This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

Nearly half of that money is , to be distributed by county commissioners and city councilors. The idea is that local leaders know their communities best and can do justice to these payouts, often described as “blood money” by people who’ve lost loved ones to an overdose.

But many local leaders have little to no training in addiction policy and may lack robust local health departments and policy guardrails to assist them.

That has resulted in spending decisions that many clinicians, researchers, and addiction recovery advocates say are unlikely to save lives or treat substance use disorders.

In New York, where is directly controlled by local governments, counties have spent tens of thousands of dollars on surveillance cameras, technology to help police access data on locked cellphones, and goggles that simulate being drunk, according to public records obtained by the nonprofit advocacy group and shared exclusively with ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. Though the purchases were likely legal, many people consider them a slap in the face because they don’t directly help people struggling with addiction or their families.

Without oversight, counties have the chance “to go rogue” with this money, said , director of drug policy at VOCAL-NY, an advocacy organization that is tracking settlement money as part of its mission to serve people affected by the war on drugs.

When advocates and families of overdose victims raise concerns to the various state agencies that could hold localities accountable, those agencies often punt to one another, Budnella and other local advocates said.

It feels “like the where it’s like everybody’s pointing at each other,” Budnella said. “Somebody needs to be able to have the stick and slam their hand on the table and be like, ‘You’re doing this wrong and this is the consequence.’”

The experience in New York provides a microcosm of regulators evading oversight responsibility nationwide while varied interests vie for the financial windfall.

Years of data collected by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News, the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health, and the addiction nonprofit Shatterproof have found that settlement money was spent on law enforcement gear, such as night-vision goggles and bulletproof vests; unproven prevention initiatives, such as a drug-awareness magician for kids; and budget stopgaps.

It’s unclear who should — or will — take action on such expenditures that many people harmed by the crisis consider questionable.

In each state, control of the money is split among various entities, creating a leadership vacuum. The federal government . Advocates and families who’ve lost loved ones have pushed for accountability but have limited power. A few states have passed new laws, but change is slow and uneven.

The require the majority of the money to be spent on “opioid remediation,” with . But the list is broad and open to interpretation. Further complicating the issue, many states — including New York — designate some portion of the settlement dollars as unrestricted, which allows for general spending.

Meanwhile, federal budget cuts have threatened addiction-related services and created more demand for funding. And though overdose deaths have decreased since , they still claim about 186 lives per day.

“We really are wasting this opportunity to use these funds to turn the epidemic around,” said , a Binghamton, New York, resident, whose 28-year-old son, Jeff Dugon, died of a heroin overdose in 2014.

He was a chef who loved to rib Pleus about her bad knife skills. She thinks of him and smiles every time she peels garlic the way he taught her. If the money could spare other families such heartache, that would give her solace.

“We need oversight,” said Pleus, who runs a nonprofit that is receiving opioid settlement cash from her county to serve people who use drugs and provide support groups for families.

In New York, there are three prime watchdog contenders: the Office of Addiction Services and Supports, the attorney general, and the comptroller.

The Lead State Agency

New York’s opioid settlement documents designate the as the “.”

It distributes a portion of settlement dollars via grants, according to recommendations from the state’s . It also has the power to “engage in oversight and audits of projects and programs” funded by settlement cash and “may withhold future funds” from local governments that do not comply with certain requirements, according to the agreement.

Agency spokesperson Jerry Gretzinger told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News the office has not yet exercised its power to withhold funds but understands its oversight role.

“OASAS has a duty to ensure these funds are used responsibly and strategically to build programs that will have a lasting impact in reversing this crisis,” Gretzinger wrote in a statement.

The office is currently auditing 19 local governments’ use of the money to ensure compliance with “reporting and recordkeeping requirements,” he said. However, that may not encompass the broader question of whether money was spent on appropriate uses, which many advocates want addressed.

Some people are frustrated with the narrow role OASAS has carved out.

For example, required local governments for the first time to publicly report how they spent settlement money. OASAS on its site. But it does not review the accuracy or detail of that data, instead relying on “the information as it is provided” by localities, Gretzinger said.

“That doesn’t feel like oversight,” said , a deputy director at the Legal Action Center, which obtained public records about local spending in New York.

Members of the state’s Opioid Settlement Fund Advisory Board have also to provide more data and evaluation of how dollars are being used. But at a , OASAS Commissioner Chinazo Cunningham deflected.

“OASAS has no oversight over these portions of dollars,” she said of the 46% of settlement money that goes directly to counties and cities. “In terms of what kind of data each county collects,” she added, “we cannot dictate exactly what that information is.”

Click for Examples of spending decisions Local Spending That’s Fueling Calls for Oversight in New York

To uncover how opioid settlement cash is being spent, the nonprofit advocacy group filed public records requests with 56 New York counties and New York City, all of which are to disburse as they see fit.

Many of the responses showed spending on addiction treatment, recovery, and prevention initiatives that researchers and clinicians agree are a good use of money. Others surfaced questionable expenditures.

, for example, showed $150,000 in settlement cash directed to “Sheriff Jail” with no further description. The county did not respond to repeated inquiries for more details.

Sullivan County spent more than $30,000 on Cellebrite technology, used to extract data from cellphones, and more than $37,000 on Tasers. Though county officials didn’t respond to requests for comment, explained that those purchases came from unrestricted funds.

Such justifications rankle some families affected by the crisis, who say even if there aren’t legal restrictions on those dollars, there should be moral ones.

“Anything that is not directly tied to people who are struggling with opioid addiction or the loss of someone is a poor use of funds,” said , who lost a son to an overdose and now runs a nonprofit aimed at helping families dealing with addiction. Her organization has received settlement funds from Broome County, New York.

Records also revealed that many jurisdictions have yet to spend a significant portion of their money — a other .

Local officials say thoughtful planning takes time. But some advocates suspect ulterior motives. Millions of settlement dollars in bank accounts can generate sizable interest.

In March, it came to light that Nassau County had in interest accrued from unused opioid settlement funds to the county’s general fund, where it could be used for any purpose. County officials didn’t respond to requests for comment. The money was following public backlash.

Advocates suspect such attempts are happening elsewhere but are difficult to identify within complex budgeting documents.

It feels like “it’s up to us all — the organizers, the advocates, the service providers” — to be constantly watching, said , director of drug policy at the advocacy organization VOCAL-NY. “It’s frustrating.”

That’s why state agencies are being called on to step into an oversight role.

The Top Law Enforcement Officer

New York has been one of the leading national voices on prosecuting pharmaceutical companies that fueled the overdose crisis. Her office has issued on the topic, touting her role in securing billions of opioid settlement dollars for the state.

But when asked about the attorney general’s role in ensuring this windfall is spent appropriately, her office passed the buck to other agencies.

“While our partners in state and local governments distribute and oversee these funds, we will continue our work to hold accountable the companies responsible for fueling the spread of addictions and overdoses,” spokesperson Grant Fox wrote in a statement.

That stance contrasts starkly with many people’s views of the office’s responsibility.

