Perhaps she misjudged its speed, she said, because she’d walked only partway across the street when the car, a Toyota sedan, came bearing down on her.

“She should have seen me,” Melville said of the driver. “All of a sudden she was there, and I didn’t have any way to get out of her way. I flew I don’t know how many feet.”

Passersby came to help; the police and an ambulance arrived. Soon Melville, a retired teacher, was at a hospital being treated for multiple fractures. Surgeons replaced her right hip and repaired her broken right elbow. She would probably need a knee replacement soon, too, doctors advised.

After a week’s hospitalization and a month in rehabilitation, Melville, then 73, went home in a wheelchair. Physical therapists helped her gradually progress to a walker and then a cane, but “it was a long process,” she said.

She still contends with back and knee pain and hasn’t been able to resume the hiking and backpacking she loved.

Still, when people say she’s lucky, Melville agrees. “It could have been a lot worse,” she said.

It often is.

Older pedestrians, like Melville, aren’t injured by motor vehicles at a greater rate than younger ones, according to from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. But they’re more likely to die. The death rate for pedestrians over 65 is higher than the average for all ages. Nearly 8,200 pedestrians 65 or older were injured that year — likely an undercount because not all serious crashes and injuries show up in police reports. More than 1,500 died. And the picture is not improving.

Researchers point out that older pedestrians remain more vulnerable to collisions. “They move through intersections at a slower pace,” said Andrew Rundle, an epidemiologist at Columbia University. Impaired hearing or vision can make them less apt to notice approaching vehicles or respond to traffic signals. And because reaction time slows with age, they’re less able to evade a car that’s turning, speeding, or ignoring a signal.

Physically, they “have greater frailty, loss of muscle mass and fragile bones,” Rundle said.

As a result, “the consequences of injuries are stratospherically different the older you get,” said Charles DiMaggio, an injury epidemiologist at the New York University Grossman School of Medicine. “A hip fracture in a 45-year-old is unfortunate. In a 75-year-old, it’s tragic.”

Moreover, after a marked decline in pedestrian deaths among all age groups from 1975 to the mid-2000s, progress for the older population has stalled for nearly 20 years.

shows that from about 2008 through 2024 the fatality rate for pedestrians 70 and older was not only higher than the average for all ages but “has stayed stubbornly flat,” Rundle said.

One factor could be exposure: Older adults appear increasingly likely to be outdoors on foot. The National Health and Aging Trends Study shows that the proportion who report walking for exercise climbed to 65% in 2023, from 60% in 2011. “And we encourage them to, because quality of life includes daily physical activity,” said Stephen Mooney, an injury epidemiologist at the University of Washington.

Further, the increasing popularity of large SUVs and trucks means “the vehicles on the road have become more dangerous” compared to traditional sedans, Rundle said. In June, a documented the way their taller hoods and larger blind zones contributed to rising fatalities.

The latest threat: explosive growth in the use of e-bikes. That’s a generic term often used to refer not only to motor-assisted bicycles that, with pedaling, can reach 28 mph but also to heavier, faster, and, therefore, more dangerous bikes akin to motorcycles. The industry has dubbed those e-motos.

“E-motos need to be regulated like motor vehicles,” said Noah Miterko of the trade association PeopleforBikes, noting that states and cities are . From 2019 to 2022, the rate of by nearly 300%, according to an analysis of emergency room data published in the American Journal of Public Health.

The “micromobility” phenomenon, or the uptick in the use of motorized two-wheeled vehicles, is so recent that researchers lack national data on its risks to pedestrians. In New York City, for instance, pedestrians remain far more likely to be hurt or die in encounters with cars, trucks, or vans. Last year, the of which 105 involved motor vehicles.

But “my clinical colleagues are sounding the alarm,” DiMaggio said. “Emergency departments and trauma teams are saying we need to pay more attention” to e-bike injuries.

One often overlooked . Among adult pedestrians killed in nighttime crashes, about a third had blood alcohol levels indicating intoxication; so did about 20% of those killed during the day. Public health officials have cautioned for years that , and more often.

“It’s almost a blind spot,” Rundle said. “We talk about drunk drivers a lot” but less about inebriated pedestrians.

Nevertheless, crashes that cause injury and death are preventable, said Laura Sandt, co-director of the Highway Safety Research Center at the University of North Carolina. Federal and local government policies have evolved since the era when pedestrian fatalities “seemed just part of the business of driving,” she said.

More than 200 municipalities have adopted the , for instance, a public health focus on programs and environments that increase traffic safety for all ages. Changes that can save lives involve improved street design (pedestrian islands, crosswalks, lighting, and bumped-out curbs making street-crossers more visible), safer signal timing (giving pedestrians a head start over turning cars), and lowered speed limits.

A recent found that the risk was substantially greater in places with a high density of walkable senior destinations, like hospitals and health facilities, pharmacies, and senior and community centers. That suggests the possibility of traffic strategies targeting such neighborhoods, analogous to child and their surroundings.

Traffic safety “shouldn’t rely on a pedestrian’s noticing a car coming and jumping out of the way,” said Mooney, one of the authors of the study. “Our job is to make the system safer for all ages and capacities.”

Melville, who was unable to leap out of danger, is “out and about now,” she said. “I’m not where I was, and I don’t know if I ever will be, but I can function. I’m leading a normal life.”

She still mourns her hikes in Reinhardt Redwood Regional Park and the Point Reyes National Seashore preserve, she said, but “I’m going to get there.”

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“I’ve seen nurses get shoved, pushed, scratched. The biggest one is bitten,” said Dhooghe, who works at in Grand Blanc, Michigan.

The in healthcare has in states such as , , , , and , where Dhooghe and many of her co-workers have been on the picket line since Labor Day last year.

