Hundreds of detainees across at least 33 states allege in federal suits that immigration detention facilities are failing to provide adequate medical care, an investigation by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and The Associated Press found. Detainees say they didn’t get medications on time — or at all — for conditions including high blood pressure, diabetes, depression, epilepsy, Parkinson’s, and HIV. Requests for help went unanswered for weeks. Blood sugars rose. Infections festered. Cancers remained untreated. Detainees collapsed and had seizures.

U.S. jails and immigration detention centers have to meet the medical needs of the people in their charge. But the system is sagging under an influx of detentions since President Donald Trump returned to office: More than 75,000 immigrants were being detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement , up from around 40,000 a year earlier.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and AP analyzed thousands of court cases filed since Trump’s second inauguration that use a legal route known as habeas corpus to argue people are being held illegally by ICE. The records offer a rare window into how those detained say, often under penalty of perjury, ICE is handling their medical needs. Reporters also interviewed more than 50 detainees, family members, and lawyers.

The investigation revealed that medical neglect is alleged across the sprawling detention system, including in offices not designed to house people, county jails, and quickly staged sites with nicknames such as “Alligator Alcatraz.”

ICE custody is deadlier than it has been in two decades, researchers wrote in April. The Department of Homeland Security reported 51 people had died in detention since the start of Trump’s second administration — with suicides .

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and AP asked DHS to respond to the findings six days before publication, but it did not provide comment. The department’s acting chief medical officer, Sean Conley, has “it is both policy and longstanding practice for aliens to receive timely and appropriate medical care from the moment they enter ICE custody” and that the agency recruits healthcare professionals to maintain high standards. “This is better, more responsive healthcare than many aliens have ever received in their entire lives,” he has said.

Individual facilities and private prison companies contracting with DHS that responded to requests for comment said they follow ICE standards and detainees receive medical care when it is required. Some said they were unfamiliar with the allegations outlined in court documents; others blamed some detainees for lapses in their medical care.

“I have never seen such disregard or medical neglect like this anywhere,” Vardan Gukasian, a political dissident and former paramedic who spent years behind bars in Armenia, wrote in in March to contest his detention in Henderson, Nevada, as it stretched to 13 months despite health problems.

Madeleine Skains, a spokesperson for the city of Henderson, said medical care is always available at the facility and that the court had not ordered changes to his care.

Last June, as Gukasian experienced the symptoms of uncontrolled high blood pressure — dizziness, a nosebleed, and a headache — his cellmate banged on their door for help.

“When it did not arrive, the rest of the block banged on their doors,” he wrote. Gukasian was hospitalized that day.

‘Brazen Indifference to Really Obvious Problems’

The administration’s mass deportation effort has swept up during routine immigration check-ins, at traffic stops, at their homes, and in hospitals.

About have no criminal conviction. Their immigration proceedings are civil, not criminal.

“I couldn’t understand why they treated me so harshly,” said a father of six in Georgia. He said he was injured while shackled in custody when the vehicle transporting him to an Atlanta facility jolted, throwing him out of his seat and into a metal armrest. His wound became infected with E. coli, he said, because he had to sleep on a dirty concrete floor amid leaking toilets.

Like other detainees interviewed, he spoke on the condition of anonymity; they said they fear for their safety, for the safety of their families, or that speaking out would jeopardize their immigration cases. The AP and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News are not naming anyone identified in court documents without their consent.

Staffers at Stewart Detention Center in rural Lumpkin, Georgia, didn’t adequately respond to that man’s request for medical help, , until he passed out and was taken to a hospital about an hour away. There, he said, a doctor told him he’d narrowly escaped amputation of his left leg. Medical staff found no records of a case matching this description, according to Brian Todd, a spokesperson for CoreCivic, which runs the facility.

The 48-year-old, who moved to the U.S. from Guatemala more than two decades ago, was released in October and is now a legal permanent resident. But he is unsure if he’ll be able to return to his job in construction because, he said, he can no longer lift heavy things due to his injury.

Some detainees or their lawyers said even basic care was denied: gauze to protect an open foot wound, prenatal care for a high-risk pregnancy, a pillow to ease the pain of sleeping with advanced stomach cancer, sanitary pads for postpartum bleeding.

“I would like to believe the government has the best interest of those it holds in detention for whatever period of time,” Judge Benita Pearson, a federal judge in Ohio, said during a hearing in October concerning a 70-year-old who alleged the government lost her glasses during her arrest. “If one is unable to see due to the loss of glasses when detained, that should be fixed.”

, who worked for ICE and now serves as a special adviser to the American Bar Association, said case law requires the government to treat people in immigration detention with the same care it affords those in traditional jails awaiting trial. But administrators are granted discretion and medical care standards vary.

Detainees are frequently moved across the country, often without warning, interrupting treatment. A woman from El Salvador said she missed a week of HIV medication when she was transferred from Colorado to a county jail in Wyoming.

A Russian man wrote that, while detained in Texas, he saw a gastroenterologist about his painful gallstones and scheduled an appointment with a surgeon. “Unfortunately, I never got to see him, due to my being moved around various detention centers.”

Advocates say that even obvious disabilities, like legal blindness, are ignored.

A detainee who lost one eye and had severe glaucoma in the other required twice-daily drops to maintain what vision remained. But, he said, some days the drops never came.

“Now I can only see a little bit straight in front. It now often looks like I’m seeing through gauze,” the man wrote in a court declaration. “This makes me very afraid that one of these times I am going to open my eyes and not be able to see anything at all.”

He wrote that he was scared he wouldn’t be able to see his infant son grow up.

“It’s just sort of brazen indifference to really obvious problems, things you would have thought absurd a decade ago — like the fact that you can’t see,” the man’s attorney, Brian Hoffman, said. “Before, you could attempt to work with folks on the government side and maybe shame them into doing the right thing. Now, it’s sort of like anything you want done you have to go to court and sue over.”

Even court orders aren’t always enough. One California judge ordered the government to take a man showing signs of prostate cancer to a specialist for diagnosis and treatment. Records show they did not take him.

Lawyers representing ICE told the judge that officials missed the appointment because of an “internal scheduling error.” CoreCivic, which runs that facility, said it was unable to comment on active litigation.

A Surge in Cases

When immigrants file habeas corpus petitions, they exercise a right to challenge unlawful imprisonment that dates to .

More than 40,000 such petitions have been filed during Trump’s second term, fueled by decisions last year to deny bond to many people held on immigration charges. Judges are split on whether that’s legal; the question appears headed to the Supreme Court.

Many habeas claims , but judges typically cite reasons unrelated to the medical neglect described in the petitions, such as detainees’ being held too long before being deported.

The more than 300 medical neglect claims found in this investigation represent a fraction of the problem. The details of habeas corpus cases are often hidden due to a federal rule barring the public from viewing such documents online. ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and AP obtained some documents from courthouses and received records on 4,400 cases from , a project of the nonprofit Immigration Justice Transparency Initiative. But tens of thousands more remain largely inaccessible.

Some judges have written that the habeas process is not how to raise allegations of medical neglect and have declined to release detainees over those claims. Not every detainee who believes they experienced medical neglect files a habeas petition or cites their medical issues if they do.

Jose-Antonio Segismundo’s petition made no mention of being unable to see an oncologist for the cancer in his abdomen while detained for more than seven months at the Florida detention facility known as Alligator Alcatraz and Folkston D Ray ICE Processing Center in Georgia. Medical records in his court filings show he was arrested about five weeks before his scheduled appointment with a cancer specialist.

His wife, Maria Jose Gonzalez, said he didn’t receive any treatment even though she sent his medical records and explained his condition to officials at Folkston. When his stomach pain erupted, often suddenly and intensely, she said, they gave him Tylenol.

Geo Group, which runs Folkston, follows ICE standards and provides healthcare and access to off-site medical specialists when needed, spokesperson Christopher Ferreira said.

This spring, Segismundo, 48, was deported to Mexico, a country he left nearly 30 years ago, Gonzalez said. Now, she said, he will have to restart his search for care in the Oaxacan village where he grew up.

Watching Loved Ones Deteriorate

Detainees receiving inadequate healthcare have little recourse. The Department of Homeland Security last year gutted the Office of the Immigration Detention Ombudsman. In early May, it shut the office entirely, arguing that Congress didn’t fund it.

Previously, ombudsman staffers could help facilitate medical care or look into complaints of neglect, according to Matt Boles, an immigration attorney in Georgia. Now, he said, there’s no one to call.

Meanwhile, detainees’ families said they feel helpless, making desperate calls to facilities, the government, and their legislators while watching their loved ones deteriorate.

Riya Khan saw her mother get sicker at the California City Detention Facility, which is owned by CoreCivic. When she visited a week after her mother arrived at the facility in the Mojave Desert, Riya said, the 64-year-old woman stumbled into her seat. She was shaking and her breathing was labored.

Masuma Khan came to the U.S. from Bangladesh in 1997. She has no criminal history, her records say, and was detained in October when she showed up for her regular ICE check-in.

For the month she was detained, according to her daughter, she only intermittently received her medications for conditions including high blood pressure, hypothyroidism, and prediabetes. CoreCivic treats chronic conditions in line with applicable medical standards, Todd said.

“Nothing matters more to CoreCivic than the health, safety and well-being of the people in our care,” Todd said.

Khan said she got her asthma medication for the first time two days before she was released and that her eye drops for glaucoma never arrived. Staffers told Khan she needed to buy some of her medications from the commissary but it didn’t stock them, her daughter said.

Before ICE detained Masuma Khan, she made friends with everyone, her daughter said. She had worked for years at Lucky Boy, an iconic Pasadena fast-food restaurant, and in her free time fed birds and left out fruit for bees that visited her apartment’s balcony.

Now she’s too scared to go outside. She still must regularly check in with ICE, and she’s terrified each time.

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A Stroke on a Video Call

Previously, detainees with serious medical needs would likely have been released on humanitarian parole, in part to avoid the cost of their care, Vermont attorney Andrew Pelcher said.

In fiscal year 2023 — before the detained population soared — ICE spent more than $390 million on healthcare for detained noncitizens, according to its to Congress. In May, Todd Lyons, then acting director of ICE, said at a conference that the agency had already spent “almost half a billion dollars” on detainee healthcare this year.

Now, under “mandatory detention,” people are staying locked up with serious — and expensive — conditions.

A Romanian citizen underwent several heart surgeries, including an emergency triple bypass in April 2025, before he was arrested in July. As part of his recovery, the 52-year-old was required to take 16 daily medications. While at an ICE field office in Baltimore, his court filings allege, he went two days without any medication before officials moved him to a facility in New Jersey.

He was hospitalized three times while detained, complaining of chest pains — in part, medical records and court documents say, because despite “countless requests,” the detention center did not provide all his medications. Hospital discharge papers cited by his lawyer show he received only eight of the 16 medications after his second release from the hospital.

“Can you please talk to the ICE facility to make sure they give him his medications?” his treatment providers wrote in medical records included in his court filings. “He was admitted last week for chest pain and today he was readmitted again for chest pain secondary to non compliance for medications.”

Several weeks later in August, he had a stroke while on a video call with his daughter, according to court filings. “He was struggling to breathe, and was pointing at his chest where he was again experiencing pain, and suddenly stopped speaking.” His daughter screamed for help through the video monitor, according to his petition. “Eventually an officer came in to assist him and cut the feed.”

The man lost his ability to speak for four days, the document says. He was returned to detention, where he remained until a federal judge ordered his release in November.

Impossible Choices

Cassandra Amador waits for the phone to ring every morning, desperate to ask her husband the question that’s woken her up every night for months: “Did you get your medicine?”

Her husband, Pedro Javier Amador Gutierrez, 36, has high blood pressure and depends on the state-run facility in Florida nicknamed “Deportation Depot” to administer the prescriptions that have kept him alive for years. Many mornings, he tells his wife he did not get them.

When she talks to him, she said, he sounds weaker and more scared every day, not like the upbeat man who would take her kids out for ice cream.

“You can hear in his voice how he feels,” she said.

Now, she said, he’s considering returning to Cuba, which he fled because of political persecution, out of fear that he will die in detention without his medicines. Amador and her children would go with him, she said, even though she was born in New Jersey, has never been to Cuba, and doesn’t speak much Spanish.

