After his mom finally saw a specialist in Glasgow, about an hour away, she was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer, Bighorn said.

Now, 16 years after his mother’s death, Bighorn has access to regular screenings for cancer and other specialty care that she didn’t have, through a health insurance program the Fort Peck Tribes created in 2016. The program, which covers most of the costs for the roughly 1,000 tribal citizens enrolled, is among a growing number of tribally sponsored health insurance programs.

Such programs vary by tribe, but they essentially screen and enroll people living within tribal boundaries in Affordable Care Act marketplace plans. They allow participating Native Americans flexibility to go to outside doctors and clinics when care through the Indian Health Service is unavailable.

“I’d be in a bind otherwise,” said Bighorn, a 65-year-old tribal game warden and member of the Dakota community.

But the Fort Peck Tribes now limit who has access to that coverage. Other tribal organizations that offer Native Americans similar coverage are struggling with rising costs, too.

The financial crunch began when congressional lawmakers allowed enhanced subsidies under the Affordable Care Act to expire on Dec. 31. Those tax credits, created under the Biden administration during the covid-19 pandemic, expanded subsidized health coverage for millions of people. By late 2025, ACA plans saw about 24 million enrollees, more than twice the number of pre-pandemic annual sign-ups. The cost of coverage shot up for most of those people as the expanded subsidies expired, and enrollment so far has dropped by more than 1 million people, according to federal health officials.

The subsidies had also boosted tribal health insurance programs, like the one Bighorn is enrolled in. The programs pay the price of each person’s share of premiums after subsidies, and the coverage lowers patients’ treatment costs. Now that premium prices have ballooned, so have tribes’ costs.

Rae Jean Belgarde, who directs Fort Peck Tribes’ program, said the higher costs leave the tribes with one option at this point: “Start limiting who gets help.”

The tribes are helping people shift to other insurance options and, in some cases, find state programs to cover their premiums. Tribal leaders also sent a letter to Montana’s all-Republican congressional delegation asking them to support extending the subsidies.

“Our program is saving lives,” the letter read. Belgarde said she didn’t know whether the lawmakers responded.

Scrambling for Solutions

U.S. House members approved a temporary extension of the enhanced subsidies in January. But that measure stalled in the Senate. Lawmakers are scrambling for an alternative after President Donald Trump threatened to veto an extension if a bill reaches his desk. On Jan. 15, the president released an outline of a health care proposal that includes creating savings accounts for people to pay their health costs — an idea Senate Republicans previously floated as an alternative to the subsidies.

A.C. Locklear, CEO of the National Indian Health Board, a nonprofit that works to improve health in Native communities, said tribes are “looking at ways to cut back just as much as everyone else.”

Native Americans as a group continue to face disproportionately high rates of chronic diseases. Their median age at death is 14 years younger than that of white Americans.

“Reducing access to even just general primary care has a significant impact on those disparities,” Locklear said.

Tribal leaders have said letting the subsidies expire further undermines the federal government’s duty to ensure adequate care for Native Americans.

In exchange for taking tribal land through colonization, the U.S. government made long-standing promises to provide for the health and well-being of tribes. Native Americans are guaranteed free health care at clinics and hospitals operated or funded by the Indian Health Service. But that agency’s chronic underfunding has created massive blackouts in care. It sometimes pays for patients’ outside care through its Purchased/Referred Care program, but that’s limited too. Due to funding shortfalls, the agency prioritizes which treatments it will pay for.

To help fill the coverage gaps, some tribal nations have built their own health insurance programs. When tribes pay health premiums, clinics and hospitals in their areas can bill for services that might otherwise go unpaid. Some tribes have leveraged that money to expand services.

“I don’t see tribes getting rid of these programs,” Locklear said. “But it will drastically shift how much tribes can really put back in their community.”

For example, Tuba City Regional Health Care Corp., in northern Arizona within the Navajo Nation, is unique in providing comprehensive cancer treatment on a reservation, Locklear said. The corporation, he said, estimates its costs to cover patients this year are increasing by roughly 170% to nearly $38,000 per month without the enhanced subsidies.

One of the newer programs is on the Blackfeet reservation in northwestern Montana, where basic health services can be hard to find. Medical visits are often offered on a first-come, first-served basis, and services vanish when staff positions go unfilled, said Lyle Rutherford, a Blackfeet Nation council member.

“Some of it is just getting a regular eye appointment, or a primary care appointment,” Rutherford said.

The tribe has been slowly building its health insurance program since launching it in 2024. Rutherford said the enhanced subsidies made that possible. Fewer than 400 people are enrolled out of an estimated 3,000 who qualify. In January, the tribe paused the employer-sponsored coverage portion of its insurance program, which at the time included 52 people.

He said tribal leaders are seeking extra funding to keep the program afloat, and he hopes Congress finds a solution.

Lives on the Line

The impact goes beyond tribes’ insurance programs. The Urban Institute, a Washington, D.C.-based economic and social policy research nonprofit, estimates that 125,000 Native Americans will become uninsured in 2026 due to the higher costs.

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LODGE GRASS, Mont. — Brothers Lonny and Teyon Fritzler walked amid the tall grass and cottonwood trees surrounding their boarded-up childhood home near the Little Bighorn River and daydreamed about ways to rebuild.

The rolling prairie outside the single-story clapboard home is where Lonny learned from their grandfather how to break horses. It’s where Teyon learned from their grandmother how to harvest buffalo berries. It’s also where they watched their father get addicted to meth.

Teyon, now 34, began using the drug at 15 with their dad. Lonny, 41, started after college, which he said was partly due to the stress of caring for their grandfather with dementia. Their own addictions to meth persisted for years, outlasting the lives of both their father and grandfather.

It took leaving their home in Lodge Grass, a town of about 500 people on the Crow Indian Reservation, to recover. Here, methamphetamine use is widespread.

The brothers stayed with an aunt in Oklahoma as they learned to live without meth. Their family property has sat empty for years — the horse corral’s beams are broken and its roof caved in, the garage tilts, and the house needs extensive repairs. Such crumbling structures are common in this Native American community, hammered by the effects of meth addiction. Lonny said some homes in disrepair would cost too much to fix. It’s typical for multiple generations to crowd under one roof, sometimes for cultural reasons but also due to the area’s housing shortage.

“We have broken-down houses, a burnt one over here, a lot of houses that are not livable,” Lonny said as he described the few neighboring homes.