“People will question me and be like, ‘Why are you still working in a place if you’re treated like this?’” said Dhooghe, who gets by on strike benefits and working extra shifts at another hospital. The problem, she said, is that other hospitals aren’t any better. “It’s the same everywhere I go.”

In a statement, spokesperson Dana Jay acknowledged violence against healthcare workers is a “national epidemic” and said the health system’s efforts to address the problem include metal detectors, armed security officers trained to make “misdemeanor arrests,” and de-escalation training.

“We have zero tolerance for violence of any kind,” said Jay, asserting the strike is not about safety but is instead “simply an economic strike.”

Nationwide, hospital workers are seven times as likely to be injured on the job due to violent acts as members of the general working population, according to the available from the Bureau of Labor Statistics. The outcry over workplace violence in healthcare is pitting workers’ demands for better compensation and staffing against hospital operators pressured to cut costs.

‘A Powder Keg’

Violent outbursts are so common that they’ve been dramatized on the popular medical TV series . “Emergency rooms right now are like a powder keg,” said Rachel Odes, an assistant professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison School of Nursing.

In hospitals, a combative or violent patient is known as a “.” Outbursts can be spontaneous and unpredictable, making some almost impossible to prevent. But research shows the increases when hospitals are understaffed or employees are insufficiently trained or experienced.

Mental health worker Andrew Kimball-Mirzaie said he got hurt in February 2024 at Butler Hospital in Providence, Rhode Island.

He’d been working at the private psychiatric hospital for about six weeks and said he hadn’t yet worked in the ER. He said he was sent there to “monitor” a man in his 20s who was waiting for an inpatient bed.

The patient was alone in a back room watching a Knicks basketball game on TV, he recalled. Kimball-Mirzaie said he got the patient a drink and a snack. They were watching the game when, suddenly, he said, the patient stood up and punched him in the face. He said the assault left him with a concussion and broken nose. His injuries were documented in the hospital’s.

“I understand that there is an inherent danger with the job,” Kimball-Mirzaie said. He doesn’t blame the patient, who was very ill at the time. “We should have had at least another staff member with us,” he said, “and I should have been adequately trained on the unit.”

The attack emboldened Kimball-Mirzaie to join some 700 other unionized Butler workers last spring and summer in a months-long strike, which forced the hospital to close . Service Employees International Union 1199 New England declared the strike a win.

Employees received wage increases that union leaders said would enable the hospital to attract and retain more staff. The hospital also agreed to provide financial support for workers violently injured on the job. And the hospital and union agreed to jointly fund a “time bank” to supplement workers’ compensation for injured workers who need more time to recover.

But five months later, a nurse supervisor at Butler had to call 911 because an unarmed patient in the hospital’s ER was assaulting staff. According to the police report, by the time police arrested the patient, he’d injured two nurses, a security guard, and a police officer.

“Butler recognizes the importance of being proactive in protecting those who provide care,” Mary Marran, Butler’s president and chief operating officer, said in a statement. She added that hospital leadership meets regularly with staff to review safety measures and “identify opportunities to strengthen protection for everyone.”

The patient was charged with four counts of , including against the two nurses.

The American Hospital Association has said punishment is key to preventing violence. It has been to make assaulting healthcare workers a that would carry in prison. At least , including and , have enacted similar laws. But workplace safety experts say there is no evidence that such laws have reduced the incidence of violence against healthcare workers.

Calls for ‘Safe Staffing’

Striking healthcare workers around the country often have demanded “safe staffing” instead of stronger punishments for patients who cause injuries.

The against healthcare workers has caught the attention of the , the accreditation organization for more than 80% of U.S. hospitals and health systems. The commission released national performance goals that and require hospitals to be and that staff be trained “to provide safe, quality care.”

But no federal law limits the number of patients in a nurse’s care across healthcare settings, despite the nation’s largest nurses union, National Nurses United, having pressed for a national standard . Hospitals must “safely staff all units” to enable nurses to “provide the care that patients need before they get agitated or disoriented,” said , lead industrial hygienist for .

Some states have passed their own staffing laws. Only has enacted broad mandatory nurse staffing ratios, which were associated with lower mortality rates and likely higher retention. Oregon enacted a staffing law, . Legislators in and have introduced similar bills, but they have failed to advance to floor votes.

The American Hospital Association opposes mandatory minimum nurse staffing ratios in hospitals, saying they would “remove real-time clinical judgment and flexibility,” , and potentially force some hospitals to turn away patients or delay care, spokesperson Colleen Kincaid said. And she pointed to California, whose for psychiatric hospitals reportedly in at least four counties.

“There are a lot of other things you can do to prevent workplace violence than just increasing staffing levels,” said , who was a deputy assistant secretary of labor for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration during the Obama administration and helped develop OSHA’s for healthcare and social service workers.

Barab said hospitals can, for example, train employees in de-escalation, install metal detectors, or have specially trained security guards on-site so staff don’t have to wait for police to arrive when an incident happens.

, a worker safety and health policy expert at Georgetown University, said the in congressional Republicans’ One Big Beautiful Bill Act will in the next few years.

When funding dries up, she said, “protecting workers is going to be the first thing that gets cut.”

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Tompkins returned to her home in San Diego, but she was still taking antibiotics, along with a host of other drugs for diabetes, pain, and blood clots. The deaths of her husband the previous year and her closest friend more recently had sapped her spirits.

In early July, a new symptom appeared: violent vomiting three times within about 24 hours. “I was so depleted,” she said. “I got weaker and weaker.” A friend who was visiting her called an ambulance.

“It’s the last place you think you want to go, the ER,” said Tompkins, 75, a retired teacher and family program director. She anticipated spending hours on an uncomfortable stretcher in a chilly hallway. Arriving at the emergency department at UC San Diego Health in La Jolla early in the morning, “I was in a knot,” she said.

