The decision by the Trump administration comes amid massive cuts in federal funding for Medicaid. Advocates worry this could be a one-two punch for disabled Americans who want to live independently.

Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News senior correspondent Stephanie Armour joined WAMU’s Health Hub on Aug. 19 to explain what this change means for Americans with disabilities and their loved ones.

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The Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News Minute is available every Thursday via direct download or the RSS feed.

Aug. 20

Arielle Zionts [arr-ee-ELL ZY-ence] reads the week’s news: Pediatricians try to persuade more parents to vaccinate their kids amid measles outbreaks. Plus, how hospital monopolies drive up costs for patients and insurers.

Can’t see the audio player? Visit kffhealthnews.org to listen.

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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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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.

This article is from a partnership that includes , , and Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News.

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Comfortable couches in one area invite expectant parents to settle in for birth education classes. In another, a colorful pile of toys await the babies and toddlers. And there’s a free supply of diapers and food. Years ago, as Iglesias was giving birth and expressing her wish not to have an epidural for pain, she felt isolated and that her preferences were dismissed by the medical staff. Today, she works hard to make sure other parents can have the support of a doula.

“We kind of created this to fill the gaps that we realized existed because we had to go through it,” Iglesias said. She’s the founder of , a doula agency dedicated to giving parents care throughout the perinatal process.

Iglesias said one of the widest gaps is the lack of access to doula care for parents on Medicaid.

Doula care has been initiation and less maternal anxiety. The perinatal doula care covers education about pregnancy and birth, advocacy for new parents in the hospital, and help after delivery with lactation and recovery. Doulas often work alongside doctors or midwives who provide medical care.

“The doula is the person that already knows what you want. We know what your dream birth is,” Iglesias explained. “We’re somebody that is standing on the side of the parent.”

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In 2022, Virginia became the fourth state to start reimbursing doulas through Medicaid. A push to address the country’s maternal mortality rates, which are , has been an engine for lawmakers looking to give women on Medicaid the support of doula care. For example, another hospitals to allow an extra person, other than a family member, in the delivery room.

The services offered and the number of visits covered by Medicaid vary by state, but today doulas are covered in . An additional 20 states have considered proposals or are in the process of implementing similar policies.

In Virginia, doulas say the administrative and logistical challenges they encounter are trickling down to moms. A review of the Virginia Certification Board’s Doula Registry this June found based in Northern Virginia accept payment from Medicaid.

Doulas say that while Medicaid coverage of their services is a good first step, the amount of paperwork required in the approval process and the low reimbursement rates mean that fewer doulas participate in the Medicaid program, reducing access for beneficiaries.

that extended doula benefits to Medicaid enrollees sought to improve the health of Virginia parents and decrease the number of mothers who die during the time surrounding birth. The state’s maternal mortality rate is among .

As co-chair of the state’s task force on doula regulations, Iglesias helps shape policies that make it easier for moms on Medicaid to get doula care through the program.

To access doula services in Virginia, parents on Medicaid must have a referral from a doctor, and their doula must be approved by the state to care for Medicaid beneficiaries. Iglesias would like to see that process be quicker and less costly for doulas, who pay $75-$150 for certification.

While the policy debates continue, Iglesias has decided not to get certified to care for parents on Medicaid. Instead, she raises money to provide doula care for parents on Medicaid outside the system.

“I don’t want to be state-certified with a training that I feel is not full and complete, a training that doesn’t touch on that community aspect of work,” she said.

Iglesias said the services covered are too limited and Medicaid does not allow her to work with clients as she sees fit. Virginia’s payment covers up to eight doula visits. All but the first visit are limited to one hour, which Iglesias said isn’t enough time.

“If you want to actually build a relationship with this person that you’re going to be standing in with in their most vulnerable moment, it ain’t happening,” Iglesias said.

While pursuing her PhD at George Mason University, studied the initial implementation of the doula reimbursement policy in Virginia.

Mensah from 2022 to 2024 for a study published this year. She interviewed doulas eager to serve clients on Medicaid. But some told her they got bogged down in the paperwork and never were certified. Doulas report similar struggles with the certification process today.

Mensah said the mismatch between the size of the Medicaid population in Northern Virginia and the low number of doulas available leads to fewer parents receiving doula care.