A state senator, a member of the opioid settlement advisory board, and several advocates named the attorney general’s office as a key enforcement entity.

“The money is here because of their efforts,” said Democratic state , who chairs the committee on alcoholism and substance use disorders and has introduced of related to settlement funds. “I believe it is under the Office of the Attorney General to enforce.”

Budnella, the advocate with VOCAL-NY, agreed, saying, “It would be a shame for all of their work that they have done to secure all this funding for it to be misspent.”

Attorneys general in and have taken more active roles, issuing lists of ways opioid settlement money cannot be spent. The lists include many law enforcement expenditures that have raised concerns for advocates in New York.

James’ office did not respond to a specific question about whether she’d consider creating a similar list.

The Fiscal Watchdog

Some people have suggested that the state comptroller, as a steward of New York’s finances, could play an oversight role, perhaps by conducting or requiring audits.

Early this year, the Reason Foundation, a libertarian think tank, that would create audit requirements for organizations receiving settlement cash. The blueprint suggests recipients of more than $1 million in opioid settlements be required to undergo an independent review of financial statements and transaction testing to determine whether funds were used for their intended purpose. Smaller grantees, receiving less than $1 million, could simply provide an unaudited accounting of the funds.

It’s “not telling states what is and what isn’t an appropriate use,” said , a co-author of the Reason Foundation plan. “We’re simply trying to ensure recipients follow through with their promises.”

No state has adopted the model law yet. But the office of New York told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News it is already conducting an audit.

The process, which began in February, “is looking at OASAS’ oversight” of the opioid settlement money, said spokesperson Mary Mueller. It includes settlement money controlled by the state and local governments.

Mueller said any future enforcement action “will depend on the results of our current work and our ongoing monitoring.”

The office is following in the footsteps of comptrollers and auditors in , , and , Tennessee, who have taken action on settlement cash.

These initial steps have given some advocates and researchers hope for the future of opioid settlement dollars, which are expected to flow for more than a decade.

“We’re already years in and we’ve seen the craziest stories” of this money and a , said , a co-author of the Reason Foundation’s model law. “If we can prevent that at least a little and have these funds be a bit more focused, I don’t think it’s too late.”

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

More than a decade ago, Noon said, she was diagnosed with adult-onset Still’s disease, a rare type of inflammatory arthritis that can cause rashes, debilitating pain, and fevers. The disease upended her life.

She had been living a typical suburban life in Michigan, shuttling her two kids to activities like cheerleading, choir practice, and track. She was active in the PTA. She managed a bank.

She went from that to crawling to the bathroom because she was in so much pain, “just crying all day long” from being so sick.

Noon, who is disabled, said she couldn’t work for eight years — a time marked by hospital stays that stretched for weeks.

“I honestly thought I was going to die,” Noon said.

So it was a shock when Michigan denied her application for Medicaid benefits last year after she lost private insurance. Worse yet, it came down to an IT error, according to an attorney who helped Noon overturn the denial.

“I can’t afford my medical care. I have to have insurance,” said Noon, who has returned to working.

Deloitte, a multibillion-dollar global consulting firm, has operated Michigan’s Medicaid eligibility system under contracts worth roughly $768 million since 2006, according to contracts reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. Nationwide, Deloitte dominates this important slice of government business: At least 25 states have awarded the company contracts to build or run computer systems that control access to safety net benefits such as Medicaid.

Michigan’s system has incorrectly directed people with disabilities into skimpier benefits that cover limited care or has denied coverage completely, a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigation found. Similar problems were at the center of a class-action suit in Tennessee, , and have occurred in Texas, according to interviews and state records.

The ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigations are based on statements from state officials, allegations and declarations in court documents, emails obtained through public records requests, state government information provided to Medicaid enrollees and applicants, and interviews with attorneys and patients or their caregivers.

In an emailed statement, Deloitte spokesperson Karen Walsh said it found “no system anomalies causing routine denials of Medicaid for people with disabilities.”

“There are many reasons why someone may no longer be eligible for a benefit they once received or believe they deserve,” Walsh said. “All of the eligibility systems we support are owned by the states and built to their unique specifications. We will continue to work at the direction of our state clients.”

Lynn Sutfin, a spokesperson for Michigan’s Department of Health and Human Services, said it “is not aware of any widespread or systemic issues” within Bridges, Michigan’s eligibility system for Medicaid, SNAP, and other benefits, “related to disability‑based eligibility pathways.” 

Since 2006, Deloitte’s contracts with the state have said the company is responsible for development, implementation, maintenance, operations, and enhancements to the Michigan system.

Computer system problems foreshadow trouble as states prepare to roll out the most significant and complicated changes to their Medicaid programs in years. Those changes, dictated by President Donald Trump’s landmark One Big Beautiful Bill Act, have states rushing to update their Medicaid computer systems.

Nationwide, on Medicaid have a disability, according to KFF.

“When these administrative systems get overloaded, everyone gets impacted,” said Pamela Herd, a University of Michigan professor who researches bureaucratic obstacles to accessing government benefits. “The systems are going to be really, really strained.” 

In Michigan, Noon was eligible for Medicaid through a program that provides coverage to disabled adults who work. But the state’s computer system didn’t register that she is disabled and said she earned too much to qualify, according to documents reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and interviews with Noon and Anastassia Kolosova, a disability rights attorney who helped her.

Without Medicaid coverage, Noon paid hundreds of dollars out-of-pocket for prescriptions, after scrounging for discount coupons. She takes some of the drugs twice a day.

Without them, “I’m toast,” she said. It was stressful “not knowing if my medicine’s going to be $50 or $500 this month, because it changes constantly.”

Noon said her doctor agreed to fewer visits to avoid medical bills.

“It was kind of a nightmare,” Noon said.

‘I Just Wanted To Give Up’

Medicaid, a safety net health program jointly run by the federal government and states, people with low incomes or disabilities. State governments rely on companies like Deloitte to design and operate computer systems that assess whether people qualify for Medicaid or food aid through the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, commonly known as food stamps.

That technology has a history of errors that deprive eligible people of benefits, earlier ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News investigations have shown. As reported previously, Kenneth Smith, a Deloitte executive who leads its national human services division, said Medicaid eligibility technology is state-owned and agencies “direct their operation” and “make decisions about the policies and processes that they implement.”

“They’re not Deloitte systems,” he said, noting Deloitte is one player among many who together administer Medicaid benefits.

States are under immense pressure to update their eligibility systems on a tight schedule to adhere to requirements in the Republicans’ sweeping 2025 tax and spending law. Companies including Deloitte, Accenture, and Optum are being paid millions in taxpayer funds to make the changes, which are projected to strip Medicaid from roughly 7.5 million people and SNAP from 2.4 million people by 2034.

Many coverage restrictions in the new federal law don’t apply to seniors, children, or people who are disabled, such as Noon. Nonetheless, the law’s demands on state agencies and the computer systems they oversee will disrupt benefits, advocates for Medicaid enrollees and other healthcare experts said in interviews.