In Lodge Grass, an estimated 60% of the residents age 14 and older struggle with drug or alcohol addictions, according to a local survey contracted by the Mountain Shadow Association, a local, Native-led nonprofit. For many in the community, the buildings in disrepair are symbols of that struggle. But signs of renewal are emerging. In recent years, the town has torn down more than two dozen abandoned buildings. Now, for the first time in decades, new businesses are going up and have become new symbols — those of the town’s effort to recover from the effects of meth.

One of those new buildings, a day care center, arrived in October 2024. A parade of people followed the small, wooden building through town as it was delivered on the back of a truck. It replaced a formerly abandoned home that had tested positive for traces of meth.

“People were crying,” said Megkian Doyle, who heads the Mountain Shadow Association, which opened the center. “It was the first time that you could see new and tangible things that pulled into town.”

The nonprofit is also behind the town’s latest construction project: a place where families together can heal from addiction. The plan is to build an entire campus in town that provides mental health resources, housing for kids whose parents need treatment elsewhere, and housing for families working to live without drugs and alcohol.

Though the project is years away from completion, locals often stop by to watch the progress.

“There is a ground-level swell of hope that’s starting to come up around your ankles,” Doyle said.

Two of the builders on that project are Lonny and Teyon Fritzler. They see the work as a chance to help rebuild their community within the Apsáalooke Nation, also known as the Crow Tribe.

“When I got into construction work, I actually thought God was punishing me,” Lonny said. “But now, coming back, building these walls, I’m like, ‘Wow. This is ours now.’”

Meth ‘Never Left’

Meth use is a long-standing public health epidemic throughout the U.S. and a growing contributor to the nation’s overdose crisis. The drug had been devastating in Indian Country, a term that encompasses tribal jurisdictions and certain areas with Native American populations.

Native Americans face the highest rates of meth addiction in the U.S. compared with any other demographic group.

“Meth has never left our communities,” said A.C. Locklear, CEO of the National Indian Health Board, a nonprofit that works to improve health in Indian Country.

Many reservations are in rural areas, which have higher rates of meth use compared with cities. As a group, Native Americans face high rates of poverty, chronic disease, and mental illness — all are risk factors for addiction. These conditions are rooted in more than a century of systemic discrimination, a byproduct of colonization. Meanwhile, the Indian Health Service, which provides health care to Native Americans, has been chronically underfunded. Cutbacks under the Trump administration have shrunk health programs nationwide.

LeeAnn Bruised Head, a recently retired public health adviser with the U.S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, said that despite the challenges, tribal nations have developed strong survival skills drawing from their traditions. For example, Crow people have held onto their nation’s language; neighbors are often family, or considered such; and many tribal members rely on their clans to mentor children, who eventually become mentors themselves for the next generation.

“The strength here, the support here,” said Bruised Head, who is part of the Crow Tribe. “You can’t get that anywhere else.”

Signs of Rebuilding

On a fall day, Quincy Dabney greeted people arriving for lunch at the Lodge Grass drop-in center. The center recently opened in a former church as a place where people can come for help to stay sober or for a free meal. Dabney volunteers at the center. He’s also the town’s mayor.

Dabney helped organize community cleanup days starting in 2017, during which people picked up trash in yards and alongside roads. The focus eventually shifted to tearing down empty, condemned houses, which Dabney said had become spots to sell, distribute, and use meth, often during the day as children played nearby.

“There was nothing stopping it here,” Dabney said.

The problem hasn’t disappeared, though. In 2024, officials broke up a multistate trafficking operation based on the Crow reservation that distributed drugs to other Montana reservations. It was one example of how drug traffickers have targeted tribal nations as sales and distribution hubs.

A few blocks from where Dabney spoke stood the remains of a stone building where someone had spray-painted “Stop Meth” on its roofless walls. Still, there are signs of change, he said.

Dabney pointed across the street to a field where a trailer had sat empty for years before the town removed it. The town was halfway through tearing down another home in disrepair on the next block. Another house on the same street was being cleaned up for an incoming renter: a new mental health worker at the drop-in center.

Just down the road, work was underway on the new campus for addiction recovery, called Kaala’s Village. Kaala means “grandmother” in Crow.

The site’s first building going up is a therapeutic foster home. Plans include housing to gradually reunite families, a community garden, and a place to hold ceremonies. Doyle said the goal is that, eventually, residents can help build their own small homes, working with experienced builders trained to provide mental health support.

She said one of the most important aspects of this work “is that we finish it.”

Tribal citizens and organizations have said the political chaos of Trump’s first year back in office shows the problem with relying on federal programs. It underscores the need for more grassroots efforts, like what’s unfolding in Lodge Grass. But a reliable system to fund those efforts still doesn’t exist. Last year’s federal grant and program cuts also fueled competition for philanthropic dollars.

Kaala’s Village is expected to cost $5 million. The association is building in phases as money comes in. Doyle said the group hopes to open the foster home by spring, and family housing the following year.

The site is a few minutes’ drive from Lonny and Teyon’s childhood home. In addition to building the new facility’s walls, they’re getting training to offer mental health support. Eventually, they hope to work alongside people who come home to Kaala’s Village.

As for their own home, they hope to restore it — one room at a time.

“Just piece by piece,” Lonny said. “We’ve got to do something. We’ve got these young ones watching.”

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“Many of my patients are messy, the ones that don’t know if they want to stop using drugs or not,” said Stevens, a primary care and addiction medicine doctor.

While other doctors avoided these patients, Stevens — who was familiar with the city from her time in medical school at Tulane University — sought them out. She regularly attended 6 a.m. breakfasts for homeless people, volunteered at a homeless shelter clinic on Saturdays, and, on Monday evenings, visited an abandoned Family Dollar store where advocates distributed supplies to people who use drugs.

One such evening about four years ago, Charmyra Harrell arrived there limping, her right leg swollen and covered in sores. Emergency room doctors had repeatedly dismissed her, so she eased the pain with street drugs, Harrell said.

Stevens cleaned her sores on Mondays for months until finally persuading Harrell to visit the clinic at University Medical Center New Orleans. There, Stevens discovered Harrell had diabetes and cancer.

She agreed to prescribe Harrell pain medication — an option many doctors would automatically dismiss for fear that a patient with a history of addiction would misuse it.

But Stevens was confident Harrell could hold up her end of the deal.