But he’s already collapsed twice at the Baker Correctional Institution in Sanderson, Florida, his wife said. She’s terrified that the next time, he won’t get up.

Methodology

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and The Associated Press sifted through thousands of immigration habeas corpus claims to find allegations of medical neglect from people detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement during the second Trump administration.

Without a comprehensive, publicly available dataset of medical complaints by those in ICE custody, we used immigration habeas corpus claims to identify detainees’ healthcare-related allegations raised in federal court. Although the intended purpose of habeas corpus is to challenge the legality of a petitioner’s detention — rather than conditions of their confinement — these filings sometimes include detainees’ claims of inadequate healthcare.

But habeas corpus filings are not always publicly available. Federal rules restrict how members of the public can access habeas petitions filed by people in immigration detention. For most of these cases, court websites publish only court orders and dockets describing other filings. The initial petitions are available only through in-person visits to federal courthouses across the country. Habeas Dockets, a project of the nonprofit Immigration Justice Transparency Initiative, coordinates a nationwide network of volunteers to gather these petitions and make them available online.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and AP analyzed the dockets of roughly 33,000 cases filed by detainees from Jan. 20, 2025, through March 2026. The vast majority of cases had only basic procedural information, like dates of court filings and rulings. Only about 4,400 included the original petitions.

We also gathered a few dozen case files from courthouses, lawyers, and the Massachusetts federal district court website, which posts most petitions under a unique standing order.

We ran keyword and semantic searches of court records, including petitions, motions, and orders, for terms and phrases potentially related to medical neglect, such as surgery, medications, inadequate medical care, and treatment for chronic conditions such as diabetes and high blood pressure.

We found about 500 cases potentially alleging medical neglect. At least two reporters reviewed each case manually, yielding more than 300 cases containing specific allegations in sworn filings of delayed, denied, or deficient healthcare.

To be conservative, we excluded dozens of cases that alleged inadequate medical care but lacked specifics, for example a petitioner writing, “I have been sick and don’t get proper treatment,” or a judge noting a petitioner “complains that ICE is ignoring his medical problems.” We also excluded cases in which petitioners claimed only that they were denied special diets, exercise, or other accommodations that they said were key to managing their health conditions, such as a petitioner writing, “I suffer from Parkinson’s and cannot properly exercise,” or claiming that the food provided was unfit for a person with diabetes.

The cases we analyzed were neither randomly selected nor representative of immigration habeas filings nationwide. The claims were not independently verified. Many filings are not publicly available, and not all detainees raise medical concerns in court, so our account of cases represents a limited window into the landscape of claims, rather than a comprehensive picture.

Associated Press journalists Garance Burke, Valerie Gonzalez, and Tim Sullivan as well as ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News correspondent Kate Wells contributed to this report.

This report is a collaboration between The Associated Press and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

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“I’m freaking out,” said Wood, who lives in a 1,700-square-foot home in Terryville, a village just outside Bristol, Connecticut. “I don’t understand it.”

Wood, 52, had weight loss surgery at Bristol Hospital in 2022, hoping it would help with her sleep apnea and the pain in her knees and back. Before scheduling the procedure, she checked with her insurer, she said, and was told the surgery would cost $5,000 out-of-pocket. She paid in advance.

More than six months later, Bristol sent Wood another bill that pushed the cost of her surgery to more than $17,000. Wood said she tried to dispute the charge. The hospital sued her.

“That’s ridiculous. I was told so many times by Aetna: ‘$5,000 out-of-pocket,’” Wood said. “I never would have had the surgery had I known it was going to cost almost 20 grand.”

Wood is among more than three dozen Connecticut patients the Connecticut Mirror and ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News interviewed over the past year who were sued by their hospital or physician over unpaid bills.

The patients include teachers, small-business owners, a postal worker, a retired nursing home aide, a nurse, and a hotel bellhop. Most had jobs and health insurance. Nearly all said they wanted to pay what they owed.

Patients taken to court described baffling bills, confusing health plan rules, and frustrating and fruitless telephone calls to hospital billing offices and health insurers’ customer-service lines. Even when they tried to resolve their outstanding bills, many said they couldn’t get answers.

Their experiences encapsulate breakdowns in the healthcare system that trap patients in debt. Health insurance didn’t cover care for reasons they couldn’t understand. Several patients did not qualify for financial assistance from providers, despite modest incomes. If they committed to pay, patients were hit with liens on their homes or interest payments and court fees that piled new debt onto their medical bills.

The industry’s key players blame one another for a broken system. Providers say insurers’ saddle patients with massive bills even when they have coverage. Insurers say at rates that outpace inflation.

Meanwhile, patients are stuck with the fallout. In 2022, about carrying medical or dental debt.

“It’s bad enough that I have bad health and have to pay mountains of medical bills,” said Samantha Mantiera, whom Danbury Hospital sued in 2024 over $10,000 she said she was erroneously charged. “Then to constantly be dealing with incorrect bills and then a lawsuit on top of it took me over the top.”

Mantiera said she spent months trying to explain to the hospital and then a collection agency that her insurance statements indicated she owed just $260. She was sued anyway.

After Mantiera contested the lawsuit, Danbury Hospital withdrew it, court records show.

Mantiera said she and her husband now travel up to an hour from their Brookfield, Connecticut, home to avoid hospitals owned by Danbury’s parent company, now called Northwell Health.

Kathy Holt, who leads the state Office of the Healthcare Advocate, said that in the past several decades healthcare has only gotten harder for patients to navigate. The agency fields thousands of calls every year from residents looking for help with medical billing questions.

“I’ve talked to too many people who have just given up,” Holt said. “The system has been made so hard for them, and I feel like it’s deliberate.”

‘They Would Not Talk to Me’

Debt collection lawsuits against patients have declined in Connecticut since 2019, a CT Mirror-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis of state court records found. And court records show most Connecticut hospital systems have stopped suing patients, including the state’s two largest systems, Yale New Haven Health and Hartford HealthCare.

Most hospitals stopped suing patients during the covid-19 pandemic as they reevaluated their collection practices, said Sarah Ginnetti, chief revenue cycle officer at UConn Health. The system ceased lawsuits in 2022, records show.

“In some of those circumstances, it just felt misaligned with our mission as an organization,” Ginnetti said. “For the small handful of cases that we might gain some type of legal victory, we really didn’t feel as though that would be our best path forward.”

Yale New Haven Health and Hartford HealthCare would not discuss why they stopped suing patients, instead issuing statements about their financial assistance programs.

Scores of medical providers — including physician groups, dentists, and hospitals — , data shows. The CT Mirror-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis found more than 1,500 healthcare-related debt cases filed in Connecticut courts in 2024.

This included lawsuits by Bristol Health, an independent local health system that includes Bristol Hospital, and Nuvance Health, a chain of seven hospitals recently acquired by Northwell Health, a multibillion-dollar system based in New York.

Nuvance hospitals filed over 4,000 collection lawsuits from 2019 to 2024, records show. Over the five years, the health system accounted for more than a quarter of the roughly 16,300 medical debt collection lawsuits against patients identified in state court records.

Hospital officials and other medical providers say they try to work with patients who have trouble paying their bills. Nikki Schulz, chief revenue officer for Northwell’s Connecticut hospitals, said in a statement that years ago the system “eased” its collection practices, leading to a “precipitous decline” in medical debt referred to collections.

“We fundamentally retooled our approach to align with industry best practices,” Schulz said. Records show the health system sued about 200 patients in 2024, down from 2,200 in 2019.

Healthcare executives also say they have a responsibility to try to collect.

“I don’t have a choice,” said Bristol Hospital CEO Kurt Barwis. “What we’re trying to do is sustain a mission of taking care of this community.”

Bristol Health is one of Connecticut’s most financially strained systems, and executives are currently in talks with the administration of Democratic Gov. Ned Lamont about an . The proposed deal is, in part, an effort to keep the hospital afloat.

Barwis said the hospital has taken steps to help patients with unexpected bills, including enlisting financial counselors to reach out to patients before elective procedures to discuss cost and financial assistance.

But Wood, who was sued by Bristol, said no one from the hospital talked to her before her surgery. When she called the hospital after receiving the $12,000 bill, she said she was told there was nothing they could do because her insurance had denied the claim.

“They would not talk to me about it,” Wood said. “They wanted their money.”

Bristol spokesperson Albert Peguero also blamed Wood’s insurer and said the hospital worked with Wood as she went through numerous insurance appeals with Aetna.

Wood didn’t fare any better with Aetna. It turned out that her health plan covered only $15,000 worth of bariatric surgery, meaning she was responsible for any bills that exceeded that.

Aetna spokesperson Shelly Bandit said Wood had been notified of this provision, though Wood disputes this.

The back-and-forth with the hospital and the insurer enraged Wood. But after she was sued, she concluded she had no more options. She settled with Bristol, agreeing to pay the full balance on a payment plan of $150 a month, court records show. Under the agreement, it would take Wood almost seven years to pay off the debt.

Last year, Wood faced additional financial challenges after her mother died and her husband lost his job and was unemployed for six months.

Wood said she’s regained about a third of the 100 pounds she lost after her surgery because of the stress. Some months she pays Bristol less than $150. In January, the hospital placed a lien on her home.

“We don’t have savings. We don’t have the extra money. We’re living check by check,” Wood said. “We’re working-class people trying to make a living, trying to do the right thing. And we always get screwed.”

‘I Don’t Have Hours on End’

It’s difficult to know how many medical debt lawsuits arise from disputed bills. But most U.S. adults with healthcare debt say they’ve received a bill in the past five years that they thought contained an error, according to a .

The prevalence of disputed medical bills is one reason many advocates for patients say hospitals and other healthcare providers shouldn’t sue people they treat.

“Understanding insurance to begin with and then navigating denials or bills that are not plainly understood leaves patients stuck in an opaque system where they have the least leverage and power,” said Eva Stahl, a vice president of Undue Medical Debt, a nonprofit that has worked with states to buy and retire debt — including for more than 150,000 Connecticut residents.

“Patients understandably are left with questions and confusion,” Stahl said.

Timothy Bigham, who owns a construction company and was sued in 2023 by Danbury Hospital, said he never understood why he was billed more than $64,000 after he was hospitalized following a 2019 heart attack.

Bigham, who lives in Danbury, Connecticut, said he was insured at the time. But soon after he got home, Bigham began getting regular calls from the hospital. He was told his insurer wasn’t paying the bill because he refused to “release medical records,” he recalled.

“I had insurance when I had the heart attack, but it’s my job to get the insurance company to pay?” Bigham said. “I’m self-employed. I work in construction. I don’t have hours on end to sit on the phone trying to talk to somebody at an insurance company.”

Bigham said he ultimately “stopped dealing with it” because he didn’t know what else to do.

Then, in 2023, Danbury Hospital sued him. A judge dismissed the case in 2025, citing the hospital’s “failure to prosecute with reasonable diligence,” according to court records. But by then, the alleged debt had devastated Bigham’s credit score, tanking it by over 100 points, he said.

Northwell’s Schulz declined to comment on any specific patient cases, citing privacy laws.

Connecticut barring medical debt from consumer credit reports.

A handful of states have tried to protect patients from lawsuits through limiting when hospitals can pursue legal action. Illinois, for example, prohibits lawsuits against uninsured patients who prove they can’t afford their unpaid bills. Nevada, New York, North Carolina, Maryland, and Virginia prohibit liens and foreclosures for medical debt.

‘It Was a Nightmare’

Dominique Jean Pierre was equally surprised by the $20,000 bill he got after he was hospitalized at Norwalk Hospital with a urinary tract infection in July 2020.

Jean Pierre, 66, had worked for nearly two decades as a bellhop at a Hilton hotel in Stamford owned and operated by Atrium Hospitality, a Georgia-based company. When he got sick, the hotel was temporarily closed because of covid lockdowns.

What Jean Pierre didn’t realize, he said, was that the hotel had also cut off employee health benefits. He said he was told by the hospital that he’d be responsible for the bill.

“It was a nightmare,” he said.

Jean Pierre said he begged his manager for help but was told there was nothing the company could do. Atrium Hospitality did not respond to requests for comment.

Two years after Jean Pierre’s hospitalization, Norwalk Hospital sued him for more than $20,000, court records show.

