MILLVILLE, Pa. — In an open field, arrows whizzed through the humid June air and struck their targets. Campers and counselors cheered.

It was archery hour at . Operations director Drew Meyer watched, a few tears escaping from behind his dark sunglasses.

“They will surprise you, like, flat out,” he said of the campers, who have all survived brain injuries. “They’ll come out here, and they’ll shoot for three hours and start hitting the target.”

Campers, ranging in age from 10 to 21, have been coming to Camp Cranium in Pennsylvania’s rural Columbia County since 2008. Some of their brain injuries are so severe that they have to relearn basics, from talking to tying their shoelaces. Some use wheelchairs or crutches. But during a week at camp, they climb rock walls, swim, and whiz down a zip line through the lush forest.

The existence of Camp Cranium, and a handful of others like it, is a response to a decades-long national trend: More people, including children, now survive crises resulting in brain injury than did in the 1980s. The improvements in survival are largely due to seat belt laws and and trauma centers that can treat injuries quickly.

But recently, efforts to track and prevent one type of brain injury, traumatic ones, are in flux after Congress didn’t renew a and prevention of traumatic brain injuries, and the Trump administration fired hundreds of employees at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, including the team tracking traumatic brain injuries, or TBIs.

“Brain injury can happen to anybody,” said , executive director of the . “This community deserves more.”

Tracking Brain Injuries

Lucas Hardy, 14, smiled at the encouraging crowd below. In a shady clearing in the woods, he climbed the 30-foot rock wall, aided by a hoist that pulled him out of his wheelchair and helped support his moves. Hardy suffered a traumatic brain injury at age 3, when a tree branch fell on him at a birthday party.

Annually, an estimated 2.8 million Americans experience a TBI — including about 475,000 children, according to the .

Recent data suggests those are undercounts. In 2018, a CDC team piloted a household survey asking about TBIs in a sample of U.S. children and adults. The results concluding that such injuries, which are often considered “hidden” because the damage is internal and unseen, are more widespread than hospitalization numbers suggest.

The mass firings at the CDC in early 2025 studying TBI, right before they were expected to launch a . A spokesperson for the Department of Health and Human Services, Emily Hilliard, did not respond to questions about the number of employees terminated, or if they were reinstated or replaced.

In a statement, she said: “The Trump Administration remains committed to supporting efforts to prevent traumatic brain injuries, improve surveillance, and ensure Americans have access to practical, evidence-based information that can help protect their health and safety.”

She said the agency’s TBI work is now handled by other staff members at the National Center for Injury Prevention and Control.

Hilliard said the CDC is deciding how to establish a cost-effective national concussion surveillance system within the bounds of current funding, and said the agency in 2026 dedicated funds to support, among other things, an about concussions, an , and concussion surveillance.

But Wolfkiel still worries about how the CDC firings and the impasse over federal funding will affect brain injury research and prevention efforts in the long term.

“The lack of resources and programs and information that’s out there is really just sort of appalling,” Wolfkiel said.

Federal Funding Uncertainty

Tony Sadowski, the camp’s , remembers when his son, Bryan, suffered a brain bleed that caused a hemorrhagic stroke at age 6. “You’re in the emergency room,” he recalled, “not knowing what version of your son’s going to wake up.”

Now 18, Bryan Sadowski has attended the camp for years.

“We’re very lucky to be able to be here,” the elder Sadowski said.

In 1996, before Bryan was born, Congress passed the Traumatic Brain Injury Act, which has provided many states with grants for TBI research, advocacy, and services. Since then, Congress reauthorized the act four times, largely with bipartisan support, until 2024.

It has remained lapsed since then. Trump’s secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, , supported when he was a senator. Congress is whether to reauthorize funding through 2030.

Despite the lapse in funding, money is still flowing to TBI programs at the CDC and in states, according to , president and CEO of the Brain Injury Association of America.

Congress did appropriate $8.25 million for TBI program activities through the . That’s far less than the $23 million Congress provided for each fiscal year, from 2020 through 2024, the last time it .

“The TBI Act is the only piece of federal funding for traumatic brain injury at the federal level,” Willis said. “We’re aiming to preserve what we have.”

The funding uncertainty has not affected the handful of brain injury camps, including Camp Cranium and in Alabama, because they are nonprofits that mostly rely on private donations.

Back at Camp Cranium, bursts of laughter, whoops of delight, and distant chatter punctuated the humid summer air.

While her fellow campers did archery or art, Brianna Engleman moved between groups, collecting song requests for a dance that evening. When she was 5, doctors performed a to relieve her of debilitating seizures. But the surgery itself can injure other parts of the brain.

She lives in Northern Virginia and first attended Camp Cranium as a teen in 2018. It was her first time being around so many people like her, said Engleman, now 21.

“I’ve gotten more confident,” Engleman said. “It made me think, well, there’s actually good people out there.”

Next time she returns to camp, she said, she plans to do so as a counselor.

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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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Carter’s specialty is reeling in grants to support students in the Omaha Nation school district, where she is a finance manager. One paid for the garden that sits next to the district’s campus. Another allowed the school system, in one of Nebraska’s lowest-income counties, to pay students to maintain it.

“They’re out in the sun. They’re watering plants,” she said. “It’s the first time they get a paycheck in their life.”