“She told me, ‘You cannot do drugs and do your pain meds,’” Harrell recounted on a Monday evening in October. So, “I’m no longer on cocaine.”

Stevens’ approach to patient care has won her awards and nominations in medicine, community service, and humanism. Instead of seeing patients in binaries — addicted or sober, with a positive or negative drug test — she measures progress on a spectrum. Are they showering daily, cooking with their families, using less fentanyl than the day before?

But not everyone agrees with this flexible approach that prioritizes working with patients on their goals, even if abstinence isn’t one of them. And it came to a head in the summer of 2024.

“The same things I was high-fived for thousands of times — suddenly that was bad,” Stevens said.

Flexible Care or Slippery Slope?

More than 80% of Americans who need substance use treatment don’t receive it, national data shows. Barriers abound: high costs, lack of transportation, clinic hours that are incompatible with jobs, fear of being mistreated.

Some doctors had been trying to ease the process for years. Covid-19 accelerated that trend. Telehealth appointments, fewer urine drug tests, and medication refills that last longer became the norm.

The result?

“Patients did OK and we actually reached more people,” said Brian Hurley, immediate past president of the American Society of Addiction Medicine. The organization supports continuing flexible practices, such as helping patients avoid withdrawal symptoms by prescribing higher-than-traditional doses of addiction medication and focusing on recovery goals other than abstinence.

But some doctors prefer traditional approaches that range from zero tolerance for patients using illegal drugs to setting stiff consequences for those who don’t meet their doctors’ expectations. For example, a patient who tests positive for street drugs while getting outpatient care would be discharged and told to go to residential rehab. Proponents of this method fear loosening restrictions could be a slippery slope that ultimately harms patients. They say continuing to prescribe painkillers, for example, to people using illicit substances long-term could normalize drug use and hamper the goal of getting people off illegal drugs.

Progress should be more than keeping patients in care, said Keith Humphreys, a Stanford psychologist, who has treated and researched addiction for decades and supports involuntary treatment.

“If you give addicted people lots of drugs, they like it, and they may come back,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean that that is promoting their health over time.”

Flexible practices also tend to align with harm reduction, a divisive approach that proponents say keeps people who use drugs safe and that critics — including the Trump administration — say enables illegal drug use.

The debate is not just philosophical. For Stevens and her patients, it came to bear on the streets of New Orleans.

‘Unconventional’ Prescribing

In the summer of 2024, supervisors started questioning Stevens’ approach.

In emails reviewed by KFF Health News, they expressed concerns about her prescribing too many pain pills, a mix of opioids and other controlled substances to the same patients, and high doses of buprenorphine, a medication considered the gold standard to treat opioid addiction.

Supervisors worried Stevens wasn’t doing enough urine drug tests and kept treating patients who used illicit drugs instead of referring them to higher levels of care.

“Her prescribing pattern appears unconventional compared to the local standard of care,” the hospital’s chief medical officer at the time wrote to Stevens’ supervisor, Benjamin Springgate. “Note that this is the only standard of care which would likely be considered should a legal concern arise.”

Springgate forwarded that email to Stevens and encouraged her to refer more patients to methadone clinics, intensive outpatient care, and inpatient rehab.

Stevens understood the general practice but couldn’t reconcile it with the reality her patients faced. How would someone living in a tent, fearful of losing their possessions, trek to a methadone clinic daily?

Stevens sent her supervisors dozens of research studies and national treatment guidelines backing her flexible approach. She explained that if she stopped prescribing the medications of concern, patients might leave the health system, but they wouldn’t disappear.

“They just wouldn’t be getting care and perhaps they’d be dead,” she said in an interview with KFF Health News.

Both University Medical Center and LSU Health New Orleans, which employs physicians at the hospital, declined repeated requests for interviews. They did not respond to detailed questions about addiction treatment or Stevens’ practices.

Instead, they provided a joint statement from Richard DiCarlo, dean of the LSU Health New Orleans School of Medicine, and Jeffrey Elder, chief medical officer of University Medical Center New Orleans.

“We are not at liberty to comment publicly on internal personnel issues,” they wrote.

“We recognize that addiction is a serious public health problem, and that addiction treatment is a challenge for the healthcare industry,” they said. “We remain dedicated to expanding access to treatment, while upholding the highest standard of care and safety for all patients.”

Not Black-and-White

KFF Health News shared the complaints against Stevens and the responses she’d written for supervisors with two addiction medicine doctors outside of Louisiana, who had no affiliation with Stevens. Both found her practices to be within the bounds of normal addiction care, especially for complex patients.

Stephen Loyd, an addiction medicine doctor and the president of Tennessee’s medical licensing board, said doctors running pill mills typically have sparse patient notes that list a chief complaint of pain. But Stevens’ notes detailed patients’ life circumstances and the intricate decisions she was making with them.

“To me, that’s the big difference,” Loyd said.

Some people think the “only good answer is no opioids,” such as oxycodone or hydrocodone, for any patients, said Cara Poland, an addiction medicine doctor and associate professor at Michigan State University. But patients may need them — sometimes for things like cancer pain — or require months to lower their doses safely, she said. “It’s not as black-and-white as people outside our field want it to be.”

Humphreys, the Stanford psychologist, had a different take. He did not review Stevens’ case but said, as a general practice, there are risks to prescribing painkillers long-term, especially for patients using today’s lethal street drugs too.

Overprescribing fueled the opioid crisis, he said. “It’s not going to go away if we do that again.”

‘The Thing That Kills People’

After months of tension, Stevens’ supervisors told her on March 10 to stop coming to work. The hospital was conducting a review of her practices, they said in an email viewed by KFF Health News.

Overnight, hundreds of her patients were moved to other providers.

Luka Bair had been seeing Stevens for three years and was stable on daily buprenorphine.

After Stevens’ departure, Bair was left without medication for three days. The withdrawal symptoms were severe — headache, nausea, muscle cramps.

“I was just in physical hell,” said Bair, who works for the National Harm Reduction Coalition and uses they/them pronouns.

Although Bair eventually got a refill, Springgate, Stevens’ supervisor, didn’t want to continue the regimen long-term. Instead, Springgate referred Bair to more intensive and residential programs, citing Bair’s intermittent use of other drugs, including benzodiazepines and cocaine, as markers of high risk. Bair “requires a higher level of care than our clinic reasonably can offer,” Springgate wrote in patient portal notes reviewed by KFF Health News.