Coverage is a good first step, Mensah noted, but it doesn’t translate to enough access. During the first two years of implementation, in Virginia used doula services. That study is the latest available.

Kenda Denia, executive director of , a statewide doula collective in Virginia, welcomed the law at first.

“But now we’re looking at certain logistics that are not working,” Denia said.

Private-pay doulas in Virginia $1,200 to $3,000 per pregnancy. For families wanting more extensive prenatal or postpartum services, the fee can be as much as $6,000. Virginia’s Medicaid program, also known as Cardinal Care, per pregnancy. They receive an additional $100 if their client attends prenatal and postpartum doctors’ visits.

The pay is too low and does not reflect the value of the services they provide, Denia said. “Midwives don’t get paid this. Doctors don’t get paid this,” she explained. “We are driving to people’s homes for postpartum and prenatal care.”

Doulas might wait weeks or months for reimbursement, and the pay is not flexible. The Medicaid reimbursement rate is the same across the state and does not capture the in areas like Alexandria. It’s roughly 32% more expensive in Alexandria than the average cost of living in Virginia, according to ERI Economic Research Institute, a private data analytics group.

Despite the barriers, Denia applauded parts of the policy. Medicaid coverage of doulas means that more parents can have a “birthing bestie,” she said.

Before getting pregnant, Juliana Navia had no idea what doulas did. But while at a free clinic for her prenatal checkups, Navia connected with Iglesias. Later, Iglesias became Navia’s doula and helped her navigate a difficult situation when she wasn’t getting the kind of care she wanted at the hospital.

“I was stressed giving birth, but my doula helped me,” Navia said. “I was advocated for.”

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“They called me a ‘liability to the job site,’” Pugh said, recalling the words of his manager when a seizure cost him his last job at a fast-food restaurant in this western Montana city.

When the 46-year-old lost work in the past, his wife of 10 years covered their rent and he tended to their home until he found another job. But his wife died last year. Soon after, Pugh became homeless. His problem with alcohol became worse, which made managing his seizures more difficult.

“When she died, my whole base was depleted,” Pugh said.

Medicaid pays for the prescriptions that keep Pugh’s seizures at bay. The government-subsidized health coverage would also pay for an addiction treatment program that Pugh said he has tried to get into, but he was told there’s a waitlist.

Pugh’s goal has been to get healthy enough to work again. But he’s worried about being able to keep the Medicaid coverage he needs to get to that point.

Early Embrace of New Rules

In the spring, the federal government finalized regulations requiring millions of people who receive Medicaid benefits to prove they’re working, volunteering, or going to school to keep their coverage. States have until January to begin those checks. Montana, Arkansas, and Nebraska have already started implementing them.

The Trump administration’s federal work requirements exempt certain groups of people: those with disabilities, those older than 64, pregnant people and Native Americans, among others. To receive an exemption, anyone without a clear-cut qualification — such as through their age or disability status — will have to prove they’re too sick to work.

But the administration decided that being homeless isn’t a medical condition and can’t count as an automatic out from having to meet the new requirements. Many conservative policymakers support work requirements, and some states have attempted to implement such rules for years. At least four states — Montana, Arizona, Kentucky, and Utah — previously proposed policies that included homelessness as an exemption.

But federal officials have said that’s not allowed. In an email to Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services declined to provide a comment on the record. But the agency confirmed that states must stick to the federal government’s list of exemptions. Homelessness in the U.S. increased by 27% from 2013 to 2025, from the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Last year, about 746,000 people .

Many, like Pugh, qualified for Medicaid, though the number of enrollees who are homeless is difficult to measure. In 2023, who received medical or behavioral health services through one of the nation’s roughly 300 programs were enrolled in Medicaid.

Jennifer Tolbert, deputy director of KFF’s Program on Medicaid and the Uninsured, said the federal regulations are a lot stricter than many states had expected, even those on board with work requirements. (KFF is a health information nonprofit that includes Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News.)

“It took everyone by surprise,” Tolbert said.

Mehmet Oz, who leads CMS, touted the regulations as a “path to prosperity” during a press conference in June.