But the place upended Tompkins’ expectations. Since 2022, this and every other adult ER in San Diego has been accredited as a geriatric emergency department, redesigned to address the specific risks and needs of older patients. It’s an approach, recent studies show, that can among older adults and lower costs.

“They took me right to a room,” Tompkins said. She was transferred to a gurney with a thicker mattress to prevent bedsores and given blankets. “I got an IV right away because I needed fluids,” she said.

She was pleased that the small, curtained room, with sound-absorbing walls to lower the cacophony of emergency care, had a cushioned chair for her friend, who would stay with her, and a window looking out on trees.

The window served a medical purpose, too. Patients “can see whether it’s day or night,” said Denise Valenzuela, the geriatric emergency nurse assigned to Tompkins. “It prevents delirium,” the sudden change in mental status that can arise in hospitalized older patients and increase dementia risk.

Before long, “I just felt a calmness,” Tompkins said. “I felt, I’m where I need to be right now.”

Since 2017, the American College of Emergency Physicians has accredited 624 such geriatric emergency departments across the United States, including 73 in Department of Veterans Affairs medical centers. “A fairly exponential rate of growth,” said Kevin Biese, the emergency doctor who directs the Geriatric Emergency Department Collaborative.

Few of these units are restricted to older patients. Instead, like the ER in La Jolla, they serve all ages but incorporate senior-friendly practices and protocols in an environment aimed at staving off disorientation, falls, and other elder hazards. They’re classified from Level 1, for those fulfilling the highest number of criteria, to Level 3.

Adults 75 and older visit the emergency room at a except infants: 76 visits per 100 people in 2022. Yet standard emergency care “wasn’t correctly designed for the needs of older adults,” Biese said.

The mission of a traditional ER is to speedily identify the central problem and either fix it or admit the patient to the hospital for ongoing care. “We ask, ‘What’s your chief complaint?’” Biese said. “You fell down the stairs and broke your leg.”

Older patients rarely arrive with a single ailment, however. Like Tompkins, most contend with several chronic conditions, take multiple prescriptions, and need a variety of tests and assessments. Trained geriatric emergency teams focus not only on the broken leg but on determining what caused the fall, and how to prevent another one.

“An emergency department doesn’t routinely screen for delirium” and cognitive impairment, said Ula Hwang, an emergency doctor and researcher at NYU Langone Health. “But it’s one of the first things geriatric emergency departments will do,” along with a careful review of all the patient’s medications.

Geriatric ERs also try to counter sensory impairment, another contributor to delirium, by distributing reading glasses and sound-amplifying devices. They dim glaring lights and offer eye masks and earplugs to promote sleep. If Tompkins had forgotten her walker, the unit would have lent her one.

These ERs also aim to address a rising concern in emergency departments: hours or even days spent “boarding,” when admitted patients wait for open beds before they can leave the ER.

“Prolonged boarding has increased among older adults,” said Cameron Gettel, an emergency doctor and researcher at the Yale School of Medicine, referring to waits that last over three hours. He is a co-author of a .

Spending more time boarding isn’t merely uncomfortable or inconvenient. Researchers studied patients 75 and older in emergency departments across France. They found that those kept there overnight before moving to an inpatient ward had a (15.7%) than those admitted to a ward before midnight (11.1%). Overnight boarding was associated with more falls and infections, too.

What geriatric emergency staffers prefer, however, is to help patients avoid hospitalization altogether. “Admission may not be the best thing for an older adult,” Hwang said. “It might be the worst.”

Hospital patients, she said, are exposed to infections, staff errors, and the rapid deconditioning that accompanies days spent in bed. All pose a greater threat to older patients.

Previous from geriatric emergency departments, but most of those studies involved one or two hospitals. Now, Hwang and her team have used nationwide data from the federal “Health and Retirement Study” and Medicare claims for nearly 4,600 adults age 65 or up, comparing those treated in geriatric emergency departments with a matched group seen in standard ERs.

The differences were stark: Patients in the geriatric units had a 39% and a 38% reduction in mortality over 30 days. The geriatric ERs also up to about $3,000 a visit, according to an earlier study Hwang led.

So having more than geriatric emergency departments nationwide represents both great strides and — in a country with — missed opportunities, Biese said.

“I’d encourage people to ask why their hospitals don’t have an accredited GED,” he added, referring to a geriatric emergency department. “We should demand that.”

In La Jolla, Tompkins began feeling stronger. The intravenous fluids supplied anti-nausea medication and corrected the electrolyte abnormalities that her lab work revealed. She was able to sip water and juice and eat a few graham crackers.

A battery of other screens and scans found no serious concerns. After completing a geriatric assessment, Valenzuela, the nurse, suspected Tompkins hadn’t been eating well and was taking medications on a mostly empty stomach.

By about 6 p.m., Tompkins and her doctor agreed she could return home. She left the hospital with numbers to call for further help, and several staff members checked in by phone to see how she was doing.

Better, was her answer. “They took care of the whole me and put me on the right track,” Tompkins said. “I’m progressing. It’s slow, but I’m OK.”

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Afterward, though, use of Sturgis Hospital’s emergency department fell, according to data collected at the state level. In June, three years after taking the federal lifeline, the hospital closed, leaving residents of Sturgis, a town of about 11,000 people, without critical healthcare. Its leaders had tried “every reasonable option” to remain open, including seeking a buyer, according to a

The closure “could be kind of a canary in the coal mine” for rural healthcare, said Lauren LaPine-Ray, the vice president of policy and rural health at the Michigan Health & Hospital Association.

Federal leaders have spent decades trying to prop up rural hospitals, which face persistent staffing shortages, low federal payment rates, and declining patient numbers.