But Bair said daily attendance at those programs was incompatible with their full-time job. They left the clinic, with 30 days to find a new doctor or run out of medication again.

“This is the thing that kills people,” said Bair, who eventually found another doctor willing to prescribe.

Springgate did not respond to repeated calls and emails requesting comment.

University Medical Center and LSU Health New Orleans did not answer questions about discharging Stevens’ patients.

‘Reckless Behavior’

About a month after Stevens was told to stay home, Haley Beavers Khoury, a medical student who worked with her, had collected nearly 100 letters from other students, doctors, patients, and homelessness service providers calling for Stevens’ return.

One student wrote, “Make no mistake — some of her patients will die without her.” A nun from the Daughters of Charity, which ran the hospital’s previous incarnation, called Stevens a “lifeline” for vulnerable patients.

Beavers Khoury said she sent the letters to about 10 people in hospital and medical school leadership. Most did not respond.

In May, the hospital’s review committee determined Stevens’ practices fell “outside of the acceptable community standards” and constituted “reckless behavior,” according to a letter sent to Stevens.

The hospital did not answer KFF Health News’ questions about how it reached this conclusion or if it identified any patient harm.

Meanwhile, Stevens had secured a job at another New Orleans hospital. But because her resignation came amid the ongoing investigation, University Medical Center said it was required to inform the state’s medical licensing board.

The medical board began its own investigation — a development that eventually cost Stevens the other job offer.

In presenting her side to the medical board, Stevens repeated many arguments she’d made before. Yes, she was prescribing powerful medications. No, she wasn’t making clinical decisions based on urine drug tests. But national addiction organizations supported such practices and promoted tailoring care to patients’ circumstances, she said. Her response included a 10-page bibliography with 98 citations.

Liability

The board’s investigation into Stevens is ongoing. Its website shows no action taken against her license as of late December.

The board declined to comment on both Stevens’ case and its definition of appropriate addiction treatment.

In October, Stevens moved to the Virgin Islands to work in internal medicine at a local hospital. She said she’s grateful for the welcoming locals and the financial stability to support herself and her parents.

But it hurts to think of her former patients in New Orleans.

Before leaving, Stevens packed away handwritten letters from several of them — one was 15 pages long, written in alternating green and purple marker — in which they shared childhood traumas and small successes they had while in treatment with her.

Stevens doesn’t know what happened to those patients after she left.

She believes the scrutiny of her practices centers on liability more than patient safety.

But, she said, “liability is in abandoning people too.”

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

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Tomaron comida enlatada, frutas y verduras, y una tarjeta de regalo para el supermercado. Luego, Basu vio una fila de mesas en el estacionamiento, atendidas por trabajadores del área de servicios sociales, que ayudaban a la gente a solicitar asistencia alimentaria y cobertura de salud. Le dijeron que su suegra, quien también recibe Medicaid, podría calificar para recibir ayuda alimentaria.

“Tendría que separar menos dinero”, dijo Basu, que es la única que aporta ingresos en su hogar en Anaheim desde que su esposo sufrió un derrame cerebral. “Tal vez pueda usar ese dinero extra para cubrir otros gastos”.

Basu fue una de las más de 3.000 personas que asistieron a un evento de CalOptima en noviembre, en uno de los condados más ricos de California. La jornada marcó el inicio de una campaña de $20 millones por parte de esta aseguradora de Medicaid. El objetivo es ayudar a que residentes de bajos ingresos accedan y conserven su cobertura médica y sus beneficios de alimentos, en el momento en que comiencen a aplicarse las restricciones federales establecidas en la ley de presupuesto impulsada por el presidente Donald Trump, llamada Una Gran y Hermosa Ley (One Big Beautiful Bill Act).

La ley recorta más de $900.000 millones en financiamiento federal para Medicaid, conocido como Medi-Cal en California. También elimina alrededor de $187.000 millones del Programa de Asistencia Nutricional Suplementaria (SNAP, por sus siglas en inglés), conocido como CalFresh en California. Esto representa cerca del 20% del presupuesto del programa en los próximos 10 años. Como resultado, hasta 3,4 millones de beneficiarios de Medi-Cal y casi 400.000 personas que usan CalFresh podrían perder estos beneficios. (La mayoría de quienes reciben CalFresh también tienen Medi-Cal).

Representantes republicanos dicen que estos cambios —algunos de los cuales ya están en vigor— ayudarán a prevenir el fraude y el despilfarro mediante controles de elegibilidad más estrictos y nuevos requisitos laborales.

Sin embargo, los planes de salud de Medicaid en todo el país están reforzando sus actividades comunitarias para no perder afiliados, muchos de los cuales ya enfrentan altos costos de alimentos y atención médica.

En el condado de Los Ángeles, el plan de salud L.A. Care lanzó en diciembre reuniones comunitarias para informar a la población sobre los cambios en Medi-Cal. En Hawaii, AlohaCare está reactivando una alianza creada durante la pandemia de covid para mitigar el impacto de la pérdida de cobertura. Y en Philadelphia, Community Behavioral Health, un plan de Medicaid para la salud mental, tiene previsto organizar una serie de encuentros durante 2026 para difundir información sobre estos cambios.

“Sabemos que estos cambios afectarán a muchos de nuestros afiliados”, afirmó Michael Hunn, director ejecutivo de CalOptima, uno de los más de veinte planes de atención médica de Medi-Cal que reciben pagos mensuales en función del número de afiliados. “Tenemos la gran responsabilidad de asegurarnos de que comprendan y puedan adaptarse a estos cambios a medida que se implementan”.

CalOptima, una entidad pública cuyo directorio es nombrado por la junta de supervisores del condado, ha destinado unos $2 millones hasta 2028 para financiar que trabajadores del área de elegibilidad brinden ayuda en eventos comunitarios como la distribución de alimentos. Según An Tran, director de la Agencia de Servicios Sociales del condado de Orange, estos fondos permitirán realizar actividades de divulgación fundamentales que, de otro modo, el condado no podría costear.

El condado de Orange tiene unos 1.500 trabajadores encargados de procesar las reinscripciones y de verificar los datos de aproximadamente  850.000 beneficiarios de Medi-Cal y más de 300.000 inscritos en CalFresh.

“Estamos hablando de familias que necesitan ayuda con urgencia, especialmente en un momento en que los precios de los alimentos y la inflación están tan altos que apenas logran llegar a fin de mes”, dijo Tran.

