that perhaps didn’t have to be lost,” Floyd said. “They just want to not die because there’s nowhere to go when you have an emergency.”

Eleisa Ann Evans drove 2½ hours from a small town near the Outer Banks on a recent evening so her aunt could get care at an ECU Health ER in Greenville. Once there, Evans said, staff told her to leave her 79-year-old aunt in the waiting room and wait outside because of capacity issues.

Evans said she was outraged at the way the staff treated her. She said she had been standing behind her aunt’s wheelchair while inside and “wasn’t using nobody’s chair.”

With Martin General gone, all the surrounding counties are “also in jeopardy,” Floyd said. “No one knows what to do” with that large of a healthcare “desert,” he said.

What healthcare is left in the county includes one urgent care center, run by a private company, and a nonprofit health clinic, operated by Agape Health Services, which accepts patients from five counties and plans to build another primary care clinic to meet demand.

ECU Health signed a letter of intent to reopen Martin General as a rural emergency hospital that would provide outpatient care as well as an ER. Under the terms of the deal, Martin County would pay to refurbish the hospital, and the North Carolina General Assembly would have to give ECU Health $210 million, of which $150 million would pay for the construction of a new inpatient tower at ECU’s Beaufort Hospital.

The health system, through its affiliate , won a portion of North Carolina’s $213 million first-year payout from the rural fund. But the federal money can’t be used to reopen Martin General, Floyd said.

The five-year Rural Health Transformation Program is slated to be delivered in $10 billion annual increments to states, which applied and competed for the money.

North Carolina’s plan creates a that allots money to six large regional leads, including nonprofits such as Access East. Those hubs will distribute money to local entities and coordinate broad initiatives such as improving primary care and fortifying the healthcare workforce, as well as developing “digital solutions,” according to the state’s .

An Election Issue

The lack of emergency care in the region has emerged as a top talking point in a close U.S. House race between Rep. Don Davis, a Democrat who represented the district when Martin General closed and is seeking his third term, and Republican Laurie Buckhout.

The rural health fund was added at the last minute in 2025 to win votes for the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, which is expected to reduce federal Medicaid spending by more than $900 billion over a decade — cuts that are projected to hit rural hospitals and clinics especially hard. Rural health executives say the fund won’t come close to offsetting those losses.

Matt Mercer, a spokesperson for the North Carolina Republican Party, called the rural fund a “once in-a-generation opportunity” for the state.

But U.S. Sen. Thom Tillis, who was one of three Republican senators to vote against the bill — and who announced shortly before the final vote that he planned to retire from Congress — warned of devastating consequences ahead for healthcare in his state.

Buckhout, who declined an interview, plans to attack Davis — a vulnerable incumbent whose district was recently redrawn to favor GOP candidates — for voting against the bill.

“Martin County lost its hospital on his watch, and he still opposed the funding meant to help communities like it,” Buckhout campaign spokesperson Stephen Gallagher said in a statement to ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. The campaign did not respond to additional queries about her plans for healthcare access, if elected.

Davis, who signed from lawmakers in support of North Carolina’s rural health fund application, said the money “is essentially putting a band-aid on a much, much broader situation that needs dire help.” He has that would increase Medicaid reimbursements for rural hospitals, though it has not moved forward.

During recent testimony on Capitol Hill in Washington, ECU Health CEO Michael Waldrum said his system expects to lose a billion dollars over the next 10 years from the looming Medicaid cuts.

Overnight Waits for Emergency Care

The region’s emergency rooms offer a stark glimpse of a healthcare system in crisis.

Martin General’s ER treated annually before it closed, according to state data. A sign still hangs in the staff break room showing that 23 patients were seen in the ER the day it closed.

ECU Health, which owns all but one of the rural hospitals around Martin General, reported a 132% increase in its daily ER visits since the hospital’s closure. The company’s nearly 1,000-bed hospital in Greenville, about 40 minutes from Williamston, is the state’s only Level 1 trauma center east of Raleigh.

The Greenville hospital’s median patient ER wait and treatment time was nearly 4½ hours, according to the most . That’s longer than 96% of thousands of hospitals reporting nationwide. The wait times “don’t reflect poor care,” ECU Health spokesperson Brian Wudkwych said in an emailed statement. He said the system’s ERs treat nearly 300,000 patients annually.

While the system has seen an increase in Martin County patients, the wait times primarily stem from shortages of inpatient and behavioral health beds, Wudkwych said.