Carter, 41, is paralyzed from the chest down, an injury she’s lived with since a fall in her early 20s. It didn’t slow her down as she built her accounting career and got a master’s degree in human resource management.

But in November 2023, Carter — who lives in Sioux City, Iowa — got a letter from Iowa’s Department of Health and Human Services. It said that her income was too high for her to stay on Medicaid and that she might lose her benefits in two weeks if she didn’t take action.

States are scrambling to get ready for a new federal requirement to double-check that many people on Medicaid qualify for the benefit, by showing they are working, volunteering, or studying at least 80 hours per month. Politicians’ focus on requiring work has angered many people with disabilities who have Medicaid and say current policies that apply to them have the opposite effect — making them choose between working or receiving benefits.

‘I Have No Options’

When Carter got the letter, she was making $110,000 a year, well above Iowa’s 2023 income limit for working people with disabilities: $36,450 for a household of one.

“I had no time at all to prepare,” she said. “I had a decision to make.”

At the time, Carter got her health coverage through Iowa’s , a buy-in program that allows working disabled Iowans to pay part of their income to the state to maintain access to Medicaid benefits. Forty-seven states offer , but eligibility through limits on income and assets.

For years, disability rights advocates have pushed state legislatures to change the limits, arguing they prevent people like Carter from accepting raises or building savings, for fear of losing crucial medical benefits. Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Jersey, and Rhode Island have eliminated such limits over the past five years.

To keep her Medicaid coverage, Carter would’ve had to find a job paying her far less than she was making. Or she could drop her Medicaid coverage and enroll in the school district’s health plan. But that plan didn’t cover many of the disability-related expenses that Medicaid did.

Carter decided to keep her job and leave the Medicaid buy-in program. In the end, the decision felt like a no-brainer, she said.

“I like getting up and going to work every day, and I really like what I do,” she said. “Why would I throw that away?”

But it’s been hard on her finances. Carter said she now spends about $35,000 a year out-of-pocket for expenses her old plan covered, such as the nurse who visits her three times a week, modifications to her car, and wheelchair repairs.

“I had the motors go out on my wheelchair,” she said. “So that was like $4,000 to fix.”

Over the next year, Carter picked up extra jobs and cashed in some of her retirement savings.

“I want to pay my own way. I don’t mind paying taxes,” she said. She doesn’t want to hide her income, either. “I just want an option,” she said. “I have no options right now.”

A Program Intended To Encourage Work

Congress to create Medicaid buy-in programs in the 1990s, intending to incentivize more people with disabilities to work. Iowa was one of the first states to adopt the program.

According to state data, 11,640 Iowans were participating in the buy-in program as of late January, or 1.7% of all Medicaid recipients in Iowa.

The income caps have inched up since Carter got her letter. , set at 250% of the federal poverty level, is $39,900 for a household of one this year.

The rules also restrict recipients from accumulating too much in assets. The is $12,000 for an individual or $24,000 for a married couple, excluding some assets, such as a primary home or vehicle.

Carlyn Crowe, the public policy manager at the , said the limits can prevent disabled Iowans from reaching their goals. “Work full-time and be able to buy a house, live in the community, buy a car,” she said. “Those limits placed on what they can earn and save are keeping them from doing that.”

Crowe’s organization, which has counterparts in every state, is and advocates for people with disabilities. In Iowa, such advocates have asked legislators to drop the hard limits on income and assets. Instead, they suggest that disabled Iowans pay 6% of their income to buy into the Medicaid program, an approach modeled after a 2024 that created a Medicaid buy-in program with no income and asset limits. (Tennessee is waiting on federal approval before starting its program.)

In recent years, these efforts have built bipartisan support and gained traction. An Iowa House committee unanimously in 2025 to remove the income and asset caps, but the bill died after failing to move forward during this spring’s legislative session.

State legislatures now in Medicaid spending estimated at more than $900 billion over 10 years, as part of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

, an associate director of KFF’s Program on Medicaid and the Uninsured, said the specific worry is that buy-in programs, though they’re a small part of the larger Medicaid system, could increase overall Medicaid spending if eligibility changes.

“The premiums charged in buy-in programs are nowhere near close to the expected costs of covering people,” Burns said. (KFF is a health policy research, polling, and news organization that includes ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ.)

Focusing on initial cost increases is myopic, said , the director of disability policy at at Iowa’s Drake University. More workers mean additional income tax revenue for states. It also enables some people with disabilities to earn enough to transition off other government assistance programs, such as the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.

“Three, five, seven years from now, you may be recouping those expenses by having people be able to work their way off,” Van Sant said.

Falling Through the Cracks

Iowa lawmakers tried a more modest adjustment during this year’s legislative session. Instead of removing the income limit entirely, they introduced legislation that would raise the cap to 300% of the federal poverty level and exempt pension accounts and a spouse’s income, among other things, from the asset cap.

In the end, the provision was stripped from a wide-ranging public assistance bill. If it had passed, the new income limit would have been one of the for a buy-in program, according to KFF.

, a former City Council member in Sioux City who was paralyzed from the chest down after a diving accident, told state lawmakers during a hearing in February that the proposal was a step in the right direction, but not enough.

“I fear that we’re going to lose people to other states,” said Watters, who added that he was considering moving to Minnesota, which never had an income cap and eliminated asset caps for its in 2024.

Even if Iowa had raised its income limit, Carter would still have been ineligible.