“We need to get people to try to work,” Oz said. In June, 25 mostly Democratic-led states over the regulations, arguing the medical frailty standard would be too hard for enrollees to meet — and for states to assess. The work requirements are projected to increase the number of uninsured people nationwide by by 2034, according to the Congressional Budget Office.

Most states will begin to implement the Medicaid work requirements in January. 

Montana plans to begin booting Medicaid enrollees from coverage this October if they can’t prove they’re in compliance with the work requirement.

“My Medicaid is still active, but when are they gonna cut that off from me?” Pugh said. “I can’t get employed. How am I supposed to survive?”

The differences between the states’ and federal government’s exemption lists don’t end with people who are homeless. In Montana, lawmakers also planned to excuse people fleeing domestic violence and caregivers of hospitalized family members — two other groups left off the federal exemption list.

“These are simply parties that, due to a number of conditions, cannot meet those requirements,” Republican state Rep. Ed Buttrey said in 2019 when the Montana Legislature passed its first Medicaid work requirement bill. Buttrey did not comment for this article.

Federal officials have said many people who are homeless could fall under another exemption, such as being too sick to work. But, like many states, Montana’s system to automatically conduct those checks through existing medical records isn’t ready, though health department spokesperson Jon Ebelt said it should be in place by October. Anyone not automatically exempted by the state would have 30 days to prove their case.

A Possible Exemption for Health

Pugh might qualify for a pass due to his seizures. But getting to doctor appointments the past year has been hard for him.

The anniversary of his wife’s death just passed. Typically, Pugh has to find a new place to sleep outside each night. One night while camping, Pugh lost his wallet and important documents. And with the addiction treatment centers that accept Medicaid patients overbooked, Pugh has had to rely on willpower to avoid drinking.

“I’m taking it one day at a time,” he said.

A little over two hours north, in Kalispell, Dustin Goss, a case manager at a homeless shelter called Samaritan House, said Pugh’s experience reflects why he’s worried that people who qualify for an exemption will get tangled in bureaucratic tape.

“You can’t really worry about getting paperwork done when you don’t know where you’re eating today,” Goss said.

Cassidy Kipp, who heads Samaritan House, said once people find shelter and start to stabilize, they typically find work. But even then, meeting the new requirements can be challenging. Clients often start with temporary and informal jobs — such as cleaning out a storage unit — that don’t come with a pay stub, Kipp said. 

Kaitlyn Bosshardt, a social worker at Partnership Health Center, a health clinic in Missoula, has seen more people priced out of longtime rentals as housing costs outpace people’s paychecks. Meanwhile, affordable housing and rental aid are limited.

Partnership Health is one of roughly 1,400 health centers nationwide that receive federal funding to serve patients based on what they can afford — meaning even those who lose Medicaid can receive care. But organizations representing health centers have said if too many patients lose the coverage, some clinics won’t be able to fill the financial hole.

The other problem is that these clinics generally don’t provide specialty care.

One day in June, as temperatures hovered around 90,  Pugh visited Watershed Navigation Center, a refuge run by Partnership for people without steady housing to have a meal or see a doctor. His doctor, Atarah Sidey, told Pugh that the neurology clinic that managed his seizures had dismissed him from their care after he missed three appointments.

She referred Pugh to the other neurologist in town and talked about trying to find treatment for his addiction.

“It’s just that if I don’t make the effort at changing, it ain’t gonna happen and I’m gonna end up found on the side of the road somewhere,” Pugh told Sidey.

“You got this, though, Tywon,” she responded as Pugh nodded his head. “You can do this.”

Pugh has connected with a social worker for help keeping his Medicaid. By late July, he was waiting for space to open at a Missoula addiction treatment center and waiting on responses from two job applications.

In the hard moments, Pugh imagines his wife telling him to stay calm, that things will get better.

“I just don’t wanna lose hope in the meantime,” he said.

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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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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.

This article is from a partnership that includes , , and Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News.

This article first appeared on Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and is republished here under a .

More than 900 people in Washtenaw County, Michigan, have been sickened with cyclosporiasis since mid-June. Linda Kim, a public health nurse, has called more than 100 of them. Almost everyone has said the same thing: It’s excruciating, and one of the worst illnesses they’ve experienced.