The same systems also need to correctly classify why someone is eligible for Medicaid — and therefore which rules and restrictions apply.

The law’s SNAP restrictions began to take effect in 2025, and major Medicaid provisions begin later this year, generally after the midterm elections.

Kolosova is a supervising attorney with Disability Rights Michigan, a legal advocacy organization for people with disabilities. She said she has been unable to get a meeting with Michigan officials to understand the underlying problem that deprived Noon of health coverage.

State records show Deloitte has held contracts for at least 14 years for Bridges, Michigan’s eligibility system for Medicaid, SNAP, and other benefits. In its attempts to secure more business, the company often cites its nationwide footprint in Medicaid operations.

“Deloitte understands Bridges,” and its history in Michigan makes the company “the ideal vendor,” the firm said in its . Given Deloitte’s work on similar systems in 31 other states, , “Michigan benefits from our technical expertise drawn from across the nation.”

But advocates who work with people with disabilities say Michigan’s computer system has failed to recognize when certain adults should receive Medicaid benefits.

Problems aren’t unique to the Great Lakes State. Medicaid beneficiaries who brought a against Tennessee in 2020 said the state’s Deloitte-built system “does not reliably test for eligibility” for several categories of people with disabilities. The firm’s is worth $1.12 billion over a decade.

A federal judge in 2024 , ruling that Tennessee violated federal law and the U.S. Constitution. The lawsuit does not name Deloitte as a defendant.

In Michigan, a from the state’s Office of the Auditor General said government agencies “did not provide effective project administration” and failed to ensure that the state could “independently maintain and operate Bridges” because “the contractor did not transfer knowledge and skills” to state officials, according to the audit.

The auditor’s report said that, as a result, Deloitte’s original contract — valued at roughly $70 million — ballooned by $50 million over the initial cost, a 71% increase. State records show Michigan would go on to add millions more, bumping the cost of Deloitte’s initial contract to $124.1 million.

The audit said maintaining the contract would result “in significant additional costs.”

Sutfin said that “the state is now fully capable of operating and maintaining Bridges independently.”

Deloitte’s in Michigan — worth $197.4 million — is set to expire in 2030.

Noon applied for Medicaid in August, she and Kolosova said. In September, the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services sent a notice denying her coverage, citing incorrect income information and stating she wasn’t disabled, according to Kolosova and state documents reviewed by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

Noon said that when she called the state for help, state workers “didn’t know anything about” the Medicaid program she had applied to, Freedom to Work.

“I can’t tell you how many times I just wanted to give up,” she said.

For some people with disabilities, Medicaid is supposed to count only half their earnings when assessing whether they should receive benefits. That didn’t happen. Kolosova said she thinks Michigan’s eligibility system didn’t identify Noon as disabled, even though the state “already had all the information they needed” to show she was.

By failing to recognize her disability, the state used the wrong income formula and said Noon earned too much to qualify for Medicaid, she added. Deloitte and Michigan declined to respond to a detailed list of questions about Noon’s experience.

Kolosova said Disability Rights Michigan has seen a growing number of calls from people about Freedom to Work benefit denials. “Maybe two or three a month,” she said.

“There’s something wrong with the system if they’re relying on individual caseworkers to catch this,” Kolosova said. “The system needs to work.”

Enrolled in the Wrong Coverage

Noon’s experience isn’t the first time in recent years that people with disabilities have been denied benefits by Deloitte-run eligibility systems.

In Texas in 2023, Lilly Livingston, who has Down syndrome and is now 22, was abruptly cut off from Medicaid benefits, according to Livingston’s mother, Marie. She has undergone numerous surgeries to reconstruct her severely misaligned jaw, which caused sleep apnea and impaired her speech and chewing ability. She relied on an array of Medicaid services, including speech and occupational therapy.

When Livingston lost benefits, she was wrongly enrolled in Healthy Texas Women, a limited program that provides breast and cervical cancer screenings and family planning services.

“Trying to fix that was a nightmare,” Marie Livingston said.

Terry Anstee, an attorney with Disability Rights Texas, intervened.

In a September 2023 email with the subject line “URGENT,” Anstee begged a Texas Medicaid eligibility worker for help.

Some unknown “error” had occurred and stripped Livingston of her benefits, Anstee said in an email he sent to a state Medicaid staffer. “Lilly has had 2 major surgeries, and her recovery is contingent on Medicaid.”

It was clear that Livingston qualified for Medicaid through multiple paths, Anstee said: “It never made any sense.”

Deloitte declined to respond to a detailed list of questions about Livingston’s case. Jennifer Ruffcorn, a spokesperson for Texas Health and Human Services, confirmed that Livingston was erroneously enrolled in Healthy Texas Women. However, Ruffcorn said, Livingston did not experience a lapse in Medicaid coverage in 2023.

Anstee disputed the state’s characterization: “A glance in the system by a Texas HHS press officer or other staff 3 years after the fact may not tell the full story or show the issues that Ms. Livingston endured in August and September 2023. Ms. Livingston experienced lapses in coverage.”

The problem Livingston encountered in Texas was also reported in Michigan.

In 2024, mental health services advocates in Michigan raised red flags about a similar error: People with disabilities were being enrolled in a limited Medicaid program covering sexual health and family planning services. Plan First covers only services and treatment for sexually transmitted infections. It doesn’t provide the comprehensive coverage that people with disabilities require.

But some enrollees were “being automatically enrolled in Plan First,” Malcolm Kletke, a lobbyist representing the Community Mental Health Association of Michigan and other mental health providers, wrote to a Michigan health official, according to emails obtained by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News through a public records request.

These enrollees had “long received Medicaid due to their disability,” and getting enrolled in the wrong plan meant losing access to “services essential to their recovery and quality of life,” Kletke wrote in September 2024 to Amy Epkey, a senior deputy director of the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services.

In fact, the state’s own records show that Medicaid enrollment for those with disabilities did decline.

Over roughly four years, enrollment in the Medicaid category that includes people with disabilities , according to the Michigan House Fiscal Agency, which provides nonpartisan analysis to lawmakers. The drop was unusual given people generally leave the program because of death or having recovered from a temporary disability, and it’s unlikely those numbers would balloon, said Robert Sheehan, who was the mental health association’s CEO at the time.

Sutfin said the state examined the decline in enrollment and found “several contributing factors, including post‑covid renewal patterns, changes in beneficiary circumstances and movement to other coverage categories.”

After inquiries from ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News, the Michigan health department acknowledged in April that it had made changes to “address concerns raised by advocates.”

Michigan’s computer system now prevents approval of Plan First benefits until all other coverage options are evaluated, Sutfin told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. Sutfin said the changes were implemented but “not to correct system errors.”

Sutfin said the state submitted a change request to Deloitte to address this problem. The fix was implemented in January 2025.

Until presented with Kletke’s email, the state had denied there were problems related to Plan First.

Even after the state addressed that issue, other problems persisted.