Jean Pierre said he tried twice to apply for financial assistance, but the hospital told him he and his wife made too much to qualify, even though his medical bills totaled almost a quarter of their annual income of about $87,000.

With nowhere to turn, Jean Pierre settled with Norwalk Hospital, now part of the Northwell system, in 2025, agreeing to pay the full bill in $100 monthly installments, records show. At that rate, he will be paying off the debt until 2042.

After the settlement, he said, the judge encouraged him to reach out to elected officials to try to get the debt canceled. Jean Pierre was exhausted.

“He says to me, ‘You have to go to your senators. Go to the governor.’ I said, ‘That’s too much. [I’m just going to] let it go.’”

Jean Pierre has left the Hilton and now works as a personal care attendant, as does his wife. But he said it still nags him that businesses and healthcare providers received millions of dollars in government aid during the pandemic, while he was left with $20,000 in medical debt.

“They gave money for the hotel. They gave money for the hospital. They gave money for a lot of stuff,” he said. “But we don’t see none.”

‘I’m Not Trying To Run Away’

Other patients said they felt trapped, even if they tried to do the right thing.

Deneen Brown, who runs a small daycare out of her home in Norwalk, was sued by Norwalk Hospital in 2024 for $7,200 over bills she allegedly incurred “on or about 2019 and 2020,” according to the lawsuit.

Brown said she was stunned by the lawsuit, as she believed she’d had health insurance at the time. But as a small-business owner who took pride in maintaining good credit and staying on top of her finances, she said she committed to taking care of it.

“I’m not trying to run away from something that may be my responsibility,” Brown said. “If you say I owe it, I’m going to figure it out, and I’m going to pay it.”

In January 2025, she agreed to a nearly 13-year payment plan of $50 a month, court records show. Often she pays more, she said.

The following month, the hospital placed a lien on her home. Brown said she never realized the hospital would continue to penalize her, even after she agreed to a payment plan.

“Had I known that, I would have never settled,” she said.

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

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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.”

As a teenager, Rei Scott spent several weeks living out of a car with four family members and their dog. Each day, Scott worried about where they would spend the following night.

One day at school, Scott snuck away to the bathroom and called the national suicide hotline.

Scott, who is transgender and nonbinary, explained to the hotline counselor that the family had struggled with poverty for years. They had lived in crumbling homes with water leaks, or a family member’s basement with no privacy. Sometimes the family worried about having enough food. The stress and anxiety were constant, and Scott had been suicidal many times.

The counselor seemed shocked into silence, Scott said. Eventually, the person provided reassurance and kindness.

But what Scott really needed that day a decade ago and many times since was a fix for the economic difficulties that had become an unbearable weight.

“It can definitely help to have someone who can listen, but when you’re struggling to eat and you don’t have a roof to be under, I honestly don’t think words can go as far as you need them to,” said Scott, who now studies social work at Capital University in Columbus, Ohio.

Over the years, Scott has been directed to hospitals and therapists. But those generally don’t address core problems, such as a broken-down car or an eviction notice.

“There’s so many times in my life where I’ve thought if I had $5,000, I wouldn’t even be suicidal right now,” Scott said.

People don’t typically think of suicide as an issue of economics, but it often is.

Decades of research shows that , , , , and make people more likely to kill themselves. Conversely, things that bring down people’s cost of living — such as , , , and — are linked to lower suicide rates.

It makes sense. If someone can cover their basic needs, their life will feel better.

Other countries have been incorporating this understanding into their efforts for some time. But because suicide prevention in the U.S. has historically been seen as a medical issue — the responsibility of clinicians who can provide medication or therapy — economic solutions are frequently left out of the equation.

Some advocates and people with suicidal experiences, like Scott, are trying to change that. They say traditional approaches to suicide prevention haven’t succeeded. For decades, the U.S. has had among high-income countries.

To move the needle, “we all need to be challenged to broaden our aperture, to broaden the lens of what is mental health,” said , a national expert in mental health policy and an adjunct professor at the Stanford University School of Medicine.

The highest-impact interventions may not be adding crisis lines or screening more people in emergency rooms, Miller said, though those can be helpful. If he had to pick one strategy, it would be alleviating poverty.

That “allows us to reconcile and solve for these conditions that put people in places of despair,” he said. “I don’t know what stronger intervention one could possibly have.”

To be sure, suicides also occur among wealthy people. It’s a complex issue and almost never boils down to one reason. For most people, the decision to hurt themselves results from an intricate interplay of biological factors, relationship concerns, finances, trauma or abuse, and access to lethal means. That means suicide prevention requires a variety of approaches.

The argument for including economic policy as one of those approaches, many advocates and researchers say, is that policies affect entire populations. So even a small effect can save a significant number of lives.

‘Economic Uncertainty’ Builds

However, the push for an economic lens on suicide prevention is encountering gale-force headwinds from Trump administration policies.

and the have contributed to economic pressures. Meanwhile, the administration has increased hurdles for safety net programs such as the , often called food stamps, and , the state-federal health insurance program for low-income people. Experts estimate will over the coming years.

The administration has also , saying people who are homeless to receive support. The president’s 2027 budget request, which signals his priorities, that helps low-income people pay for heat and air conditioning.

Research suggests increase people’s risk for suicide.

“Anytime there is economic uncertainty, people will fear for their future and livelihood,” Miller said, and “this last few months have been terrifying.”

Notably, the administration’s actions directly contradict strategies that the promotes as having “the best available evidence to reduce suicide.” No. 1 on the page is “Strengthen economic supports.” It lists SNAP benefits and housing-first policies as examples.

, director of the CDC’s injury center, said the agency doesn’t work on economic policy directly but encourages state and local governments to look at the relationship between health and economics.

The Department of Health and Human Services supports suicide prevention through the 988 national crisis hotline, investments in treatment, and the Rural Health Transformation Program, which states can use to expand mental health care in rural areas, HHS spokesperson Emily Hilliard said.

Alec Varsamis, a spokesperson for the Agriculture Department, said the agency is providing states guidance on SNAP changes and “remains deeply committed to supporting the health and mental well‑being of all Americans.”

It’s too soon to tell how recent actions may affect suicide rates. And given the unique combination of factors at play in each death, it’s challenging to draw direct causal links.

The most recent data available shows nearly 49,000 people died by suicide in 2024 — a slight dip from previous years but still among the highest tolls since the late 1990s.

The concept of suicide prevention writ large has historically drawn bipartisan support, said , a New York University researcher who last year highlighting public policies shown to reduce suicide.

The details are where things get murky. For example, strong evidence suggests that increasing the minimum wage reduces suicides. (The is $7.25 per hour, with higher rates in certain states.) But such increases are often a hard sell for lawmakers facing the realities of balancing a budget and small-business owners struggling to stay afloat.

Closely tying suicide prevention initiatives to such politically charged and complicated issues could undermine their chances, Purtle said, adding, “We’ll see suicide get polarized.”

That’s why the focus often stays on areas of agreement, such as funding crisis hotlines.

View From a Crisis Line

is the chief clinical officer at Samaritans, a Boston-based nonprofit that has operated a suicide crisis hotline for more than 50 years and fields upward of 10,000 calls a month, including local calls to 988.

Although people might assume every call is an imminent crisis, Maitland said, many callers are struggling with everyday needs — financial problems, housing concerns, or unemployment.

“Whatever is going on in the world, we absolutely hear about that in real time,” Maitland said.

In November, when during a government shutdown, people affected called Samaritans.

“That in and of itself was a hit to suicide prevention,” Maitland said. “If people don’t have access to eat, to feed their children, to be alive, quite frankly, how are they able to move further through anything else?”

Samaritans volunteers are trained to listen with compassion and make callers feel less alone in what they’re going through. That validation and caring are powerful, Maitland said.

But she often wants to do more, to “dig in and fix” the root issue.

Research supports her instincts. found that increasing the number of people who receive SNAP benefits by 5% could have prevented nearly 32,000 suicides over 15 years. And a $1 increase in minimum wage roughly 8,000 fewer suicide deaths over a decade.

Although Maitland can’t change federal welfare policies, she and her co-workers are applying this approach locally. They recently started an initiative to provide blankets, socks, and water to people living on the streets of Boston.

“Suicide prevention doesn’t always look like a crisis helpline,” she said. “That’s what we imagine it as.” But “having your basic needs is also a form of suicide prevention.”

Continuing To Live

In the years since calling the suicide hotline in high school, Scott has turned to a number of resources to help overcome recurring thoughts of suicide. Crisis lines, hospitalization, medication, and therapy have all played a role.

But, Scott said, the biggest impact came from programs that helped fulfill daily needs — for example, a housing program for LGBTQ+ youths and another for former foster care children attending college.

Scott, who now lives close to campus because of the foster care program, said the ability not to “worry about ‘Where am I going to sleep tomorrow night?’” has provided a significant mental health boost.

Although some programs like those are under threat from the Trump administration, Scott is hopeful they will persist and rebuild.

Surviving difficult times has given Scott confidence to persist through more potential challenges ahead.

Despite “the policies and legislation that harm us, we continue to live, and I think that’s really important,” Scott said. “It gives me a lot of hope that things can be different.”

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Recently divorced, the former stay-at-home mother had started working again in her mid-40s, taking a human resources job that paid $41,000 a year. Then, despite having insurance, she was hit with more than $8,000 in medical bills.

“I had my car and a basket of clothes,” Roberts recalled. “Medical bills were not something I could have afforded.”

Roberts sought financial assistance from CentraCare, the St. Cloud-based health system that treated her. It’s a nonprofit charity that receives millions of dollars in federal, state, and local tax breaks. In exchange, it’s obliged to offer charity care to patients who can’t afford their medical bills. But Roberts said CentraCare told her she made too much to qualify.

Roberts instead scrimped on groceries and Christmas gifts for her kids and paid off more than $6,000 over two years. Then CentraCare sued her last year because she hadn’t paid off all the debt.

“They’re supposed to be a nonprofit,” Roberts said. “It’s like, ‘Come on!’”

CentraCare earmarks a tiny fraction of its budget for helping patients with medical bills they can’t pay, but it’s not alone, a Minnesota Star Tribune-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found.

Minnesota’s hospitals and health systems are among the least charitable in the country, the investigation found, providing less financial aid as a percentage of their operating budgets on average than hospitals in almost every other state, including Illinois, Iowa, Nevada, and Texas.

The investigation drew on a detailed review of every hospital charity care program in the state, an analysis of five years of hospital financial data, and dozens of interviews with patients, hospital executives, and state officials.

Nationally, hospitals spend an average of about 2.4% of their operating budgets on charity care, according to federal hospital data compiled by Hossein Zare, a researcher at Johns Hopkins University. Minnesota hospitals spend about a third of that, on average.

Some spend considerably less. Of Minnesota’s 123 general hospitals, 62 devoted less than 0.5% of their operating budgets to charity care from 2020 through 2024, the Star Tribune-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found.

“The system is not working,” said Erin Hartung, director of legal services at Cancer Legal Care, a Minnesota nonprofit that helps patients with medical debt and other financial challenges. “And the burden is falling hardest on the people who are least able to bear it.”

CentraCare’s flagship St. Cloud Hospital spent less than 0.25%, according to the analysis. That works out to $25 in patient aid for every $10,000 spent on hospital operations.

Charity care will become even more vital in coming years as Minnesotans lose health coverage or can’t afford rising copays and deductibles. The state’s uninsured rate rose sharply last year, since 2017, and it’s expected to increase further as budget cuts pushed by President Donald Trump force states to pare Medicaid and other safety net programs. Charity care is also critical to many people with health insurance who can’t afford their bills.

Hospital officials say it’s unfair to expect them to solve this affordability problem when many of their facilities are financially strained. “No amount of charity care from hospitals will ever fully meet the needs of uninsured or underinsured Minnesotans. The need is simply too great,” Minnesota Hospital Association spokesperson Tim Nelson said in a statement.

But state Attorney General Keith Ellison said hospitals have a duty to boost charitable help for all needy patients in exchange for the tax breaks they receive.

“There is a benefit you get from being a nonprofit hospital in the state of Minnesota,” he said. “But do the people get the benefit?”