About 1,700 hospitals nationwide are eligible to convert to the stripped-down Rural Emergency Hospital model. So far, more than 50 rural hospitals in over 20 states have signed on, but LaPine-Ray and other hospital leaders nationwide fear Sturgis’ failure is a sign the new model won’t be enough to keep doors open when the anticipated federal funding losses arrive from President Donald Trump’s signature One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

Last year, the survival of rural hospitals became as Congress debated the massive tax and spending law, which is expected to reduce Medicaid funding by more than $900 billion over 10 years. The reductions are expected to have a substantial impact in rural areas that often have high Medicaid enrollment. Republicans added the new $50 billion Rural Health Transformation Program to win votes from a few holdouts in their ranks.

Sturgis’ facility is the only rural U.S. hospital to in 2026. The day before it shuttered, four senators — including Maine Republican Susan Collins, an architect of the rural health fund — sent a letter to Mehmet Oz, administrator of the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services. said the way his agency structured the fund “may unintentionally disadvantage many of the rural hospitals and clinics the program was intended to support.”

Congress created the emergency hospital model, which took effect in 2023, as “a whole new way of providing care,” said George Pink, a senior research fellow at the Cecil G. Sheps Center for Health Services Research at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill. The Sheps Center tracks rural hospital closures and conversions, and Pink recently released early research showing converted hospitals reporting improved finances, though some are not yet in the black.

Hospitals that convert to the emergency model get a 5% boost in Medicare payments plus an extra monthly facility payment, totaling about $3.6 million a year, according to the Rural Health Redesign Center. In return, the hospitals must offer emergency services and give up their inpatient beds. They can continue offering outpatient services.

Janice Walters, CEO of the Rural Health Redesign Center, which has received federal funding to help hospitals change to the new model, said dozens of hospitals had reached out about converting during the first five months of 2026. It’s reasonable, she said, to presume that 10 or 11 might convert this year.

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The Consumer Product Safety Commission, responsible for tracking and issuing recalls of dangerous products sold in the U.S., began discreetly pressuring hospital executives this year to share personally identifiable health data with a private contractor. But hospital lawyers and other industry experts have questioned the agency’s authority to collect, its ability to safeguard such a swath of sensitive information, and whether it has followed the legal process to overhaul its surveillance system.

After ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ asked the CPSC about the new system, the the program on July 21. Left unmentioned, however, is the alarm it has raised among hospital executives, as well as the nature and extent of the agency’s data demands.

In a stark departure from its product-focused mission, the agency’s goal is to obtain millions of Americans’ medical records from emergency room visits for most injuries, from a broken bone to a childhood vaccine reaction or even a suicide attempt, according to documents and emails obtained by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ, as well as interviews with five people involved or familiar with the discussions.

A CPSC official also insisted in the emails that the institutions provide all ER patients’ identifiable information — such as names, addresses, diagnoses, and other personal details — to the contractor, Konza Health, for analysis. In correspondence with , Konza representatives described participation as “mandatory” or “required.”

As a condition of viewing the correspondence, ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ agreed not to republish some of the emails it obtained.

The CPSC wants at least 100 hospitals to start sending detailed medical records by the end of this year, according to an .

“The whole thing is troubling,” said Sharona Hoffman, a professor of health law at Case Western Reserve University who noted that giving a private entity access to a sweeping collection of data will introduce risks to patient privacy. “If this company really is collecting identifiable information, that is worrisome for patients.”

The new project was launched amid upheaval at the traditionally independent agency, which is without a governing board since President Donald Trump fired the CPSC’s three Democratic board members. Nearly 1 in 5 career staffers left the CPSC in the first 16 months of the new administration, according to a ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ analysis of federal workforce data.

The initiative also comes as the Trump administration has sought unprecedented access to millions of Americans’ medical records, with the Office of Personnel Management requesting federal workers’ sensitive health information and Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. using a private organization to collect more medical records for his studies on vaccines and autism.

Steve Roney, CPSC spokesperson, said in an emailed statement on July 10 that the CPSC is “modernizing” its surveillance system. Asked whether the CPSC will file complaints against hospitals that do not participate, he said only that while the previous system “operated as a voluntary program, the ability of hospitals to opt out limited the sample size and usefulness of the data.”

Roney also acknowledged that the agency had not yet notified the public, as “required by law.”

Federal law requires the agency to provide notice and a public comment period before requesting information from 10 or more entities, a step it has not taken despite plans for 100 hospitals to join the surveillance system. ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ independently confirmed with over a dozen hospitals that they had been approached.

Federal public health authorities that private health data be reported. But CPSC officials have that if hospitals decline to share data with the new surveillance system, they could be subject to strict penalties from a data-sharing regulation known as “information blocking.”

Yet some hospital executives say they are reluctant to share patients’ sensitive data because they’re concerned about a different violation — that of .

AI Takes Over

Dozens of ERs across the country already participate in the CPSC’s voluntary National Electronic Injury Surveillance System, or NEISS, through which trained hospital workers report injuries involving consumer products, almost always stripped of patients’ identifiable information. The system helps the CPSC identify products, such as baby loungers, toys, and household appliances, with a pattern of injuring consumers.

The new injury surveillance program goes much further.

At a toy industry trade event in February, acting CPSC Chairman Peter Feldman said the agency is “investing in AI-enabled workflows that improve the quality and quantity of injury surveillance data, while also building up digital infrastructure to handle a massive new volume of electronic health records.”

Konza Health, a Kansas-based organization that runs the state’s health data exchange, will automatically pull and analyze medical records of all patient visits from ERs nationwide. Konza won a worth up to $15.9 million with the CPSC last fall.

In email correspondence with hospital technology officials, Konza Health President and CEO Laura McCrary also has described ERs’ participation as “required,” stipulating that they share patients’ records with identifying information.

McCrary told ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ by email that the company is not using AI to process the records it receives, saying instead that Konza will use “advanced analytic parsing and filtering capabilities.” Roney, the CPSC spokesperson, did not answer questions about the .

For years, agency officials moving away from human contractors and automating NEISS to save time and money.