Noon’s coverage denial notice arrived in September. She fought with the state for months to reverse its decision, “paying cash for all of the medicines through these appeals over and over and over again.”

It was only in January that she was approved.

“I literally cried,” Noon said. “It was a really big deal.”

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

“REMOVE ME FROM YOUR LIST!!!! DO NOT EMAIL OR MAIL ME ANY MORE!

“It is because of your animal based pre-term artificial baby food crap that you peddle to hospital NICU’s that my son is dead from NEC.”

The mother was referring to neonatal intensive care units and necrotizing enterocolitis, an often fatal condition in which intestinal tissue can die and allow infection to spread through the body of an infant born prematurely.

In an internal memo, Mead Johnson cited its “extensive quality and safety checks” and concluded there was “not a reasonable possibility” that the formula caused the baby’s death. “No further investigation is needed. This file can be closed,” the memo said.

And with that decision, the company narrowed the chance that the mother’s anguish could draw attention to any danger the formula might pose to other infants.

The mother’s email and the company’s memo assessing it were used as evidence in the court cases and .

When doctors, hospitals, parents, or others alert manufacturers that babies got sick or died while receiving infant formula, what happens next is left largely to manufacturers such as Abbott Laboratories and Mead Johnson Nutrition, giants of the industry.

Mead Johnson’s handling of the mother’s email showed how that can play out.

Under , if a complaint about an infant formula — such as a report of an adverse event — shows a possible health hazard, the company must investigate.

But it doesn’t always have to inform the government agency that oversees the safety of infant formula.

A company must complete an investigation and notify the Food and Drug Administration within only if it finds “a reasonable possibility of a causal relationship between the consumption of an infant formula and an infant’s death.”

If that happened even once over more than a quarter century, the FDA could find no record of it, according to information obtained through public records requests.

‘Never Reported’

Under the Freedom of Information Act, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News asked the FDA for all notifications that manufacturers of infant formula sent the agency per the regulatory requirement since Jan. 1, 2020. The agency’s Human Foods Program “did not receive any,” Kimberly Jones, a government information specialist at the FDA, responded in March.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News then asked the FDA to go back decades further — to Jan. 1, 2000. “After a diligent search of our files, we did not locate any responsive records,” Jones wrote on May 5.

The FDA’s search results were consistent with court testimony.

John Wallingford, a paid expert witness for Abbott, testified in a Missouri court in October 2024 that Abbott had under any regulation for preterm infant formula.

that he was not referring to adverse events in clinical trials, which are studies used for research and development and are subject to different procedures. Abbott informed the FDA about adverse events that occurred during a clinical trial, .

Christina Valentine testified in a 2024 deposition that she never sent the FDA a report of death from NEC during her seven years as Mead Johnson’s medical director for North America. In the deposition, used in the Whitfield case, she said she never concluded there was a reasonable possibility that an infant’s death from NEC might have been related to a Mead Johnson product.

As medical director for North America, she was responsible for signing off on those determinations, she testified in the Watson trial.

In the deposition, Valentine said she wasn’t sure whether anyone else at the company sent a death report to the FDA.

In late May and mid-June, Mead Johnson spokesperson Jen O’Neill added to the picture.

“Where there is a physician report that includes an opinion that one of our products caused NEC in a preterm infant, we have treated that as a ‘reasonable possibility of a causal relationship,’ and we submitted an adverse event report to the FDA,” she wrote.

“These physician reports were generally made by plaintiffs’ paid experts, with which we disagree,” she wrote.

O’Neill left unclear whether events Mead Johnson reported to the FDA were raised in lawsuits and, if so, whether the company reported them to the FDA before they surfaced in litigation.

Asked repeatedly when Mead Johnson filed the reports, O’Neill didn’t say.

It’s unclear why the FDA found no record of them.

Nor would O’Neill say whether the company submitted one related to the distraught mother’s September 2016 complaint.

That mother’s name wasn’t publicly disclosed in the court record containing her complaint.

“[P]rior to the current litigation, we received very few reports relating to our products and NEC and even fewer for which our investigation uncovered any evidence supporting a reasonable possibility of a causal relationship,” O’Neill wrote.

Industry personnel have reacted to some complaints with circular reasoning, as shown by court records from the Watson, Whitfield, and cases. Company personnel didn’t think their products caused harm, and they didn’t view new cases as evidence of harm, records show.

‘Reprehensible’ Conduct

About 2,300 newborns died of necrotizing enterocolitis in the United States from 2017 through 2023, the equivalent of almost , according to a ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News analysis of a for those years. The database doesn’t attempt to explain what caused those babies to develop NEC, and it doesn’t count babies who survived NEC.

A wave of lawsuits has alleged that infant formula made by Abbott or Mead Johnson harmed or killed preterm babies by causing or contributing to cases of NEC. As of late January, 1,760 NEC lawsuits were pending against Abbott, company spokesperson Scott Stoffel said, clarifying a disclosure in a .

This article is based largely on transcripts, deposition videos, and exhibits from three court cases that went to trial in 2024. The lawsuits were filed by parents of babies who suffered or died from NEC.

Abbott and Mead Johnson have denied fault. They, along with various medical authorities including and the , have said that, when nutritional needs can’t be met with human milk, formula is vital.

One of the cases, , led to a against Mead Johnson. , Gill v. Abbott, led to a against Abbott. , Whitfield v. St. Louis Children’s Hospital, et al., led to a jury verdict in favor of Abbott and Mead Johnson, but the judge found errors and misconduct on the part of defense counsel, faulted his own performance, and .

The judge’s ruling in the Whitfield case is on appeal.

On May 5, a Missouri appeals court against Abbott, saying “we find Abbott’s conduct significantly reprehensible.”

“Throughout the trial, the jury heard evidence that Abbott knew its formula posed significant risks to preterm infants weighing under 1500g yet made little effort to mitigate that risk,” the court wrote.

On June 12, an Illinois appeals court against Mead Johnson and sent the case back for a new trial. The trial court risked prejudicing the jury by improperly admitting evidence about Mead Johnson’s finances, including its revenues, profits, and executive compensation, the appeals court said.

In addition, the trial judge gave the jury erroneous instructions, the appeals court ruled. Any negligence on Mead Johnson’s part hinged on a failure to warn, and the company’s duty was not to warn the mother in that case of any danger, as she had claimed, but rather to warn doctors, the appeals court ruled.

In April, after another trial, a jury in Chicago ordered Abbott to pay four plaintiffs a total of $70 million. Abbott is contesting that verdict and the Missouri appeals court’s decision.

In at least four cases, judges have in favor of Abbott — ruling for the company before the lawsuits reached trial.

‘Branding NICU Babies’

Abbott makes Similac products, and Mead Johnson makes the Enfamil line.

The two companies have vied to place their products in neonatal intensive care units, which serve as entry points to hospital contracts and the retail market, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News reported in a March article based largely on records from court cases.

For instance, a Mead Johnson slide deck for a 2020 national sales meeting — later used in the Whitfield trial — outlined a plan for “Branding NICU Babies.”