Several small Minnesota hospitals give financial aid to fewer than two dozen patients a year. Mahnomen Health Center, which recently converted to a rural emergency center, didn’t provide any charity care in eight years, despite serving one of Minnesota’s . Other hospitals serving large low-income populations were among those providing the least charity care, the analysis found.

Several factors help explain why Minnesota hospitals provide so little financial aid. For one, job-based insurance and an expanded Medicaid program offer broad coverage. Hospitals in states with less government assistance and more uninsured people typically spend more on charity care.

But Minnesota patients also face significant barriers accessing financial aid at many hospitals, including inconsistent eligibility standards and extensive applications, the Star Tribune-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found.

To qualify at many hospitals, patients must submit detailed personal information, including bank statements, retirement accounts, mortgage documents, and estimates of other assets such as cars, homes, or livestock.

And because Minnesota has not standardized the criteria for charity care, patients might receive aid at one hospital but not another. The investigation found that some hospitals give free care to patients with an annual household income of $47,000, while others cap it at about $15,000.

Had Roberts driven 30 miles east to Princeton or 35 miles north to Little Falls, she would have found medical providers with more generous financial aid policies than CentraCare. But she didn’t know to look.

Roberts, now 49, has remarried and lives in a split-level home in St. Cloud decorated with inspirational plaques such as “Faith, Family, Friends.” CentraCare recently dropped the lawsuit against her, but only after she took out a loan against her retirement plan to pay off the medical debt. “It just feels very unfair,” she said.

‘We Have To Defend Being Paid’

CentraCare spokesperson Karna Fronden said medical privacy laws prevented her from discussing Roberts’ case. She also declined interview requests about the health system’s charity care spending.

In a statement, Fronden said CentraCare provides assistance in addition to charity care, such as helping enroll patients in insurance. “This helps provide broader, longer-term protection for patients,” she said.

Other hospital leaders said they serve their communities in ways besides forgiving medical bills, including training doctors and nurses and preserving money-losing services such as obstetrics and mental health care.

“Rural hospitals like ours are often portrayed as though we are sitting on piles of cash and simply choosing not to spend it on charity care. That is far from the reality,” said Robert Pastor, chief executive of Rainy Lake Medical Center in International Falls.

“We are the second- or third-largest employer in town, running on razor-thin margins while navigating escalating labor and supply costs and routine underpayment by public programs,” Pastor said. “Meanwhile, many health insurers post billions in profits.”

Hospitals typically are paid less for care provided to Medicare and Medicaid patients. More than 80% of Rainy Lake’s patients are on one of those government programs.

Minnesota hospitals collectively write off about $200 million of what’s deemed bad debt every year after trying unsuccessfully to collect unpaid bills from patients through calls, letters, and even lawsuits. By comparison, they devote about $163 million annually to charity care, state figures show. In 2024, hospitals collectively posted $2.4 billion in net income.

“I feel like I’m put in the position, being the hospital, where we have to defend being paid,” said Patti Banks, the head of Ely-Bloomenson Community Hospital and a senior Minnesota Hospital Association board member.

Some hospitals face intense financial pressures. Thirty-one have lost money on operations in four of the past eight years. HCMC in Minneapolis — the state’s largest safety net hospital, which provides the most charity care — is losing so much money that, without additional taxpayer support, .

But larger health systems such as Mayo Clinic, Essentia Health, and Sanford Health have remained financially sound. And the operating margins at most CentraCare hospitals exceeded 10% in 2024, state data shows.

Medical Debt’s High Toll

Nationwide, health care debt — much of it from hospitals — burdens an estimated 100 million people, increasing their stress and even leading to premature deaths, .

Abby Kelley-Hands, a special education coordinator in St. Paul, has a rare immune condition that causes frequent, severe allergic reactions. Her illness can be controlled only with a costly drug, which a Mayo Clinic doctor prescribed.

When Kelley-Hands briefly lost health coverage in 2021 in an insurance mix-up, she was hit with more than $20,000 in bills. And although she and her husband earned less than $100,000 a year, Kelley-Hands said Mayo denied her financial assistance because she earned too much.

“I was in tears,” Kelley-Hands said. “It was so scary and so hard. And it causes all of this additional stress, which then makes you sicker and less able to even figure things out.”

Kelley-Hands and her husband sold a car and agreed to a payment plan before Mayo would resume her treatment, she said. Her husband now bikes 5 miles to work. They have no dishwasher. And she and her husband took a honeymoon only last fall, seven years after their wedding. “We live very simply,” she said.

Mayo spokesperson Kristyn Jacobson declined to discuss Kelley-Hands’ case.

In 2024, state lawmakers from denying care to patients with outstanding debt. And in 2025, Attorney General Ellison reached an agreement with Mayo to overhaul its charity care program after an investigation found the multibillion-dollar institution was systematically discouraging patients from applying.

After the state began investigating Mayo, the system’s , topping 1.5% of operating expenses in 2024.

‘Optimized To Get Payment’

Complying with a 2023 , Minnesota hospitals now post their financial aid policies online, although several, including CCM Health in Montevideo and Northfield Hospital, did so only after being contacted by the Star Tribune or ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

But many hospitals make financial aid more difficult to find than information about paying bills, said Jared Walker, founder of Dollar For, a nonprofit that helps patients nationally apply for charity care.

“Hospitals have optimized to get payment,” he said. “If you want to get on a payment plan, if you want to get on a credit card, it’s so easy.”

Glacial Ridge Health System in Glenwood posts a “Bill Pay” tab at the . But it takes several clicks to find the hospital’s financial assistance plan. The information couldn’t be found on the site searching for “charity care” or “financial assistance.” The public hospital 130 miles northwest of Minneapolis devoted less than 0.7% of its operating budget to charity care from 2019 to 2024.

Patients in interviews frequently said they weren’t told about charity care.

Joe Robling, 29, was treated at St. Francis Regional Medical Center in Shakopee for a broken pelvis and fractured spine after a 2024 motorcycle accident. His mother, Janet, who helped him navigate the bills, said the hospital never informed him about financial aid.

“They didn’t offer any of that,” she said.

Robling, a construction worker in Henderson, was between jobs and uninsured. “He had zippo,” Janet Robling said. “What he had in reserves were all depleted.”

The Allina Health-affiliated hospital billed him more than $19,000, the Roblings said.

An internet ad connected the family to Dollar For, which helped Robling qualify for charity care five months after his accident.

Allina spokesperson Jennifer Steingas declined to comment on the case, citing medical privacy restrictions, but said the health system has since reached out to the family.

In another case, M Health Fairview’s University of Minnesota Medical Center didn’t offer financial aid to an unemployed and uninsured man from Idaho while he was hospitalized for two months for psychiatric care and amassed $150,000 in bills.

Attorney Margaret Henehan, who represented the man, said the hospital instead offered him a two-year payment plan at $6,500 a month. “He had no income, which he told Fairview,” Henehan said.

The man, who is not identified because of his mental health condition, eventually received charity care after his sister, a doctor, reached out to Henehan for help.

Aimee Jordan, a Fairview spokesperson, said she couldn’t comment on the case because of patient privacy laws, but she said patients who are offered payment plans can always apply for charity care, even after a hospitalization.

A Maze of Standards

State law prohibits hospitals from making “unreasonable” demands of patients when they apply for charity care. But the law sets few specific standards.

The result is a dizzying array of policies, including 11 income thresholds used by Minnesota hospitals to determine whether patients qualify for free care, the Minnesota Star-Tribune-ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News review found.

HCMC parent company in Minneapolis and Olmsted Medical Center in Rochester offer the highest threshold for free care, at — almost $48,000 a year for an individual.

Sometimes standards vary even between neighboring hospitals. Madelia Health in south-central Minnesota to patients who make less than twice the federal poverty level. About 13 miles away at Mayo’s hospital in St. James, can qualify for aid.

To determine eligibility, some Minnesota hospitals consider only income, but most demand information about patients’ bank accounts as well. More than two-thirds require even more information, including the value of retirement accounts, life insurance policies, property, and vehicles. Madelia’s “may be required to sell recreational vehicles.”

Stringent requirements ensure that limited resources go to patients who need them, said Travis Olsen, chief executive of Hendricks Community Hospital, near the South Dakota border. “We don’t feel it’s fair for someone with lower annual income but yet owns numerous acres of land, debt-free, to be able to qualify for charity care.”

In addition to copies of tax returns, W-2 forms, pay stubs, and bank statements, 53 questions about their finances. These include questions about the make, model, and value of vehicles; the current market value of farm equipment, livestock, and land; and the purchase price and square footage of homes.

Other hospital applications ask patients to detail their monthly spending on food, utilities, and other medical bills.

Olsen said community pressure is more of a deterrent to applying for aid than the application: “People are too proud to pick up an application. We all know each other.”

But Walker at Dollar For said the biggest barrier is complexity. “The drop-off rates are much higher the more questions you ask and the more documentation you have to provide,” he said.

Arleen Mullenax had a cancerous tumor removed from her neck at Mayo in Rochester. Assembling her aid application and following up with the hospital billing department amid her “cancer fog” was almost more than she could take, she said.

“I knew as a former office manager I had to stay on top of it,” she said. “But it was the most daunting thing I had to do as a patient.”

Fixing the System

Ellison and several state lawmakers say Minnesota’s hospitals should make it simpler for patients to access charity care.

They’ve called for, among other things, common eligibility standards and a standard application across hospitals. New York and Maryland already have both.

“Eliminating as many barriers as possible for people is really important,” said state Sen. Liz Boldon, who also said she hopes lawmakers can enact these standards next session.

The Minnesota Hospital Association has opposed standardizing financial assistance, saying hospital boards are in the best position to assess the need for charity care in their communities. “Adding mandates for providers across the state will not close that gap, and will only increase bureaucratic and procedural barriers to patient care,” spokesperson Nelson said.

Ellison also has pushed to require hospitals to use a process that automatically screens and qualifies low-income patients for financial aid without requiring an application.

Some hospital systems, including South Dakota-based Sanford Health, already use software that checks patients’ eligibility based on information such as their credit history, said Nick Olson, the system’s chief financial officer. At Sanford Health’s 10 hospitals in Minnesota, about a quarter of the patients who receive financial aid get it this way, he said.

Nearly all Sanford hospitals devote more than 1% of their operating expenditures to charity care — higher than most hospitals in the state.

Screening software can be costly. Several executives at small Minnesota hospitals said they can’t afford it. But there are other options. In California, Los Angeles County is developing a public system to allow hospitals to quickly assess patients’ eligibility so they don’t have to buy a system themselves.

Other states — including Texas and Nevada — have laws requiring hospitals to provide minimum amounts of charity care.

Back in St. Cloud, Roberts said that when she drives past CentraCare’s $200 million expansion at its Plaza campus in St. Cloud, she wonders why Minnesota hospitals don’t live up to higher standards themselves.

“They have all the money,” she said. “But they can’t grant a good person some grace?”

Minnesota Star Tribune staff writers Bill Lukitsch and Victor Stefanescu contributed to this report.

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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.”

Someone in America dies by suicide every 11 minutes. It’s that common. But not normal.

Humans have evolved over centuries to survive. So when people try to kill themselves, something has gone wrong. Typically, the assumption is that something happened in the person’s mind — a mental illness.

But in recent decades, there’s been a growing movement to ask a different question: What went wrong in the world around that person?

For Chris Pawelski, it was a torrent of factors. His dad — one of his best friends, whom he worked with daily for decades — was diagnosed with renal cancer and died six months later. Pawelski was left as the primary caregiver for his mom, who had dementia.

His family’s in New York’s Orange County — where he first worked as a 5-year-old, collecting onions that fell out of crates — was hemorrhaging money. Pawelski said he was growing roughly $200,000 worth of crops some years but took home only about $20,000, unable to negotiate higher prices with wholesale buyers that dominated the market.

Debt to suppliers and equipment vendors piled up, and the burden strained his marriage. He had little time for friends, working sunup to sundown seven days a week, desperately trying to preserve his family’s legacy.

“It’s all stuff collapsing down upon you,” he said. “It’s weeks, months, years of dealing with all sorts of pressures that you can’t alleviate.”

Pawelski started wondering what it would be like to get hit by a truck on the busy road in front of his house. “You think you’re already on your way out, so why wait?” he said.