Carter remains committed to her primary job at the school district. She plans to keep working there and taking on additional jobs, seven days a week, so she can pay for her medical needs and continue helping students.

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Last year, Baltimore had three in the span of three months in its Penn North neighborhood.

In one incident, more than two dozen people were hospitalized after many were , lying in the streets or on sidewalks. No one died, but some came close.

Follow-up that the street drugs of N-methylclonazepam, a benzodiazepine that operates similarly to Xanax or Valium. Like opioids, benzodiazepines suppress breathing. When they’re combined, the goes up. And benzodiazepines don’t respond to opioid overdose reversal drugs.

Afterward, the created test strips specifically for benzodiazepines. The group distributed them — along with test strips that identify other harmful adulterants, such as fentanyl, , and medetomidine — at clinics and neighborhood events. The strips, available at no cost, can also be found in bars and spread out on street corners. People testing drugs mix a small amount with water and then dip a test strip into the liquid. The strip will change color if it identifies an adulterant.

“Nobody really knows what they’re getting whenever they’re getting stuff off of the street,” said Candy Kerr, a spokesperson for the coalition. “Having the test strips available for the general public gives them the option to move slower if they’re going to use whatever they’re going to use.”

But a new federal policy could make it harder for organizations such as Kerr’s to give out the test strips, and they’re worried that overdoses could increase. In late April, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration banned the use of federal grants for distributing strips to the public and for some other harm reduction practices that have been credited with saving lives. Test strips have been used for to identify adulterants.

sent to local health departments and nonprofits that provide addiction services explained that the Trump administration believes those harm reduction practices “facilitate illicit drug use and are incompatible with Federal laws.”

According to the letter, grants from the Department of Health and Human Services also cannot be used for programs that support the use of clean needles or drug paraphernalia such as pipes, or to fund a type of that people can , so someone is aware and can call for help if they overdose. 

The Trump administration wants to focus more on other techniques, such as giving out naloxone, an overdose reversal drug available as a nasal spray, according to Emily Hilliard, an HHS spokesperson.

“It is critical that federal funding provided by the American taxpayer goes to effective, common-sense solutions that have been proven to save lives and keep people out of an endless cycle of addiction and moves them into a life of recovery,” she said.

The new policy does not prohibit federal funds from being used to purchase test strips for use by law enforcement officers, public health officials, EMTs, or other medical professionals.

That creates an important exception for government agencies that test drugs and send out on what adulterants are saturating the drug supply in certain locations.

Still, , who oversaw SAMHSA’s in the Biden and Trump administrations, says there is a substantial body of evidence giving test strips to people who use drugs can change behavior.

“There’s some people deciding not to use the substances, some people deciding to reduce, to use less, or take other types of precautions, including naloxone, and making sure that there are people around that can actually then help in the case of an overdose,” Olsen said.

Kerr said the best approach would be to continue to promote the use of test strips while also continuing to give out lifesaving medications like naloxone. She believes that working on all fronts has helped lead to Baltimore’s decline in overdose deaths, which more than 40% since 2023.

Under the new policy, nonprofits will still be able to hand out test strips, but they will have to find other funding for that work, which Kerr finds worrisome.

“We’ve been making these strides forward because we’ve had these things, because we’ve been funded,” she said. “We’re going to have to pull money from other places.”

To pay for the test strips, Kerr said, the Baltimore Harm Reduction Coalition will have to cut back on services such as giving out hygiene and wound care kits. But she said that option is better than risking another mass overdose in Baltimore — or allowing even just one preventable fatality.

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If he wanted to learn more about an outbreak of measles or hantavirus, he would pore over the weekly CDC report that came by email. If a patient’s family was traveling to Africa or Asia, he would check the latest CDC vaccine recommendations for overseas travel. And if a family was worried about potential side effects from a shot, he could always send them to the CDC’s website to bolster his argument to get the immunization.

Public trust in the CDC has in the road , but for medical professionals, Snyder said, “the CDC used to be, worldwide, the most trusted source of information pertaining to public health and infectious disease.”

Yet even doctors began losing trust, Snyder said, after Donald Trump was elected president again. Trump quickly tapped longtime anti-vaccine activist Robert F. Kennedy Jr. as his nominee to lead the Department of Health and Human Services, which oversees the CDC.

Within months of his confirmation as secretary, Kennedy had of the CDC’s vaccine advisory board and replaced them with , some of them prominent vaccine skeptics.

“It turned into a completely unreputable source of information,” Snyder said.

This rupture of scientific trust in the CDC has put many pediatricians like Snyder in a bind, as they no longer turn to the country’s preeminent public health agency and instead search for ways to fill the information gap. Some doctors are launching their own vaccine education efforts, sometimes in collaboration with local public health departments.

On Jan. 5, the CDC from the recommended for all children — against the advice of major medical groups like the . The as the agency dropped rotavirus, covid-19, influenza, hepatitis A, hepatitis B, and meningococcal disease from the list. The agency did not respond to a request for comment for this article.

In March, after , a federal judge to revert to the previous guidelines. The administration the judge’s decision.

The back-and-forth “creates a whole bunch of confusion in the public,” Snyder said. “And it’s very confusing even for healthcare providers.”

So he’s trying to be clear to patients about what the evidence shows, even if that means going against the federal government. His practice, Amherst Pediatrics, to say: “The CDC is no longer considered to be a reliable or legitimate source of information.”