The litigation opened a wider window into the business and regulation of infant formula, including adverse event reports.

“Abbott complies with all applicable FDA regulations on adverse event reporting, including by keeping detailed records of every single complaint/adverse event report Abbott receives and investigating NEC complaints,” Stoffel said in November. “FDA routinely conducts audits that include Abbott’s adverse event investigations and reporting as part of its active regulation of infant nutrition.”

Mead Johnson’s O’Neill echoed that.

“Our adverse event reporting complies with all applicable regulatory requirements,” O’Neill said in a November statement to ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News. “The FDA audits Mead Johnson on an annual basis and has never identified any issue about our approach to reporting.”

The reports the company filed with the FDA were submitted through the agency’s regional office in Detroit, she said.

It’s unclear whether the FDA looked in Detroit.

FDA rules require manufacturers to send written confirmations in the Washington area that oversees infant formula and other foods.

Asked if the company sent them to that office, O’Neill did not answer.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News requested an interview with Mead Johnson to clarify its statements about how it handled adverse event reports. The company did not grant one.

Plaintiffs have used internal documents from the companies to allege that, in house, people have long recognized a correlation between NEC and the use of preterm formulas made from cow’s milk.

For example, in a 2010 research proposal shown in a deposition used in the Gill case, Abbott scientists wrote that NEC “is the most severe GI complication of prematurity and the use of bovine milk-based fortifiers and formulas are believed to be the primary risk factor.”

A Mead Johnson document used in the Whitfield lawsuit cited “80% necrotizing enterocolitis (NEC) risk reduction when human milk is used in place of formula.”

Abbott that correlation does not equal causation.

“Numerous studies and NEC authorities have made clear that preterm infant formula does not cause NEC; it’s the absence of human milk that increases NEC risk rather than anything harmful in formula,” Abbott spokesperson Stoffel said.

The FDA, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and the National Institutes of Health weighed in with a in October 2024, saying, “There is no conclusive evidence that preterm infant formula causes NEC” and “there is strong evidence that human milk is protective against 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.

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.”

Managing Potential Warnings

Court records from lawsuits shed light on how the manufacturers have managed potential warnings from the field.

Fabrizis Suarez, who was director of medical safety and surveillance at Abbott from 2006 to 2023, said in a January 2024 deposition used in the Gill and Whitfield cases that he knew of no instance in which Abbott notified the FDA that a baby had died of NEC that could have been caused by Abbott’s formula for preterm infants.

There were numerous cases in which healthcare providers told Abbott they believed the formula caused the NEC, but Abbott disagreed every time, Suarez testified.

Abbott tracks and reviews every NEC report it receives and looks for patterns, Suarez testified.

Courtney Colombo, who identified herself in a March 2024 deposition used in the Gill and Whitfield cases as director of postmarketing medical safety and surveillance at Abbott, likewise testified that she knew of no instance in which Abbott reported to any regulatory authority anywhere in the world that one of its preterm infant formulas was possibly related to a death caused by NEC.

Abbott from the FDA, according to testimony from Wallingford, a paid expert witness on regulatory matters who spent 10 years at the FDA. The complaints were in company files FDA inspectors reviewed during annual inspections, he said in the Whitfield case.

Wallingford also testified that inspections are for reporting infant deaths.

Questioning Wallingford in court, plaintiff’s lawyer Kevin Carnie Jr. invoked the cliché about the .

Wallingford declined to comment for this article. Valentine and Colombo did not respond to messages sent via LinkedIn. Valentine and Suarez did not respond to letters mailed to addresses that appeared to be associated with them. A letter to Colombo with signature required, sent to an address apparently associated with her, was returned unopened.

Not Publicly Reported

Adverse event reports can prompt the FDA to take action to protect the public.

For example, in 2011, the parents, caregivers, and healthcare providers not to feed SimplyThick, a thickening gel, to premature infants fitting a particular profile. The product, used to manage swallowing difficulties, might cause NEC, the FDA said.

The FDA first learned about possible problems with SimplyThick from physicians, according to an FDA document that an attorney for Abbott, Sierra Elizabeth, read from during the Whitfield trial.

The stakes for companies and consumers are high.

A finding under the “reasonable possibility” standard could trigger a product recall, said Martin Hahn, a regulatory attorney for Mead Johnson.

The FDA’s handling of adverse event reports for infant formulas — and fortifiers, which are used to nutritionally supplement a mother’s milk when babies are born prematurely — contrasts with its handling of reports about drugs and medical devices.

The FDA posts manufacturers’ adverse event reports on and online in databases available to the public.

But the notifications manufacturers are required to submit about formulas and fortifiers are not publicly reported, said Emily Hilliard, a spokesperson for the Department of Health and Human Services, which includes the FDA.

In addition, the FDA’s reporting requirements for drugs and medical devices are, in key ways, more demanding than those for infant formula.

Device makers not just deaths but also “serious injuries” that the product “may have caused or contributed to.”

Drugmakers are required to report any “” adverse event, “.” That fatal or life-threatening events.

The FDA also maintains a about dietary supplements, foods, and infant formulas, among other products, that includes from consumers and healthcare practitioners.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News searched that database and found one death report that mentioned NEC and a formula made for premature or low-birth-weight babies.

The search turned up seven other reports of infant deaths that mentioned NEC and fortifiers designed for premature or low-birth-weight babies. One of those reports, obtained by ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News through the Freedom of Information Act, said three preterm babies at the same hospital had NEC and died within a month of one another in 2024.

The FDA cautions that reports are not verified and do not prove causation.

A former attorney for Abbott now leads the FDA.

Before becoming the FDA’s last year and being named acting head of the agency in May, Kyle Diamantas in the and lawsuits, court records show.

Diamantas “complies with all applicable ethics laws and regulations,” said Hilliard, the HHS spokesperson. “That included a specific recusal related to Abbott Laboratories, which concluded in January 2026.”

“During that period, Mr. Diamantas voluntarily recused himself from all matters involving infant formula to avoid any appearance of partiality,” Hilliard said.

‘No Health Hazard’

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News asked the FDA a series of questions for this article. The agency left many unanswered.

“Infant formula safety is a top priority of the FDA given the vulnerability of the intended population,” Hilliard said.

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News asked Abbott and Mead Johnson for data on all infant death reports the companies received and those they forwarded to the FDA. Neither company provided that information.

Court records provide fragmentary data.

Abbott lawyer Elizabeth said in court that, before Wallingford took the stand as an expert witness, the company gave him from 2005 through 2022 that contained the search term “NEC.”

When Wallingford went through the files, he found that mentioned death and NEC, he testified.

If Similac Special Care products for preterm infants were a problem, and if only 1% of adverse events led to a report, “you would expect to see of complaints,” Wallingford testified.

In 2010, a registered dietitian at a Cincinnati hospital notified Abbott that three babies had died of NEC shortly after starting on an Abbott formula. The dietitian thought there might be a correlation, according to an internal Abbott summary of the complaint shown during Colombo’s deposition. The babies, who were about 17 days old, had no complications other than prematurity, the summary said.