Millions of Americans have , and tens of thousands . Suicide repeatedly ranks among the — making the U.S. an .

Prevention efforts have typically focused on connecting individuals in crisis with treatment — despite therapy and medication being , the healthcare system , and a consensus that suicide is caused by a , including but not limited to mental illness.

Now, many people working to prevent suicide, including some who have tried to harm themselves or lost a loved one to it, are calling for a broader approach. Some were galvanized by the covid pandemic, when rates of — not because everyone’s brain chemistry suddenly changed but because the world changed. That led many to believe that, while treatments and crisis care are vital, the goal of suicide prevention needs to expand beyond stopping people from dying to also giving them reasons to live.

“It’s not rocket science,” said , a psychologist and internationally recognized suicide prevention researcher who lost her brother to suicide. If “you have happier, healthier people, they live longer, happier lives.”

That means suicide prevention shouldn’t be limited to answering hotlines or treating patients in psychiatric wards, she said. It should also involve running food banks to ensure families don’t go hungry or hosting weekly book clubs for homebound seniors to make friends. It can take the form of school programs that build resilience in children or housing policies that prevent evictions.

shows these — even if they don’t have the words “mental health” or “suicide” in the title — can reduce the number of people who kill themselves. They often lower rates of crime, addiction, and poverty, too.

The U.S. has lagged other countries in adopting this approach, Spencer-Thomas said, perhaps because it’s easier — and more politically palatable — to tell someone to go to therapy than it is to enact sweeping policy changes, such as an .

“As long as we have that convenient narrative that it’s just a bunch of broken people needing medicine and treatment, then we’re never accountable for fixing the broken things in our communities,” Spencer-Thomas said.

The Trump Administration’s Approach

Overhauling suicide prevention efforts to focus on broad social and economic policies might seem overwhelming and unrealistic — especially right now. This approach requires large upfront investments that lack across-the-board support, either because of budgeting realities or ideological bents.

President Donald Trump and his appointees have said little about suicide directly, but many of their policies do the opposite of what shows .

The administration has championed and the that are projected to leave and in coming years. It has injected uncertainty into the economy through , , and . It has for school-based mental health initiatives, gutted federal programs that focus on at-risk blue collar workers, and . (Suicides are the in America.)

“All of these changes are creating a firestorm,” said , the chief advocacy officer for the National Alliance on Mental Illness. They can cause “extreme stress and anxiety” in people’s lives, she added, and “when people feel desperate, that’s when crises can emerge.”

Federal health officials insist that suicide prevention remains a priority.

, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s injury center, said the agency is focused on creating systems that can support people “no matter what may be happening” in the world around them. “There’s always going to be turmoil in people’s lives,” she added.

Arwady and , who leads suicide prevention work at the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, said several of the Trump administration’s priorities align with an upstream approach.

For example, they said, its could help address the , since exercise is proven . Similarly, people who are homeless have , and the administration has been . Federal officials have also encouraged , and research shows members of faith communities are .

However, the Trump administration has made at and and has for , leading to questions about whether or how this work will continue.

A History of Medical and Crisis Care

Suicide prevention reached the national stage in the late 1990s, said , who worked at the CDC for 15 years before joining the , a nonprofit focused on teen and young-adult mental health.

As suicide rates grew among young people, a group of government officials, clinicians, and advocates gathered in Reno, Nevada, in 1998 to discuss the pressing issue. Over the next few years, the surgeon general and the federal government published its .

These documents acknowledged the role of society and economics in suicide risk but focused heavily on identifying people in crisis and increasing access to medical treatment.

Those are critical steps to suicide prevention, many mental health researchers and clinicians say. They’re also politically favorable. For elected officials, who have a few years to demonstrate their achievements before the next campaign, it’s easier to count the number of people receiving therapy than the number of people who never developed suicidal thoughts because long-term economic and social investments helped them maintain steady jobs and strong friendships.

The push for individual treatment also comes from a pervasive misconception that suicide is always the result of an underlying mental illness, said , who is the senior director of population health at Mental Health America and contributed to a .

Although how many people who die by suicide — with estimates from to — the takeaway is that mental illness is not the sole cause, Reinert said. That means treating it can’t be the sole response.

Plus, mental illnesses can be by life circumstances. Treating depressive symptoms without looking at factors such as childhood trauma, the loss of a loved one, or being laid off from a job is an incomplete approach, many mental health researchers and clinicians say.

The covid pandemic, especially, made people in the field recognize “we really need to address all of these conditions that are creating stress, anxiety, and crises,” Stone said.

In July 2022, the federal government — a shorter number for the national suicide crisis line, meant to provide an alternative to 911 for mental health emergencies.

, who led federal work on 988, said the infusion of money and attention on the hotline helped states build better crisis response systems, from centers that answer calls to mobile crisis units.

But that’s not enough to solve America’s suicide problem, she said. “You’ll never be able to build a system based on crisis alone.”

Help for the Farm and the Farmer

Pawelski, the onion farmer in New York, hit his breaking point in 2020.

He had a decent crop that year, but Canadian exporters were into American markets, making it difficult for him to sell his product.

“I was having to beg people” to buy, he said. And when he managed to sell, prices were comparable to prices in the 1980s.

By the end of the season, he had incurred losses of a few hundred thousand dollars.

He said he and his wife decided, “We couldn’t afford to grow onions again.”

The idea that his family’s onion farm would end with him was “soul-crushing,” Pawelski said. He lost weight rapidly and thought about ending his life.

He and his wife called for help. Founded at Cornell University in 1986, the free program connects farmers with two consultants: a financial analyst specializing in farm planning and a social worker focused on emotional concerns and family dynamics.

The financial specialist helped Pawelski develop a new business plan. Instead of farming onions for wholesale, he could grow greens, tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants at a small scale to sell directly to consumers. He could upgrade an old truck with a cooler and deliver produce to people’s doors. He would supplement that income with teaching, speaking engagements, and other work that took advantage of his master’s degree in communications.

The social worker helped him accept that new reality — equally crucial, Pawelski said. “If you’re pissed off” about the change, “no matter what kind of proposal or idea they have, it’s not going to go anywhere.”

The adjustment took months. Pawelski also saw a therapist during that time.

Then one day a neighbor noted that Pawelski seemed much happier. That “caught me off guard,” Pawelski recalled. He didn’t realize his inner transformation was so apparent.

Today, Pawelski’s business has stabilized, and he and his wife are paying down debt. Pawelski advocates for programs to help farmers’ mental health and address their .

That can mean crisis hotlines and access to affordable therapy, Pawelski said. But what he really wants are policy changes that help farmers get fair prices for their produce, debt relief, and the installation of broadband internet in rural areas so farm families and employees can be connected.

“We need to think broader and longer-term than a helpline,” he said. That’s “a band-aid on a gunshot wound.”

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It was “just like a mosquito bite, nothing major, and I just scratched it,” said Toska, a political science professor.

Then she began to itch everywhere. She couldn’t see anything in the dark, so her husband shined his phone light on her.

She was covered in hives.

Because she also felt pressure in her chest, the family quickly went to an urgent care clinic. A doctor there recognized she was experiencing , a life-threatening, fast-moving allergic reaction.

The doctor rushed her to a room without checking her in, saw her blood pressure was low, and administered two epinephrine injections and IV fluids, Toska said. The itching stopped, and the tightness in her chest went away.

But the doctor said she needed to be monitored in an emergency room for at least two hours in case the reaction flared up again. Toska said the doctor insisted she take an ambulance to a nearby hospital, Atrium Health Lake Norman.

Minutes later, she found herself lying on a stretcher in the ER.

A doctor she described as “lovely” came in and spoke to her for no more than five minutes, Toska said. A nurse administered medicine through the IV line inserted at the urgent care clinic.

Toska was exhausted, but her mind was on her daughters. “I had two little kids who were scared, so I was playing with them and trying to distract them.”

After about an hour and a half, the doctor returned briefly, then the family went home, she said.

“That’s it,” Toska said. “Nothing happened at the ER.”

Then the bill came.

The Medical Service

Toska said the ER doctor reviewed her vitals and discussed her allergic reaction and what to watch for when she got home. She also received a dose of famotidine, a drug often used to treat an upset stomach that is also administered for allergic reactions.

The Bill

The in-network hospital system charged Toska’s insurer, Blue Cross Blue Shield of North Carolina, $6,746.50 for the ER visit, including $20.60 for the famotidine and $6,445.60 in “critical care” charges. Toska, who had not met her insurance deductible, was responsible for a $150 copay and $3,100.24 of the charges.

The Billing Problem: Critical Care

“Paying $3,100.24 for literally sitting in the ER entertaining my kids for an hour and a half feels kind of incredible,” Toska said.

Medical providers in the United States use a uniform coding system to bill for procedures and services. Most of Toska’s ER charges stemmed from Atrium Health’s use of two billing codes for “critical care” — one for 30 to 74 minutes of care, at $5,617.85 (code 99291), and another for an additional 30 minutes (code 99292), at $827.75.

According to the coding system, critical care is when a doctor “directly” provides at least 30 minutes of care to a patient with “a probability of imminent or life-threatening deterioration.”

According to the ER’s visit notes, which Toska shared with ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News, Toska told the doctor there she was feeling “significantly better” when she arrived, and the doctor reported providing 90 minutes of personal critical care.

Anaphylactic shock is treated under code 99291, according to the . Though Toska’s symptoms may have indicated she was no longer in shock, treatment guidelines require at least two hours of monitoring, said Arjun Venkatesh, the chair of emergency medicine at the Yale School of Medicine.

With anaphylaxis, “some people are going to progress and require admission to the ICU, and some won’t,” Venkatesh said.

Toska was under critical care because of what could have happened, not what did happen, Venkatesh said. Hospitals use the same billing codes for the ER visit, whether a patient’s condition deteriorates or not.

“The billing rules are not built around this,” Venkatesh said.

Laura Eberhard, a spokesperson for Blue Cross Blue Shield of North Carolina, said Toska’s claims “were submitted by the provider using critical care codes, which represent a higher level of severity and reimbursement, and were processed in-network under the terms of the member’s plan.” She did not answer questions about whether Blue Cross Blue Shield negotiated the charges.

A spokesperson for Atrium Health did not answer questions from ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News about Toska’s visit.

The Resolution

Toska said she called Blue Cross Blue Shield of North Carolina, trying to get a better explanation for why the bill for so little hands-on care was so high.

“The doctor determines the severity of the situation, and that’s the code we have,” the insurance representative said, according to Toska’s recollection. “This is critical care, and that’s what it costs.”

After Toska contacted the hospital, Atrium Health’s Audit and Appeals Department replied in a letter that the critical care designation was “based on the presenting problem that brought you to the emergency room, the treatment provided, and the nursing staff that took care of you.”

“It also includes the room, supplies, and equipment utilized during the visit,” the letter continued. “The charge is not based on time spent in the facility or with clinicians.”

Asking why the ER visit cost so much was more a matter of principle than necessity, she said, though she thought back a few years to a time when it would have been much harder for her to pay.

“The system is so broken,” Toska said.

The Takeaway

“Her experience is, sadly, very typical,” said Barak Richman, a professor of business law and co-director of the Health Law and Policy program at George Washington University. “Once you are brought onto the train of health care delivery, you have no control over where the stops are.”

Emergency rooms — for many the for medical care — are notorious for high costs, he said, adding that insurance companies should always try to negotiate critical care codes.

Toska was fortunate to dodge another problem common in emergencies: The bill for taking an ambulance to the ER was about $275, she said, notable since ambulance rides frequently result in bigger bills that may not be covered by insurance.

Patients can dispute charges with their insurance and the hospital. Like Toska, they should come to the phone with an itemized bill, medical records, and any other relevant documents, such as explanation-of-benefits statements.

Regardless of whether that’s a fight they can win, some who see one ER bill , especially if it might put them in .

In early March, Toska had a second allergic reaction. “OK,” she recalled thinking, “Do I go get the EpiPen? Do I go to the ER and get another massive bill?”

She decided against the trip and took Benadryl instead.

Bill of the Month is a crowdsourced investigation by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News 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? Tell us about it!