“It’s shocking that we have to say that,” Snyder said. Instead, the site directs families to get information from their own doctor, the state of Massachusetts, or nongovernmental medical organizations including the AAP.

In the exam room, Snyder is having more tense conversations with families. He said some parents are explicit that they want to hew to what the CDC recommends. “Even if they don’t say that, we have definitely seen increasing hesitancy and questions,” he said. “All of that interferes with us protecting children.”

On a spring afternoon, several of Snyder’s young patients came into Amherst Pediatrics for routine visits.

“Let’s talk about vaccines,” Snyder said to one mother, Tenzin Dekey, who was there with her 1-year-old. Snyder explained that her son was due for the , which protects against measles, mumps, and rubella, in addition to the chickenpox, hepatitis A, and flu vaccines.

“So that’s four shots, two in each leg,” he said, as he handed Dekey CDC information sheets about the vaccines. She glanced at them and agreed to the shots.

Ironically, the information sheets are stamped with the CDC’s logo — — even though Amherst Pediatrics has explicitly directed patients away from the CDC. Snyder said he hates that disconnect.

“This has been a source of heated discussion,” he said. “How can we be saying, ‘Do not trust the CDC when it comes to vaccines,’ yet here is the information we’re giving our own patients when they’re in the office about vaccines?”

Another mother brought her 14-year-old son for his annual physical. She asked to be identified by only her first name, Melissa, so she could freely discuss her family’s private health issues.

Snyder recommended the , which helps . Although Melissa had refused the HPV vaccine in a previous visit, this time she left the decision up to her son. He agreed to it. But for other vaccines, she wouldn’t budge.

“I’m a hard ‘no’ on the covid,” she told Snyder.

“We could talk about that if you want,” he suggested.

“I don’t need to talk about it,” she replied.

After the appointment, Melissa said she just doesn’t know whom to trust anymore when it comes to vaccine safety. She used to get information from the CDC but no longer does.

“I worry that it’s been politicized a lot, and I don’t like politics,” she said. “Now I prefer to hear things from people, healthcare professionals.”

Such distrust and confusion inspired Snyder to join an independent vaccine information campaign, along with other pediatric practices and health departments in the Connecticut River Valley of Western Massachusetts.

The campaign’s website, which is promoted in Snyder’s waiting room, is called . It sidesteps the CDC and highlights advice from local doctors and national medical groups, . Valley Vax bought ads on the sides of buses in Western Massachusetts to promote the site, with the faces and testimonials of local doctors including Snyder.

“We wanted something that felt familiar and appealing and that they might be more likely to trust,” said , director of Amherst’s public health department, who coordinates the Valley Vax effort.

She said the organizers decided not to criticize the CDC outright.

“Some information from the CDC is reasonable. Like they are doing a good job of tracking influenza-like illness rates in the country,” Malin said. “It’s important not to discount an organization completely.”

Still, she said it’s the first time she’s had to contradict health information from the CDC. “That’s not a comfortable place to be in at all,” she said.

Other health leaders are also banding together to get out evidence-based information. At the state level, California, Hawai‘i, Oregon, and Washington — frustrated with the CDC — operate the to “ensure the public has access to credible information.” And governors of 14 states and Guam set up the in response to declining trust in federal health agencies.

Locally, some public health departments are partnering with community leaders to reach people who have stopped listening to government institutions but “do have strong connections within their faith community or do have strong connections within their neighborhood,” said , a spokesperson for the .

Like Amherst, many local health departments now direct people to professional medical organizations instead of the CDC, Casalotti said, because advice from those groups may change slightly as the science evolves, but it’s unlikely to change with each lawsuit against the government.

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BALTIMORE — In March in a McDonald’s parking lot off a busy street, mental health clinician Michala Williams met a 38-year-old woman in a car.

“So, you called the police for help?” Williams asked the woman, who was sobbing uncontrollably and said she sometimes thinks about harming herself.

She told Williams she has children ranging from age 2 to 22, she was dealing with health issues, and that her fiancé had recently been jailed. She felt so overwhelmed she couldn’t eat.

The woman, who asked not to be named so that she could freely discuss her mental health, explained she’d tried to get help the previous month by driving to the hospital but got pulled over on the way because her car registration had expired.

“I don’t care if I get pulled over,” she said. “But I was saying, ‘I don’t know what to do. I just want to go to the hospital.’”

The officer arrested her for acting erratically, so instead of going to the hospital she went to jail.

“I had to sit inside of a cold cell. I couldn’t use the bathroom or anything,” the woman said.

On the day she met Williams, she’d decided to call 911. The dispatcher recognized the woman didn’t need a police response but instead needed one of Baltimore’s mobile crisis teams, which send a clinician and a peer counselor to meet people in mental health distress.

By the end of an hourlong conversation, Williams set the woman up with referrals to a psychiatrist, a therapist, legal help, and a case manager to determine if her child with autism was eligible for government services.

“She’s been through a lot of trauma, and no one is going to deny that,” Williams said. “But I now have to take all of that and decide, ‘OK, here’s steps 1, 2, and 3,’ because we got to find a little bit of sliver of something to give her some hope that there’s help out here.”

For years, the mobile crisis teams, which are overseen by , a nonprofit that acts as the city’s mental health department, have diverted calls from police to mental health professionals. However, the units have a limited scope, focused on people in mental health crises.