Además de financiar a trabajadores del condado, CalOptima también planea otorgar subvenciones a organizaciones comunitarias para que realicen actividades de difusión sobre Medi-Cal. Además, desarrollará una campaña de concientización pública en varios idiomas para informar a las personas afiliadas sobre los nuevos requisitos, explicó Hunn.

La representante federal Young Kim, republicana que representa a parte del condado de Orange, no respondió a una solicitud de comentarios, pero ha dicho que la ley presupuestaria firmada por Trump, por la que votó a favor, “toma medidas importantes para asegurar que los fondos federales se usen de la manera más eficaz posible y para fortalecer Medicaid y SNAP para nuestros ciudadanos más vulnerables que realmente lo necesitan”. Kim y otros republicanos han dicho que la ley ofrecerá alivio fiscal a las personas trabajadoras en Estados Unidos.

Después de casi una hora de hablar con una trabajadora del área de elegibilidad, Basu se enteró de que gana demasiado como para que su suegra —quien vive con su familia— califique para CalFresh. Ahora, contó, le preocupan los cambios en los requisitos de Medi-Cal para inmigrantes. Teme que estas modificaciones puedan afectar a su suegra, quien obtuvo la residencia legal permanente hace aproximadamente un año y medio.

“Antes de tener eso, pagábamos en efectivo por el cardiólogo, por los análisis de laboratorio, por todo. Era carísimo”, dijo Basu. “Estoy pensando que en unos meses tendré que volver a pagar todo de mi bolsillo. Es mucho para mí. Es una carga”.

En la mayor parte del país, las personas que tienen residencia permanente (green card) desde hace menos de cinco años suelen no calificar para Medicaid, que es financiado por el gobierno federal. Sin embargo, California ha ofrecido cobertura de Medi-Cal con fondos estatales tanto a esas personas como a inmigrantes de bajos ingresos que no tienen estatus legal.

Pero incluso estos beneficios están siendo recortados por la presión del presupuesto estatal. En julio, el estado eliminará la cobertura completa de servicios dentales a algunos afiliados que tienen tarjeta de residencia desde hace menos de cinco años, así como a ciertos grupos de inmigrantes. Un año después, ese mismo grupo comenzará a pagar cuotas mensuales.

Y desde enero, California congelará la inscripción en Medi-Cal para personas mayores de 19 años sin estatus migratorio legal y para algunos inmigrantes que sí están legalmente en el país. También reinstaurará el límite de bienes para todos los afiliados mayores de edad.

Mientras tanto, el estado está preparando instrucciones para los condados sobre cómo implementar los cambios federales en los requisitos de elegibilidad de Medicaid, dijo Tony Cava, vocero del Departamento de Servicios de Atención Médica de California. Las reglas federales de trabajo y las revisiones de elegibilidad dos veces al año deberán aplicarse desde comienzos de 2027, en particular para quienes están afiliados bajo la expansión de cobertura de la Ley de Cuidado de Salud a Bajo Precio (ACA, por sus siglas en inglés).

El Departamento de Servicios Sociales de California, que administra CalFresh, ya modificó el modo de calcular los costos de servicios públicos del hogar y ha impuesto un límite a los beneficios para hogares muy numerosos. Además, aún está desarrollando las directrices sobre los requisitos federales de trabajo y los cambios que dejan afuera a ciertas personas que no son ciudadanas, indicó el subdirector David Swanson Hollinger durante una audiencia reciente.

El Departamento de Servicios de Salud ha creado una página web titulada Lo que las personas afiliadas a Medi-Cal deben saber sobre los cambios estatales y federales en Medicaid. También está utilizando su red de “embajadores de cobertura de Medi-Cal” para compartir información y actualizaciones en comunidades de todo el estado en varios idiomas. Y está colaborando con los condados y los planes de Medi-Cal para apoyar la inscripción comunitaria, incluso en eventos locales, explicó Cava.

Aquilino y Fidelia Salazar, un matrimonio que recibió ayuda con su solicitud a CalFresh, dijeron que no esperaban verse afectados por los requisitos laborales ni los cambios en la elegibilidad de Medi-Cal, porque ambos son residentes permanentes de EE.UU., tienen enfermedades crónicas y no pueden trabajar. Las personas consideradas incapaces de trabajar por razones físicas o mentales pueden quedar exentas de los requisitos laborales. Pero la pareja expresó preocupación por otras personas inmigrantes de su comunidad, que podrían perder el acceso a atención médica.

“No es justo, porque hay mucha gente que realmente sí lo necesita”, dijo Fidelia Salazar en español. “Ganan tan poquito y luego las medicinas e ir a un doctor es carísimo”.

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“That’s what I’m trying to avoid,” said Ferguson, who still calls Quincy Jackson III her baby. She remembers a boy who dressed himself in three-piece suits, donated his allowance, and graduated high school at 16 with an academic scholarship and plans to join the military or start a business.

Instead, Ferguson watched as her once bright-eyed, handsome son sank into disheveled psychosis, bouncing between family members’ homes, homeless shelters, jails, clinics, emergency rooms, and Ohio’s regional psychiatric hospitals.

Over the past year, The Marshall Project – Cleveland and KFF Health News interviewed Jackson, other patients and families, current and former state hospital employees, advocates, lawyers, judges, jail administrators, and national behavioral health experts. All echoed Ferguson, who said the mental health system makes it “easier to criminalize somebody than to get them help.”

State psychiatric hospitals nationwide have largely lost the ability to treat patients before their mental health deteriorates and they are charged with crimes. Driving the problem is a meteoric rise in the share of patients with criminal cases who stay significantly longer, generally by court order.

Patients Wait or Are Turned Away

Across the nation, psychiatric hospitals are short-staffed and consistently turn away patients or leave them waiting with few or no treatment options. Those who do receive beds are often sent there by court order after serious criminal offenses.

In Ohio, the share of state hospital patients with criminal charges jumped from about half in 2002 to around 90% today.

The surge has coincided with a steep decline in total state psychiatric hospital patients served, down 50% in Ohio in the past decade, from 6,809 to 3,421, according to the U.S. Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. During that time, total patients served nationwide dropped about 17%, from 139,434 to 116,320, with state approaches varying widely, from adding community services and building more beds to closing hospitals.

Ohio Department of Behavioral Health officials declined multiple interview requests for this article.