But on a Wednesday in July, she called one man who said he wouldn’t mind having it again, actually.

“You’re enjoying the weight loss?” Kim said, laughing as she took notes in a small conference room at the Washtenaw County Health Department building, just outside Ann Arbor. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. At least you got something good out of it!”

Normally, Kim’s supposed to be working downstairs in the clinic, where families wait in gray plastic chairs in the lobby for free or low-cost immunizations. But she hasn’t been there in months.

In March, Kim was transferred to a different department to help deal with a measles outbreak that sickened seven people in the county, five of them children. It was an all-hands-on-deck situation; everyone worked overtime. The state issued an advisory urging families in Washtenaw and surrounding counties to get babies 6 months or older vaccinated ahead of schedule, if possible.

The contact-tracing calls for measles could be contentious, Kim said. People were suspicious, asking her how she knew they had tested positive, or why they should give her any information.

“People were like, ‘Oh, you’re just trying to restrict my life,’ or ‘You’re just trying to get information out of me and get me in trouble,’” she said. “It’s like, no, we’re actually not doing that at all.”

As she tried to explain to them, tracing the spread of the virus and publicizing possible exposure sites was an effort to “keep it contained, so it doesn’t become something huge.”

The county’s measles outbreak ended in late May. Then in June, reports of cyclosporiasis cases started pouring in — so far in Michigan, including two deaths. Both people who died had “significant underlying health conditions that may have been impacted by cyclosporiasis and dehydration,” the state health department said on its website Aug. 3. Health officials aren’t providing more details, department spokesperson Lynn Sutfin said in an email, but are stressing that cyclosporiasis generally isn’t life-threatening and that deaths from it are uncommon in the U.S.

Kim said the cyclosporiasis surveillance has been very different from her experience with the measles outbreak. Now, people seem eager to divulge even the most graphic details, such as “pooping their beds, and, like, putting down towels and it’s not enough.”

Since she’s a nurse, such confessions don’t faze her, she said. Still, staffers have hundreds of these calls to make, so they try to keep each conversation under an hour.

But foodborne illness investigations are complex. Especially for this parasite, cyclospora. Symptoms can take as long as two weeks to appear after people have eaten contaminated food. And no one remembers what they ate two weeks ago, public health staffers said.

The interview process can be extremely detailed. Kim and her colleagues ask people to pull up their restaurant receipts, scroll through purchases on their grocery store apps, even try to recall details such as the exact brand of bagged salad mix they bought, or the type of taco they got at Taco Bell.

“Is that the crunchy one or the soft one?” Kim asked on a recent call, typing on a laptop decorated with cat and vaccine-themed stickers.

Kim has been working with the health department for two years, a period defined by federal funding cuts.

Laina Stebbins, a spokesperson for the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services, said the Trump administration’s sweeping cuts to public health grants eliminated a contract between the state health department and 44 of the state’s 45 local departments that funded 123 full-time employees.

Those cuts also affected the state’s disease surveillance labs, “reducing funding for equipment maintenance contracts, data modernization, and the ability to innovate laboratory processes during emerging disease response,” Stebbins said.

Some of that funding was restored after Michigan against the Trump administration. But Washtenaw’s health department still had to scale back some disease surveillance and outbreak response work. Currently, employees who leave or retire aren’t replaced, except for those on the nursing team, which is hiring but still understaffed.

The county’s , which aims to reduce health disparities, including in mental health, was shuttered suddenly in early 2025. Nearly a year later, it resumed its work, with funding at least through this September.

An employee from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention had been stationed at the department. During the funding chaos, the worker was fired, then rehired, then furloughed.

The federal response to cyclosporiasis has felt frustratingly slow, according to Christina Zilke, a nursing supervisor at the Washtenaw health department.

“It took them forever to say that this was lettuce, and fast-food restaurants were taking it off the shelves before the CDC ever said what it was,” she said.

During a July 14 press call, the deputy director of the CDC’s Division of Foodborne, Waterborne, and Environmental Diseases, Gwen Biggerstaff, said it’s not unusual for it to take a specific source for cyclosporiasis — if it’s identified at all. That’s partly due to the lag time between exposure and the appearance of symptoms, and the complexity of tracing this particular parasite.