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State governments rely on such companies to design and operate computer systems that assess whether low-income people qualify for Medicaid or food aid through the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, commonly referred to as food stamps. Those state systems have a history of errors that can cut off benefits to eligible people, a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation showed.

These benefits, provided to the poorest Americans, can mean the difference between someone obtaining medical care and having enough to eat — or going without.

States are now racing to update their eligibility systems to adhere to President Donald Trump’s sweeping tax and domestic spending law. The changes will add red tape and restrictions. They are coming at a steep price — both in the cost to taxpayers and coverage losses — according to state documents obtained by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and interviews.

The documents show government agencies will spend millions to save considerably more by removing people from health benefits. While states sign eligibility system contracts with companies and work with them to manage updates, the federal government foots most of the bill.

The law’s Medicaid policies will cause to become uninsured by 2034, according to the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office. Roughly will lose access to monthly cash assistance for food, including those with children.

In five states alone, for state officials and reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News show that changes will cost at least $45.6 million combined.

“This is a pretty big payday,” said Adrianna McIntyre, an assistant professor of health policy and politics at Harvard’s T.H. Chan School of Public Health.

The law, which grants tax breaks to the nation’s wealthiest people, requires most states to tie Medicaid coverage for some adults to having a job, and imposes other restrictions that will make it harder for people with low incomes to stay enrolled. SNAP restrictions began to take effect in 2025. Major Medicaid provisions begin later this year.

Documents prepared by consulting company Deloitte estimate that a pair of computer system changes for Medicaid work requirements in Wisconsin will . Two other changes related to the state’s SNAP program will cost an additional $4.2 million, according to the documents, which for the Wisconsin Department of Health Services.

In Iowa, changes to its Medicaid system are expected to cost at least $20 million, , a consulting company that operates the state’s eligibility system.

Optum — which operates the platform Vermont residents use for Medicaid and marketplace health plans under the Affordable Care Act — to evaluate and incorporate new health coverage restrictions.

Initial changes in Kentucky, which has had a contract with Deloitte since 2012, . And in Illinois, will cost at least $12 million.

A Historic Mandate

For six decades after President Lyndon Johnson created the government insurance program in 1965, Congress had never mandated that Medicaid enrollees have a job, volunteer, or go to school.

That will change next year. The tax and spending law enacted by Trump and congressional Republicans requires millions of Medicaid enrollees in 42 states and the District of Columbia to prove they’re working or participating in a similar activity for 80 hours a month, unless they qualify for an exemption. The CBO projected, based on an early version of the bill, that 18.5 million adults would be subject to the new rules — .

Vermont Medicaid officials expect it will cost $5 million in fiscal 2027 to implement changes in response to the federal law, said Adaline Strumolo, deputy commissioner of the Department of Vermont Health Access. About $1.8 million is for Optum to make eligibility system adjustments. Optum is a subsidiary of UnitedHealth Group.

The One Big Beautiful Bill Act will subject nearly 55,000 Vermont Medicaid recipients to work requirements — about a third of the state’s enrollees.

The law forced the state “to essentially drop everything else we were doing,” Strumolo said in an interview. “This is a big, big lift.”

Optum’s contract with the state was as of October.

of adult Medicaid enrollees nationally are already working, according to KFF. Advocacy groups for Medicaid recipients say work requirements will nonetheless cause significant coverage losses. Enrollees will face added red tape to prove they’re complying. And eligibility systems already prone to error will have to account for employment, job-related activities, and any exemptions.

An estimated 5.3 million enrollees will become uninsured by 2034 due to work requirements, the .

In Wisconsin, state officials estimate could lose coverage after work requirements take effect. Not covering those people would in Medicaid spending for one year.

Wisconsin’s eligibility system for Medicaid and SNAP — known as CARES — in 1994, and initially was a transfer system from Florida, according to a 2016 state document.

Deloitte submitted its cost estimates for Medicaid and SNAP changes to the state in September and December. Elizabeth Goodsitt, a spokesperson for the Wisconsin Department of Health Services, declined to answer questions about whether additional changes will be needed, how much it will cost to make all eligibility system changes to comply with the new federal law, and whether the state negotiated prices with Deloitte.

Bobby Peterson, executive director of the public interest law firm ABC for Health, said Wisconsin has invested “very little” to help people navigate the Medicaid eligibility process, which soon will become more difficult.

“But they’re very willing to throw $6 million to their contractors to create the bells and whistles,” Peterson said. “That’s where I feel a sense of frustration.”

New Hurdles for Vets and Homeless People

Medicaid work requirements are only one change required by Trump’s tax law that will make it harder to obtain safety-net benefits.

Starting in October, the law prohibits several immigrant populations from accessing Medicaid and ACA coverage, including people who have been granted asylum, refugees, and certain survivors of domestic violence or human trafficking. Beginning Dec. 31, states must verify eligibility twice a year for millions of adults — doubling state officials’ workload. And the law restricts SNAP benefits by requiring more adult recipients to work and by removing work exemptions for veterans, homeless people, and former foster youth.

Days after Trump signed the bill in July, Kentucky health officials raced to make changes to the state’s integrated eligibility system, which verifies eligibility for Medicaid, SNAP, and other programs. Deloitte operates the system under a five-year . , initial changes costing $1.6 million were labeled a “high priority” and approved on an “emergency” basis, with some of the changes to the nation’s largest food aid program going into effect almost immediately.

Officials with Kentucky’s Cabinet for Health and Family Services declined to answer a detailed list of questions, including how much it will cost to make all the modifications needed.

Deloitte spokesperson Karen Walsh said the company is working with states to implement new requirements but declined to answer questions about cost estimates in several states. “We are delivering the value and investments we committed to,” Walsh said.

In most states, government agencies rely on contractors to build and run the systems that determine eligibility for Medicaid. Many of those states also use such computer systems for SNAP. But the federal government — that is, taxpayers — to develop and implement state Medicaid eligibility systems and pays 75% of ongoing maintenance and operations expenses, according to federal regulations.

“Five, 10 years ago, I’m not sure if you would hear much mention of SNAP from a Medicaid director,” Melisa Byrd, Washington, D.C.’s Medicaid director, said in November at an annual conference of Medicaid officials. “And particularly for those with integrated eligibility systems — as D.C. is —­ I’m learning more about SNAP than I ever thought.”

The federal law was the topic du jour at last year’s gathering in Maryland, held at the Gaylord National Resort and Convention Center, the largest hotel between New Jersey and Florida.

Consulting companies had taken notice. Gainwell, an eligibility contractor and one of the conference’s corporate sponsors, emblazoned its logo on hotel escalators. Companies set up booths with materials promoting how they could help states and handed out snacks and swag.

“Conduent helps agencies work smarter by simplifying operations, cutting costs and driving better outcomes through intelligent automation, analytics, and innovation in fraud prevention,” read one such handout from another contractor. “Together, we can better serve residents at every step of their health journeys.” Conduent holds Medicaid eligibility and enrollment contracts in Mississippi and New Jersey, their Medicaid agencies confirmed to ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

In handouts, Deloitte touted its role in “building a new era in state health care” and as “a national leader in Medicaid program and technology transformation, building a strong track record across the federal, state, and commercial health care ecosystem.” ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News found that Deloitte, a global consultancy that generated in revenue in fiscal 2025, dominates this slice of government business.

“With Medicaid Community Engagement (CE) requirements, states are tasked with adding a new condition of Medicaid eligibility to support state and federal objectives,” added another brochure. “Deloitte offers strategic outreach and responsive support to help states engage communities, lower barriers, and address access to coverage.”

A $20.3 Million Bill in Iowa

Before Trump signed the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, Iowa lawmakers wanted to impose their own version of work requirements. They would have applied to 183,000 people before any exemptions. The new law would necessitate a change to Iowa’s Medicaid eligibility system, according to documents prepared by Accenture, which operates Iowa’s system through a .

Adding the ability to verify work status would cost up to $7 million, . By July, the cost to implement the One Big Beautiful Bill Act’s work requirements and other Medicaid provisions . Accenture’s analysis said the federal law necessitated . Making employment a condition of Medicaid benefits could cause an estimated 32,000 Iowans to lose coverage, according to a

Cutting 32,000 people from coverage in one year, a fraction of the Iowa and the federal government spend on Medicaid in a given year.

In Cedar Rapids, most of Eastern Iowa Health Center’s patients rely on Medicaid, CEO Joe Lock said. He questioned the government’s logic of spending tens of millions of dollars on a policy to remove Iowans from Medicaid.

Most of the health center’s patients live at or below the federal poverty level — currently .

“There is no benefit to this population,” Lock said.

Danielle Sample, a spokesperson for Iowa’s Department of Health and Human Services, did not answer questions about how much it will cost to implement changes to the state’s separate SNAP eligibility system.

In Illinois, the state’s work this year is largely focused on meeting major provisions of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act. The state estimates that as many as 360,000 residents could lose Medicaid, largely due to the work requirements, said Melissa Kula, a spokesperson for the Illinois Department of Healthcare and Family Services.

Kula confirmed that — priced at $12 million — is related to Trump’s law. The estimate also mentions other work. Kula said Deloitte is charging the state a $2 million fixed fee related to work requirements.

The Trump administration has acknowledged that the work is coming at a cost. In January, top officials for the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services said government contractors, including Deloitte, Accenture, and Optum, have and reduced rates through 2028 to help states incorporate system changes.

“The companies were extremely excited to do this,” , the top CMS Medicaid official. “Everyone’s really focused on getting to work.”

CMS spokesperson Catherine Howden declined to answer questions about the discounts.

Goodsitt, the Wisconsin Medicaid spokesperson, declined to answer questions about whether Deloitte has discounted its rates. Officials with Kentucky’s Cabinet for Health and Family Services did not answer a detailed list of questions, including whether Deloitte extended discounts to make these changes.

It’s unclear what discounts, if any, Deloitte and Accenture have offered to individual states. Walsh, the Deloitte spokesperson, declined to answer detailed questions about the discounts the Trump administration announced this year. Accenture did not respond to repeated requests for comment.

Strumolo, the Vermont health official, said state officials discussed the announcement with Optum “in detail.”

Optum for a specific module related to Medicaid work requirements. That product is unworkable for Vermont because it would mean “moving to a new system when we don’t have to.” When asked about whether the company offered discounts, Strumolo said “not explicitly.”

In a statement, UnitedHealth Group spokesperson Tyler Mason said Optum supports state implementation of new federal requirements “with a range of options to meet their unique cost and policy needs.”

He declined to specify whether Optum discounted Vermont’s rates and how it calculated the costs of doing its work. “Optum is helping mitigate upfront implementation expenses so states can focus on approaches that reduce duplication, accelerate implementation, and manage costs over time — supporting better outcomes for individuals covered by Medicaid,” Mason said.

Strumolo said Optum’s initial changes in Vermont cover items that take effect this year and in 2027 — Medicaid work requirements, checking eligibility every six months, and prohibiting certain immigrants from qualifying for health programs.

“There’s a lot more that could come,” she said.

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The upshot, : Babies fed rival Mead Johnson Nutrition’s acidified liquid human milk fortifier — a nutritional supplement used in neonatal intensive care units — developed certain complications at higher rates than those given an Abbott fortifier, a researcher at the University of Nebraska had found.

At least one of those complications .

The Abbott scientist, Bridget Barrett-Reis, described the results in the email to colleagues, using two exclamation points. Then she proposed that Abbott test the Mead Johnson fortifier, acidified for sterilization, against another Abbott product.

The clinical trial among preterm infants that Abbott subsequently sponsored, , is a case study of corporate warfare in the high-stakes business of infant nutrition, wherein preemies have been coveted like commodities; their anxious, vulnerable parents have been — whether they know it or not — targets of calculated commercial pursuit; and scientific research has been used as a marketing tool.

In hospitals around the country, dozens of babies born an average of 11 weeks early were fed Mead Johnson’s fortifier. Dozens of others were fed an Abbott fortifier that wasn’t acidified.

The clinical trial became a boon for Abbott, which to wrest market share from Mead Johnson. But for some of the babies enrolled, it didn’t turn out so well, a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found.

Far more infants given Mead Johnson’s product developed a buildup of acid in the blood called metabolic acidosis than those fed Abbott’s product — 19 versus four, according to results published in the journal .