The decline in capacity at state facilities unfurled as a spate of local hospitals across the country shuttered their psychiatric units, which disproportionately serve patients with Medicaid or who are uninsured. And the financial stability of local hospital mental health services is likely to deteriorate further after Congress passed President Donald Trump’s One Big Beautiful Bill Act, which slashes nearly $1 trillion from the federal Medicaid budget over the next decade.

The constricted flow of new patients through state hospitals is “absolutely” a crisis and “a huge deal in Ohio and everywhere,” said retired Ohio Supreme Court Justice Evelyn Lundberg Stratton. As co-chair of the state attorney general’s Task Force on Criminal Justice and Mental Illness, Lundberg Stratton has spent decades searching for solutions.

“It hurts everybody who has someone who needs to get a hospital bed that’s not in the criminal justice system,” she said.

‘It’s Heartbreaking’

Quincy Jackson III’s white socks stuck out of the end of a hospital bed as police officers stood watch.

At 5 feet, 7 inches tall, Jackson has a stocky build and robotic stare. Staff at Blanchard Valley Hospital in Findlay, Ohio, had called for help, alleging Jackson had assaulted a security guard.

“I’m sick; I take medication,” Jackson said to the officers, according to law enforcement body camera footage. His hands were cuffed behind his back as he lay on the bed, a loose hospital gown covering him.

Ferguson called it one of his “episodes” and said her son experienced severe psychosis frequently. In one incident, she said, Jackson “went for a knife” at her home.

From December 2023 through this July, Jackson was arrested or cited in police reports on at least 17 occasions. He was jailed at least five times and treated more than 10 times at hospitals, including three state-run psychiatric facilities. A recent psychiatric evaluation noted that Jackson has been in and out of community and state facilities since 2015.

Jackson is among a glut of people nationwide with severe mental illness who overwhelm community hospitals, courtrooms, and jails, eventually leading to backlogs at state hospitals.

High-Profile Incidents

That dearth of care is often cited by families, law enforcement authorities, and mental health advocates after people struggling with severe mental illness harm others. In the past six months, at least four incidents made national headlines.

In August, a homeless North Carolina man reportedly diagnosed with schizophrenia fatally stabbed a woman on a train. Also in August, police said a Texas gunman with a history of mental health issues killed three people, including a child, at a Target store. In July, a homeless Michigan man who family members said had needed treatment for decades attacked 11 people at a Walmart store with a knife. In June, police shot and killed a Florida man reportedly diagnosed with schizophrenia after authorities said he attacked law enforcement.

Mark Mihok, a longtime municipal judge near Cleveland, told a spring gathering of judges and lawyers that he had never seen so many people with serious mental illnesses living on the streets and “now punted into the criminal justice system.”

37-Day Wait for a Bed

At Blanchard Valley Hospital, sheriff’s deputies had taken Jackson from jail for a mental health check. But Jackson’s actions raised concerns.

In the body camera video, a nurse said Jackson was “going to be here all weekend. And we’re going to be calling you guys every 10 minutes.”

The officer responded: “Yeah, well, if he keeps acting like that, he’s going to go right back” to the county jail.

Within minutes, Jackson was taken back to jail, yelling at the officers: “Kill me, motherf—–. Yeah, shoot them, shoot them. Pop!”

Statewide, Ohio has about 1,100 beds in its six regional psychiatric hospitals. In May, the median wait time to get a state bed was 37 days.

That’s “a long time to be waiting in jail for a bed without meaningful access to mental health treatment,” said Shanti Silver, a senior research adviser at the national nonprofit Treatment Advocacy Center.

Long waits, often leaving people who need care lingering in jails, have drawn lawsuits in several states, including Kansas, Pennsylvania, and Washington, where a large 2014 class action case forced systemic changes such as expansion of crisis intervention training and residential treatment beds.

Ohio officials noticed bed shortages as early as 2018. State leaders assembled task forces and expanded treatment in jails. They launched community programs, crisis units, and a statewide emergency hotline.

Yet backlogs at the Ohio hospitals mounted.

Ohio Department of Behavioral Health Director LeeAnne Cornyn, who left the agency in October, wrote in a May emailed statement that the agency “works diligently to ensure a therapeutic environment for our patients, while also protecting patient, staff, and public safety.”

Eric Wandersleben, director of media relations and outreach for the department, declined to respond to detailed questions submitted before publication and, instead, noted that responses could be publicly found in a governor’s working group report released in late 2024.

Elizabeth Tady, a hospital liaison who also spoke to judges and lawyers at the May gathering, said 45 patients were waiting for beds at Northcoast Behavioral Healthcare, the state psychiatric hospital serving the Cleveland region.

“It’s heartbreaking for me and for all of us to know that there are things that need to be done to help the criminal justice system, to help our communities, but we’re stuck,” she said.

Ohio officials added 30 state psychiatric beds by replacing a hospital in Columbus and are planning a new 200-bed hospital in southwestern Ohio.

Still, Ohio Director of Forensic Services Lisa Gordish told the gathering in Cleveland that adding capacity alone won’t work.

“If you build beds — and what we’ve seen in other states is that’s what they’ve done — those beds get filled up, and we continue to have a waitlist,” she said.

This year, Jackson waited 100 days in the overcrowded and deadly Montgomery County jail for a bed at a state hospital, according to jail records.

Ferguson said she was afraid to leave him there but could not bail him out, in part, she said, because her son cannot survive on his own.

“There’s no place for my son to experience symptoms in the state of Ohio safely,” Ferguson said.

Sick System

Patrick Heltzel got the extended treatment Ferguson has long sought for her son, but he stabbed a 71-year-old man to death before getting it.

The 32-year-old is one of more than 1,000 patients receiving treatment in Ohio’s psychiatric hospitals.

“People need long-term care,” Heltzel said in October, calling from inside Heartland Behavioral Healthcare, near Canton, where he has lived for more than a decade after being found not guilty by reason of insanity of aggravated murder. Inpatient care, he said, helps patients figure out what medication regimen will work and deliver the therapy needed “to develop insight.”

As he spoke, the sound of an open room and patients chatting filled the background.

“You have to know, ‘OK, I have this chronic condition, and this is what I have to do to treat it,’” Heltzel said.

As the ranks of criminally charged patients in Ohio’s hospitals have increased over the past decade, the shift has had an impact on patient care: The hospitals have endangered patients, have become more restrictive, and are understaffed, according to interviews with Heltzel, other patients, and former staff members, as well as documents obtained through public records requests.