But without workers on-site, hospital staffers may no longer receive training to determine what clinical information is important to include for the CPSC. In short, the changes could dilute the quality of the product safety data the agency collects.

“They want to suck in as much data as possible, but I’m not sure how thoughtful they’re being about what is collected and what is actually needed by the agency,” said former CPSC chair Alexander Hoehn-Saric, one of the Democratic appointees Trump fired last year.

Record Number of Career Staff Left CPSC Last Year

The Consumer Product Safety Commission overhauled its National Electronic Injury Surveillance System on the heels of its largest exodus of career employees in at least a decade.

Source: <a href=” of Personnel Management</a>

Wanted: Injuries From Vaccines and Stingrays

The CPSC’s new data collection appears to contradict its own 214-page , which instructs hospitals not to include identifiable information “such as names, birthdates, or addresses” when reporting cases.

The agency is supposed to receive patients’ identifying information only when needed for follow-up investigations, which happens in fewer than 1% of reported cases, according to the manual.

The CPSC has also historically limited the records it collects to minimize privacy violations in case of a data breach.

The risk is not hypothetical: From 2017 to 2019, the agency improperly released personal health information of around 30,000 people, a disclosure that a top Republican at the time

Konza, however, will receive even more sensitive information on many more people. McCrary said in a statement that Konza will remove patients’ names, addresses, and medical information “not needed by CPSC” before sharing records with the agency.

Leaving a private organization to collect sensitive information introduces risks, including that it could be stolen or used for business purposes, said Hoffman, the Case Western professor.

“Very often, they will use information for marketing because now they’re going to know what conditions people have,” she said.

Roney said that its contract with Konza, which has not been made public, prohibits the organization from selling or marketing the data it collects.

The CPSC’s manual also identifies types of ER visits that should not be reported to the CPSC, which has jurisdiction over only certain consumer products. Excluded injuries are those caused by food, illegal drugs, medical devices, alcohol, or plants, as well as injuries that did not involve consumer products — such as a cut from a rock or broken bones from a fall on the ground — and suicide attempts by adults.

But in a to one hospital and reviewed by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ, Konza set no such limits on the information it would gather from ER records and said it would hold on to patient health information for at least 30 days.

In an email sent to hospital technology officials, McCrary wrote that Konza would provide the CPSC with records when a patient is treated in the ER for any of more than 10,000 conditions. The expansive list of diagnostic codes Konza provided in the email includes injuries that do not involve consumer products.

Child injuries resulting from “poisoning by” vaccines or contact with stingrays, neither of which is regulated by the CPSC, are included in the list.

A limited number of hospitals once shared deidentified data on all injuries — regardless of product involvement — through the NEISS using the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s injury-tracking program. But the CDC halted that data collection, after funding and staffing were cut last year, and has not restarted it.

Pressure on Hospitals

CPSC Chief Data Officer Elizabeth Puchek, who joined the agency late last year after engineering U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services’ data system, has told hospitals in emails that they must seek an exemption from the program if they decline to share patients’ emergency room records with Konza.

The CPSC’s targeted outreach has included some of the nation’s largest urban and rural health systems, as well as small, publicly owned hospitals.

Staff members at Mary Greeley Medical Center in Ames, Iowa, said that Konza and federal officials told them their participation in the new program was mandatory. The hospital, which has long participated in NEISS, signed a new contract in April to share its ER records with Konza.

Yet the hospital is reevaluating its participation after being notified that the funds it received to participate in NEISS were “no longer available,” spokesperson Steve Sullivan said.

Several hospital executives, lawyers, and others have raised doubts about the CPSC’s claimed authority.

Harborview Medical Center spokesperson Susan Gregg said the Seattle hospital’s emergency room has “voluntarily submitted de-identified data for many years, but we are not obligated to report this information.”

In Boston, Mass General Brigham has declined to participate in the new program, with spokesperson Kelly Mitchell saying that “to protect patient privacy, we are unable to provide these medical records.”

Henry Ford Health in Detroit; St. Luke’s in Boise, Idaho; and Sanford Health based in Sioux Falls, South Dakota — which together handle over a million ER visits a year — are among the health systems that have been approached but not yet entered into an agreement with Konza, according to representatives. Several of the nation’s busiest hospital systems targeted for the program — including the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, Yale New Haven Hospital in Connecticut, Nationwide Children’s Hospital and the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio, and Baylor Scott & White Health in Texas — declined to answer questions about whether they’re participating.

Hoehn-Saric, the agency’s former chairman, said he was surprised that the CPSC would insist that hospitals provide identifiable records from all emergency room visits.

“This idea that they can simply demand patient information from a hospital and that the hospital would provide it — I really don’t understand the basis for that,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Humphreys County’s Healthcare Losses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Something’s Way Better Than Nothing’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not for the Faint of Heart’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Now I Understand’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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 ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ.

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.”

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Lately, however, the community has been trying to stave off a new identity of “prison town” as it fights the opening of what could become the nation’s largest immigration detention center, holding up to 10,000 people.

Walton County, home to this city of about 5,500, voted overwhelmingly for President Donald Trump in 2024. But, as the administration’s mass deportation strategy hits closer to home — with plans moving forward to transform a more than 1 million-square-foot warehouse into a holding pen — locals say the city’s infrastructure just can’t handle such an influx of people.

This month, Social Circle in federal court against U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The city’s complaint argues that the operation of a detention facility, what it calls a “mega center,” would harm public health, strain the local freshwater and sewage treatment systems, and overburden emergency medical services “due to Social Circle’s modest EMS capacity and DHS’ nebulous plan for emergency transport,” referring to the Department of Homeland Security, which oversees ICE.

“The community is very unified,” City Manager Eric Taylor said. “We want them to go away.”