After reviewing the complaint, Abbott’s Colombo wrote, as shown in a deposition video, that she found “NO OTHER REPORTS OF DEATH AND NO TRENDS FOR NEC REPORTED BY OTHER FACILITIES ASSOCIATED WITH THIS STOCK CODE.”

“PREVIOUS COMPLAINT HISTORY INDICATES NO HEALTH HAZARD,” she concluded.

As for Mead Johnson, Valentine “testified that NEC was not one of the top adverse event complaints for Enfamil premature formulas of the 68 received between 2015-2019,” O’Neill, the company spokesperson, told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News.

Valentine — who was Mead Johnson Nutrition’s medical director for North America from 2014 to 2021 and parent company Reckitt’s chief medical officer from 2022 to 2023, according to a LinkedIn profile — signed off on the decision to close the 2016 file on the distraught mother’s complaint, according to an exhibit and her deposition testimony played in the Whitfield trial.

When she signed off, Mead Johnson didn’t know which of its products the complaint involved, Valentine said in the deposition.

Asked about it during the Watson trial in February 2024, Valentine testified that, in light of the mother’s request never to contact her again, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to call her back for more information.

Valentine “testified that she believes that the Mead Johnson complaint team appropriately investigated reports of death from NEC based on the information provided,” Mead Johnson’s O’Neill said.

Valentine also testified that the FDA encourages infant formula companies to send in all adverse event reports and that nothing prevented Mead Johnson from doing so.

As reflected in an email thread used in the Watson case, Valentine reacted skeptically in 2019 when a colleague told her a particular hospital wanted to exit its contract with Mead Johnson.

“They had 3 cases of NEC since they started using our formulas. They had 0 cases when they were with Abbott,” the colleague reported.

Valentine agreed to follow up but added: “Sad but please reassure them we are not seeing this with our formula … so no science basis for sure.”

Share your story with us: Do you have experience with necrotizing enterocolitis (NEC) or infant formula that you’d like to share? We’d like to hear from you. Click here to contact the ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News reporting team.

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It’s a Business’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Long Is Long Enough?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, Shit. He Shot Me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Less Than a Human Being’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Methodology

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

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

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

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

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

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

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

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

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

Then the denial letters came.

The Medical Service

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

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

The Bill

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

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

The Billing Problem: Prior Authorization

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

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

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

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

Hvatum’s experience with prior authorization is not unique.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Resolution

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Takeaway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

Their plan would have helped pay to treat low-income, uninsured patients.

But federal leaders overseeing the five-year, $50 billion Rural Health Transformation Program said no.

“It was not our decision,” said Lisa Letourneau, a senior adviser at Maine’s health department.

Letourneau told an audience of healthcare providers, advocates, and community groups during a March webinar that the change was “disappointing.”

Maine isn’t alone in having to make changes to plans pitched to win a share of the Trump administration’s new rural health fund.

Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services Administrator Mehmet Oz when announcing the rural health program awards last year and said his agency would help states “turn their ideas into lasting improvements for rural families.”

But state officials and healthcare leaders said it’s also clear the agency wants to encourage specific policy changes and hold states accountable to the promises they made and rules they agreed to follow.

During the past six months, as states raced to meet the program’s looming federal deadlines, CMS staffers worked with state health departments to make a flurry of changes, including scrapping some initiatives. The federal agency to rescind existing funding — or reduce future awards — if states don’t follow rules or meet their goals. “We will take the money back” if states “don’t abide by what they wrote, if they don’t do a good job,” Oz said at an event this month in Washington, D.C.

Congressional Republicans created the Rural Health Transformation Program as a last-minute sweetener in their One Big Beautiful Bill Act last summer. The funding was intended to offset concerns about the anticipated in rural communities from the law, which is expected to reduce Medicaid spending by more than $900 billion over a decade.

On a call with reporters in December, Oz said “one of the smartest things the president and Congress” did when creating the program was to create a threat of “clawbacks,” or taking money back if states don’t do what they promised in their applications.

Oz went on to describe how the clawback mechanism gives governors leverage to press their legislatures to adopt the Trump administration’s priorities, such as instituting the presidential fitness test in schools.

“This gives you extra umph, a little bit of gusto to go after these issues,” he said.

That message was received loudly and clearly in Tennessee. Michael Hendrix, policy director for the governor’s office, said during a hearing that federal officials said the state “would be more competitive for more funding through policy change.” He said CMS also relayed that “some share of this year’s funding, if policies are not implemented, might be clawed back.”

The threat of rescinding funding has caused fear and confusion among health organization leaders, said Alan Morgan, CEO of the National Rural Health Association.

“We’re worried that facilities and organizations won’t apply for the grant money because of the fears of the clawbacks,” he said, adding that he would like the administration to clarify if federal officials could take back grant money that states have already awarded to rural health organizations.

While clawbacks are a “necessary, important tool” to address misuse of funds and ensure the money goes toward helping rural communities, they are also “a dangerous tool,” said Morgan, whose organization represents rural hospitals and clinics.

CMS did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

States must file progress reports . They then have to commit their first-year funding and Sept. 30, 2027, to spend it.

States are progressing at wildly different rates, with some still developing grant applications and others already distributing money, created by Morgan’s rural health association.

In late January, Iowa became . The tracker shows that most states have opened grant applications, but 11 others, including Wyoming, Maine, and Colorado, have yet to post any funding opportunities.

CMS’ tight control over state programs is one reason for such disparity in progress.

Instead of typical grants, the rural health program uses cooperative agreements, which require a back-and-forth partnership, said Charlie Sagona, a grant specialist at Assel Grant Services, a consulting firm that helps organizations manage grants.

“You are going to be working very, very closely with them; things will ebb and flow and change and move,” said Sagona, who is helping several large hospital systems interested in winning some of the rural funding.

Kate Sapra, deputy director of CMS’ Office of Rural Health Transformation, said at a May event that the agency has “many avenues of oversight.” Staffers are tracking applications for state funding and “looking to see when contracts are executed,” she said.

Sapra said the agency wants to “have conversations with states before they get to the point” of putting out something that’s not allowed. It’s “really important to us” for the funding to reach rural providers, she added.

Sapra said her office has filled about half of 30 new slots for project officers. The officers and the states check in “at least twice a month, if not on a weekly basis.”

Vermont Medicaid Director Jill Mazza Olson, who led her state’s rural health application, said the officers are “very responsive.”

Vermont is one of the states that had to ditch or tweak its plans. Olson said the state pulled its plan to increase housing for rural healthcare workers after federal officials said they would evaluate the proposal based on the agency’s guidelines for construction projects at healthcare facilities. Those rules allow only “minor” renovations to existing buildings or campuses.

In Colorado, state leaders changed grant eligibility rules after they “received feedback” from CMS and healthcare providers, said Marc Williams, a spokesperson for the state’s Department of Health Care Policy and Financing.