Escapes and a Lockdown

Katie Jenkins, executive director of the National Alliance on Mental Illness Greater Cleveland, said the shift from mostly civil patients, who haven’t been charged with a crime, to criminally charged patients has changed the hospitals.

“It’s hard in our state hospitals right now,” she said. Unfortunately, she said, patients who have been in jail bring that culture to the hospitals.

In the first 10 months of 2024, at least nine patients escaped from Ohio’s regional psychiatric hospitals — compared with three total in the previous four years, according to state highway patrol reports.

In one instance, two female patients at Summit Behavioral Healthcare near Cincinnati escaped after one lunged at a staff member. In another, a man broke a window and climbed out.

Most of the escapes, though, were not violent. Days after a patient at Northcoast jogged away during a trip to the dentist in a Cleveland suburb, state officials stopped allowing patients to leave any of the six regional hospitals.

A memo to leaders at the hospitals said officials had seen “similarities across multiple facilities,” raising significant concern about “ensuring patient and public safety.”

For Heltzel, the inability to go on outings or to his mother’s house on the weekends was a setback for his treatment. In 2024, when the lockdown began, he had more freedom than most patients at the psychiatric hospitals, regularly leaving to go to the local gym and attend off-site group therapy.

His mother signed him out each Friday to go home for the weekend, where he drove a car and played with his 2-year-old German shepherd, Violet. On Sundays, Heltzel was part of the “dream team” at church, volunteering to operate the audio and slides.

Federal records reveal that, at Ohio’s larger state-run psychiatric hospitals, including Summit and Northcoast, patients and staff have faced imminent danger.

In 2019 and 2020, federal investigators responded to patient deaths, including two suicides in six months at Northcoast. One hospital employee told federal inspectors, “The facility has been understaffed for a while and it’s getting worse,” according to the federal report. “It is very dangerous out here.”

Disability Rights Ohio, which has a federal mandate to monitor the facilities, filed a lawsuit in October against the department. The advocacy group, alleging abuse and neglect, asked for records of staff’s response to a Northcoast patient who suffocated from a plastic bag over their head. At the end of October, the court docket showed the parties had settled the case.

Retired sheriff’s deputy Louella Reynolds worked as a police officer at Northcoast for about five years before leaving in 2022. She said the increase in criminally charged patients meant the hospitals “absolutely” became less safe. Her hip still hurts from a patient who threw her against a cement wall.

Reynolds said officers should be able to carry weapons, which they don’t, and that more staff are needed to handle the patients. Mandatory overtime was common, she said, and often staff would report to work and not “know when we would get off.”

A Disaster That Wasn’t Averted

Back at Heartland, Heltzel requested conditional release. The judge denied the release request.

Heltzel said it was devastating. He grew up Catholic and said, “I was kind of looking for absolution.”

Now, Heltzel said he is practicing acceptance. “Acceptance is all the more important to practice when you don’t agree with something,” Heltzel said, adding, “I’m a ward of the state.”

He still hopes to be released: “I just do what I can to move forward.”

Heltzel, like Jackson, had been hospitalized before and released.

In early 2013, Heltzel said, he asked his dad to kill him. “And he refused and I did smack him,” he said. Heltzel was sent to Heartland for a short stay — about 10 days, according to his mother, Jan Dyer. She recalled “begging” the hospital staff to keep him.

Heltzel said he remembers not being ready to leave: “I was still sick, and I was still delusional.” Back at home, he said, he had a “sense of existential dread, like that all this horrible stuff was going to happen.” He stopped taking his medication.

Within weeks, Heltzel killed 71-year-old Milton A. Grumbling III at his home, placing him in a chokehold and stabbing him repeatedly, according to court records. He beat him with a remote control and then left, taking a Bible from the home, as well as a ring. Delusional with schizophrenia, Heltzel believed that Grumbling had sexually abused him in another life, according to the records.

A family member of the man he killed told the judge in 2023 that Heltzel should “stay in prison,” according to court records.

In denying his conditional release, judges cited Heltzel’s failure to take medication before killing Grumbling.

Jenkins, who said she worked at a state hospital for nine years before becoming the lead advocate for NAMI Greater Cleveland, said psychiatric medications can take as long as six weeks to become fully effective.

“So clients aren’t even getting stabilized when they’re being hospitalized,” Jenkins said.

‘He’s Not a Throwaway Child’

In a July interview, Jackson said inconsistent care or unmedicated time in jail “worsens my symptoms.” Jackson was on the phone during a stay at a state psychiatric hospital.

Without medicine, “my head hurts, to be honest,” Jackson said, before asking to get off the phone because he was hungry. It was lunchtime. “Can you get the information from my mom?” Jackson said. “She has the records.”

After Jackson hung up the phone, Ferguson explained that “he says the food is excellent, so he does not want to miss it.” And, she added, the hospital staff had not yet seen the explosive side of her son.

In early September, after 45 days at Summit — his longest stay yet at a state psychiatric hospital — Jackson returned to the Montgomery County jail facing misdemeanor charges because of an altercation in April with staff at a Dayton behavioral health hospital. In court, Ferguson said, her son struggled to explain to the judge why he was there. On a video call from the jail days later, she saw him playing with his hair and ears.

“That tells me he’s not OK,” Ferguson said.

Before Jackson’s diagnosis more than a decade ago, Ferguson said, her son wasn’t a troublemaker. He had goals and dreams. And he’s still “loved and liked by a lot of people.”

“He’s not a throwaway child,” she said.

The Marshall Project – Cleveland is a nonprofit news team covering Ohio’s criminal justice systems.

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

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The effort, part of Baltimore’s more than $100 million gun violence prevention plan, relies on staffers like Fitzgerald to build trust with people at risk of such violence and offer them resources like housing or food. Researchers believe these programs reduce gun deaths.

Yet one morning in 2019, Fitzgerald said, his oldest son, Deshawn McCoy, then 26, was shot just outside of the neighborhood he patrolled at the time. Fitzgerald said McCoy was a “really beautiful soul,” who fixed dirt bikes at a local garage. McCoy became the city’s 65th homicide victim in 2019, one of 348 that year, among the city’s deadliest. He left behind three daughters.

“This is our zone,” said Fitzgerald, pointing toward McElderry Park. “My son got cooked over here.”