Social Circle is one of several communities across the country thrust into a charged national debate about the administration’s mass immigrant deportation strategy. On the campaign trail, Trump said migrants were . But local leaders, , advocacy groups, and others in , , , , and claim the administration is doing the same thing by plopping detention centers into communities without the capacity to handle a surge of people.

Last year, Todd Lyons, who is serving as acting director of ICE , described a goal to have the mass deportation operate with the . Deportations would move “like Prime, but with human beings,” he said at a border security expo in Phoenix.

ICE is now putting every person they seek to deport in detention, including those with no criminal records, without the possibility of release on bond. In January, the agency held almost twice as many people as it had that same month in 2024 under President Joe Biden.

However, while many supporters remain aligned with Trump’s immigration stance, some locals fear their city’s stability will be jeopardized. “Social Circle is not exactly flourishing, but it’s making it,” said Gareth Fenley, a retired social worker who ran for state Senate in 2024 as a Democrat and was not among the locals who voted for Trump.

“If Social Circle becomes a prison town,” she said, “we’re gonna lose what we have.”

‘I Thought It Was a Joke’

In February, DHS purchased the 235-acre site in Social Circle for nearly five times its assessed value. It plans to house more people there than at the Rikers Island Correctional Facility in New York City, and nearly triple the number of people now housed at the country’s biggest immigration detention facility, which is in El Paso, Texas.

“I thought it was a joke,” said John Miller, when he first read about the plans last year. He and his wife, Kathlene, have lived in Social Circle for 21 years. When they bump into neighbors, Kathlene knows their children’s names, and John can cite the kids’ baseball stats. Their 50-acre horse farm is less than a mile from the elementary school, and right across the street from the detention center site.

The Millers support Trump’s stance on immigration but feel that turning the vacant warehouse into a detention center would re-create the very problems his administration is trying to solve. Whether people are concentrated in a detention center or out in the public, “they’re still there,” John Miller said.

DHS estimates that the facility would require about 1 million gallons of water daily, according to the city’s suit, which alleges that volume would bleed residents’ taps dry and contaminate local streams with sewage. Emergency medical calls from the detention center, the lawsuit claims, would overwhelm the city’s first responders, which Taylor said clock in at 14 firefighters, 15 police officers, and two school resource officers. The city relies on Walton County for ambulance services.

Additionally, Social Circle would live under an ever-present threat of a major disease outbreak, the lawsuit said, adding that the federal government didn’t conduct the needed environmental reviews or solicit community input beforehand.

Taylor said federal officials had only one meeting with local leaders and brushed off concerns about water, sewage, and emergency care, which administration officials said the site wouldn’t need to use. “I don’t buy that,” Taylor said. “And that’s the problem.”

Supercharging Health Concerns

Current DHS Secretary Markwayne Mullin has said he is reviewing , Kristi Noem, to transform warehouses like this one into detention facilities. And the department’s whether the federal government overpaid for some of the buildings. Mullin also said officials are reviewing agency policies and working with community leaders. “We want to be good partners,” said Lauren Bis, a DHS spokesperson.

Still, the administration’s swift escalation of immigrant detention has exacerbated long-standing allegations of medical neglect for those in custody across the country and led to the in at least two decades.

Three detention facilities in Folkston, Georgia, about an hour north of Jacksonville, Florida, issued 130 emergency calls from Feb. 4, 2025, to Feb. 3, 2026, according to dispatch reports obtained by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ through a public records request. The calls from the facilities, which hold about 2,000 people, were for wide-ranging reasons, including anaphylaxis, assaults, suicide attempts, overdoses, seizures, strokes, head injuries from falls, and other health issues.

GEO Group, ICE’s largest contractor, which runs the Folkston facility, provides “around-the-clock access to medical care” and relies on emergency medical services as needed, said Christopher Ferreira, director of corporate relations.

ERO El Paso Camp East Montana, built on a Texas military base, is currently the nation’s largest detention center and holds about 2,500 people. In the five months from Aug. 17, 2025, to Jan. 20, 2026, about 130 emergency medical calls were made from the site, according to city records. Several detainees have died at the facility; several others have for tuberculosis, measles, or covid-19.

Amentum Services, which recently took over management of the facility, did not respond to questions about emergency calls.

Even bigger detention facilities, such as the “mega center” planned in Social Circle, would only supercharge those health issues and bring them to new communities, said , who was immigration ombudsman at the Department of Homeland Security under Biden. Existing facilities already suffer from staffing shortages, poor ventilation and hygiene, and insufficient medical care, she said.

The proposed facilities are enormous and generally built for boxes, not people, she said. “There’s no way, without extreme cost, both to the community and just in dollars, to make these safe for humans,” she said.

In the meantime, people such as Kathlene Miller said they feel that Social Circle has become “collateral damage” in the larger debate over immigration. “We’re like the children in a divorce,” she said.

But Social Circle may face an uphill battle. Taylor said Walton County leaders and the state of Georgia have been silent on the center.

“They say it’s federal issues, that they have no jurisdiction,” he said. “They don’t have any interest in helping us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We Can Only Pray’

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

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

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

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

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

‘They Just Want To Not Die’

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

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

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

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

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

In North Carolina, a Healthcare ‘Desert’ After Hospital Closure

Martin General Hospital in Williamston closed in August 2023, leaving Martin County’s approximately 22,000 residents with no local hospital. The nearest Level 1 trauma center is in Greenville, about 30 miles from Williamston.

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

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

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

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

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

An Election Issue

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

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

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

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

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

“Martin County lost its hospital on his watch, and he still opposed the funding meant to help communities like it,” Buckhout campaign spokesperson Stephen Gallagher said in a statement to ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ. The campaign did not respond to additional queries about her plans for healthcare access, if elected.