Two outside doctors monitoring infants in the study became so alarmed that they refused to enroll any more babies, according to an April 2016 email one of them sent to Abbott.

In a related email to Abbott, neonatologist Robert White of Memorial Hospital in South Bend, Indiana, and Pediatrix Medical Group — an investigator in the study — .

“We had another SAE” — serious adverse event — “today in which a child developed profound metabolic acidosis while on the study fortifier,” White wrote. The severity was “unlike what we would see in most children with these issues.”

A manager at Abbott replied that the company was “taking your concerns very seriously.”

The study continued for almost a year.

At least some of the consent forms used to inform parents about risks did not mention metabolic acidosis or the often-fatal necrotizing enterocolitis, another condition identified in the 2013 email that led to the study.

In a November response to questions for this article, Abbott spokesperson Scott Stoffel said the clinical trial “was safe and ethical” and that the fortifiers it compared were “on the market and widely used.”

The study was “led by 20 non-Abbott investigators,” Stoffel said.

According to a federal website, chaired the study.

Stoffel added that the study was approved “by 14 independent safety review boards at hospitals” and “published in a leading peer-reviewed scientific journal.”

“It is reckless and not credible to suggest that these doctors and institutions conducted and then published the results of an unsafe or unethical study,” Stoffel said.

A spokesperson for Mead Johnson, Jennifer O’Neill, did not comment on Abbott’s clinical trial but said in a November statement to ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News that existing studies “cannot responsibly support” any connection between the acidified fortifier and conditions such as necrotizing enterocolitis or metabolic acidosis.

Mead Johnson executive Cindy Hasseberg argued in a deposition that Abbott waged a “smear campaign” against the acidified fortifier that was “very hard to come back from.”

In 2024, Mead Johnson discontinued the product.

Winning the ‘Hospital War’

Behind their warm-and-fuzzy marketing, industry giants Abbott, maker of Similac products, and Mead Johnson, maker of the Enfamil line, have turned neonatal intensive care units into arenas of brutal competition.

This article quotes from and is based largely on records from three lawsuits against formula manufacturers that went to trial in 2024 and are now on appeal. The cases are , , and The records include emails, internal presentations, and other company documents used as exhibits in litigation, as well as court transcripts and witness testimony from depositions.

The records provide an inside view of the business of infant formula and fortifier, a nutritional supplement added to a mother’s milk. For example, a Mead Johnson slide deck for a 2020 national sales meeting — later used in the Whitfield trial — outlined a plan for “Branding NICU Babies.”

Urging employees to win more sales from neonatal intensive care units, the document said: “’”

In internal documents and other material from litigation reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News, formula makers described hospitals as gateways to the much larger retail market because parents are likely to stick with the brand their babies started on. Products used in the NICU help win hospital contracts, and hospital contracts help establish brand loyalty, according to court records.

Manufacturers vie for contracts that can be “exclusive” or nearly so, according to records from the litigation, including company documents and testimony by people who have worked in management for the companies.

An undated Abbott presentation used in the Gill case, apparently referring to inroads with hospitals in its rivalry with Mead Johnson, boasted of “MJ Strongholds Broken!”

It saluted two employees who “Own 27K Babies Exclusively,” and said another “Stole 600 formula feeders from MJ.”

Still others were praised for “Playing in Mom’s mailbox” or “kicking … and ‘taking names.’”

In July 2024, Abbott CEO Robert Ford said in a conference call for investors that formula and fortifier for preterm infants generated total annual revenue of about $9 million — a small portion of Abbott’s total sales of $42 billion in 2024 and its $2.2 billion of sales in the United States from pediatric nutritional products.

Industry documents cited in litigation provide a different perspective.

“‘,” stated an Abbott training presentation from about a decade ago used in the Gill and Whitfield trials.

That described a baby’s first formula feeding in the hospital, the document said. Over 74% of the time, an infant fed formula in the hospital stays on that brand at home, the document said.

Abbott’s goal was that the first-bottle-fed strategy , the document showed. A staff training slide displayed during the Whitfield trial showed how that momentum could pay off in bonuses for Abbott sales representatives, leading to a “Happy Rep.”

Mead Johnson has espoused a similar strategy.

The company rolled out a with cash rewards for flipping hospitals from Abbott, according to a 2019 document marked for internal use by Mead Johnson and its parent company, England-based Reckitt Benckiser Group, and admitted into evidence in the Watson case.

“ is critical to contract gains and acquisition,” stated a company plan for 2022 that was cited in the Whitfield case.

One Abbott document shown in the Whitfield trial said more than half of first feedings happen at night, adding, “.”

A “Mead Johnson University” training document described a scenario in which a sales rep overhears patient information in a NICU and encouraged the rep to promote the company’s products. The document, titled “,” was admitted as evidence in the Watson case.

“[Y]ou are walking back into your most important NICU,” it said. “You overhear the HCP’s” — health care providers, apparently — “stating all of the notes,” it said. “There may be some information that may help you to position your products as a resource for this patient and to handle any objections that the HCP may present you with.”

To win parents’ business, companies have supplied formula to hospitals free or at a loss, court records show. That has resulted in such curiosities as a Mead Johnson “purchasing agreement” cited in the Watson case, listing the price for product after product as “no charge.”

In a 2017 strategy document prepared for Mead Johnson, a consulting firm laid out a plan “to win hospital war.”

Why focus on hospitals? “,” it explained.

The document was displayed in the Whitfield case.

In the market for preterm nutrition, Abbott and Mead Johnson compete with each other, not against the use of human milk, the companies told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

“Thus, references in documents about wanting to ‘win’ or ‘own’ the NICU refer to out-performing Mead Johnson by offering the highest-quality products,” Abbott’s Stoffel said in February.

Asked specific questions about business strategies and internal documents, Mead Johnson’s O’Neill said the company was “concerned that you are presenting a misleading and incomplete picture.”

Mead Johnson’s products “are safe, effective, and recommended by neonatologists when clinically appropriate,” O’Neill added.

On the Defensive

In courthouses around the country, Abbott and Mead Johnson are on the defensive — and have been for years.

In hundreds of lawsuits, parents of sickened or deceased preterm infants have alleged that formula designed for preemies has caused necrotizing enterocolitis, or NEC, a devastating condition in which immature intestinal tissue can become infected and die, spreading infection through the body.

Lawsuits also accuse the manufacturers of failing to warn parents of the risk.

One of the cases on which this article is based, , resulted in a against Mead Johnson. , Gill v. Abbott Laboratories, et al., resulted in a against Abbott. , Whitfield v. St. Louis Children’s Hospital, et al., resulted in a , but the judge found errors and misconduct on the part of defense counsel, faulted his own performance, and .

The cases have involved children like Robynn Davis, who was born at 26 weeks, lost 75% to 80% of her intestine to NEC, suffered brain damage — and, at almost 3 years old, couldn’t walk, couldn’t really talk, and was eating through a tube, as Jacob Plattenberger, an attorney representing her, in 2024.

An attorney for Abbott, James Hurst, that Robynn suffered a catastrophic brain injury at birth, 10 days before she received any Abbott formula, and that her NEC resulted not from formula but from many health problems.

In at least three cases, a federal judge has in favor of Abbott — ruling for the company before the lawsuits even reached trial.

The formula makers have repeatedly denied fault.

Addressing stock analysts in 2024, as “without merit or scientific support” the theory that preterm infant formula or milk fortifier caused NEC.

In a issued in 2024, the FDA, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and the National Institutes of Health said there was “no conclusive evidence that preterm infant formula causes NEC.”

Mead Johnson’s O’Neill said the scientific consensus is that there is no established causal link between the use of specialized preterm hospital nutrition products and NEC.

Neonatologists use the products routinely, O’Neill said.

O’Neill cited a statement by the saying the causes of NEC “are multifaceted and not completely understood.”

In a legal brief filed with an Illinois appeals court in the Watson case, the company said “the NEC-related risks” of a formula for preterm infants “are the subject of medical debate,” adding that trial evidence “demonstrated, at a minimum, uncertainty as to the magnitude of the risk, as well as the causal role of various feeding options in the development of NEC.”

Manufacturers say formula is needed when mother’s milk or human donor milk isn’t an option. Fortifier, a product tailored to preemies, is meant to augment mother’s milk when babies are born prematurely and a mother’s milk alone doesn’t deliver enough nutrition. The Mead Johnson fortifier used in the head-to-head clinical trial sponsored by Abbott was acidified to prevent bacterial contamination.

In March 2025, Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. announced that his department, which encompasses the FDA, was undertaking a review of infant formula, dubbed “Operation Stork Speed.” It includes and increasing testing for heavy metals and other contaminants, HHS said.

However, is limited. The agency doesn’t approve the products or their labeling. Whether to report adverse events — illnesses or deaths potentially related to the products — to the FDA is largely at manufacturers’ discretion.

The business of infant formula further spotlights a central contradiction in the Trump administration’s health policies. When it comes to food and medical products, the administration has criticized industry-funded research as unworthy of trust. Yet under Kennedy, it has disrupted, defunded, or sought to cut government-funded research, which could leave industry-funded research with a larger and more influential role.

It “is entirely appropriate for the Department to scrutinize research design, conflicts of interest, and funding sources, particularly when research is used to inform public policy,” HHS spokesperson Andrew Nixon said.

‘At the Table’

Company emails cited in litigation shed light on the industry’s approach to research.

In a 2015 email, when Mead Johnson was considering supplying some of its formula to a researcher for a study, a company neonatologist expressed concern that the results could be spun to make the preemie product look unsafe.

“However, we are more likely to have control over final language if we provide the small support and are ‘at the table’ with him,” Mead Johnson’s Timothy Cooper added in the email, which was cited in the Watson trial.

In 2017, Abbott with researchers at Johns Hopkins University about a study on how the composition of infant formula might affect NEC in mice. The email thread became an exhibit in the Whitfield case.

Abbott was both funding and collaborating on the work, shows.

Forwarding a draft of the resulting paper to Abbott, David Hackam, chief of pediatric surgery at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, said in one of the emails, “We hope you like it.” He also requested help from Abbott in filling in information.

“The manuscript looks great!” Abbott’s Tapas Das , after a back-and-forth.

But Abbott had some changes, the email thread shows.

“We (VM & DT) made some edits in the text especially to soften a bit with the statement ‘infant formula seems responsible for developing NEC,’” Das wrote.

“Instead, we thought if we could state as ‘infant formula is linked to severity of NEC’. So we made changes throughout the text emphasizing on severity of NEC by infant formula rather than development of NEC by infant formula,” Das wrote.

Das wrote that “other factors are involved for NEC development as described in the text.”

Hackam did not respond to questions ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News sent by email.

Efforts to reach Das and Cooper — including by phoning numbers and sending letters to addresses that appeared to be associated with them — were unsuccessful.

When Mead Johnson provided support to scientific researchers, the company would want to make sure they reported the results “in an honest way,” Cooper said in a deposition played in the Watson trial.

The Abbott co-authors “proposed routine edits to the article for scientific accuracy and for the consideration of the other authors, some of the most well-respected NEC researchers in the world,” Abbott’s Stoffel said.

“Abbott regularly collaborates with and publishes studies with leading NEC scientists for the benefit of both premature infants and the entire scientific community,” Stoffel said.

“The research studies Mead Johnson supports are conducted independently and appropriately, with full transparency,” said O’Neill, the Mead Johnson spokesperson.

‘In the Wrong Direction’

Transparency can be subjective.

More than a decade ago, Mead Johnson sponsored a clinical trial testing what was then a new acidified liquid fortifier against a powdered fortifier already on the market.

In the study, which enrolled 150 babies, 5% of infants fed the acidified liquid developed NEC compared with 1% of infants fed the powder, according to deposition testimony and a record of the clinical trial used in the Watson case.

That information was not included in a 2012 that reported the study results.

The article, in the journal Pediatrics, whose authors included two Mead Johnson employees, concluded it was safe to use the new liquid fortifier instead of the powdered one. The article also said that, comparing babies fed the liquid with those fed the powder, the study observed no difference in the incidence of NEC.

The unpublished finding of 5% to 1% represented so few babies that it was not statistically significant.

Nonetheless, retired neonatologist Victor Herson, who ran a NICU in Connecticut and has studied fortifiers, said in an interview he would have wanted to see those numbers.