Now Baltimore is tapping into some of the roughly $400 million from opioid-related legal settlements to build out a broader service to operate around the clock and respond to other kinds of crises when police aren’t needed.

Baltimore logged to 911 in 2024, but tens of thousands of them didn’t require traditional emergency services, like police, firefighters, or EMTs, according to , an expert in community safety at Georgetown Law.

Instead, the calls were about, for example, a homeless person who fell asleep in a store, a person who seemed confused in a public park, and someone who was yelling at passersby on the street.

Such calls “don’t require a badge, a gun, and handcuffs to resolve,” Duckett said.

Often those people end up in jail instead of getting the help they need, he said. A study that when a non-law enforcement team responded to 911 calls in Durham, North Carolina, it resulted in fewer arrests than when police responded — especially for callers who were Black, men, or ages 25-39. Police responses can also lead to trauma for that person or a less satisfactory outcome than another community service response would produce, Duckett said. The idea behind the Baltimore mobile crisis teams — and the new service — is to find out what people in crisis may need and how to connect them to those resources instead of arresting them.

From 2021 to 2025, Baltimore’s homicide rate decreased by 60%, setting records for the drop in violence. But at the same time, drug overdoses made national records, as about 1,000 people here each year from 2020 to 2023.

In 2018, Baltimore opted out of a global settlement that other jurisdictions made with opioid makers and distributors and instead sued them independently. As the opioid-related lawsuits were settled, city officials decided that the settlement awards it receives must be spent on drug-related harms — or on services that help prevent addiction, such as housing support, healthcare, and education.

One seeks to directly address overdoses by placing boxes of the overdose reversal drug naloxone at every subway stop. Expanding 911 services is part of a larger strategy to beef up city services, with $15 million in settlement funds allocated so far, according to Sara Whaley, Baltimore’s director of overdose response. Whaley hopes the expansion will help the city think differently about how it responds to residents in crisis — regardless of why they’re calling 911.

She views the calls as an opportunity to help solve a problem rather than be punitive. “What are the wraparound services and support that can help prevent them from being involved in this, in that emergency system?” she said.

For example, the person falling asleep in a store may need connection to community housing. The goal is to reduce violence, get people proper resources, and avoid the cycle of incarcerating people dealing with poverty, addiction, and mental health.

, executive director of the Health Lab at the University of Chicago, of services like these. She said they offer peace of mind for callers that “they’re going to be met with the right response at the right time.”

“We also see responders themselves feeling like they have a better toolbox in their ability to pursue actual resolution to these calls,” she said.

To expand its system, Baltimore looked to cities — including Durham — that have adopted similar models to reroute callers who don’t need emergency responders.

Durham’s diversion program is called the , or HEART. The program estimates it has diverted more than 12,000 calls in four years. It said police backup was needed for only 0.02% of those calls and that response times have improved for all types of 911 calls.

Durham has of the HEART calls, showing that nonpolice responders in Durham have helped with everything from finding housing for a woman fleeing domestic violence to setting up medical appointments for a homeless veteran.

In one case, a hotel manager called 911 asking for help finding a blind man housing for the night, since the hotel didn’t have accessible rooms available. The HEART responders booked him a room and the next day provided a ride to meet with an organization that could help secure housing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vaught administered the vecuronium and also left the patient alone.

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

As previously reported by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ, Vanderbilt did not initially report the error to regulators as required and told the medical examiner that the patient died of natural causes. The medical center fired Vaught and negotiated a settlement with the Murpheys that keeps the family from talking publicly about her death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A bill in March then by Democratic Gov. Jared Polis allows Colorado to further uncouple itself from federal guidance.

The law allows health officials to follow the recommendations of national medical groups when making decisions such as purchasing bulk vaccines for the Medicaid program.

“We are insulating our state from the dysfunction coming out of Washington,” said Democratic state , a co-sponsor of the bill and a registered nurse. “We’re going to rely on science.”

“From fighting during the pandemic for Coloradans to get vaccines as quickly as possible to combating the Trump Administration’s barriers to getting vaccinated, we have expanded access to vaccines for Coloradans who want them,” Polis said in a statement when he signed the law.

Colorado is one of that, along with Washington, D.C., have taken steps to bypass the new federal recommendations amid worries that the changes could chip away at public trust in vaccines and erode .

Previously, Colorado, like most states, had followed federal guidance set by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. In January, CDC advisory panelists, selected by Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., from the agency’s universal recommendation list.

Last year, doctors, scientists, local leaders, and other supporters came together to form an outreach and advocacy coalition called .

The group aims to offer a clear, unified voice on the proven benefits of vaccines and reassure residents confused by the many federal changes.

, a former Denver City Council member, joined the group because she wants more people to hear her own chilling story about vaccine-preventable illness.

“Every summer everybody got sick,” Boigon said, recounting her childhood in 1950s Detroit.

The illness was polio, a highly contagious viral disease that , sometimes causing partial or full paralysis.

During the summer of 1953, “the whole block was sick and some of us got crippled, and that was just the way it was,” she said.

New Group Steps Up

Boigon’s personal history will be part of the new generations about the dangers of infectious diseases that were once common in the U.S. but are now relatively rare.

The group, which formed last September, will also compile vaccine information from medical groups and the state health department and advocate for policy proposals with the state government.