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

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

Overnight Waits for Emergency Care

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

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

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

Where Martin County Residents Now Go for Emergency Care

Thousands of people were left without a local emergency department when Martin General Hospital closed in August 2023. In 2022, Martin General’s emergency room reported about 11,000 patient visits from county residents. After the closure, visits by Martin County residents to four ECU Health hospitals in the region spiked. Martin County patient visits by hospital emergency department:

Source: North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services’ <a href=” of Health Service Regulation</a>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a waste of my time.”

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

“I will not go to the emergency room” — emphasis on not — were his first words after passing out, having a seizure, or regurgitating the protein smoothies I made to pass his narrowed esophagus. He said it again and again, even as fluid built up in his lungs, rendering him short of breath and prone to agonizing coughing spells. He had been a big, athletic guy, but now, in the ugly process of dying, he was looking gaunt. Ours was a precarious existence, but I understood his adamant rejection of the emergency department. Most prior visits had morphed into extended trips into a terrifying medical underworld — to a purgatory known as emergency department boarding.

I managed to keep Andrej at home while we planned for hospice, until one dreadful night at 2 a.m., when I ran out of hacks. We got into an ambulance and together headed to the hospital.

* * *

We had already learned the hard way that if you need admission to the hospital, you can remain in the emergency department — in the hallway or a curtained bay on a hard stretcher or in a makeshift holding area — for more than 24 hours, even for days, while waiting for a real hospital bed. In this limbo state, you’re technically admitted to the hospital, but still located in the physical domain of the ER. And the rules governing acceptable care and safety measures become much less clear.

In the summer of 2024, still being treated to keep his cancer at bay, Andrej had suddenly become somewhat delirious, requiring hospital admission to rule out the possibility of infection or, worse, of the cancer having spread to his brain. After we went to an emergency department near our home, in New York City, he lay trapped on a hard stretcher, with its rails up, for more than 36 hours, amid the alarms and calls for the code team, without any clues of whether it was day or night, and with access only to the few toilets shared by the dozens of patients and visitors in the emergency room. None of this helped his mental state. By the end of Day 2, he knew me — kind of — but had become convinced that the doctors were “the enemy” and that I was their paid accomplice.

After I pressed to move him to a bed “upstairs” — I meant to an inpatient ward — he was transported to a bed five floors higher. I realized too late that this was an “ED overflow area,” according to the paper sign attached to the entrance’s swinging door. A plaque in the hall identified it as a former labor and delivery floor. It had been kitted out with some of the trappings of an actual ward, such as real beds and bathrooms, but not the most important one: adequate personnel.

The space was by turns eerily quiet and wildly cacophonous. Although patients there were undergoing intimate, embarrassing procedures, rooms were gender-neutral. That first night, Andrej’s roommates were a man in a coma and an elderly French woman in a diaper and boots (no pants), who marched around her bed singing like a chanteuse. In the morning, I pestered a harried nurse and got Andrej moved to a quieter room with three beds, where two people died in three days.

The overworked staff did the best they could, but that was far from good care. My husband — who needed protein and calories but could consume only soft foods — was served chicken cutlets. When I noted to one nurse that Andrej’s soiled sheets hadn’t been changed for several days, she directed me to a linen cart so I could change them myself.

* * *

That first time, one of several extended ER stays Andrej made as a boarder, I thought perhaps we had just hit a busy time at a busy hospital. When I worked as an emergency medicine doctor a few decades ago, the ED was mostly empty at the beginning of my 7 a.m. shift. A few patients might be lingering from the day before: alcoholics who would sober up and leave, patients with a severe burn or a bad case of pneumonia who were waiting for a bed in intensive care.

In the decades since, EDs have doubled or even tripled in size. Even so, patients are piling up. When I started asking around, I quickly discovered ED boarding has become commonplace in the past five or so years and is getting worse, more or less omnipresent in hospitals. “Everyone knows about this problem, and no one cares enough to do anything about it,” Adrian Haimovich, an ED doctor at Boston’s Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center who studies ED boarding, told me. “It’s barbaric.”

Measuring the problem has been challenging because data on ED boarding time is limited. Only this past November did the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services finalize a rule that would require hospitals to collect data on ED boarding times. Using what other data he could find, Haimovich has shown that boarding for more than 24 hours has increased dramatically for people 65 and older since the pandemic.

Once they enter ED boarding, patients exist in a gray zone. There has been a national push to establish “safe staffing” in EDs. Even with that, if an ED boarder has a medical complaint that needs quick attention, it’s easy for them to fall through the cracks, Haimovich said: In some hospitals, an admitting team of doctors from upstairs is responsible for the boarders stuck in the ED (but not the associated floor nurses); in others, overstretched ED medical staff must take full responsibility to care for boarders until a bed opens — and that in addition to seeing new patients. Some EDs now routinely hold more boarders — many of them quite ill — than patients being actively evaluated.

Doctors and nurses have complained bitterly about the situation, which forces them to provide inadequate care. Gabe Kelen, the director of emergency medicine at Johns Hopkins University, told me it’s creating a for emergency department staff. But doctors and department heads such as Kelen are not in control of admissions. Generally, a hospital’s administration parcels out inpatient beds, and emergency department boarding is in many ways a result of today’s business models and pressures.

* * *

When I worked as a doctor, if an ED was overwhelmed beyond capacity, the attending (that was me) typically called in to ambulance dispatch to request “diversion” — ambulances should take patients to another hospital. If a hospital got too full, the admitting office canceled elective admissions. Today, hospitals run like airlines and intentionally overbook, Kelen said. They also have fewer beds than they did a few years ago — in part because nurse (and executive) salaries have risen since the pandemic. An empty, staffed bed is a money loser, so the institution has an incentive to keep beds full and make new patients wait.

“The problem isn’t inefficiency — it’s the way health care finance is structured,” Kelen said. “Hospitals typically run on thin margins. Elective admissions are prioritized because they tend to be for lucrative procedures like heart catheterizations and joint replacements.”