Wyoming legislators and state officials spent months designing, discussing, and voting on a plan to invest most of its award into a perpetuity fund that could have generated $28.5 million for the state to spend every year, “forever,” according to .

The state had to pull the idea because it “was a degree too innovative for CMS to swallow,” said Republican state Sen. Charles Scott, a veteran lawmaker and cattle rancher. “This whole thing has been a bit of a disappointment to us in Wyoming.”

Stefan Johansson, director of the state’s health department, said Wyoming’s final spending plan wasn’t approved until mid- to late May. He said the department hopes to begin awarding money in late summer or early fall.

“Make no mistake — it is a very compressed timeline,” he said.

Across the country, Maine was forced to rework its plan to reimburse hospitals and clinics when they provide to certain uninsured patients.

Letourneau said during her March remarks that federal officials rejected this idea because “provider payments had to be more directly linked to a rural transformation kind of activity.”

Lindsay Hammes, a spokesperson for Maine’s health department, told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News that funding will instead help providers transition to reimbursement models that aren’t based on how many patients they treat.

Reworked plans call for spending $28.5 million to support providers, Letourneau said in March.

“But there definitely will be more strings attached.”

ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News correspondent Darius Tahir contributed to this report.

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

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

Nearly every Tuesday for a decade, Steve Siple attended a bar trivia night with friends in Birmingham, Alabama. After moving to North Carolina, he developed a new ritual — on Saturdays to pick up trash along the city’s light rail.

These are more than fun outings to Siple. They help keep him alive.

Siple has battled suicidal thoughts in the past. He lost his father to suicide, and one of his sons has struggled with thoughts of hurting himself.

That’s made Siple vigilant about protecting himself and his family. In addition to seeing a counselor regularly and speaking openly about mental health, he prioritizes social connection.

“Loneliness was, over my lifetime, one of the greatest risk factors” for suicide, said Siple, a for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.

To some, this concept may seem obvious. Yet in the overall approach to suicide prevention, it’s often overlooked. Treatment of a serious mental illness that can lead to suicide, such as major depressive disorder, often centers on medication and talk therapy with little or no consideration of factors such as social isolation or financial duress. Now, there’s a growing movement to address loneliness not just through personal choices but also through public policy.

The research is clear: Among the various complex issues that contribute to suicide, is a . It’s a for older adults, who have and for youths, for whom .

Humans are social animals. When we feel cut off from one another, our , our , and ultimately we’re (by suicide or ). An concluded that being socially disconnected is as harmful to one’s health as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day.

And it’s getting worse.

Mental health researchers and clinicians say a variety of factors are in America, including the , such as smartphones and ; increased ; the since the covid pandemic; and .

With suicide rates remaining stubbornly high — often ranking among the in America — some advocates and people who have lost loved ones to suicide say increasing pathways to social connection could be a new frontier.

In this ongoing series, ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News is examining new approaches to suicide prevention that shift the focus from stopping harm in moments of crisis to efforts that give people reasons to live well before they make fateful choices.

“If we want to reduce suicide rates in our country, which is absolutely essential, then a key part of that has to be fostering social connection,” said who served as surgeon general under Presidents Barack Obama and Joe Biden. “We have more than enough data to support this as being an important area of focus.”

In 2023, Murthy released the first on loneliness as a public health issue, with more than 300 supporting citations. He’s also on the topic and is touring the country discussing the value of social connection.

“To help someone else feel less alone, to help them feel seen and understood and valued,” he told ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News, “that can be one of the most powerful interventions that we make.”

A Role for Elected Officials

Curing loneliness may seem like the responsibility of families and neighbors, people making one-to-one connections. But Murthy says elected officials have work to do, too.

They can use their bully pulpits to turn this into a mainstream issue, he said. They can create microgrants to support grassroots ideas from community entrepreneurs and invest in “social infrastructure,” he added.

That term refers to things in the community that support the development of social connection, from physical spaces, such as libraries and parks, to policies and programs, such as building public transportation and fostering volunteer groups.

“These all matter and impact whether people gather,” Murthy said.

However, investing in public institutions and infrastructure is a costly endeavor that can seem unreasonable when local officials are struggling to balance budgets without increasing tax burdens.

That’s where creativity can kick in.

A health system and a museum in Charlotte have teamed up to for people to attend art classes or live performances together. In Tennessee, the city of Chattanooga is funding community ideas to increase connection and time in nature, where people can speak with volunteer listeners. And across the country, have popped up as places where men can work on projects side by side and discuss their mental health.

Meal Deliveries and Valentines

Marcie O’Neal knew she wouldn’t have much money at her disposal. She was hired in 2024 to lead suicide prevention efforts in the rural of western Kentucky after local leaders saw a rise in suicides among the elderly. Her grant was about $280,000 — less than .

But she knew the nine-county area had other strengths, such as dedicated meal delivery programs and high school clubs.

Drivers who drop off prepared meals to homebound residents “can be the only person that an older adult sees in the week,” O’Neal said.

The state had already been training some of those drivers to recognize warning signs of suicide among older people and alert county agencies to follow up with them. O’Neal thought there could be another component.

She reached out to high school , which focus on fostering leadership skills and volunteerism, across the nine counties and asked them to write cards that could be distributed to older residents along with meals. The response was swift, O’Neal said.

About 1,200 cards were delivered last May. They repeated the gesture in February for Valentine’s Day and again this May.

O’Neal said one of the older residents told her, “I don’t remember the last time I got a Valentine’s card.”

The students also enjoyed feeling as if they made a difference, O’Neal said. She’s helping one school set up an ongoing pen pal program with a nearby retirement community.

Locals affectionately call O’Neal “the suicide lady” — a term she considers “a badge of honor.”

Suicide prevention “doesn’t have to be sweeping huge things,” she said. “It’s a little thing you can do that can kind of snowball into more things.”

‘The Secret Sauce’

Siple, who has prioritized social connection through the trivia nights and volunteer clean-ups, felt most alone when he transitioned from a job at a commercial bank to working at home.

He spent most of his day analyzing Excel sheets, drafting grant proposals, and compiling recommendations for clients. The work felt important, but it was isolating, Siple said.

“If my wife or kids were around during the evening, I was safe,” he said. Holding meetings at coffee shops helped, too.

But when it was just him at his desk, “that’s where I got the darkest lonely feelings,” he said, including thoughts of suicide.

Breaking out of that required seeking new connections.

Siple said church was a great anchor for him and his wife — not just on Sundays but throughout the week at Bible studies and potlucks. They also go to see a variety of live music, including bluegrass and alternative rock.

“Being with folks that are into the same type of music that we’re into for a concert feels like connection,” he said.

Research suggests sports can play a similar role in some instances. At least two studies have found are associated with . The authors posit it’s because people coming together to support their team or to enjoy the event creates a sense of belonging, which is protective.

That concept resonates with , who has worked on suicide prevention efforts at the state and and helps run Sources of Strength, an upstream prevention program. Fostering that sense of belonging has played a central role in each of those initiatives, she said.