“It was in direct response to the federal threats,” said another coalition member, former state lawmaker . She leads the nonprofit .

Another member, public relations specialist Elizabet Garcia, wants more outreach to Hispanics, whose vaccination rates .

“A lot of time it’s this fear that they’re going to have to pay out-of-pocket, that their insurance doesn’t cover it, that they might not even have insurance in general,” Garcia said.

Boigon was 5 when she got sick and was hospitalized for six weeks with a fever. The virus attacked her spine.

“None of my limbs worked immediately afterwards,” Boigon said.

Although she regained function in her other limbs, her right arm never fully recovered. She had to adapt, relearning everyday tasks such as reaching out to shake hands with people with her left hand.

In 1955, not long after she got sick, the new polio vaccine became more widely available to the public. As vaccinations took off, U.S. cases of polio, once one of the nation’s most feared diseases, .

Increasing Public Trust

State leaders have taken other steps to promote public health. After the Trump administration pulled the U.S. out of the World Health Organization, several states, including Colorado, the WHO’s Global Outbreak Alert and Response Network on their own.

Colorado also challenging the Trump administration’s changes to the childhood vaccine schedule.

And the new state law has provisions besides allowing the state to diverge from federal recommendations. It codifies pharmacists’ ability to prescribe and give vaccines themselves. It also increases legal protections for healthcare workers who give vaccines.

“This law will provide more clarity to guide all Coloradans, including providers who administer vaccines,” Lontine said.

But the legislation has opponents who say it would interfere with parental choice and claim vaccines might be unsafe or ineffective.

“I just want to make sure we’re not just getting into a big political dispute between the federal recommendations — the CDC and so forth — and different political views in Colorado here,” said Republican state , who voted against the vaccine bill.

NPR contacted the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services about Colorado’s new law. Spokesperson Emily Hilliard answered in an email: “The updated CDC childhood schedule continues to protect children against serious diseases.”

Preventable Illnesses Surge

The flurry of statewide activity comes as Colorado and the nation have seen surges in illnesses .

As of mid-May, Colorado had recorded 22 measles cases this year. In 2025, it registered , according to the state health department, far surpassing totals from previous years.

Across Colorado, for measles were 88% last school year — with only a few counties achieving rates of 95%, the level needed for herd immunity, according to data in December.

This has also been Colorado’s worst flu season in recent years.

Vaccination rates for both flu and covid-19 have dropped slightly in Colorado, according to the state health department.

Eight children in Colorado have died this season ; one from covid; and one from RSV, or respiratory syncytial virus. are available for children and recommended by the state’s health department.

Kennedy, a longtime anti-vaccine activist, has defended his decisions to overhaul the recommended schedule for childhood vaccinations.

In March, a federal judge many of the changes.

“We’re not taking vaccines away from anybody. If you want to get the vaccine, you could get it. It’s going to be fully covered by insurance just like it was before,” Kennedy in January.

When a reporter suggested the new changes could result in fewer people getting a flu vaccine, Kennedy said: “Well, that may be, and maybe that’s a better thing.”

Boigon is sometimes incredulous at everything that has happened.

“It’s like we’re going backwards,” she said. “It’s like we have decided we don’t want a modern life; we want to be back in the 1950s, where children are sick and dying.”

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The city’s mobile crisis team had just gotten a call about a man walking around outside without shoes. The man’s family told the team he was having a mental health crisis and wouldn’t come inside.

As they drove down the highway toward the city’s outskirts, team member Evan Thiessen spoke with the relative who had reached out.

“You’re doing the right thing, and we’re going to make sure he gets help today, OK?” he said.

They pulled up the man’s police record on a laptop and saw that he did have a record of some previous encounters with police, including some that had turned violent.

, a licensed therapist, had that in mind as they pulled into a neighborhood of single-family homes. He stepped out of the Ford Bronco and headed toward the front door.

A Funding Problem

Many communities around the country send out teams like this one to help people in psychiatric crisis, rather than dispatching regular police.

A found there were at least 1,800 mobile teams nationwide in 2023. But financial support for them is often inadequate and inconsistent, leaving many communities struggling to keep the teams operating.

Two programs — one in Great Falls, in central Montana, and one in Billings, in south-central Montana — recently shut down. Six units remain in Montana.

The strategy in Eugene, Oregon, but gained momentum nationally over the past 10 years.

Recent about police killing people who are experiencing a psychiatric crisis have sparked conversations about how to safely and effectively respond. Most police officers are not trained to deal with people experiencing delusions or hallucinations, nor to de-escalate situations involving threatening behaviors to themselves or others.

An across 27 states found that about a third of the victims showed signs of being in crisis. Another study found that people with a serious mental illness were at least to experience use of force by police as those without.

By contrast, crisis response teams have been trained to de-escalate such situations and provide appropriate therapeutic care.

When the team arrived at the house in Bozeman, the man had already gone back inside. The team then talked with the man’s family for about half an hour and helped them devise a plan to keep him at home — and safe. Before they left, team members determined the man wasn’t a threat to himself or others.

Also, they planned to follow up within a few days to connect him with ongoing mental health care. After an encounter with the team, some clients might need follow-up therapy, assistance with psychiatric medications, or help finding treatment for substance abuse.

The Bozeman team is available 12 hours a day, seven days a week, and costs roughly $1 million a year to run.