Floyd, the ECU Health chief operating officer, said many rural patients who arrive at the system’s ERs have multiple chronic conditions that require longer visits. Often doctors start treating one problem and then find the patient’s “blood sugar is out of control, your hypertension is far out of control,” he said.

ECU staff encourage people who are not too sick to skip Greenville and, instead, seek care at one of the system’s community hospitals, which aren’t as busy, Floyd said.

A security officer guarded the Greenville emergency department’s doors on two nights in April. The “capacity notice” sign near the entrance meant family members of patients had to wait in cars or on benches outside.

“We’ve only been here six hours,” Tonya Miles said after bringing her mother for a potential blood clot in her leg. The family had left the day before after waiting for two hours, because her mom “wasn’t prepared” for such a delay in treatment, Miles said.

On another evening, Olivia Lewis said she had brought her mother two nights previously and left without care after their wait stretched from 10:30 p.m. to 7 a.m.

“She tore off her hospital bracelet and said: ‘I’m out. I’m done,’” she said. Now, they were back.

On a recent Friday in Martin County, Vannessa Little was sitting at a McDonald’s with her kids just down the street from the closed hospital. Little pointed to one of her girls and wondered how her care would have been different if the hospital had been open.

Her daughter, then 6, suffered severe burns over 30% of her body in 2024, and the journey to treatment was “just crazy,” Little said. An ambulance arrived at her Williamston home from neighboring Bertie County to transport them to ECU’s Greenville ER.

“That was a long time,” Little said of the 30-mile drive. The girl was ultimately airlifted more than 100 miles to Chapel Hill. Little said she hadn’t heard of Trump’s rural health investment. “The only changes that people are making is they’re taking away everything.”

She voted against Trump in 2024 and said she didn’t think she would vote this year.

“It’s a waste of my time.”

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7B Care Clinic has been operating in Sandpoint since 2001 and was previously called Life Choices Pregnancy Center and Sandpoint Crisis Pregnancy Center. It is of a nationwide network of Christian evangelical centers called Care Net. 7B, one of about 1,200 pregnancy centers affiliated with Care Net, offers pregnancy tests, limited ultrasounds, parenting and life skills classes, community support groups, and other free resources, such as children’s clothing. Donations from people, businesses, and more than 40 churches keep 7B’s operations running, Executive Director Janine Shepard said.

Such centers are known as crisis pregnancy centers or pregnancy resource centers. They offer limited resources and medical services to pregnant women and aim to dissuade them from having abortions. Healthcare groups including the have said many crisis pregnancy centers use unethical and deceptive practices to bring women into their organizations.

Traffic at 7B has picked up since the local hospital and its OB-GYNs moved out of state three years ago. The closure left a hole in reproductive health services in this town of more than 10,000 on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille and surrounding rural areas.

“We are seeing a lot more people,” Shepard said.

By December 2024, more than two years after the U.S. Supreme Court overturned nationwide abortion rights in its Dobbs decision, Idaho had of its OB-GYNs. 7B is expanding, with the goal of bringing obstetric care back to Sandpoint. The organization plans to add to its current building once it’s paid off, Shepard said, and it’s in talks with a hospital about 30 miles away in Washington state to bring in an OB-GYN once a week to provide prenatal care.

If obstetric care existed now in Sandpoint, Shepard said, “we wouldn’t even be considering” the expanded services. “But there’s such a need. And our community suffers because of it.”

As rural communities face the and , crisis pregnancy centers are growing in influence. Some states have approved legislation granting the organizations greater protections from oversight and regulation, and clinics have seen a massive and in recent years.

In a town with limited maternity care, 7B has been providing important resources to struggling low-income women. But critics say the religious nonprofit, which is not medically licensed and isn’t required to meet regulatory standards for medical facilities, has an agenda that makes it an inappropriate place for pregnant patients to seek medical care.

Jen Jackson Quintano, a Sandpoint resident and the founder of the Pro-Voice Project, a nonprofit that advocates for abortion rights in Idaho, said crisis pregnancy centers mislead patients by drawing them in with the offer of free pregnancy-related services before delivering their anti-abortion pitch.

“We all need clarity on what those services are: ministry-first, rather than comprehensive medicine,” Quintano said.

Shepard said there are misconceptions about the organization, and she invites people to take a tour of 7B to learn what it does. She said her staff talk to pregnant women about abortion, adoption, and parenting as options and hope they feel supported enough to make a “life-affirming” decision.

7B reflects a trend of crisis pregnancy centers seeking to expand their operations in maternal care deserts and regions with gaps in women’s healthcare, said Andrea Swartzendruber, an associate professor of epidemiology and biostatistics at the University of Georgia College of Public Health. Swartzendruber has studied crisis pregnancy centers in the U.S. since 2018.