Admitting patients through the emergency room has business advantages, too, even if it means they wait for a bed. The evaluation generates charges that typically run many thousands of dollars; once admitted, my husband was still billed the inpatient rate even for a stretcher in the hall. Old, sick, and dying patients are more likely to linger there in part because, after they’re in a real bed, they may take up that spot for days or weeks at a time while waiting for a bed in rehab or hospice, requiring nursing time but not the types of interventions that generate revenue.

Hospitals have tried band-aid fixes, such as bed-tracking software and discharge lounges where patients can wait for paperwork or transport home. Many do hire more doctors and nurses and orderlies in the ER to confront the overflow. But “long ED wait times and boarding have root causes that extend far beyond EDs and hospitals themselves,” Chris DeRienzo, the chief physician executive at the American Hospital Association, told me in an email. He listed the high cost of opening beds and the shortage of rehabilitation facilities, and emphasized the precarious financial situation of many hospitals.

But while Andrej waited in the overflow area, we were not thinking of any larger picture: He was sick, desperate, and still waiting for care. He lingered in boarding for four days before he got a bed. Each time he had to return to the ED, each time he faced a painful wait, he hardened his resolve to never go back.

* * *

Thunk. Crash. “Elisabeth, help!” Those were the sounds that woke me at 2 a.m.

I had fallen asleep on our bed, next to Andrej, his head raised with a foam wedge to ease his breathing and make sure food would not come up. Before I dozed off, I listened to his breathing — 30 times a minute, two times faster than normal — a sign he was struggling to get sufficient oxygen. And that racking cough. This was not good.

Now his bruised body was twisted, lying on the floor with his head against the bed frame. He’d attempted to use his walker to go to the bathroom. He was complaining of chest pain, coughing and short of breath. But he managed to get out those words: “I will not go to the ER.”

I knelt by his side in tears, telling him that I loved him but that I could not do anything more right now at home. Carlos, our super, helped me get him into bed and called EMS. I promised Andrej (against hope) that, given his condition, he would surely be quickly assigned to a real room and bed.

What happened next was a blur. I have a vague memory of paramedics arriving, putting him on the stretcher, sliding him into the ambulance, giving him oxygen. I mechanically grabbed his “do not resuscitate” form from under the refrigerator magnet and buckled myself in beside him.

Then he was in the ED, which was thrumming with activity, under the fluorescent lights, with oxygen in his nose, wearing a hospital gown, and looking gray and sick. The staff asked what was, for them, the operative question about a guy with widespread cancer: “Does he have a DNR?” Andrej asked me what was, for him, the operative question: “Did you bring my shoes?” He already wanted to leave.

An X-ray showed possible pneumonia, more tumors, and a buildup of fluid in his lungs. A medical team that covers oncology patients wrote an admitting note — he was now a boarder, again — and then retreated upstairs. They started antibiotics and gave him something to help him sleep amid the alarms and shouting. He didn’t.

When I came back the next morning — and two mornings after that — I was alarmed to see him still there on a hard stretcher, his feet dangling off the end, exhausted and in pain. “When will he be admitted to a bed?” I implored. If some of the stuff in his lungs was infectious, maybe he could be treated and get home.

Likely soon and I hear your frustration — I came to detest those two phrases.

Neighboring patients came and went 24 hours a day. Some were pleasant; some were screaming in pain or just screaming mad. Pulmonary doctors came and, in this semipublic space, used a large needle to remove three liters of fluid from Andrej’s right lung cavity.

* * *

Near the end of the Biden administration, in response to a bipartisan congressional request, the Department of Health and Human Services convened a meeting on emergency department boarding. Its report, from HHS’ Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, came out the same month that the Trump administration took office, not long before Andrej’s fall — the last night he spent at home.

“Emergency department (ED) boarding is a public health crisis in the United States,” the report concluded. “Patients who are sick enough to require inpatient care can wait in the ED for hours, days, or even weeks.”

“Boarding contributes to increased mortality, medical errors, prolonged hospital stays, and greater dissatisfaction with care,” the report said.

The meeting proposal called for the formation of an expert panel to recommend solutions. In theory, a panel could have weighed in on key questions: Should hospitals — some of which are rich institutions — get paid an inpatient rate for boarding in the ED? Should they have to report boarding times and face penalties for excess? Should they be required to open more real beds, and should requirements for licensing be lessened? How can the country create more rehabilitation beds?

But since then, the Trump administration has dramatically cut that HHS agency’s staffing, as well as its grant programs. (Congress is still pushing to fund the agency.) The expert panel never formed, let alone offered solutions. The Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services this year did initiate that will include voluntary reporting of boarding times in 2027, becoming mandatory in 2028. Bad marks will eventually affect Medicare reimbursement.

In an emailed statement, the Joint Commission, which certifies the nation’s hospitals, called boarding a “serious public health crisis” and “one of the most incredibly complex challenges in healthcare.” Although the organization does indirectly look at hospitals’ “ED throughput” from charts, such data is not comprehensive. Little information exists, for instance, about how many people’s last days are spent on stretchers, in hospital limbo.

None of this knowledge would have helped my dying husband. So I did what I’d promised myself I’d never do: I called a doctor friend, who called the hospital’s VIP office.

Suddenly Andrej was whisked to a real hospital room, with a bed that he could adjust to keep his head elevated, a tray he could eat from, a morphine pump, a TV, a bathroom, and a nurse call button at his side. A room with extra chairs, so his stepkids and friends could visit with gifts and mementos one last time. A room where the caring staff placed a chaise longue, where I could sleep over. That way, when he woke scared and coughing and yelling for me, I was there to hold his hand, adjust the oxygen, and push the button for an extra dose of narcotic.

Until, six days after we got in the ambulance and three days after we’d moved to this room, he woke early one morning, agitated and coughing, calling out, “Elisabeth?” I was there. But then, in a blink, he wasn’t.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .