Dowse wore a full-body protective suit with a plastic face mask. As a pediatrician in southern Utah, he couldn’t risk getting even a mild infection, because many of his patients are babies too young for measles vaccines or children whose parents choose not to protect them with immunizations. “I went in looking like a scientist in E.T.,” he said.

Measles can cause brain damage, deafness, or death in newborns. If the baby entered the world with a measles rash and fever, Dowse was prepared to give the infant a spinal tap to assess the risk of neurological damage.

Luckily, flushed and crying, the baby looked healthy. To keep it that way, Dowse wanted to inject the baby with concentrated antibodies against the measles virus. To his surprise, the parents objected, promising to give their child “all kinds of vitamin A,” Dowse said. He begged them not to, saying, “You can’t see it on the surface, but the baby’s body is fighting the measles.” They were afraid of vaccines, so Dowse explained that antibodies were different and that they would stop measles from replicating in the infant.

“That shot is going to basically give the baby ammo to fight,” Dowse said.

The parents relented. A couple of days later, they left the hospital with a child who had narrowly skirted an infection that killed many thousands of babies a century ago. Nonetheless, Dowse said he doubted they would be returning for childhood vaccinations to protect their baby against a bevy of illnesses. Like more than a dozen Utah doctors and health officials who spoke with Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News, Dowse has adjusted his expectations.

He is part of a reluctant cohort of medical professionals now on the front line of America’s regressive next chapter in health history, one in which dangerous and preventable diseases return.

“I wish that people could see what I see,” said Nathan Money, a hospital pediatrician in Utah whose eyes welled up with tears as he described children he’s treated for measles struggling to breathe. “This train is going in the wrong direction, and it can feel like a helpless situation, because we’re just not seeing the public messaging and leadership that’s needed to turn this around.”

Since measles was deemed eliminated in the U.S. a quarter century ago, public health workers have extinguished sporadic outbreaks in close-knit, undervaccinated communities with targeted methods: Isolate people with measles and quarantine their contacts to contain the virus. But as vaccination rates , the virus is moving beyond insulated communities, overwhelming public health departments constrained by shoestring budgets. Larger outbreaks, the kind not seen for a generation, have forced health officials into a new paradigm: They have stopped racing to “contain” infections and shifted gears into what they call “mitigation.”

Utah made that transition early this year, once the outbreak hit “a point where you no longer have control over it,” said state epidemiologist Leisha Nolen. By March, measles had been detected in every health jurisdiction in the state and in northern Arizona. More than 950 people have tested positive in the two states since the outbreak began in August, but many people with measles haven’t been tested. A of measles viruses suggested that the true number of cases last year could have been 6.5 times what was known.

Last year under President Donald Trump, U.S. measles cases exceeded 2,000 for the first time since 1992. Six months into 2026, the U.S. has already surpassed that threshold. Prolonged outbreaks exact a toll on children, who have spent days in hospitals for severe infections and missed weeks of school for mild ones. Adults with measles miss work. Parents delay daycare to keep their babies safe. Doctors in Utah have enacted labor-intensive protocols to keep measles from spreading in clinics. Newborns and people with weakened immune systems who have been exposed to the virus receive infusions of concentrated antibodies costing $500 to $1,000. Medical visits for measles . Health departments spend millions trying to curb infections.

“This is like a snowball that gathers speed as it rolls downhill,” said Emilie Morris, a hospital pediatrician in Salt Lake County and Utah County. A full-throttle campaign to educate communities on the safety of vaccines and the diseases they prevent could turn the situation around, doctors and health officials said. It would require an effort similar to what the anti-vaccine movement has long done in videos, blogs, and podcasts. For example, the anti-vaccine organization that Robert F. Kennedy Jr. founded before taking the helm at the Department of Health and Human Services, Children’s Health Defense, visits , , and has bought that downplay the threat of viruses while wildly exaggerating the risk of vaccine side effects. Kennedy’s and as health secretary are adding to parents’ doubt.

After the development of vaccines and antibiotics in the mid-1900s, virologist and Nobel laureate Frank Macfarlane Burnet wrote, “One can think of the middle of the twentieth century as the end of one of the most important social revolutions in history, the virtual elimination of the infectious diseases as a significant factor in social life.”

He couldn’t have imagined what was coming.

‘Year of Sickness’

In communities nestled among the red sandstone cliffs and riparian forests of southern Utah, measles took hold last summer. At the main school in Hildale, a town along the Arizona border, just 30% of kindergartners are considered adequately immunized by Utah’s health department, meaning they’ve gotten recommended vaccines against measles, tetanus, polio, and more. Exemptions from childhood vaccine requirements are easily acquired in the state: Parents need only claim personal, religious, or medical reasons.

Many people in Hildale and the surrounding towns are connected to the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, a sect that has been leery of the government since a police raid in 1953 separated polygamous parents from their children. Shirlee Draper, a southern Utah resident who grew up in the faith, said they became ever more isolated in the early 2000s under the leadership of Warren Jeffs. Before he was sentenced to life in prison for sexual assault against minors, Jeffs instructed his followers to withdraw from public schools and mainstream medicine.

“Growing up, we all got our vaccines,” said Draper, who left the group during Jeffs’ reign. “It wasn’t until Warren Jeffs came along that there started to be more and more resistance.”

After Jeffs went to prison, many people left the faith but remained concerned about vaccines because of online misinformation, such as claims that the shots are toxic. Today a small shop in Hildale sells mouth sprays and oral drops professing to detoxify vaccines. Water, glycerin, and “whole grain alcohol” are listed as ingredients in one called Vxx-Dtx.

A mother who Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News agreed not to name, because she fears stigmatization, said she considered getting her kids vaccinated when schools in southwest Utah started seeing measles cases last summer. She had split from the fundamentalist group but still worried about vaccines giving her children autism or other complications. in top-tier scientific journals have refuted a link between vaccines and autism, but the anti-vaccine movement has kept the notion alive.

Then the woman’s son told her that his classmate had a rash and spit on him, she said. A few days later, he fell ill with a fever, followed by vomiting, diarrhea, and a head-to-toe rash.

“He felt downright sick for 10 to 14 days,” the woman said. “It was hard to see the end of the tunnel.”

Then her daughters came down with measles. She had a fleeting case, too, even though she had been vaccinated as a child. Breakthrough infections and are relatively rare. Only 4% of reported this year and last have been among people who’ve had two doses of the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine.

By the time the family recovered, the son had missed nearly three weeks of school, the daughters a month, and the mother had postponed an important family gathering because she didn’t want to spread infections. “I just got my youngest’s missed-school report and it’s super high,” she said. “This is the year of sickness.”

The woman said she regretted not getting her kids vaccinated when the outbreak started. She said she knows about 30 people who have fallen sick with the measles. Except for a few who needed medical care, they haven’t been tested. “I bet there’s been thousands of cases,” she said.

Measles doesn’t have a cure. She and others have tried to ease symptoms with cod liver oil, vitamin C, zinc, and “essential oils,” plant extracts long used in folk medicine that have become a lucrative industry in Utah. People in southwest Utah are trying a lot of things: One resident sells homemade lotion on Facebook, writing, “Breastmilk & Honey has been a life saver for the measles rash.”

Beyond Containment

The outbreak may have started among a fundamentalist community, but it’s spread far beyond because Utah’s vaccination rates have dropped steadily since the covid pandemic. Fewer than 80% of kindergartners in the 2024-25 school year in southwest Utah, with only 87% adequately immunized in the state as a whole — far below the 95% threshold required for herd immunity.

Several Utahns told Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News that “alternative health” or “wellness” drives the trend, rather than religion. The state has a thriving supplement industry, , aided by deregulatory policies supported by the late Utah senator Orrin Hatch and a high concentration of people who earn income from multilevel marketing. These networks of people sell supplements, essential oils, peptides, and other alternative therapies on social media, YouTube, and podcasts, according to and .

Alternative health isn’t necessarily anti-vaccine, but many people who sell unconventional remedies online and in podcasts and mainstream medicine.

“People are suspicious, and it’s well founded,” Draper said. She described dismissive doctors, exorbitant medical bills, hospital systems that over care, and pharmaceutical companies that drove . Communities already wary of government authorities are poised to interpret failings in American healthcare as signs that medical authorities aren’t to be trusted, either, she said.

“Across America, we have entire populations who find safety in clinging to whatever confirms their deeply held beliefs,” she said.

A mistrustful disposition gave way to covid conspiracy theories in 2020 and 2021. In southwest Utah, for example, a tricked out with digital billboards showed up to covid vaccination sites to advertise Plandemic, a rife with , including that masks “activate” the coronavirus and that global elites planned covid-19 to control the population. Misinformation added fuel to anger about public health rules, and there was political backlash under the umbrella of a largely Republican “medical freedom” movement. Utah enacted laws reining in public health, including one that eases exemptions to childhood vaccinations and another that prohibits most employers from requiring vaccines.

In the wake of the covid backlash, health officials tread lightly. Rather than enforce containment measures, “we give our advice and focus on personal responsibility,” said David Heaton, public information officer at the Southwest Utah Public Health Department.

One of the most contagious diseases in the world, measles spreads with astonishing speed among the unvaccinated. One of a New York school outbreak in 1974 found that a second-grader with measles infected 28 other students in 14 classrooms because measles can spread through ventilation systems.

As cases doubled then quadrupled in southern Utah, the regional health department couldn’t keep up with calling the contacts of everyone infected. It shifted its efforts to announcements guiding the public at large. For example, it asks people to call before showing up to clinics with measles symptoms. Still, patients in plenty of hospitals have been exposed. For example, when parents brought a sick, unvaccinated child to a large pediatric hospital in Utah in September, they shared the space with 11 infants too young to be vaccinated. Doctors rushed to give the babies infusions of antibodies and they remained healthy, according to a .

On the radio and in posts on social media, Heaton warns that measles is spreading and that vaccines are the best defense. “If you’re not immunized and you’re anywhere in public,” Heaton said, “you’re fair game for this virus.”

The department doesn’t have the capacity to talk with people directly in the five counties it serves. For a few years, it leaned on community health workers who went to churches, town halls, and other gathering places, listening to people’s concerns and telling them what the science said about covid, vaccines, and other matters of public health. But these workers were laid off early last year, after the Trump administration clawed back more than $12 billion in federal public health grants to states.

“We were starting to get a little bit of traction,” Heaton said of the community workers. “And then we lost all of our team.”

The department offers free measles vaccines to children, but uptake is slow. Nursing director Mindy Bundy said that when she started the job 20 years ago, demand was so high that she would give parents tickets while they waited, as if they were crowding around a deli counter.

“Now even in an outbreak,” she said, “we aren’t seeing a huge increase of people wanting vaccination.”

As officials tried to do the best they could, the outbreak spread north, hopping from one undervaccinated community to the next. When health officials in Utah County spoke with people who had tested positive, they often had no connection to other known cases. “Pretty quickly, we started to lose the links,” said Michael Leman, the county health department’s nursing director. Contact tracing, the cornerstone of containment, was failing.

Every week, the state health department posted a growing list of locations on its website — a Trader Joe’s, a Mormon temple, an aquarium, preschools — that people had visited while contagious. But many people who tested positive hadn’t been to those places, Leman said. “They could have gotten it at Walmart. They could have gotten it walking through a mall,” he said. “I mean, just anywhere in the public they could have been exposed.”

In February, high school students throughout Utah tested positive after a state wrestling tournament at Utah Valley University in Orem. A dashboard monitoring measles viruses in wastewater lit up with notifications around the state. “Wrestling really feels like our turning point,” said Nicholas Rupp, communications director at the Salt Lake County Health Department.

Salt Lake County’s shift from containment to mitigation meant prioritizing high-risk situations and relaxing control everywhere else. When a student has a confirmed case, for example, health officials meet with the school nurse to figure out which kids are most vulnerable. Unvaccinated children in the same classroom as someone infected are asked to stay home for 21 days, but those in other classrooms might not be, said Melanie Crossland, an epidemiologist at the Salt Lake health department. Some schools with high vaccination rates have opted to monitor student temperatures daily instead of requesting quarantines. One school created a separate space for the unvaccinated.

Crossland said such bespoke strategies entail a “huge” amount of effort but have staved off blowback that deflated her during covid.

“We give everything when we’re here,” she said, “but the days of killing ourselves, when legislatively no one is going to give us any help, are done.”

Daycare Dilemma

The outbreak has lasted so long that some children who have recovered from measles have since been hospitalized for what should be mild illnesses from common bugs, said Kerri Smith, a hospital pediatrician in southwest Utah. Measles can , impairing a body’s ability to fight other viruses. “It’s making children very susceptible to getting sick again,” Smith said.

Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked drained from a week of long shifts. Since the outbreak began, she’s treated more than a dozen babies and children severely sick from measles.

“They’re usually admitted to the hospital with measles pneumonia, so they’re struggling to breathe, pulling for air below their ribs,” she said. “High fevers, 104 to 105, absolutely miserable, extremely fatigued, really dehydrated with sunken eyes.” Most children fully recover from measles, but a fraction develop permanent , a small percentage die, and in , measles kills a person years after the infection.

No one has died so far in Utah’s outbreak. And barring that tragic outcome, Smith and other doctors said, some parents fail to grasp the gravity of measles, even as their own children have tubes inserted into their small nostrils to deliver oxygen. Despite repeated warnings, doctors said, some unvaccinated family members of patients — who could be contagious — walk around the hospital while visiting their loved one. This means the waiting room, the elevator, the cafeteria, and other places need to be shut down for cleaning, and vulnerable people alerted.

“People don’t realize how easily this spreads,” Smith said.

Morris, the pediatrician working in two counties, recalled a conversation with a nonchalant father who didn’t seem to understand the need for quarantine. “I know this is an inconvenience to you,” she said. “It’s also a huge inconvenience to the parent who has an infant who could be severely impacted by this disease.”

On top of feeling depleted, doctors with young children said they are anxious. Emily Chin, a physician in Salt Lake County, worries she’ll bring measles home to her newborn. One evening, she sat in her garage after caring for a child with a rash. The patient’s measles test was still being processed, so Chin isolated herself in a room for the night, wearing an N95 mask instead of holding her infant.

Like many mothers in Utah, Chin plans to give her baby an early dose of the measles vaccine at 6 months old because of the outbreak, in addition to two doses at ages 1 and 4. Several mothers said they avoid travel and public places because they fear their babies could be infected. Some are delaying daycare. Others, like Kandace Hyland, a marketing director in Salt Lake County, don’t have that option.

Hyland was shocked when her daycare told her that it didn’t track the vaccine status of staff, even amid the outbreak. In March, she posted an calling for the state to require daycare staff to be vaccinated against the measles when the virus is spreading. Even if daycare staff file for vaccine exemptions, she said, parents could at least find out what portion of their babies’ caretakers pose a life-threatening risk.

Hyland sent her idea to the state health department. Nolen, the state epidemiologist, said she agreed with the concern, and was “talking with the division of licensing about the issue,” in an email shared with Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News. Hyland also wrote the Division of Licensing and Background Checks. In an email, its director, Shannon Thoman-Black, replied that the division does “not have the legislative authority to implement a mandate.”

“They always talk about parents’ choice,” Hyland said. “But I don’t feel like I have a really good ‘parents’ choice’ right now.”

Measles’ Comeback

The U.S. will almost certainly this year or next, but it could be regained if political leadership backed nationwide campaigns to boost confidence in vaccines, said Demetre Daskalakis, a former director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s national immunization center and now the chief medical officer at the Callen-Lorde community health center in New York.

“Under Secretary Kennedy’s leadership, that’s unlikely to happen,” he said. “We’re going back to a pre-vaccine era.”

HHS spokesperson Emily Hilliard defended the secretary and his agency in an email, writing that the CDC has “surged resources” to contain measles outbreaks. “The CDC, HHS principles and the Secretary have been vocal that the MMR vaccine is the best way to protect yourself against measles,” she said.

Kennedy’s words and actions suggest otherwise. He’s said that the measles vaccine leads to “deaths every year,” which is . He continues a potential link between autism and vaccines, no matter how many there is none. And he oversaw abrupt changes to the recommended childhood vaccine schedule, a move called dangerous and not backed by science. A federal judge blocked those changes in March, but Trump recently issued an executive order to reexamine the schedule.

“It’s been confusing for the public,” said Dorothy Adams, executive director of the Salt Lake County Health Department.

In May, Kennedy met with Republican Utah Gov. Spencer Cox, who has said little about the state’s ongoing outbreak. Kennedy praised Utah’s action on Make America Healthy Again priorities, such as banning fluoride in public drinking water and easing restrictions on raw milk sales, according to Salt Lake City’s . Cox declined to comment for this article.

Meanwhile, the U.S. public health system has been further weakened by the Trump administration’s cuts and delays to public health grants.

“If you’re in the thick of it and you don’t know if you will be reimbursed, you adjust your response,” said Angela Dunn, a doctor and former Utah state epidemiologist. “This outbreak is a perfect storm of disinformation, trauma from the covid pandemic, and the drop in funding.”

Measles isn’t the only preventable malady making a comeback. As children played nearby in a sun-speckled park in Salt Lake City, Morris talked about a baby in the intensive care unit who was bleeding uncontrollably after a fall. The baby’s parents had refused an injection of vitamin K that helps blood clot in newborns. As they fretted over their infant, Morris said, she felt awful for them and regretted not being able to overcome mistrust in basic, lifesaving interventions. She had the same swirl of emotions when an unvaccinated toddler in her care recently died of whooping cough.

“I was one of the only people in the room with the nurse when the child coded,” she said with tears in her eyes. “You think, ‘I wish this child was vaccinated,’ but it’s hard because I also see how much grief these parents are holding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s getting worse.

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

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

In this ongoing series, Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News is examining new approaches to suicide prevention that shift the focus from stopping harm in moments of crisis to efforts that give people reasons to live well before they make fateful choices.

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

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

“To help someone else feel less alone, to help them feel seen and understood and valued,” he told Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News, “that can be one of the most powerful interventions that we make.”

A Role for Elected Officials

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

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

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

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

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

That’s where creativity can kick in.

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

Meal Deliveries and Valentines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The Secret Sauce’

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

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

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

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

Breaking out of that required seeking new connections.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Hundreds of detainees across at least 33 states allege in federal suits that immigration detention facilities are failing to provide adequate medical care, an investigation by Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and The Associated Press found. Detainees say they didn’t get medications on time — or at all — for conditions including high blood pressure, diabetes, depression, epilepsy, Parkinson’s, and HIV. Requests for help went unanswered for weeks. Blood sugars rose. Infections festered. Cancers remained untreated. Detainees collapsed and had seizures.

U.S. jails and immigration detention centers have to meet the medical needs of the people in their charge. But the system is sagging under an influx of detentions since President Donald Trump returned to office: More than 75,000 immigrants were being detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement , up from around 40,000 a year earlier.

Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and AP analyzed thousands of court cases filed since Trump’s second inauguration that use a legal route known as habeas corpus to argue people are being held illegally by ICE. The records offer a rare window into how those detained say, often under penalty of perjury, ICE is handling their medical needs. Reporters also interviewed more than 50 detainees, family members, and lawyers.

The investigation revealed that medical neglect is alleged across the sprawling detention system, including in offices not designed to house people, county jails, and quickly staged sites with nicknames such as “Alligator Alcatraz.”

ICE custody is deadlier than it has been in two decades, researchers wrote in April. The Department of Homeland Security reported 51 people had died in detention since the start of Trump’s second administration — with suicides .

Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and AP asked DHS to respond to the findings six days before publication, but it did not provide comment. The department’s acting chief medical officer, Sean Conley, has “it is both policy and longstanding practice for aliens to receive timely and appropriate medical care from the moment they enter ICE custody” and that the agency recruits healthcare professionals to maintain high standards. “This is better, more responsive healthcare than many aliens have ever received in their entire lives,” he has said.

Individual facilities and private prison companies contracting with DHS that responded to requests for comment said they follow ICE standards and detainees receive medical care when it is required. Some said they were unfamiliar with the allegations outlined in court documents; others blamed some detainees for lapses in their medical care.

“I have never seen such disregard or medical neglect like this anywhere,” Vardan Gukasian, a political dissident and former paramedic who spent years behind bars in Armenia, wrote in in March to contest his detention in Henderson, Nevada, as it stretched to 13 months despite health problems.

Madeleine Skains, a spokesperson for the city of Henderson, said medical care is always available at the facility and that the court had not ordered changes to his care.

Last June, as Gukasian experienced the symptoms of uncontrolled high blood pressure — dizziness, a nosebleed, and a headache — his cellmate banged on their door for help.

“When it did not arrive, the rest of the block banged on their doors,” he wrote. Gukasian was hospitalized that day.

‘Brazen Indifference to Really Obvious Problems’

The administration’s mass deportation effort has swept up during routine immigration check-ins, at traffic stops, at their homes, and in hospitals.

About have no criminal conviction. Their immigration proceedings are civil, not criminal.

“I couldn’t understand why they treated me so harshly,” said a father of six in Georgia. He said he was injured while shackled in custody when the vehicle transporting him to an Atlanta facility jolted, throwing him out of his seat and into a metal armrest. His wound became infected with E. coli, he said, because he had to sleep on a dirty concrete floor amid leaking toilets.

Like other detainees interviewed, he spoke on the condition of anonymity; they said they fear for their safety, for the safety of their families, or that speaking out would jeopardize their immigration cases. The AP and Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News are not naming anyone identified in court documents without their consent.

Staffers at Stewart Detention Center in rural Lumpkin, Georgia, didn’t adequately respond to that man’s request for medical help, , until he passed out and was taken to a hospital about an hour away. There, he said, a doctor told him he’d narrowly escaped amputation of his left leg. Medical staff found no records of a case matching this description, according to Brian Todd, a spokesperson for CoreCivic, which runs the facility.

The 48-year-old, who moved to the U.S. from Guatemala more than two decades ago, was released in October and is now a legal permanent resident. But he is unsure if he’ll be able to return to his job in construction because, he said, he can no longer lift heavy things due to his injury.

Some detainees or their lawyers said even basic care was denied: gauze to protect an open foot wound, prenatal care for a high-risk pregnancy, a pillow to ease the pain of sleeping with advanced stomach cancer, sanitary pads for postpartum bleeding.

“I would like to believe the government has the best interest of those it holds in detention for whatever period of time,” Judge Benita Pearson, a federal judge in Ohio, said during a hearing in October concerning a 70-year-old who alleged the government lost her glasses during her arrest. “If one is unable to see due to the loss of glasses when detained, that should be fixed.”

, who worked for ICE and now serves as a special adviser to the American Bar Association, said case law requires the government to treat people in immigration detention with the same care it affords those in traditional jails awaiting trial. But administrators are granted discretion and medical care standards vary.

Detainees are frequently moved across the country, often without warning, interrupting treatment. A woman from El Salvador said she missed a week of HIV medication when she was transferred from Colorado to a county jail in Wyoming.

A Russian man wrote that, while detained in Texas, he saw a gastroenterologist about his painful gallstones and scheduled an appointment with a surgeon. “Unfortunately, I never got to see him, due to my being moved around various detention centers.”

Advocates say that even obvious disabilities, like legal blindness, are ignored.

A detainee who lost one eye and had severe glaucoma in the other required twice-daily drops to maintain what vision remained. But, he said, some days the drops never came.

“Now I can only see a little bit straight in front. It now often looks like I’m seeing through gauze,” the man wrote in a court declaration. “This makes me very afraid that one of these times I am going to open my eyes and not be able to see anything at all.”

He wrote that he was scared he wouldn’t be able to see his infant son grow up.

“It’s just sort of brazen indifference to really obvious problems, things you would have thought absurd a decade ago — like the fact that you can’t see,” the man’s attorney, Brian Hoffman, said. “Before, you could attempt to work with folks on the government side and maybe shame them into doing the right thing. Now, it’s sort of like anything you want done you have to go to court and sue over.”

Even court orders aren’t always enough. One California judge ordered the government to take a man showing signs of prostate cancer to a specialist for diagnosis and treatment. Records show they did not take him.

Lawyers representing ICE told the judge that officials missed the appointment because of an “internal scheduling error.” CoreCivic, which runs that facility, said it was unable to comment on active litigation.

A Surge in Cases

When immigrants file habeas corpus petitions, they exercise a right to challenge unlawful imprisonment that dates to .

More than 40,000 such petitions have been filed during Trump’s second term, fueled by decisions last year to deny bond to many people held on immigration charges. Judges are split on whether that’s legal; the question appears headed to the Supreme Court.

Many habeas claims , but judges typically cite reasons unrelated to the medical neglect described in the petitions, such as detainees’ being held too long before being deported.

The more than 300 medical neglect claims found in this investigation represent a fraction of the problem. The details of habeas corpus cases are often hidden due to a federal rule barring the public from viewing such documents online. Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and AP obtained some documents from courthouses and received records on 4,400 cases from , a project of the nonprofit Immigration Justice Transparency Initiative. But tens of thousands more remain largely inaccessible.

Some judges have written that the habeas process is not how to raise allegations of medical neglect and have declined to release detainees over those claims. Not every detainee who believes they experienced medical neglect files a habeas petition or cites their medical issues if they do.

Jose-Antonio Segismundo’s petition made no mention of being unable to see an oncologist for the cancer in his abdomen while detained for more than seven months at the Florida detention facility known as Alligator Alcatraz and Folkston D Ray ICE Processing Center in Georgia. Medical records in his court filings show he was arrested about five weeks before his scheduled appointment with a cancer specialist.

His wife, Maria Jose Gonzalez, said he didn’t receive any treatment even though she sent his medical records and explained his condition to officials at Folkston. When his stomach pain erupted, often suddenly and intensely, she said, they gave him Tylenol.

Geo Group, which runs Folkston, follows ICE standards and provides healthcare and access to off-site medical specialists when needed, spokesperson Christopher Ferreira said.

This spring, Segismundo, 48, was deported to Mexico, a country he left nearly 30 years ago, Gonzalez said. Now, she said, he will have to restart his search for care in the Oaxacan village where he grew up.

Watching Loved Ones Deteriorate

Detainees receiving inadequate healthcare have little recourse. The Department of Homeland Security last year gutted the Office of the Immigration Detention Ombudsman. In early May, it shut the office entirely, arguing that Congress didn’t fund it.

Previously, ombudsman staffers could help facilitate medical care or look into complaints of neglect, according to Matt Boles, an immigration attorney in Georgia. Now, he said, there’s no one to call.

Meanwhile, detainees’ families said they feel helpless, making desperate calls to facilities, the government, and their legislators while watching their loved ones deteriorate.

Riya Khan saw her mother get sicker at the California City Detention Facility, which is owned by CoreCivic. When she visited a week after her mother arrived at the facility in the Mojave Desert, Riya said, the 64-year-old woman stumbled into her seat. She was shaking and her breathing was labored.

Masuma Khan came to the U.S. from Bangladesh in 1997. She has no criminal history, her records say, and was detained in October when she showed up for her regular ICE check-in.

For the month she was detained, according to her daughter, she only intermittently received her medications for conditions including high blood pressure, hypothyroidism, and prediabetes. CoreCivic treats chronic conditions in line with applicable medical standards, Todd said.

“Nothing matters more to CoreCivic than the health, safety and well-being of the people in our care,” Todd said.

Khan said she got her asthma medication for the first time two days before she was released and that her eye drops for glaucoma never arrived. Staffers told Khan she needed to buy some of her medications from the commissary but it didn’t stock them, her daughter said.

Before ICE detained Masuma Khan, she made friends with everyone, her daughter said. She had worked for years at Lucky Boy, an iconic Pasadena fast-food restaurant, and in her free time fed birds and left out fruit for bees that visited her apartment’s balcony.

Now she’s too scared to go outside. She still must regularly check in with ICE, and she’s terrified each time.

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A Stroke on a Video Call

Previously, detainees with serious medical needs would likely have been released on humanitarian parole, in part to avoid the cost of their care, Vermont attorney Andrew Pelcher said.

In fiscal year 2023 — before the detained population soared — ICE spent more than $390 million on healthcare for detained noncitizens, according to its to Congress. In May, Todd Lyons, then acting director of ICE, said at a conference that the agency had already spent “almost half a billion dollars” on detainee healthcare this year.

Now, under “mandatory detention,” people are staying locked up with serious — and expensive — conditions.

A Romanian citizen underwent several heart surgeries, including an emergency triple bypass in April 2025, before he was arrested in July. As part of his recovery, the 52-year-old was required to take 16 daily medications. While at an ICE field office in Baltimore, his court filings allege, he went two days without any medication before officials moved him to a facility in New Jersey.

He was hospitalized three times while detained, complaining of chest pains — in part, medical records and court documents say, because despite “countless requests,” the detention center did not provide all his medications. Hospital discharge papers cited by his lawyer show he received only eight of the 16 medications after his second release from the hospital.

“Can you please talk to the ICE facility to make sure they give him his medications?” his treatment providers wrote in medical records included in his court filings. “He was admitted last week for chest pain and today he was readmitted again for chest pain secondary to non compliance for medications.”

Several weeks later in August, he had a stroke while on a video call with his daughter, according to court filings. “He was struggling to breathe, and was pointing at his chest where he was again experiencing pain, and suddenly stopped speaking.” His daughter screamed for help through the video monitor, according to his petition. “Eventually an officer came in to assist him and cut the feed.”

The man lost his ability to speak for four days, the document says. He was returned to detention, where he remained until a federal judge ordered his release in November.

Impossible Choices

Cassandra Amador waits for the phone to ring every morning, desperate to ask her husband the question that’s woken her up every night for months: “Did you get your medicine?”

Her husband, Pedro Javier Amador Gutierrez, 36, has high blood pressure and depends on the state-run facility in Florida nicknamed “Deportation Depot” to administer the prescriptions that have kept him alive for years. Many mornings, he tells his wife he did not get them.

When she talks to him, she said, he sounds weaker and more scared every day, not like the upbeat man who would take her kids out for ice cream.

“You can hear in his voice how he feels,” she said.

Now, she said, he’s considering returning to Cuba, which he fled because of political persecution, out of fear that he will die in detention without his medicines. Amador and her children would go with him, she said, even though she was born in New Jersey, has never been to Cuba, and doesn’t speak much Spanish.

But he’s already collapsed twice at the Baker Correctional Institution in Sanderson, Florida, his wife said. She’s terrified that the next time, he won’t get up.

Methodology

Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and The Associated Press sifted through thousands of immigration habeas corpus claims to find allegations of medical neglect from people detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement during the second Trump administration.

Without a comprehensive, publicly available dataset of medical complaints by those in ICE custody, we used immigration habeas corpus claims to identify detainees’ healthcare-related allegations raised in federal court. Although the intended purpose of habeas corpus is to challenge the legality of a petitioner’s detention — rather than conditions of their confinement — these filings sometimes include detainees’ claims of inadequate healthcare.

But habeas corpus filings are not always publicly available. Federal rules restrict how members of the public can access habeas petitions filed by people in immigration detention. For most of these cases, court websites publish only court orders and dockets describing other filings. The initial petitions are available only through in-person visits to federal courthouses across the country. Habeas Dockets, a project of the nonprofit Immigration Justice Transparency Initiative, coordinates a nationwide network of volunteers to gather these petitions and make them available online.

Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News and AP analyzed the dockets of roughly 33,000 cases filed by detainees from Jan. 20, 2025, through March 2026. The vast majority of cases had only basic procedural information, like dates of court filings and rulings. Only about 4,400 included the original petitions.

We also gathered a few dozen case files from courthouses, lawyers, and the Massachusetts federal district court website, which posts most petitions under a unique standing order.

We ran keyword and semantic searches of court records, including petitions, motions, and orders, for terms and phrases potentially related to medical neglect, such as surgery, medications, inadequate medical care, and treatment for chronic conditions such as diabetes and high blood pressure.

We found about 500 cases potentially alleging medical neglect. At least two reporters reviewed each case manually, yielding more than 300 cases containing specific allegations in sworn filings of delayed, denied, or deficient healthcare.

To be conservative, we excluded dozens of cases that alleged inadequate medical care but lacked specifics, for example a petitioner writing, “I have been sick and don’t get proper treatment,” or a judge noting a petitioner “complains that ICE is ignoring his medical problems.” We also excluded cases in which petitioners claimed only that they were denied special diets, exercise, or other accommodations that they said were key to managing their health conditions, such as a petitioner writing, “I suffer from Parkinson’s and cannot properly exercise,” or claiming that the food provided was unfit for a person with diabetes.

The cases we analyzed were neither randomly selected nor representative of immigration habeas filings nationwide. The claims were not independently verified. Many filings are not publicly available, and not all detainees raise medical concerns in court, so our account of cases represents a limited window into the landscape of claims, rather than a comprehensive picture.

Associated Press journalists Garance Burke, Valerie Gonzalez, and Tim Sullivan as well as Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News correspondent Kate Wells contributed to this report.

This report is a collaboration between The Associated Press and Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News.

This <a target="_blank" href="/courts/ice-immigration-detention-medical-care-neglect-court-records-ap-investigation/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">

The 31-year-old compliance consultant from Hendersonville, Tennessee, said she couldn’t stop vomiting.

“Sunday morning, it all hits,” McClain recalled, as she described what happened that weekend in January. “I can’t keep anything down.”

McClain said she thought the dosage the telehealth company had prescribed seemed too high. She tried to contact her doctor, but when she didn’t get an immediate response, she said she called the company and a “care team” representative confirmed the instructions — which said to inject 2.21 milligrams of the semaglutide medication once a week — were correct.

It turned out, however, that was nearly nine times the amount patients are typically told to take for their first dose.

Nearly a month after she was diagnosed with an overdose, McClain said she was “still dealing with the residual side effects,” including an elevated heart rate and vision problems she felt were tied to the medication.

Most patients who have taken a GLP-1 received their prescription through a primary care doctor or a specialist, shows. But as the uptake of telehealth has grown substantially since the start of the covid pandemic, McClain is one of millions of Americans who have used online companies to meet a variety of their medical needs.

Many of the companies have started offering GLP-1 medications for weight loss as demand for these drugs has exploded. But certain medication errors tied to GLP-1s have exploded too, according to a Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News review of Food and Drug Administration data, and physicians and telemedicine researchers worry that adverse experiences tied to telehealth companies are becoming more common.

Bad outcomes aren’t unique to telehealth providers or to the compounded weight loss drugs many of them offer. In fact, product liability lawsuits alleging patient injuries have been filed overwhelmingly against pharmaceutical giants Eli Lilly and Novo Nordisk, which manufacture name-brand weight loss drugs, court data shows. The drugmakers have defended their products.

However, some critics are also concerned that getting a weight loss prescription online is usually much easier than getting one through an in-person appointment. Not only do many telehealth companies write quick prescriptions for GLP-1s, but they often sell the medications, too, allowing patients to bypass in-person pharmacy visits. This one-stop shopping isn’t necessarily a good thing, according to critics who say some telehealth providers are writing prescriptions for people who should not be taking GLP-1s and then providing little or no follow-up care.

“It gives a black eye to telemedicine,” said Elizabeth Krupinski, an experimental psychologist at Emory University who has conducted research on the effectiveness of telehealth.

Telemedicine stands to benefit “so many people,” Krupinski said, particularly when the technology is integrated within a larger healthcare system. That way, patients benefit from the convenience of telehealth while maintaining a connection with their in-person providers.

But some telehealth companies are marketing GLP-1s as an easy way to lose weight — sometimes with the help of paid celebrity endorsements — without emphasizing the importance of healthy eating and exercise, she said.

They may be following the letter of the law, Krupinski said. But writing prescriptions while skimping on care “is not in the Hippocratic oath.”

The Perfect Storm

Starting around 2020, many states loosened restrictions on telehealth, which allowed online companies to proliferate. This helped accommodate patients who could not, or chose not to, be seen in person at the height of covid transmission.

Expanded telehealth access was also intended to lower barriers in rural communities, as well as mitigate doctor and nurse shortages. In many places, telehealth doctors and nurses are legally allowed to treat patients across state lines. But the way telemedicine is practiced , and state laws largely dictate rules that telehealth providers must follow.

Some companies, such as Mochi Health, require patients to meet virtually with a provider, such as a doctor, nurse practitioner, or physician assistant, before they can get a GLP-1 prescription.

But others, including Ro, sometimes require nothing more of patients than an “asynchronous” evaluation, which does not include a live conversation with a healthcare provider. During this type of evaluation, customers are typically asked to fill out an intake form and answer a medical history questionnaire before they are evaluated for a prescription. Ro requires a conversation in real time when required by state law, or when requested by a patient or clinician, said Nicholas Samonas, a spokesperson for the company.

“Every patient is counseled by their provider on the potential benefits and risks of treatment based on their individual medical history,” Samonas said. Ro’s clinicians can order lab work when necessary and, when appropriate, may recommend patients seek in-person care, he said.

But some medical experts are concerned that virtual care may be insufficient for prescribing weight loss drugs.

Patients with a history of pancreatitis, for example, should be counseled about potential complications, medical studies show. The same goes for people with a condition called gastroparesis, which affects stomach nerves and muscles, and those susceptible to medullary thyroid cancer.

Some patients may also benefit from blood work or muscle mass screening before starting a GLP-1.

But not all telehealth companies are adequately evaluating patients before writing prescriptions, said Marc-Andre Cornier, an endocrinologist at the Medical University of South Carolina and the immediate past president of The Obesity Society.

When it comes to parsing the good from the bad, “whose job is it to police that?” he asked. The problem, he said, is there aren’t criteria written by a government agency or a medical society to determine which providers are treating patients appropriately and which aren’t.

While the first GLP-1 was approved by the FDA more than 20 years ago, to treat Type 2 diabetes, the use of these drugs took off in 2021 when Novo Nordisk received approval for a semaglutide drug to treat obesity, with the brand name Wegovy. In a 2025 KFF poll, said they had taken a GLP-1.

In a in The New England Journal of Medicine, physician Amanda Banks noted that the proportion of GLP-1 prescriptions written for people who were not diabetic, obese, or overweight increased from 4.5% in 2018 to 17% in 2023.

In the paper, Banks called it “troubling” how easy it is to obtain a prescription for weight loss drugs and worried they might exacerbate existing eating disorders or cause new cases, including of anorexia.

Cornier, who has received compensation from Novo Nordisk for serving as a consultant, echoed some of Banks’ concerns. “It’s not just filling out a form online and then having some random healthcare provider sign off on it,” he said. “There are concerns with some of these online programs that there’s not a proper evaluation, there’s not a baseline, and there’s not proper supervision.”

The American Telemedicine Association, which advocates for the expansion of “digitally enabled care,” has not addressed how telehealth providers prescribe GLP-1s, spokesperson Gina Cella said.

“This is a bit out of our scope,” Cella said, when asked if the association had addressed the topic of telehealth providers and GLP-1 prescriptions.

The lack of clarity makes choosing a company potentially confusing for patients, and the medical profession is partly to blame, said Jamy Ard, an obesity doctor and researcher at Wake Forest University School of Medicine in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

Doctors have historically done a bad job counseling patients about weight loss, and many people aren’t comfortable talking to their primary care doctor about it, Ard said. Patients think, “Why would I go to my doctor and have them say, ‘Eat less and move more,’ when I have heard that a million times and I don’t want to have that lecture again?” Ard said.

This problem, combined with past shortages of name-brand versions of GLP-1s, such as Ozempic, Mounjaro, and Trulicity, has created a “perfect storm” for telehealth companies to flourish, said Ard, who has received support from pharmaceutical and telehealth companies.

While some telehealth companies prescribe only name-brand weight loss drugs, many also offer cheaper, compounded versions. They act as intermediaries between customers and mail-order compounding pharmacies, which create GLP-1s by mixing active ingredients, such as semaglutide, with additives. The ingredients for compounded drugs are commonly sourced from overseas suppliers, and the formulations are not reviewed by the FDA for safety.

The environment is “very much uncontrolled and poorly, if at all, regulated,” Ard said. “There is just no standard of care.”

Emily Hilliard, a spokesperson for the Department of Health and Human Services, told Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News that compounded drugs “should only be used in patients whose medical needs cannot be met by an FDA-approved drug.”

Hilliard said the agency urges “consumers to be vigilant and know the source of their medicine.”

Understanding the Risks

While weight loss drugs have helped millions of people lose weight, they’re not without risk, the data shows.

A Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News data analysis of the FDA’s Adverse Event Monitoring System found that medication errors made by providers or patients with popular weight loss drugs exploded from just over 2,000 reports in 2020 to over 25,000 in 2025. Those self-reported events involved semaglutide, tirzepatide, dulaglutide, and liraglutide, the generic names for leading GLP-1s.

Among frequent issues cited in the adverse event reports were administration of an extra or incorrect dose, issues with communication about a product, and prescribing errors.

Since 2019, the National Poison Data System has fielded a related to overdoses or side effects from injectable weight loss drugs. The data does not distinguish between overdoses tied to a telehealth prescription and those stemming from an in-person medical appointment, but it is a reflection of how prevalent these drugs have become.

Yet data on potential medication errors and adverse reactions to GLP-1 medications is incomplete, because many issues are never reported to federal officials.

For example, in a , the FDA accused drugmaker Novo Nordisk, the maker of Wegovy and Ozempic, of failing to report some adverse events to the federal government, including suicidal ideation and death.

Nobody knows how often adverse events occur, said Kristen Nixon, a Johns Hopkins University researcher who has studied posts about weight loss drugs on Reddit, a popular online forum.

Her team analyzed hundreds of Reddit posts from 2020 through last August and identified frequent mentions of drug reactions and user errors, such as patients’ not knowing how to correctly dose and inject the medication.

But another finding also stood out to her.

“Wow, there are a lot of people talking about telehealth,” Nixon recalled thinking. Reddit commenters said they got GLP-1 prescriptions from scores of telehealth platforms, Nixon found. Commenters also mentioned several dozen compounding pharmacies — often in the same posts about telehealth.

Pharmacies are typically required to counsel patients on medications they receive. But Nixon’s research found that telehealth companies often mail the medications directly, meaning patients do not need to go to a pharmacy.

“Anecdotally, it seems like the telehealth companies are really facilitating access to compounded medications,” Nixon said.

Leslie Gammon, 54, an office manager from Wendell, North Carolina, said she turned to a telehealth company called Amble Health for a weight loss drug prescription. She was given a GLP-1 after filling out an online form, she said.

Like McClain, when she received her mail-order compounded medication in late October, she thought the dosage that accompanied it seemed too high. She’d received a box of semaglutide earlier in the month with a much lower dose. But the refill she received was a stronger formulation, and the instructions told Gammon to inject three times the volume she had been taking in previous weeks.

Even though she injected slightly less than that recommended amount before bed on a Sunday evening, she woke up in the middle of the night “throwing up every 20 to 25 minutes,” she said. And it didn’t stop until Tuesday. She was eventually admitted to a hospital in Raleigh and now owes the hospital over $9,000, a medical bill shows.

Amble Health did not respond to questions for this article.

The delivery system for injectable versions of weight loss drugs is more complicated than for a pill. In its National Poison Data System alert, America’s Poison Centers noted that some people reported “accidentally taking 10-times the recommended dose due to confusing measurement units while using a syringe.”

And people who are eager to lose extra weight — before a wedding or a vacation, for example — may choose to self-administer a higher-than-recommended dose, said Arthur Caplan, a bioethics professor at New York University’s Grossman School of Medicine.

Some telehealth companies aren’t doing enough, he said, to make sure patients understand the risks or the complex delivery system associated with the injectable drugs.

“The consent is not adequate,” Caplan said. “There’s no probing to see if you understood anything.”

Cella, with the American Telemedicine Association, said the group has not addressed the difficulty of educating patients about the risks of injecting weight loss drugs. But she pointed to the association’s “,” which states that telehealth business models “must put the patient first.”

Proceed With Caution

Pharmaceutical companies must list potentially harmful side effects when they advertise the name-brand versions of their FDA-approved medications. Potential include nausea, vomiting, changes in vision, low blood sugar, and, in rare cases, thyroid cancer. Meanwhile, telehealth companies have not historically followed the same rules that drugmakers have in disclosing medication risks in advertisements. But the FDA has started cracking down on misleading drug ads.

A national shortage of weight loss medications in 2022 opened the door for compounding pharmacies to manufacture these drugs. But since the FDA declared the shortage over last year, companies that offer compounded drugs are increasingly facing legal and regulatory challenges related to their marketing tactics.

Mounjaro manufacturer Eli Lilly and other drugmakers are suing multiple telehealth companies for promoting compounded versions of their drugs. In one legal complaint, Eli Lilly alleged Mochi Health had engaged in “deceptive” business tactics. In a motion to dismiss the lawsuit last year, lawyers for Mochi Health called the complaint part of a “nationwide campaign to bolster Lilly’s profits by dictating patient care through the elimination of compounded drugs as a treatment option for weight management.” The lawsuit is ongoing.

Eli Lilly spokesperson Michael Jamison said in a written comment that telehealth companies sued by the drug manufacturer threaten “patient safety by falsely promoting supposedly ‘personalized’ compounded tirzepatide” and mislead “consumers about the safety, clinical testing, and effectiveness of their compounded knockoffs.”

Meanwhile, Novo Nordisk has filed 130 lawsuits against “entities engaged in unlawful marketing and sale of knockoff semaglutide drugs,” said Liz Skrbkova, a spokesperson for the drugmaker.

She said the company is committed to “protecting patients from unapproved knockoff drugs made with foreign, inauthentic active pharmaceutical ingredients that pose significant safety and efficacy risks.”

The Trump administration sent a in September and February to online companies such as , , , and . The FDA said these and other companies had made false or misleading claims related to compounded versions of weight loss drugs.

“Your claims imply that your products are the same as an FDA-approved product when they are not,” the agency’s Center for Drug Evaluation and Research on Sept. 9. HHS later referred the company to the Department of Justice after it announced the launch of a $49 version of Novo Nordisk’s Wegovy pill.

When asked about the FDA warning, Abby Reisinger-Moley, a spokesperson for Hims & Hers, pointed to a announcing a shift away from compounded weight loss drugs. The company said in the press release that it had entered into an agreement with Novo Nordisk to sell name-brand versions.

Alex Smith, CEO of Join Josie, an online platform that helps women in menopause lose weight by prescribing GLP-1s, said his company also made changes in response to an FDA letter, to include removing Join Josie’s name from medication vials. “Which I agree with,” Smith said, “because you don’t want patients thinking you’re the compounding pharmacy.”

SkinnyRx and Genesis Health International did not respond to requests for comment.

But these warnings aren’t the first time the federal government has stepped in to ensure that telemedicine is being used appropriately, said Mei Wa Kwong, executive director of the Center for Connected Health Policy.

Prior cases involved attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder medications and other controlled substances prescribed by telehealth providers, she said. While those drugs pose more risk to patients than GLP-1s, the companies were also accused of improperly screening potential customers.

The onus still falls on consumers to research companies before signing up for their services, Kwong said.

“Always approach anything on the internet with a hint of skepticism,” Kwong said.

‘Keeps Getting Worse’

McClain, the Tennessee woman hospitalized this year after a GLP-1 overdose, said she lost 50 pounds a few years ago by taking a name-brand GLP-1 prescribed by her doctor.

At the time, the medication was covered by her health insurance. This year, when she was ready to take a GLP-1 again following a pregnancy, the drug was no longer covered for weight loss.

To save money by obtaining a cheaper, compounded GLP-1, McClain signed up for Mochi Health after doing her own research. “That was just the most affordable option,” she said.

But within hours of her first dose, she said, she found herself on the phone with poison control.

After her overdose, McClain said, she spoke to a clinical director at Mochi Health, once by phone but mostly via email, about her lingering symptoms before communication paused.

David Pilip, a spokesperson for Mochi Health, said in a statement that the company would not discuss individual patients due to privacy obligations. But he said adverse events are “immediately flagged” and “investigated with extreme precision.”

“Mochi Health takes patient safety extremely seriously,” Pilip wrote in an email. “We promptly initiated a review and have been in direct and ongoing communication with the patient to reach a resolution. We remain committed to doing so.”

McClain anticipates her healthcare bills related to the hospital stay will total at least $900. She said that to get the $159 refund for her three-month membership and reimbursement for the hospital expenses, she has been asked to sign a document saying she won’t take legal action against the company. Her experience, she said, “just keeps getting worse.”

NBC News producer Jessica Herzberg and Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News senior correspondent Fred Schulte contributed to this report.

Do you have an experience using an online company for healthcare services or medicinal products that you think others should know about? Click here to contact our reporting team.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I Thought It Was a Joke’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supercharging Health Concerns

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

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

Three detention facilities in Folkston, Georgia, about an hour north of Jacksonville, Florida, issued 130 emergency calls from Feb. 4, 2025, to Feb. 3, 2026, according to dispatch reports obtained by Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News through a public records request. The calls from the facilities, which hold about 2,000 people, were for wide-ranging reasons, including anaphylaxis, assaults, suicide attempts, overdoses, seizures, strokes, head injuries from falls, and other health issues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A patient from his rural Northern California county , a disease so rare there that many physicians have never treated a case.

While California has some of the strictest vaccine laws in the country, conservative Shasta County’s approach during the covid pandemic stood in stark contrast with the state’s guidance. Its local leaders opposed masking and vaccine mandates, and the county public health officer, who had sought to enforce those state policies and other safety measures.

A potential measles outbreak had “always been in my mind,” said Mu, an outspoken family physician who was to sign a opposing covid vaccine mandates. But Mu, the county’s current public health officer, said that when his department identified the first local measles case, it acted decisively: “We forgot about fear.”

They went to work, he and his team said, to painstakingly retrace the steps of sickened with measles, contacting more than 600 people who may have been exposed at Costco, a sushi restaurant, sporting events, a school, or a healthcare clinic. Just one of the nine contracted measles from one of those locations, while the others were characterized by the public health department as “close contacts.”

Two and a half months later, the Shasta County public health department had declared the measles outbreak over. Infectious disease experts say the rapid response executed in the mostly rural, vaccine-hesitant county offers a playbook for public health officers across the nation who are struggling to keep the highly contagious virus from spreading.

“To me, the story of Shasta is one of hope,” said Peter Chin-Hong, an infectious disease specialist at the University of California-San Francisco.

After more than a year of ongoing cases, measles has sickened more than in the U.S., according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. For the first time in two decades, the U.S. is poised to lose its measles elimination status, a designation signaling that outbreaks are rare and rapidly contained.

673 measles cases as of late May while had seen at least 997, according to their state health departments. 74 cases.

Critical Rapid Response

In late January, when Shasta County identified the first case, Mu gathered with more than a dozen communicable-disease nurses, epidemiologists, and emergency and community relations staffers for an “initial threat assessment meeting.”

Measles is an that can linger in a room for two hours after an infected person leaves, so on-call nurses and responders faced a daunting task figuring out exactly when the patient was infectious and where they had been.

“Everything is about speed — speed in identifying the person and finding the sites where measles were occurring,” Chin-Hong said. “If you keep it down to a few cases, it’s much easier. If you wait just a little bit longer, those people would have been in contact with a lot more people.”

Roughly 9 in 10 unvaccinated people exposed to the virus become infected. All nine of Shasta County’s confirmed cases were people who were unvaccinated or had unknown vaccination status, according to the county’s public health department. Before the department called families who may have been exposed, county nurses sometimes enlisted school principals, church staff, clinic managers, or others to make first contact, said Daniel Walker, the county’s supervising epidemiologist.

Erika Piper, the head of Redding Christian School in Palo Cedro, talked to school families wary of requests by public health officials — and government in general — to provide immunization records or other personal information. She said she also had tough but respectful conversations with families to ensure exposed, unvaccinated kids stayed home from school, so their community could abide by public health guidance calling for .

“I would say to them: ‘That’s totally fine. You have a choice. You’ve made your choice. But there are still consequences to the choices we make,’” Piper said, referring to families who had opted not to vaccinate their children. “‘And so you can either be a willing helper and a partner with me in this, and we can make it work and get through it, or you can battle me on it. But either way, you can’t be in school.’”

She allowed work to be sent home to quarantined students and personally took daily attendance at the school to help ensure health guidelines were met.

The California Department of Public Health assisted with case investigation by making calls to exposed people at the county’s request and deployed a covid-era phone system, CalCONNECT, that automates symptom monitoring for exposed contacts.

Shasta officials warned people not to be wary of calls from contract tracers using a 279 area code, worrying they would dismiss them as scams.

Delicate Conversations

In Shasta County, the measles vaccination rate is just below the for community-level protection, but in pockets of the community the rates are lower and vary widely, according to . And in those vulnerable places, an outbreak can spread.

For example, more than a quarter of Shasta schools had rates below 95% in 2024-25, according to the latest state data available. Several were below 90%. Although Redding Christian School reported a kindergarten measles vaccination rate at or above 95% in 2024-25, it was 87.8% three years earlier.

When it came to talking to people who had been exposed to measles, Sharayne Loomis, a supervising public health nurse on Shasta’s communicable-disease team, described the department’s approach as “meeting people where they are.” That included nonjudgmental conversations that supported residents regardless of their stance on vaccination, Loomis said.

Mu said the same philosophy extended across the county’s health agencies, but he publicly “measles parties,” gatherings where unvaccinated children are intentionally exposed to build immunity. And he spoke against receiving high doses of vitamin A without medical supervision. Vitamin A has circulated as a measles treatment in vaccine-skeptical communities and was endorsed last year by Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., though the CDC website says that vitamin A “does not prevent measles and is not a substitute for vaccination.”

Some community members said Mu’s department could have been more proactive before the outbreak, imploring him to emphasize the importance of vaccination in public messaging.

“Clearly, when the situation was known to be coming into our communities, that would have been a time to advise for vaccines,” Steve Kahn told county supervisors at their February board meeting. “I think he was negligent in that.”

For years, public health has been a political flash point for the region. The Board of Supervisors fired the previous public health officer, Karen Ramstrom, in May 2022 after upset with her enforcement of state covid rules.

In an effort to reach vaccine-hesitant Californians, state officials have been working in a coalition called Public Health for All Californians Together and through an effort nicknamed that uses social media monitoring and other research to tailor messaging to skeptical viewers.

Erica Pan, director of the California Department of Public Health, said the state is preparing for measles to possibly surge when it hosts World Cup soccer matches starting in June, as well as with increased summer travel.

But when it comes to mitigating an outbreak in a community, public health officials say, residents — especially those skeptical of vaccines — need to hear from the people they know.

“Trust is very important for us,” Mu said. “It is critical in getting people to follow our guidance, especially during an outbreak.”

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Clinicians and patient advocates say the incoming changes will deliver a twofold blow: They expect the work requirements to kick more patients off Medicaid, meaning fewer can afford care, while the health department’s budget problems make it harder for doctors to serve those who keep the coverage.

It’s a tumultuous time for state health departments. Additional federal changes are forcing states to perform more checks on who qualifies for food assistance, better monitor doctors’ compliance with Medicaid rules, and set up new programs to access a share of $50 billion in federal funds meant to improve rural health services.

“Our concern is, is the department ready?” said Jean Branscum, CEO of the Montana Medical Association. “Does the capacity exist for all this to be done right and ensure that patients don’t pay the price?”

Already, some Montanans struggle to access the government health coverage amid state backlogs. Meanwhile, clinicians struggle with staffing, attributing the issue to low Medicaid payments. Those problems reflect a national challenge to connect people to care through strained public assistance programs.

The Montana Department of Public Health and Human Services didn’t respond to a list of questions, instead directing Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News to the latest information on the state’s website detailing Medicaid changes, at .

Health policy analysts have said Montana’s challenges offer an early glimpse at what states must navigate to comply with congressional Republicans’ One Big Beautiful Bill Act. Signed by Trump last year, the federal tax and spending law requires millions of Medicaid enrollees to prove they’re working or attending school for 80 hours each month, unless they’re eligible for an exemption. States also will be required to evaluate enrollees’ eligibility every six months instead of annually, which will take more time and money. Some states already don’t have enough staff to quickly process Medicaid applications or answer enrollees’ phone calls.

On July 1, Montana is scheduled to become the second state, after Nebraska, to implement Medicaid work requirements. That’s six months ahead of the Jan. 1 federal deadline to do so for the 42 states, along with the District of Columbia, that expanded Medicaid to cover more low-income people. Montana health officials say they’ve had time to plan for that shift. The state mandated work rules in 2019 but hadn’t gained federal approval to move ahead until now.

More states are likely to face a budget crunch soon, said Joan Alker, a Georgetown University researcher focused on health coverage.

The One Big Beautiful Bill Act is expected to reduce federal Medicaid spending — the biggest pool of federal cash states receive — by nearly $1 trillion over 10 years. The law also left states with a bigger share of the cost to run food assistance programs, while creating tax breaks that could lower states’ bottom lines.

“States are the ones that are gonna have to do the dirty work of implementing cuts,” Alker said.

Withholding Medicaid Provider Rate Increases

On top of federal changes, Montana lawmakers underfunded the health department in its two-year budget in 2025, the result of cuts and an underestimate of Medicaid enrollment. The state also overestimated how much the federal government would contribute toward Montana’s Medicaid costs this year.

That resulted in a $183 million shortfall in state and federal funds, requiring the health department to borrow from next year’s budget. To partially offset those costs, the department wants to withhold a 3% Medicaid provider rate increase approved by the legislature and governor last year. State officials have said they’re trying save money without unraveling services.

Health organizations have pushed against the plan, saying that Montana’s Medicaid payments already don’t cover the cost of care and that health businesses can’t afford wages that attract workers.

Matt Bugni, head of the statewide nonprofit Aware, which provides behavioral health and disability services, said the organization was counting on incoming increases to keep existing employees amid a staff shortage. Bugni said Aware has more than 70 group-home beds it’s been unable to fill, because it’s down roughly 15% of its workforce.

“There are waiting lists,” he said. “We just can’t staff it.”

Montana health organizations said they’re still recovering from 2017 budget cuts that buckled services. The largely disappeared, more than half of Montana’s public assistance offices , and mental health crisis centers closed.

“We still are struggling,” said Sierra Riesberg, head of the Montana Behavioral Health Alliance, a nonprofit advocacy group.

In 2023, Montana Gov. Greg Gianforte, a Republican, signed into law a investment to repair the state’s behavioral health and disability services. He also created an initiative to use Medicaid funding to fill in gaps in addiction treatment programs.

But Riesberg said that, despite improvements, some beds created through those initiatives remain empty because low Medicaid reimbursement rates make it hard to recruit staff.

The stalled increases would especially hit community-based services such as mental health treatment and developmental disability services. They wouldn’t affect physician services or federally funded health centers that offer care based on what patients can afford. But Lander Cooney, an executive vice president at One Health, which has rural clinics in rural Montana and Wyoming, said low reimbursement rates can hurt their patients who need care elsewhere, as more healthcare providers decide they can’t afford to accept Medicaid.

Montana’s Legislative Finance Committee recommended the state’s leadership find a way to cut costs without stalling the increases. Gianforte will have the final say. He must make that decision before the state begins its new budget year on July 1, the same day Medicaid work requirements begin.

Medicaid enrollees will have three months to show they’re working before the state begins dropping people for noncompliance in October. That gives the state time “to work out the bugs,” said state Rep. Ed Buttrey, a Republican who is also president of the Montana Hospital Association.

‘Completely in the Dark’

The work requirements won’t apply to everyone. There are exemptions for people who are severely sick, children, adults older than 64, and Native Americans, among others. Even so, most people will have to submit proof that For some, how to do that remains murky.

Health officials don’t have clear-cut definitions for medical conditions on the exemption list. They’re also awaiting federal guidance on what documents someone needs to prove a hardship that temporarily prevents them from working. “Providers are completely in the dark as to how we reduce the administrative burden,” said Shawna Yates, a family medicine doctor in Butte and president of the Montana Medical Association’s executive committee.

Health officials have said implementing work requirements early means figuring out some details as they go.

Montana’s Medicaid enrollment is at its lowest point in roughly a decade, , a consulting firm that has studied the state’s Medicaid program for years. Enrollment plummeted amid states’ scramble to determine whether tens of millions of people still qualified for Medicaid when the federal government lifted a pandemic-era disenrollment freeze in 2023.

Many primarily because of rather than ineligibility. National health advocates worry similar administrative problems will arise with implementing work requirements.

In Montana, the state’s Medicaid data signals continued red flags, according to a by the nonprofit Montana Budget and Policy Center. That includes long waits to access public assistance and low renewal rates due to paperwork issues.

Julie Anderson, a mental health and addiction counselor in Livingston, Montana, helps people navigate public aid at a food bank. She said she recently spent three hours on hold on the state’s public assistance helpline, trying to help a patient with limited cellphone minutes troubleshoot a Medicaid application. Anderson said she had to hang up to help other people before anyone answered.

“It’s already a cumbersome system,” she said. Once the new requirements go in place, Anderson added, “it’s going to be a nightmare.”

The health department has worked for months to expand its public assistance team. As of early March, Montana had filled 39 of 59 new positions state officials projected are needed for the intensified Medicaid eligibility checks.

“The problem with that is that it takes a lot of training to get caseworkers up to speed,” said Kim Winchell, who helps people enroll in health coverage at Glacier Community Health Center in Cut Bank.

State officials said they’ll try to automatically confirm through existing data whether people are exempt or meet the rules. When that doesn’t work, applicants will have 30 days to provide proof of eligibility.

Charlie Brereton, director of the Montana health department, told lawmakers in May that the agency considered a public service campaign to get the word out. But he said the state’s budget problems curtailed that idea.

Brereton said the state could reevaluate that option, “depending on how implementation goes.”

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The 59-year-old retired teacher, who recently moved from Ohio to Michigan, now pays $341 a month for a pair of plans, one that covers routine and urgent care and another that pays fixed amounts for hospital stays. Neither meets federal standards for comprehensive coverage.

Though she practices yoga and is healthy, Miller said she still feels “vulnerable.” If she lands in the hospital, her plan pays a flat $2,000, a fraction of the of an average hospital stay.

“I don’t gamble. But I may as well,” she said. “This is gambling.”

Congress’ decision late last year not to extend enhanced marketplace tax credits has boosted the appeal of alternatives to comprehensive insurance — plans like Miller’s, which have lower premiums but don’t meet ACA standards for coverage or consumer protections. Unlike plans sold on the exchanges, these options — some sold by major insurers, others by small companies or nonprofits — can deny claims with few or no legal rights for consumers to appeal. The plans are not required to cover “essential health benefits,” such as preventive care, and can impose annual or lifetime caps on benefits.

There is debate over whether these options help or harm patients. Consumer advocates dismiss them as “junk insurance,” while proponents say restricting alternatives to pricey marketplace plans risks driving up the number of uninsured. Some states, including Kansas and Florida, and the federal government itself have eased regulations on such plans or created incentives to join them, while other states, including California and Massachusetts, have tried to deter enrollment in alternative insurance. Those regulatory guardrails, however, are now being stress-tested as premiums blow out household budgets.

Alternative insurance takes many forms, including short-term policies, which were designed to bridge temporary gaps in coverage and often exclude preexisting conditions, and fixed-indemnity plans, which pay a flat rate per service regardless of how high costs go and are intended for supplemental use. Arrangements in which people pool their money to cover one another’s bills, including faith-based “healthcare sharing ministries,” also provide a cheaper alternative to the marketplace options. Because they are not considered insurance under federal or state law, they are not legally bound to pay for even .

Enrollment data for alternative plans is mostly confidential, but several indicators point to shifts in the market. Recent estimates suggest marketplace enrollment from 2025, and a of people on the exchanges last year found that 5% switched to private, nonmarketplace individual coverage, including plans that don’t comply with the ACA. Covered California, the state’s marketplace, plans to survey former enrollees to find out where they went.

Insurance industry insiders also report that, amid the expiration of subsidies, alternative plans are making a marketing push. Colorado insurance broker Samantha Albritton said that before ACA open enrollment, she saw more marketing from fixed-indemnity plans than in previous years. One healthcare sharing plan, Zion HealthShare, had more than 75,000 members in February — a 50% increase since last June, it said in a statement.

Critics of these alternative plans say the major issues occur when people use them as primary insurance and don’t realize the coverage is inadequate until they need it most. “Humans have bodies that can fail them,” said Amy Killelea, an assistant research professor at Georgetown University’s Center on Health Insurance Reforms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We Can Only Pray’

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

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

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

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

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

‘They Just Want To Not Die’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Election Issue

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

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

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

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

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

“Martin County lost its hospital on his watch, and he still opposed the funding meant to help communities like it,” Buckhout campaign spokesperson Stephen Gallagher said in a statement to Ñî¹óåú´«Ã½Ò•îl Health News. The campaign did not respond to additional queries about her plans for healthcare access, if elected.

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

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

Overnight Waits for Emergency Care

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a waste of my time.”

This <a target="_blank" href="/rural-health/rural-health-fund-hospital-closures-north-carolina-martin-general/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">

7B Care Clinic has been operating in Sandpoint since 2001 and was previously called Life Choices Pregnancy Center and Sandpoint Crisis Pregnancy Center. It is of a nationwide network of Christian evangelical centers called Care Net. 7B, one of about 1,200 pregnancy centers affiliated with Care Net, offers pregnancy tests, limited ultrasounds, parenting and life skills classes, community support groups, and other free resources, such as children’s clothing. Donations from people, businesses, and more than 40 churches keep 7B’s operations running, Executive Director Janine Shepard said.

Such centers are known as crisis pregnancy centers or pregnancy resource centers. They offer limited resources and medical services to pregnant women and aim to dissuade them from having abortions. Healthcare groups including the have said many crisis pregnancy centers use unethical and deceptive practices to bring women into their organizations.

Traffic at 7B has picked up since the local hospital and its OB-GYNs moved out of state three years ago. The closure left a hole in reproductive health services in this town of more than 10,000 on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille and surrounding rural areas.

“We are seeing a lot more people,” Shepard said.

By December 2024, more than two years after the U.S. Supreme Court overturned nationwide abortion rights in its Dobbs decision, Idaho had of its OB-GYNs. 7B is expanding, with the goal of bringing obstetric care back to Sandpoint. The organization plans to add to its current building once it’s paid off, Shepard said, and it’s in talks with a hospital about 30 miles away in Washington state to bring in an OB-GYN once a week to provide prenatal care.

If obstetric care existed now in Sandpoint, Shepard said, “we wouldn’t even be considering” the expanded services. “But there’s such a need. And our community suffers because of it.”

As rural communities face the and , crisis pregnancy centers are growing in influence. Some states have approved legislation granting the organizations greater protections from oversight and regulation, and clinics have seen a massive and in recent years.

In a town with limited maternity care, 7B has been providing important resources to struggling low-income women. But critics say the religious nonprofit, which is not medically licensed and isn’t required to meet regulatory standards for medical facilities, has an agenda that makes it an inappropriate place for pregnant patients to seek medical care.

Jen Jackson Quintano, a Sandpoint resident and the founder of the Pro-Voice Project, a nonprofit that advocates for abortion rights in Idaho, said crisis pregnancy centers mislead patients by drawing them in with the offer of free pregnancy-related services before delivering their anti-abortion pitch.

“We all need clarity on what those services are: ministry-first, rather than comprehensive medicine,” Quintano said.

Shepard said there are misconceptions about the organization, and she invites people to take a tour of 7B to learn what it does. She said her staff talk to pregnant women about abortion, adoption, and parenting as options and hope they feel supported enough to make a “life-affirming” decision.

7B reflects a trend of crisis pregnancy centers seeking to expand their operations in maternal care deserts and regions with gaps in women’s healthcare, said Andrea Swartzendruber, an associate professor of epidemiology and biostatistics at the University of Georgia College of Public Health. Swartzendruber has studied crisis pregnancy centers in the U.S. since 2018.

“Crisis pregnancy centers have, for years and years, capitalized on gaps in access to healthcare,” she said. “In no way, shape, or form do crisis pregnancy centers have the infrastructure or ability or training to bridge those gaps.”

According to Swartzendruber’s research, more than 2,600 crisis pregnancy centers operated in the U.S. as of 2024, more than three times the number of . Many centers have been found to engage in with clients, including putting misleading information on their websites making them appear to be legitimate medical clinics with the goal of attracting women who are seeking abortions.

The organizations are also seeing support from the Trump administration. On May 10 — Mother’s Day — the Department of Health and Human Services sharing resources and information for new and expectant mothers. It includes a map to find pregnancy centers and cites services the centers provide, such as pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, and medical referrals.

‘The Perfect Place for This’

Sandpoint is a small mountain town in a deeply conservative and Christian part of a state with a strict abortion law put into place after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade.

Amelia Huntsberger, one of the OB-GYNs who left Sandpoint three years ago, said the town is “the perfect place for this,” referring to the expansion of the 7B Care Clinic.

In underresourced areas, the benefits that crisis pregnancy centers may bring are welcome.

Lori Sabin, a licensed midwife in Bonners Ferry, about 30 miles north of Sandpoint, said that 7B is a helpful resource to the community, especially for people who struggle to get healthcare because of a lack of health insurance or who face challenges in traveling for care.

“The nicest thing about 7B is all their services are free,” Sabin said, adding that the classes and free baby items are particularly helpful for young first-time mothers. “They can point them in the right direction. They tell them where the midwives are; they tell them where the OBs are.”

Huntsberger, who practiced in Sandpoint for more than a decade and now lives in Oregon, also acknowledged the benefits she saw 7B bring for patients, including the parenting classes and support groups. But she has concerns about its resemblance to a medical facility that provides healthcare.

Lisa Battisfore, founder of Reproductive Transparency Now, a Chicago-based organization that provides education and outreach about crisis pregnancy centers, acknowledged that the limited services they provide can be helpful but said the bad outweighs the good.

“If someone needs diapers or someone needs formula and a crisis pregnancy center is willing to give that to them, it’s difficult to say that that in isolation is a bad thing, but you have to look at the bigger picture,” Battisfore said.

Crisis pregnancy centers are largely unregulated and are protected by First Amendment rights to free speech and religious exercise. The Supreme Court crisis pregnancy centers to go to court to block a state attorney general’s subpoena for donor funding information. Critics say lack of oversight allows centers to spread misinformation about abortion and abortion pill “reversal,” a procedure the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists has called “.”

Crisis pregnancy centers have against states trying to increase regulation and oversight. Those protections have allowed some of the organizations to blur the line between anti-abortion activism and medical care.

“They seem to be really good at walking on both sides of that line when it suits them best, and that does not suit pregnant people best,” Battisfore said.

She referenced a recent case in Texas in which a woman was hospitalized for an ectopic pregnancy days after she received an ultrasound and a clean bill of health from a crisis pregnancy center. An OB-GYN who works with the Abundant Life Pregnancy Resource Center “there is nothing to fix” when asked about the error. There have been at crisis pregnancy centers.

What’s Next for Sandpoint

angered a lot of locals when it closed its labor and delivery unit three years ago. Residents lamented that women needed to travel farther to give birth and mourned the loss of the OB-GYNs. Since then, the hospital has been working to rebuild trust with the community.

This year, the hospital created a women’s health committee that includes hospital board members, staff, and others. Hospital CEO John Hennessy and Chief Medical Officer Stacey Good, a physician, said their priority is to hear from the community and increase awareness about the women’s healthcare that’s still available.

Women can still receive a range of services, including prenatal care from a nurse practitioner who travels to Bonner General from Coeur d’Alene once a week and other clinicians who can provide more basic gynecological care. A position for a gynecologist at the hospital has been open since May 2023, and Hennessy said filling it remains a priority.

Sandpoint resident Makayla Sundquist, a licensed counselor, grew up in town. She got married last year and has been thinking about starting a family with her husband. She wondered if she would feel safe knowing she’d need to travel at least an hour to the nearest hospital with labor and delivery services.

But she also has doubts about 7B as a potential option for local care. She was skeptical that an anti-abortion, faith-based organization would provide accurate information on the options available to her.

“It is something that I do think about and do have fear about,” Sundquist said. “I wish that wasn’t my reality.”

This <a target="_blank" href="/rural-health/anti-abortion-crisis-pregnancy-center-sandpoint-idaho-obgyn-maternity-care-desert/">article</a&gt; first appeared on <a target="_blank" href="">KFF Health News</a> and is republished here under a <a target="_blank" href=" Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License</a>.<img src="/wp-content/uploads/sites/8/2023/04/kffhealthnews-icon.png?w=150&quot; style="width:1em;height:1em;margin-left:10px;">