Police departments are generally funded by local taxpayers. Mobile crisis teams don’t have a single, reliable source of funding.

Some, despite successful operations and , are or have closed entirely. One that shuttered was Oregon’s .

Most crisis calls end with people staying where they are, avoiding a trip to the emergency room or going to jail, according to , which runs the mobile crisis program in Bozeman.

Beyond police and firefighters, members of the public can call the team directly.

“I’ve been out on calls where individuals have barricaded themselves in residences or in their vehicles with a firearm. So, helping to assist not only law enforcement, the negotiators, but consulting on the behavioral health side of that,” said Ryan Mattson, who leads the Bozeman crisis team.

The program has reduced the time that Bozeman police officers must spend on mental health calls by nearly 80%, according to Mattson, and prevented unnecessary ER visits.

Residents and political leaders see that value, he said, but finding a way to pay for the service has been difficult.

“I’m confident we’ll be here through next fiscal year. That’s about as confident as I am at this point,” Mattson said.

Mobile crisis programs in Montana, which began operating about five years ago, have cost more than the state originally projected.

Health insurance is sometimes a revenue source for mobile crisis teams. That’s because a crisis call is a type of mental health service, provided by trained professionals such as therapists or crisis intervention specialists. Still, many private insurance companies don’t reimburse for mobile crisis services.

What Medicaid Pays For — And Doesn’t

Medicaid, the government-funded insurance program for low-income and disabled Americans, is another funding source. Two-thirds of states allow Medicaid reimbursement for such calls, but rates vary.

In Montana, Medicaid reimburses the team only for the time they spend responding to a call in the field. Additional time spent on a case — documenting the encounters, or waiting for the next call — isn’t reimbursed.

“You need to pay for the capacity to be at the ready, just like we do with fire or police, regardless of whether somebody is going to be called out,” said of Inseparable, a nonprofit that advocates for mental health policy reform.

It’s not feasible for mobile crisis teams to rely solely on reimbursement from insurance companies, she said.

To deal with the shortfalls, many mobile teams rely on a patchwork of grants and other funding, according to , who studies Medicaid policy at KFF, a health information nonprofit that includes ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ.

Some state governments have stepped in to help.

Eight states, including New Jersey, California, and Washington, mandate that private insurers cover the cost of mobile crisis calls for people on their plans, according to Kimball. At least 10 states have implemented fees on cellphone bills to help pay for service.

Montana hasn’t followed suit.

The state provides about $2 million annually in supplemental funds to help the mobile teams pay for service calls that aren’t reimbursed through Medicaid, according to an emailed statement from Jon Ebelt, a state health department spokesperson.

But program managers counter that the paperwork to access that funding is complicated and often isn’t worth the staff time.

Will Montana Step In?

Despite this state support, mobile teams are still struggling to stay afloat, Ebelt acknowledged. He said Montana officials are considering boosting what Medicaid reimburses for each service call.

In Missoula, the mobile crisis team turned to local taxpayers for additional help. Their annual expenditure is $1.4 million, but Medicaid reimbursements were covering only about 20% of the cost, according to program manager John LaRocque. Even with local tax dollars, the program faces a $250,000 shortfall, so LaRocque is looking for grants.

Mobile crisis is still a relatively new concept, and growing pains are to be expected, said Sierra Riesberg, director of the .

Still, abrupt closures create instability and lead some patients to the ER, placing financial pressure on another distressed part of the local health system.

“A much-needed service is available and then not available, available and then not available. These things need to be taken into consideration when developing programs in communities,” she said.

If more mobile crisis teams shut down, that might interfere with Montana’s recent efforts to overhaul an outdated and underfunded mental health system. The state’s only psychiatric hospital hasn’t kept up with the to the facility.

Later this year, Montana hopes to join a federal pilot program to open a new type of clinic: , or CCBHCs. Those clinics will receive boosted levels of federal funding, but they are required to offer round-the-clock mobile crisis services as well as other crisis care.

That could be a tall order for rural communities, said , an executive at in Great Falls.

Alluvion used to operate the mobile crisis team in Great Falls before it shuttered the service. One major reason it closed was that the expected Medicaid payments covered less than anticipated. Before Alluvion would consider getting involved again, the state would need to “completely revamp” the way the service is funded, Schreiner said.

“Is it a priority for our state or not?” he asked.

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But unlike parents in most of the U.S., she had extra help that was once much more common: house calls.

Adele was only a few weeks old when a registered nurse showed up at Bonfield’s door on Dec. 10 to check on them and offer hands-on help and advice.

As a city resident who had recently given birth, she was eligible for up to three home visits from , a program of the city health department.

She didn’t need to feed and change the baby before packing everything up for a car trip to the pediatrician or a clinic. It was a relief; Bonfield was exhausted and was still trying to figure out how to use the infant car seat.

“Everything is so abstract before you have a baby,” Bonfield said. “You are going to have questions you never even thought about.”

Louisiana is among the worst-performing states in maternal and infant health outcomes. So New Orleans is trying to catch health issues early — and get families off to an easier start — by adding health visits during the crucial first months of life.

The hope is that health outcomes can be improved by returning to the old-fashioned medical practice of house calls.

The Family Connects model has been tried in communities . It began in Durham, North Carolina, in 2008, as a partnership with Duke University. In 2023, New Orleans’ health director, , helped launch a local version of the program.