For years, violence intervention was the work of loosely organized, underfunded groups. Then gun violence spiked during the covid pandemic and the Biden administration and Congress poured in money to better integrate such programs within cities. It appeared to help: In Baltimore and beyond, gun violence has plummeted.

The number of homicides in the city dropped 41%, from more than 300 a year in 2021 to 201 in 2024, according to the U.S. attorney’s office in Maryland.

“Gun violence is a sticky, hard problem to solve,” said Daniel Webster, a researcher at the Johns Hopkins Center for Gun Violence Solutions in Baltimore. “We’re getting it right finally.”

Now President Donald Trump’s administration has gutted funding for that work.

Webster said it could take years to untangle what led to the city’s gun violence drop. Among the factors, he said: the pandemic’s end, investments in violence intervention, improvements that have given police more legitimacy in neighborhoods, targeted prosecutions, and an aggressive effort to remove untraceable ghost guns.

“You need all of these systems working well to have systemic reductions in gun violence,” he said.

The Trump administration has slashed funding for gun violence prevention and research, cutting about $500 million in grants to organizations that support public safety.

At the same time, Trump has loosened gun laws and weakened the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, which oversees gun dealers. He has also sent federal troops into the Democratic-led cities of Chicago; Los Angeles; Memphis, Tennessee; Portland, Oregon; and Washington, D.C.

Webster said cities are still benefiting from pandemic-era efforts to address gun deaths. But given the Trump policy changes, if violence escalates, city leaders could have a hard time keeping it from spiraling out of control.

Trying Something Different

Safe Streets is among the promising violence prevention programs that could lose funding. Staffers in the city’s most violent neighborhoods operate like community health workers.

During the pandemic, the Biden administration provided billions of dollars to local governments through the American Rescue Plan Act. Biden urged them to deploy money to community violence intervention programs, which have been shown to reduce homicides by as much as 60%. His administration allowed states to spend Medicaid dollars on such programs. The goal: Stop gun deaths.

Few cities seized the opportunity.

Analyzing federal data, professors Philip Rocco of Marquette University and Amanda Kass of DePaul University found local governments used the ARPA money for 132,451 projects. Yet only 231, less than 0.2%, involved community violence intervention, they said.

In Baltimore, then-newly elected mayor Brandon Scott was ready for the federal influx.

Baltimore’s homicide rate had been high since 2015, when a 25-year-old Black man named Freddie Gray died in police custody. Protests erupted and fractures between residents and police deepened. Baltimore ended the year with 342 homicides, the first time since 1999 that more than 300 were recorded in the city.

“We got really good at our jobs” in the years after Gray’s death, said James Gannon, trauma program manager at Sinai Hospital of Baltimore.

Gun deaths tracked what public health researcher Lawrence T. Brown called the Black Butterfly: racially segregated areas that fanned out across Baltimore’s eastern and western neighborhoods around a wealthy central strip. People who faced years of forced displacement and disinvestment became prone to violence, which fueled the cycle.

Every year from 2015 to 2022, the city recorded at least 300 homicides.

“We had to try something different,” said Stefanie Mavronis, director of the Mayor’s Office of Neighborhood Safety and Engagement. Scott created the agency weeks after he was sworn into office in 2020, later funding it with $50 million in ARPA money and $20 million annually from the city’s budget.

Containing an Outbreak

The office’s budget — $22 million in fiscal year 2026 — is a fraction of the city’s $613 million police department budget.

Still, the money allowed Baltimore’s leaders to scale up a new approach: addressing gun violence the way public health officials might handle an infectious disease outbreak, Mavronis said.

City staffers identified the small subset of people most at risk of being shot or becoming the next shooter through crime data and referrals from social service workers, hospitals, and violence intervention staff, she said. Mavronis said that gangs, friends willing to engage in violence for each other, and retaliation had been driving gun deaths in the city.

“This never-ending cycle of violence and loss and trauma,” Mavronis said, “comes from that.”

The city convened hospital presidents to connect gunshot victims and their friends and family to counseling, crisis support, and city services.

It offered people help finding therapy, a job, or emergency relocation — and threatened arrest and prosecution if they retaliated.

“We decided that we were no longer going to subscribe to the belief that one thing, one agency, one part of government, one program was going to help cure Baltimore of this disease of gun violence that has had a stranglehold on this city for the entirety of my life,” Scott said.

The Coming Cliff

Baltimore is on pace this year to post its fewest gun deaths since Richard Nixon was president.

“Some of it is the national zeitgeist of the moment,” said Adam Rosenberg, executive director of Center for Hope at LifeBridge Health, which operates Safe Streets sites and the Violence Response Team at Sinai Hospital. He credits mainly the infusion of funding that allowed more resources and hands-on engagement with high-risk communities.

“We typically talk about how poverty affects homicides, but it works in reverse too,” Webster said. “People don’t invest in homes and businesses or, frankly, in people, where people get shot regularly.”

Fitzgerald, who grew up in East Baltimore, said he started working for Safe Streets in 2010 for the paycheck.

He’s been on both sides of gun violence, he said, as someone hit more than a dozen times in shootings — first when he was 12. At 13, Fitzgerald said, he shot a cousin in the leg. Over years, he was in and out of the criminal justice system, including for charges of attempted murder, which helped him understand the people he now works with every day, he said.

No college “can certify you in my experiences in violence,” he said. “That’s what allows me to identify and detect potentially violent situations.”

Today, Fitzgerald, 49, believes that teaching kids trauma coping mechanisms can drive culture change and stop shootings.

“Our kids see more death than soldiers,” he said.

But federal funding is drying up. Anthony Smith, executive director of Cities United, which supports local leaders on gun violence reduction, estimates that about 65 groups have lost funding this year. And Trump’s signature legislation slashes nearly $1 trillion in anticipated federal Medicaid spending over the next decade.

Center for Hope lost $1.2 million from federal cuts.

“It’s like a car racing along, and you see the cliff coming,” Rosenberg said. “I don’t know if the resources are there anymore, but the need certainly is.”

Rosenberg said that, because of their experiences, staffers such as Fitzgerald are “incredible messengers” for people involved in gun violence, and he noted that they are thoroughly vetted.

Fitzgerald put it this way: “I’m trying to save my kids, the community. The people we’re trying to save is our friends and our family, and ourselves.”

KFF Health News senior correspondent Fred Clasen-Kelly contributed to this report.

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