“The trend was in the wrong direction,” Herson said, “and would have, I think, alerted the typical neonatologist that, well, maybe not to rush in and adopt” the new fortifier.

It’s common for study publications to include tables showing complications even if they aren’t statistically significant so that readers can draw their own conclusions, Herson said.

Neonatologist Fernando Moya, a co-author of the Pediatrics article, had a different perspective.

“You may not be very familiar with medical literature but when there are no ‘statistically significant’ differences, we do not comment on whether something was increased or decreased,” Moya said by email. He referred questions to Mead Johnson.

Mead Johnson’s O’Neill gave several reasons why “the data you cite was not included in the publication.” She said the study was designed to examine infant nutrition and growth, NEC was a “secondary outcome,” the NEC numbers weren’t statistically significant, and the size of the study, “while appropriate, was not powered to draw any conclusions with respect to any potential differences in NEC.”

In a deposition used in the Watson trial, Carol Lynn Berseth — a co-author of the paper and Mead Johnson’s director of medical affairs for North America when the study was completed — testified that the article was peer-reviewed and that no reviewer asked for additional data.

“Had they asked for it, we would have shown it,” Berseth testified.

Berseth did not respond to a phone message or to an email or letter sent to addresses apparently associated with her.

‘It Should Not Be in a NICU’

The Abbott scientist who flagged research on Mead Johnson’s acidified fortifier in 2013, Bridget Barrett-Reis, was later of AL16, the follow-up clinical trial Abbott sponsored, and of .

In a deposition, she was asked why she conducted the study.

“I conducted that study because I thought [the acidified fortifier] could be dangerous,” she said, “and I thought it would be a good idea to find out if it really was because nobody was doing anything about it.”

Elaborating on the thinking behind the study, she testified: “It should not be in a NICU in the United States. That product should not be anywhere for preterm infants.”

In her 2013 email recommending that Abbott conduct a study, Barrett-Reis cited findings by “an independent investigator,” Ann Anderson-Berry, that showed, compared with preterm infants fed an Abbott powder, those on Mead Johnson’s acidified liquid “had slower growth, higher incidence of metabolic acidosis and NEC!!”

Asked about the exclamation points, Barrett-Reis testified in a January 2024 deposition used in the Gill case that she wasn’t excited about the findings. “I am known to put exclamation points instead of question marks and everything anywhere, so I have no idea at the time what those meant,” she testified.

The research that caught her eye in 2013 reviewed patient records from the Nebraska Medical Center. The institution had switched to the acidified fortifier with high hopes but stopped using it after four months because it was concerned about patient outcomes, Anderson-Berry and Nebraska co-authors .

In an interview, Anderson-Berry said she set out to analyze why, during those four months, babies’ growth “fell apart in our hands.”

Abbott was “very pleased” with Anderson-Berry’s findings and paid her to go around the country discussing them, she said.

Metabolic acidosis can be fatal, Anderson-Berry said. But typically it can be managed, she said, adding that she didn’t know of deaths from metabolic acidosis caused by the acidified fortifier.

Research has found that metabolic acidosis “is associated with poor developmental and neurologic outcomes in very low birth weight infants,” according to . In addition, it is “a risk factor for neonatal necrotizing enterocolitis,” the paper said.

Barrett-Reis did not respond to inquiries for this article, including a message sent via LinkedIn and a letter sent to an address that appeared to be associated with her.

In court, Abbott representative Robyn Spilker testified that metabolic acidosis and that nobody should knowingly put kids at risk for getting NEC in an effort to make money.

Before infants were enrolled in the AL16 study, their parents or guardians had to sign consent forms disclosing, among other things, the risks that clinical trial subjects would face.

International ethical principles for medical research on humans, known as the , say each participant must be adequately informed of the “potential risks.”

Questioning Abbott’s Spilker in litigation, plaintiff’s attorney Timothy Cronin said, “Ma’am, despite the hypothesis going in, are you aware Abbott on the informed consent form given to parents that signed their kids up for that study?” Spilker, who identified herself in court as a senior brand manager, said she didn’t know what was on the consent forms.

Through a request under a Kentucky open-records law, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News obtained an informed consent form for the AL16 study used at a public institution, the University of Louisville. The form mentioned risks such as diarrhea, constipation, gas, and fussiness. It did not mention metabolic acidosis or NEC.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News also reviewed an informed consent form for the AL16 study used at Memorial Hospital of South Bend. It was largely identical to the one used in Louisville and did not mention metabolic acidosis or NEC.

Cronin, the plaintiff’s attorney, said in an interview that Abbott showed disregard for the health and safety of premature babies participating in the AL16 clinical trial.

“I think it’s unethical to do a study if you know you are subjecting participants in the study to an increased risk of a potentially deadly disease and you don’t at least tell them that,” Cronin said.

Anderson-Berry told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News that Abbott was “ethically well positioned” to conduct the AL16 clinical trial because her paper was not definitive.

Yet she said she was unwilling to enroll any of her patients in the Abbott clinical trial because she didn’t want to take the chance that they would be given the acidified liquid.

White, the neonatologist who stopped enrolling patients in the study, defended the decision to conduct it. In an interview, he said it was appropriate to conduct a large, properly controlled clinical trial to see whether concerns raised in earlier research were borne out. The two babies whose serious adverse events he reported to Abbott ended up doing fine, he said.

But White, who went on to be listed as a co-author of the study, told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News that parents should have been informed that the risks included metabolic acidosis and NEC.

“In retrospect, obviously, that is something that we, I think, should have informed parents of,” he said.

Abbott did not directly answer questions about the consent forms.

The results of AL16 were in 2018. The conclusion: Infants fed the acidified product — in other words, the Mead Johnson fortifier — had higher rates of metabolic acidosis and poorer feeding tolerance. Plus, poorer “initial weight gain.”

The title of the article trumpeted “Improved Outcomes in Preterm Infants Fed a Nonacidified Liquid Human Milk Fortifier” — in other words, the Abbott product.

Eight of the 78 infants receiving the Mead Johnson fortifier were treated for metabolic acidosis, compared with none of the 82 receiving the Abbott product, the article said. Four infants on Mead Johnson’s product experienced serious adverse events, compared with one on the Abbott product, the article reported.

One infant receiving the Mead Johnson product died — from sepsis, the article said. One had a case of NEC, and infants on Mead Johnson’s fortifier “had significantly more vomiting,” the article said.

However, in a pair of letters to the editor published in the Journal of Pediatrics, the article as hyped. Writers said the article emphasized findings that were .

In its business battle with Mead Johnson, Abbott deployed the study. It produced an annotated copy for its sales force, which was shown in the Whitfield trial.

Abbott’s use of AL16 as a marketing tool worked.

In 2019, when Barrett-Reis applied for a promotion at Abbott, she wrote that the results of the study had been “leveraged to secure whole hospital contracts which have increased hospital share to > 70%.”

Her letter was displayed in a deposition video filed in the Gill litigation.

Internally, Mead Johnson conceded it had been beaten in the fight over fortifiers. In the slide deck for a 2020 national sales meeting, the company said, “Abbott won the narrative.”

Share your story with us: Do you have experience with infant formula or any insights about it that you’d like to share? We’d like to hear from you. Click here to contact our reporting team.

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The American Society of Plastic Surgeons, which represents 12,000 doctors, is now warning patients to “do their homework” before getting liposuction, a Brazilian butt lift, a “Mommy Makeover,” or other cosmetic procedures.

“Plastic surgery is real surgery with real risks, and the risk of complications is never zero,” said Scott Hollenbeck, immediate past president of the plastic surgeons group.

And in an exclusive interview, TJ Watkins, a member of California’s medical licensing board, called for greater transparency in the secretive process for disciplining physicians, saying the board should alert the public about doctors under investigation for alleged misconduct.

Hollenback and Watkins were reacting to the “Body Shops” series, which examined allegations of disfiguring injuries or even deaths tied to cosmetic surgeries.

One story revealed that California plastic surgeon Heidi Regenass had three patients die within a few months after liposuction and fat transfer operations, according to medical malpractice lawsuits filed in California courts.

A complaint to the medical board from a patient’s daughter triggered an internal board review of the surgeon, but the public will hear nothing until the investigation is concluded, which can take years.

“If you were really protecting the patients, there would be a notice right now that says this doctor is being investigated,” said Watkins, one of seven nonphysicians appointed to the medical board to represent consumers.

Regenass, a board-certified plastic surgeon, did not respond to numerous requests for comment on the patient deaths. In response to medical malpractice lawsuits filed by families of the three women, she has denied any negligence or that her actions caused any deaths. One case was settled in 2024, while the two others are pending in California courts.

On Feb. 9, the California medical board filed an against Regenass unrelated to the three patient deaths. The complaint accuses Regenass of “repeated negligent acts” in caring for a 49-year-old woman who had liposuction on her abdomen and arms with a fat transfer to her buttocks in July 2022. The board alleged that the surgeon “failed to document an appropriate physical examination prior to surgery” and did not keep “adequate and accurate records” of the woman’s care. The board requested an administrative hearing on the accusations, though no date has been set. Lawyers for Regenass didn’t respond to a request for comment on the new complaint.

Some patient lawsuits have accused cosmetic surgery companies of hiring doctors who lacked adequate training or had troubled pasts, and of using high-pressure sales tactics and misleading advertising pitches that downplay safety risks, federal and state court records show. The companies dispute these allegations and have won dismissal of some suits. Other cases have been settled under confidential terms, although a Georgia judge late last year to the family of a woman who died after liposuction and a Brazilian butt lift.

Christopher Nuland, an attorney and lobbyist for the Florida Society of Plastic Surgeons, said that the “Body Shops” investigation “underscores the need for vigilance from all parties.”

“There is an opportunity for better legislation, such as regulating post-surgical recovery centers and better enforcement of existing laws,” he said in an email. “But patients need to take an active part by ensuring that they are seeing a board-certified plastic surgeon in an accredited facility and that neither has a history of bad outcomes.”

Nuland said his group supports pending in the Florida Legislature that would require licenses and set quality standards for recovery houses where patients often stay to recuperate for a few days after cosmetic surgery. Florida officials for years to regulate unlicensed facilities that often charge patients hundreds of dollars per night, though they may lack adequate medical staffing.

Cosmetic surgery companies, some financed by , are competing in a growing U.S. body-contouring market in which patients are charged up to $20,000 out-of-pocket, or on credit, for these procedures. Ads promise life-changing body reshaping techniques with minimal risk and .

As the cosmetic surgery companies have grown, there’s been little regulatory oversight. There’s no federal public database to assist patients in tracking these companies’ safety records, their staffing standards, or how commonly patients suffer severe complications. And complaints to medical boards about surgeons or other doctors can remain under wraps for years.

Ste’Aira Ballard, whose mother, Tamala Smith, died in 2023 after Regenass operated on her, filed a complaint with the California Medical Board in early 2025.

In March 2025, the board notified Ballard it had forwarded her complaint to the state Department of Consumer Affairs Health Quality Investigation Unit’s Santa Ana field office “for further investigation.” Ballard said a state investigator interviewed her in June, but neither the existence of the review nor its status has been made public. Ballard provided copies of her correspondence with the state to ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and NBC News. 

Asked for comment, California Medical Board spokesperson Alexandria Schembra said the board “is not authorized to post complaint information about a physician” unless it obtains an emergency suspension of the doctor’s license or files a formal administrative complaint.

“The public reporting of a patient death prior to the Board having sufficient evidence to prove that the licensee violated the Medical Practice Act would require the Legislature and Governor to enact a law change,” she wrote in an email.

But the board’s Watkins said he believes that the disciplinary process is rigged in favor of doctors, mostly because of the power of medical groups in the state lobbying to thwart change.

“Nobody is protecting the patient,” he said.

NBC News producer Jason Kane and correspondent Erin McLaughlin contributed to this report.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Testing New Orleans Parks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Legacy of Lead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limited Soil Testing, Patchy Fixes

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

Then-Mayor Mitch Landrieu promised a comprehensive response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The results disturbed Mielke, the Tulane toxicologist.

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

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

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

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

MMG did not respond to requests for comment.

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

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

A Road Map for Cleanup?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Methodology

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

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

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

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

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

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