Avegno was concerned by Louisiana’s particularly grim statistics for maternal and infant health.

The state has some of the highest rates of preterm births, unnecessary cesarean sections, and maternal and infant deaths, according to the . A from the United Health Foundation found that Louisiana was the “least healthy” state for women and children.

“We got to do some real things real differently, unless you like being No. 50 all the time,” Avegno said.

The home visits are free and available to anyone who has just given birth in a New Orleans hospital, no matter their insurance status or income level.

Avegno describes the home visits as going “back to the future,” replicating a practice that was far more common a hundred years ago.

“There is no more critical time and vulnerable time than right at birth and in the few weeks to months following birth,” Avegno said.

The nurses arrive with diaper bags filled with newborn essentials, from diapers to nipple cream. They weigh, measure, and examine the babies, and check in with the mothers about their health and well-being. They offer referrals to other programs across the city.

They ask if the family has enough food, and whether there are guns in the house and how they’re stored, Avegno said.

In Bonfield’s case, the nurse stayed for over two hours. Bonfield especially liked their conversation about how to safely store breastmilk.

“I’ve never felt so well taken care of and listened to,” she said.

Broad Support

Louisiana has struggled a long time with poor maternal and infant health outcomes, but the problem has been complicated by the .

The 2022 law led to risky medical delays and in obstetrical care, and confusion among doctors about what’s allowed in ending dangerous pregnancies or .

Avegno opposes the state’s abortion policies, believing they are harmful to women’s health. But she says that Family Connects offers other ways to preserve and expand care for women. For example, the visiting nurse can check in with the mother about whether she needs help with birth control.

“We can’t give them abortion access,” she said. “That’s not the goal of this program, and that wouldn’t be possible anyway. But we can make sure they’re healthy and understand what their options are for reproductive health care.”

Abortion politics aside, the postpartum home visits seem to have bipartisan support in Louisiana, and state lawmakers want to expand their availability.

Last year, the Republican-dominated legislature requiring private insurance plans to cover the visits.

The new law is another way that Louisiana officials can be “pro-life,” said state , who, as a Republican and an abortion opponent, sponsored the legislation.

“One of the slings used against advocates against abortion is that we’re pro-birth, and not truly pro-life,” Bayham said. “And this bill is proof that we care about the overall well-being of our mothers and our newborns.”

Improving Health and Help for Postpartum Depression

Two years in, there are already promising signs that the program is improving health.

Early data analyzed by researchers at Tulane University showed that families who got the visits were more likely to stick to the recommended schedule of pediatric and postpartum checkups. Moms and babies were also less likely to need hospitalization, and overall health care spending was down among families insured by Medicaid.

Research on Family Connects programs elsewhere has found similar results. In North Carolina, one study showed that three to seven home visits in the year before a baby turned 1.

But the statistic that most excited Avegno related to the program’s role in screening mothers for postpartum depression.

The visiting nurses are helping spot more cases of postpartum depression — earlier — so that new moms can get treatment. About 10% of moms participating in the New Orleans program were eventually diagnosed with postpartum depression, compared with 6% of moms who did not get the visits.

Timely diagnosis is important to prevent depression symptoms from worsening, or leading to more , such as suicidal thoughts, thoughts of harming the baby, or problems bonding with their newborn.

Lizzie Frederick was one of the New Orleans mothers whose postpartum symptoms were caught early by a visiting nurse.

When she was pregnant, she and her husband took all the childbirth and newborn classes they could. They hired a doula to help with the birth. But Frederick still wasn’t prepared for the stresses of the postpartum period, she said.

“I don’t think there are enough classes out there to prepare you for all the different scenarios,” Frederick said.

When her son, James, was born in May, he had trouble breastfeeding. He was sleeping for only 90-minute stretches at night.

When the nurse arrived for the first visit a few weeks later, Frederick was busy trying to feed James. But the nurse reassured her that there was no rush. She could wait.

“I am here to support you and take care of you,” Frederick recalled the nurse saying.

The nurse weighed James, and Frederick was relieved to learn he was gaining weight. But for most of the visit, the nurse focused on Frederick’s needs. She was exhausted, anxious, and had started hearing what she called phantom cries.

The nurse walked her through a mental health questionnaire. Then she recommended that Frederick see a counselor and consider attending group therapy sessions for perinatal women.

Frederick followed up on these suggestions and was eventually diagnosed with postpartum depression.

“I think that I would have felt a lot more alone if I hadn’t had this visit, and struggled in other ways without the resources that the nurse provided,” Frederick said.

Home Visits Save Money

, an assistant professor at Tulane’s School of Public Health, helped interview over 90 families participating in the Family Connects New Orleans program.

“It was overwhelmingly positive experiences,” she said. “This is like a gold-standard public health project, in my opinion.”

To operate, Family Connects costs the city about $1.5 million a year, or $700 per birth, according to Avegno. But the program also has the potential to save money: Research on North Carolina’s program in the program saved $3.17 in health care billing before the child turned 2.

That’s another reason to require the visits statewide, according to state Rep. Bayham.

“The nurses and medical practitioners will be able to monitor potential problems on the front end, so that they could be handled without a trip to the emergency room or something even more drastic,” he said.

Avegno is advocating that the program be included in Louisiana’s Medicaid program, since more than in the state are covered by Medicaid. A recent made the same recommendation.

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