Meanwhile, Zilke’s been stocking the coffee station and bringing in pizza, trying to keep up staff morale. It’s not a reward, she said. “It’s more like: ‘Here’s some food for survival. Here’s a break so you don’t quit.’”

Kim, for her part, remains enthusiastic about the job but said it’s been a surreal introduction to a public health career — first measles, now cyclospora.

“If nationally they don’t know what’s going on, how are we locally expected to know what’s going on?” she said. “And also just frustrating to be, like, ‘Wow, I don’t think even our government knows how important public health is.’”

But there’s no time to dwell. She has to move on to the next call, as soon as she can wrap up this one. She gives each person her work number, so people can call or text with any follow-up questions.

This article first appeared on Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and is republished here under a .

But behind the house, the 44-year-old’s backyard garden showcases her goals for the future, one that involves a long, healthy life with her kids: collard greens, bell peppers, onions, tomatoes, red and white potatoes, kale.

Like Lowery, many in the small towns of Lumberton and nearby Pembroke are citizens of the Lumbee Tribe who have dealt with heart conditions. The mother of four struggled with obesity and had to take insulin pills and shots daily. By when her first grandchild was born, in 2024, Lowery imagined her own life ending the way her biological father’s did: Daily insulin shots for diabetes. Kidney dialysis treatments at home. Dead of a heart attack at 63. She wanted her grandkids to remember her.

“If I don’t get this weight off me, if I don’t change my eating habits, it’s going to take me over,” she recalled thinking.

So, she expanded her garden. She cut fatty foods and sugary drinks out of her diet, stopped eating fried and fast food, and started moving more. She lost 120 pounds in two years and weaned herself off the daily insulin pills.

The Lumbee Tribe of North Carolina late last year became the 575th tribe to secure federal recognition as a sovereign nation, a milestone that leaders and citizens celebrated in tears. The designation provides federal funding for an array of services, including for healthcare. , chairman of the tribe and a state representative, “the biggest benefit” would be access to the Indian Health Service — its clinics and hospitals, as well as funding that it could provide for the tribe to .

But Lumbee researchers and healthcare providers say that money won’t be enough. For decades, IHS has been , with the agency’s budget workgroup estimating that of what it needs this year. And that was before the Trump administration’s cuts to other federal agencies further pinched IHS. Slashes to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention last year initially included laying off nearly , and President Donald Trump’s proposed 2027 budget cuts more than $150 million for a in Native American tribes.

The nearest IHS facility is more than a two-hour drive to another state for most of the 55,000 Lumbee citizens in Robeson County. The county is one of the and has some of the .

The Congressional Budget Office in 2022 estimated that the tribe could increase IHS spending by .

The tribe will have to rely on other revenue sources that are now allowed through recognition, such as a casino, to reverse the health disparities their people have faced for decades, Lumbee researchers said.

“None of us can depend on IHS alone, because we just don’t have the resources within that system,” said , a physician, a researcher at the Johns Hopkins Center for Indigenous Health, and a member of the Oglala Lakota tribe. “But it’s a great starting point.”

The IHS did not respond to questions about plans for the tribe’s health system. John Lowery did not respond to requests for an interview or a list of questions, but he said on a June podcast that he expected healthcare to be the .

‘Not Just Statistics’

Eighteen years ago, , a doctor in Lumberton and a citizen of the tribe, was working at a nearby medical center. There, she said, she was taught that patients with certain last names “are often referred directly to cardiac catheterization,” a procedure to diagnose heart conditions.

Blackburn said she realized that common Lumbee surnames carried an expectation of disease.

“Nearly two decades later, I can tell you that reality has not changed,” she told assembled tribal leadership and citizens at a public hearing.

Robeson County’s rates of heart disease, diabetes, and continue to rank among the highest in the state, Blackburn noted. In 2025, were Medicaid enrollees, the highest percentage of all counties in the state.

“But these are not just statistics to me,” she said. “These are my patients. These are our families.”

For Angie Lowery, breaking free from those statistics meant taking her health into her own hands.