“Crisis pregnancy centers have, for years and years, capitalized on gaps in access to healthcare,” she said. “In no way, shape, or form do crisis pregnancy centers have the infrastructure or ability or training to bridge those gaps.”

According to Swartzendruber’s research, more than 2,600 crisis pregnancy centers operated in the U.S. as of 2024, more than three times the number of . Many centers have been found to engage in with clients, including putting misleading information on their websites making them appear to be legitimate medical clinics with the goal of attracting women who are seeking abortions.

The organizations are also seeing support from the Trump administration. On May 10 — Mother’s Day — the Department of Health and Human Services sharing resources and information for new and expectant mothers. It includes a map to find pregnancy centers and cites services the centers provide, such as pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, and medical referrals.

‘The Perfect Place for This’

Sandpoint is a small mountain town in a deeply conservative and Christian part of a state with a strict abortion law put into place after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade.

Amelia Huntsberger, one of the OB-GYNs who left Sandpoint three years ago, said the town is “the perfect place for this,” referring to the expansion of the 7B Care Clinic.

In underresourced areas, the benefits that crisis pregnancy centers may bring are welcome.

Lori Sabin, a licensed midwife in Bonners Ferry, about 30 miles north of Sandpoint, said that 7B is a helpful resource to the community, especially for people who struggle to get healthcare because of a lack of health insurance or who face challenges in traveling for care.

“The nicest thing about 7B is all their services are free,” Sabin said, adding that the classes and free baby items are particularly helpful for young first-time mothers. “They can point them in the right direction. They tell them where the midwives are; they tell them where the OBs are.”

Huntsberger, who practiced in Sandpoint for more than a decade and now lives in Oregon, also acknowledged the benefits she saw 7B bring for patients, including the parenting classes and support groups. But she has concerns about its resemblance to a medical facility that provides healthcare.

Lisa Battisfore, founder of Reproductive Transparency Now, a Chicago-based organization that provides education and outreach about crisis pregnancy centers, acknowledged that the limited services they provide can be helpful but said the bad outweighs the good.

“If someone needs diapers or someone needs formula and a crisis pregnancy center is willing to give that to them, it’s difficult to say that that in isolation is a bad thing, but you have to look at the bigger picture,” Battisfore said.

Crisis pregnancy centers are largely unregulated and are protected by First Amendment rights to free speech and religious exercise. The Supreme Court crisis pregnancy centers to go to court to block a state attorney general’s subpoena for donor funding information. Critics say lack of oversight allows centers to spread misinformation about abortion and abortion pill “reversal,” a procedure the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists has called “.”

Crisis pregnancy centers have against states trying to increase regulation and oversight. Those protections have allowed some of the organizations to blur the line between anti-abortion activism and medical care.

“They seem to be really good at walking on both sides of that line when it suits them best, and that does not suit pregnant people best,” Battisfore said.

She referenced a recent case in Texas in which a woman was hospitalized for an ectopic pregnancy days after she received an ultrasound and a clean bill of health from a crisis pregnancy center. An OB-GYN who works with the Abundant Life Pregnancy Resource Center “there is nothing to fix” when asked about the error. There have been at crisis pregnancy centers.

What’s Next for Sandpoint

angered a lot of locals when it closed its labor and delivery unit three years ago. Residents lamented that women needed to travel farther to give birth and mourned the loss of the OB-GYNs. Since then, the hospital has been working to rebuild trust with the community.

This year, the hospital created a women’s health committee that includes hospital board members, staff, and others. Hospital CEO John Hennessy and Chief Medical Officer Stacey Good, a physician, said their priority is to hear from the community and increase awareness about the women’s healthcare that’s still available.

Women can still receive a range of services, including prenatal care from a nurse practitioner who travels to Bonner General from Coeur d’Alene once a week and other clinicians who can provide more basic gynecological care. A position for a gynecologist at the hospital has been open since May 2023, and Hennessy said filling it remains a priority.

Sandpoint resident Makayla Sundquist, a licensed counselor, grew up in town. She got married last year and has been thinking about starting a family with her husband. She wondered if she would feel safe knowing she’d need to travel at least an hour to the nearest hospital with labor and delivery services.

But she also has doubts about 7B as a potential option for local care. She was skeptical that an anti-abortion, faith-based organization would provide accurate information on the options available to her.

“It is something that I do think about and do have fear about,” Sundquist said. “I wish that wasn’t my reality.”

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