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For the past week, Brooke Hale has been told “no” about 80 times a day. The executive assistant at Altus Lumberton Hospital has spent her shifts on the phone in a windowless office, repeatedly asking other facilities within an 800-mile radius the same question: Can you take one of our critical COVID-19 patients? On Thursday, there were three. They needed intensive care, and without it they could die. Hale tried hospitals in Texarkana and Tyler, Lubbock and Lufkin, Oklahoma, Louisiana and Mississippi. None had room. “I feel helpless,” Hale said through her green N95 mask. “I feel like I can’t help patients like I need to.” (Despart, 8/6)

Existing staff shortages across the country, exacerbated by the coronavirus pandemic, have caused widespread burnout among health workers, even forcing some to walk off the job, health specialists and hospital officials say. “The mental toll of pandemic and burnout is real and it is pervasive across the country,” said Purvi Parikh, an immunologist with the national advocacy group Physicians for Patient Protection. (Villegas, 8/5)

Even as frontline health workers have been celebrated during the COVID-19 pandemic, many others working to track the virus, stem its spread and help Americans avoid infection have found themselves under siege. Those public health workers have been vilified by a portion of the public and attacked by some political leaders and media figures. They have been fired or forced from office. They have been subjected to protests—some on their own front lawns—as well as curses, threats and even, on at least one occasion, racist taunts. All that while working endless hours, sometimes in unfamiliar roles, to save as many people as possible from a virus that has so far killed more than 614,000 Americans. (Ollove, 8/5)

The lobbying frenzy began late last month, as senators and the White House desperately sought a way to pay for a high-stakes, high-profile infrastructure deal. One of their options: raiding $44 billion that had been set aside to help hospitals, nursing homes, and other providers recover from the pandemic, but was never spent. Providers panicked — until Sen. Susan Collins stepped in to save the funds. (Cohrs, 8/6)

Ascension Michigan agreed to pay $2.8 million to settle a lawsuit alleging the health system submitted false claims for federal payment for alleged medically unnecessary procedures performed by one of its oncologists, the U.S. Department of Justice announced Thursday. The government alleges the gynecological oncologist, who is not named because the suit was sealed as part of the settlement, performed "radical hysterectomies and chemotherapy." A peer review performed at the hospital's request determined less aggressive surgeries or medical interventions were appropriate. (Walsh, 8/5)

Kidney care startup Cricket Health raised $83.5 million in a Series B funding round, including money from two major health insurers, the company announced Thursday. Valtruis, a newly launched portfolio company focused on value-based care launched by private-equity firm Welsh, Carson, Anderson & Stowe this week, led the $83.5 million funding round. Cigna and Blue Shield of California, two Cricket Health customers, also participated. Cigna was already a Cricket Health investor. Other participants included venture- and growth-equity investment firm Oak HC/FT and K2 HealthVentures, a firm that provides debt and equity capital. (Kim Cohen, 8/5)

Two months after its launch, Morgan Health has made its first investment, dropping $50 million in Vera Whole Health on Thursday. The new venture represents the first step for JPMorgan Chase & Co.'s healthcare arm to build a coordinated care model for itself and other companies, said CEO Dan Mendelson, who was the founder and former CEO of healthcare advisory firm Avalere Health and also worked in the White House Office of Management and Budget during the Clinton administration. (Tepper, 8/5)

KHN: Hard Lessons From A City That Tried To Privatize Public Health

If you were growing up in Detroit in the 1970s or ’80s, chances are you knew the city’s Herman Kiefer public health complex by both sight and reputation. Opened at the turn of the century and later enhanced by renowned industrial architect Albert Kahn, the imposing brick complex was named after a local infectious disease doctor. As the city grew, so did the complex and the services offered within, becoming synonymous with public health in the eyes of many families and residents. (Barry-Jester, 8/6)