She hopes a healthy diet is the answer to breaking her family’s cycle and living long enough to form relationships with her grandkids. And she brought the rest of the family with her. Her teenage daughter lost about 35 pounds. Two of her other children are now “health fanatics,” Lowery said.

Her granddaughter will be 2 in November. One Sunday morning in March, Lowery served up macaroni, cauliflower, and chickpeas for her as they spent the day together.

Lowery had supported building a casino, believing it would provide better education, infrastructure, and healthcare for her family.

“That vote, I’m thinking of my children’s future,” she said.

Casino Dreams in Limbo

Tribal citizens are deeply divided over how to reverse decades of economic decline that have led to poor living conditions, unaffordable health services, and chronic disease.

Four months after Trump signed the Lumbee Fairness Act — “I love the Lumbee Tribe” — tribal leaders gathered at a business meeting to take the first steps toward building a casino and establishing gaming as a new revenue source. Hundreds of federally recognized tribes across 29 states have used gaming as a source of revenue, in fiscal 2024, according to the latest report from the National Indian Gaming Commission.

The approach has been popular among tribal nations looking for more dollars to build up healthcare. The Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma in 1999 to build its own hospital, using roughly $25 million in gaming money, and the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians in western North Carolina funded its own hospital in 2015 mostly with $82 million in gaming funds.

But the Lumbee Tribe’s effort to establish a casino collapsed in June.

rejected a Lumbee constitutional amendment that would have allowed tribal leaders to create infrastructure needed for a gaming business. John Lowery said that he doesn’t plan on bringing back the initiative now that it was rejected “by the majority of Lumbee voters.” His term as chairman ends in two years.

Other funding sources to provide health services for the tribe could include gas stations or hotels, he said in a call with citizens before the vote.

Lumbee and other Native health researchers said they believe a twofold system — using IHS money and additional revenue — is necessary. Funds from gaming could compensate for what IHS can’t support.

Casinos’ impact on tribal health has been debated in research for decades. that the money from gaming helps tribes build more facilities, hire more doctors, and improve social services, but unhealthy substance use and smoking increase.

“There’s going to be negative impacts,” , a social work professor at the University of North Carolina and citizen of the Lumbee Tribe, said at a June panel discussion on gaming.

, 62, a Lumbee citizen and a researcher studying Native health at UNC, said the community has felt ripple effects from systemic racism, having not been acknowledged as a tribal nation for so long, and the economic downturn following the loss of Robeson County’s manufacturing and tobacco jobs.

That history plays a part in the health statistics in Robeson today, Bell said. But with federal recognition, he said, the Lumbee people have achieved a victory they’ve fought for since 1888.

“I think about the resilience of the Lumbee people and how they’ve gone through this 100-plus-year fight for federal recognition,” Bell said. “I sort of see that as a continuation of this resilience, and how now we have this opportunity with federal recognition to bring in resources to help address those issues.”

Resolution and Uncertainty

Jada Brooks, a Lumbee citizen and UNC researcher who studies Indigenous health and lives in Robeson County, is conducting a study about heart health among Lumbee women. The initiative includes classes in which Lumbee women ages 18 to 50 signed up to discuss their health. That’s where she met Angie Lowery, who talked about her lifestyle changes with the group.

“I was just floored by, like, just the extent to which she went,” Brooks said.

She and other Lumbee researchers said federal recognition allows Lumbee citizens to be set apart in census data, paving a way to get clear information on heart health, cancer rates, diabetes diagnoses, and mental health risks.

“There’s challenges in even understanding the nuances of these complex health disparities, because a lot of data isn’t out there,” said Ryan Dial, a public health researcher at UNC and a member of the Lumbee Tribe.

But access and confidence may be the biggest barriers Lumbee people will have to overcome, Brooks said.

“I think what really matters is people feeling like they can trust the healthcare system.”

Brooks said she worried that a casino would encourage bad health habits, such as smoking and drinking.

“Let’s not create more problems for ourselves than we already have,” she said. She voted against the casino.

Like others in the tribe, Angie Lowery believes in her people’s power to help themselves, regardless of whether government steps in to help.

“Just because we’re federally recognized don’t mean that the doors are going to open up and money’s going to fall through the door like dirt,” she said.

This article first appeared on Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and is republished here under a .