“We can’t eliminate hard stuff in our lives,” said Brummett, who lost five friends to suicide, starting in middle school.

“Belonging is really the secret sauce,” she said, “for how we, as humans, can navigate really hard things.”

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

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.

Previous Next

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.

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .

“Did we hike this morning?” she asked.

“Yes, we hiked,” said her husband, Steve Francks. “And you did really well.”

But 15 seconds later, she asked the same question: “Did we hike today?”

Anderson, 65, a retired finance executive, doesn’t remember any of it. She can recall what happened that afternoon only because her husband started recording her on his cellphone.

“I was just on this nonstop loop,” she said.

Almost immediately, Francks knew something was wrong. “Jan was out of it,” he said.

He took her to an emergency room in Sedona, where staff initially thought she might be having a stroke. Because the facility wasn’t fully equipped to evaluate or treat stroke patients, Francks said, she was airlifted to a Phoenix-area hospital, where she was admitted.

It turned out she wasn’t having a stroke. Her medical team eventually determined she was probably experiencing , a rare, temporary, and benign memory disorder.

The good news was that her symptoms didn’t last long, and she has suffered no long-term effects from the episode. It took about 24 hours before she was able to start forming new memories, and she was discharged the next day. Anderson and Francks, who split their time between Sedona and Edmonds, Washington, returned to the Pacific Northwest a few weeks later.

Then the bill came.

The Medical Service

The sudden confusion associated with transient global amnesia can also be a sign of a more common neurological condition, so it’s important to rule out other possible causes — such as a stroke, for which timely emergency care can spell the difference between life and death.

Anderson’s records show her care at Abrazo Health’s Arrowhead Campus in Glendale, Arizona, included an electrocardiogram, which can detect underlying cardiac abnormalities, and imaging, which would rule out any vessel blockages that might cause a stroke. She also underwent various lab tests commonly used to diagnose a stroke.

The Bill

$59,181: $35,302 for diagnostic/therapeutic imaging, $8,147 for laboratory services, $8,146 for a special care unit, $5,532 for EKG services, and $2,054 for pharmacy. Anderson’s first bill from Abrazo Health said she owed $15,312.43, citing an insurance adjustment of $43,868.57, even though her insurer had not covered any of the charges.

Anderson said her insurer covered separate charges for the ER and helicopter transfer.

The Billing Problem: Communication Breakdown

The federal No Surprises Act bans out-of-network bills for most emergency services, even if those services are received at an out-of-network facility and are not preapproved by the insurer.

That means the cost of Anderson’s hospital care should have been covered as though it were in-network. At the time, she was insured by Molina Healthcare, through a plan purchased on the federal Affordable Care Act marketplace.

But for a year, Molina declined to pay for her care in Glendale, at one point arguing that her hospital stay required authorization when, or even before, she was admitted.

“I can’t get anyone to resolve it,” Anderson said. “It’s almost $60,000 hanging over my head.”

The first problem arose about two weeks after she was discharged, when Abrazo Health sent Anderson a bill indicating she was a self-pay patient.

The hospital didn’t request her insurance information at any point during her stay, Francks said. He assumed, at the time, that his wife’s financial paperwork had been transferred from the ER in Sedona. It had not.

She called the Glendale hospital and corrected the error.

Then, in late June, Anderson received notice from the hospital indicating she was not a Molina member.

“Your insurance company notified our office that the patient was not a covered member for the services provided by Abrazo Arrowhead Campus on the above referenced service date(s),” the notice said. It showed the total charges for her stay exceeded $59,000.

But when Anderson called Molina to confirm her coverage, she said, the insurance company assured her the claim was being processed.

That didn’t mean Molina was willing to cover her hospital bill.

Anderson spent months trying to resolve the balance. She filed complaints with members of Congress, the Arizona Department of Insurance and Financial Institutions, and the Office of the Insurance Commissioner in Washington state.

In an October letter to Washington’s insurance commissioner, an appeal and grievance specialist for Molina wrote that the claim was denied because “inpatient stays require prior authorization, or notification at the time of admission. No notification of admission or prior authorization was received from the hospital, so the claim was denied.”

It continued: “Molina covers out of network emergency services but since this was an inpatient admission authorization is required.”

Nicole Broadhurst, who focuses on medical billing issues as CEO of a , said this dispute appears to rest between the insurer and the medical provider.

She said that Anderson’s insurance information should have been transferred between the first ER and the Glendale hospital. Since it wasn’t, Broadhurst said, Anderson shouldn’t be held liable for her hospital bill. (Broadhurst was not involved in efforts to resolve Anderson’s billing dispute.)

Unfortunately, Broadhurst said, these situations are “not uncommon, even though we have the No Surprises Act.”

The Resolution

Anderson said she was told by Abrazo Health for months that it was working with Molina to resolve the bill. She said she was also told that even if Molina did not cover the full cost of her hospital care, she would not be liable for the balance — but she never received that assurance in writing.

Meanwhile, Molina continued to uphold its decision to deny payment.

After ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News contacted the insurer and the hospital with questions about her case, Molina told Anderson it had launched an internal review of her claim, and a revenue director with Abrazo Health told her the company was “treating this as a high-priority matter,” she recalled.

Anderson said the revenue director for the health system assured her that if Molina continued to deny payment, “the balance will be written off on the hospital’s end,” she said. “I will not be responsible for any balance” — not even the $15,312.43 the hospital initially billed her after the hospitalization.

Linda Nofer, a spokesperson for Abrazo Health, would not answer questions about Anderson’s bill. In a statement, she said the hospital system is “committed to working closely with our patients to resolve billing questions and concerns.”

Molina spokesperson Caroline Zubieta would not discuss or respond to questions about Anderson’s case on the record.

The Takeaway

The flurry of insurance paperwork and medical bills patients receive after a hospital stay can be overwhelming — and may sometimes appear contradictory.

Broadhurst said it’s important for patients to focus on the “patient responsibility” portion of an insurance document called an explanation of benefits.

Patients should not pay a bill if their explanation of benefits indicates they aren’t responsible for the amount charged.

In this case, Anderson had received a bill from the hospital saying she owed money. And her explanation of benefits from Molina confirmed she’d racked up more than $59,000 in hospital charges.

But that document also indicated her patient liability was “$0.00.” Anderson said the hospital was not pressuring her to pay the $15,312.43 bill or any of the charges tied to her account, but she was worried she would eventually owe a large sum because the charges remained unresolved for more than a year.

“The question I kept asking them was, ‘How much am I going to owe?’” said Anderson, who is now insured by Medicare. “It could be anywhere from that $15,000 adjusted amount to the full balance of $59,000.”

Broadhurst said she tells patients facing similar situations to “send the hospital a copy of the EOB and ask them to correct the account to $0 patient responsibility.”

“Even if no one is actively trying to collect, I’d still push for written closure so it doesn’t keep hanging over them,” she said.

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!

This article first appeared on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø News and is republished here under a .