That was on Tuesday, Oct. 8. The next morning a social worker and a doctor woke Trumble to say her discharge was canceled. CVS would no longer provide her home nutrition, and she had to stay in the hospital. “I was dropped between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning with no care for my life or my health,” Trumble said from her hospital bed eight days later.

After this article was published, on Oct. 18, Trumble said she was being discharged, after her caregivers found a replacement service. “I’m just afraid their supplies will run out,” she said. “My backup plan is always to go back to the hospital.”

Trumble is among 25,000 U.S. patients whose survival depends on parenteral nutrition, or PN — IV bags containing life-sustaining amino acids, sugars, fats, vitamins, and electrolytes. Hurricane Helene wrecked a factory in North Carolina that produced 60% of the fluids their sustenance is mixed from. About two weeks later, CVS announced that its Coram division, a leading infusion pharmacy, was exiting the PN and IV antibiotics business.

The hurricane led Baxter International to ration its dwindling supplies. Pharmacies that supply Trumble and other patients like her were already plagued by shortages, and the rationing means the remaining infusion pharmacies can’t take on the customers cut off by CVS, said David Seres, director of medical nutrition at Columbia University Medical Center in New York.

At the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, seven or eight patients were ready to go home Tuesday but couldn’t be discharged because no infusion company would accept them, said Manpreet Mundi, a Mayo endocrinologist. The patients would fall ill within a day or two without this nutrition, he said.

By Oct. 18, home supplies had been located for all but a few of them, Mundi said. “A lot of public pressure” on Coram was starting to have an effect, he said.

Although the FDA is allowing emergency imports of IV fluids wiped out by Helene, as well as production of some of the fluids by U.S. compounding pharmacies, it’s unclear how long it will take to replenish supplies, said Mundi, who is a board member of the American Society for Parenteral and Enteral Nutrition and medical adviser to the Oley Foundation, which advocates for PN patients. “We’re trying to raise awareness that this could get worse before it gets better,” he said.

The patients who rely on PN have a variety of conditions that render them unable to digest food. Some have congenital abnormalities or disorders like Crohn’s disease that led to surgical removal of bowel sections. Others were scarred by cancer, car accidents, or gunfire, or are preemies born with underdeveloped intestines. In most patients, the fluid is pumped through a catheter into a large vein near the heart.

A crisis hit this community two years ago when CVS Health announced that it was shutting half of the 71 Coram pharmacies.

CVS, which recently announced nearly 3,000 layoffs amid reports of a possible restructuring, on Oct. 8 began telling its remaining 800 to 1,000 PN customers that they would have to find other infusion pharmacies. A news release provided to KFF Health News suggested the phaseout would last into January, but for patients like Trumble, the impact was immediate.

Highly specialized infusion medicine is “a challenging environment” for all companies “and Coram has not been immune to these challenges,” the CVS release said. “As such, we have reevaluated our service offerings.”

When asked about Trumble’s case, CVS Health spokesperson Mike DeAngelis said the company would “try to resolve it.” The next day, a company called Optum stepped in to replace Coram, Trumble said.

It’s hard enough normally for such patients to find new suppliers for their materials, which can include 120 pounds of IV fluid per week.

Coram’s departure “made a big crisis that much worse,” Mundi said. “It’s become kind of a double whammy.”

The Baxter International North Cove plant produced most of the country’s high-concentration dextrose, a major source of energy for PN patients, as well as saline solution and sterile water, also vital supplies. A week after Helene hit, Hurricane Milton threatened sterile IV fluid supplier B. Braun Medical’s facility in Daytona Beach, Florida. The federal government helped truck 60 loads of the company’s inventory to a safe location, but the plant was spared the storm’s worst. It restarted production on Oct. 11.

That was a huge relief for Beth Gore, CEO of the Oley Foundation. She, her husband, and their six adopted children braved the storm’s seven hours of lashing wind in their home near Ruskin, Florida. Milton wrecked a car and part of the roof, but the family prayed through it all and somehow never lost power, though their neighbors did, Gore said. That kept the IV fluids fresh and the internet on, which calmed the kids.

Coram has supplied her youngest son, 15-year-old Manny, with PN for 13 years, and the family will need to find another supplier, she said.

“There’s been no relief” since Coram reduced its services in 2022, Gore said. “Now there’s this new twist.”

Her son gets care through Medicaid, whose reimbursement provides barely break-even margins for many infusion pharmacies, she said. Insurance limits, state licensing differences, and highly specific nutritional needs pose challenges for patients seeking new IV suppliers in the best of times, she said.

The FDA announced Oct. 9 that it would allow Baxter to import emergency supplies from Canada, China, Ireland, and the U.K. In the meantime, Baxter is prioritizing hospital patients over the home infusion companies — which lack backup supplies, Mundi said.

“We’re all on the phone 24/7,” said Kathleen Gura, president-elect of the American Society for Parenteral and Enteral Nutrition and pharmacy clinical research program manager at Boston Children’s Hospital. Her team is struggling to find new suppliers of IV nutrition at home for the 20 Coram patients among the 150 she sees.

“Some kids have a situation where they can’t absorb at all through their intestines and will die of dehydration if they can’t get IV,” Gura said.

The IV fluids lost in the Baxter disaster are key to all kinds of inpatient care. Many U.S. hospitals are conserving fluid by giving some patients oral hydration instead of IVs, or by delaying surgeries, said Soumi Saha, senior vice president of government affairs at Premier, which negotiates group hospital purchases.

President Joe Biden has invoked the Defense Production Act, which will enable the government to order companies to prioritize rebuilding the Baxter plant.

The military is flying in supplies from Baxter plants overseas, Saha said. Premier has also asked the FDA to put additional PN ingredients on its shortage list, which would allow large compounding facilities to produce the materials.

Ellie Rogers, 17, of Simpsonville, South Carolina, fears the worst if she can’t get her supplies. She suffers from a host of immunological and neurological ailments that require her to get four liters of IV fluid daily to stay alive, she said.

Her supplier, an Option Care Health pharmacy in South Carolina, informed the family Oct. 14 that instead of her weekly supply it was sending her enough bags for a day or two. “They really don’t know when they’re going to get what they need,” she said. Reducing the infusions in the past has led to dizziness, nausea, and pooling of her blood that “felt like my veins were going to explode.”

On Oct. 7, Crohn’s disease patient Hannah Hale’s infusion pharmacy called and said it couldn’t fill her standing weekly order of IV bags, urging her to find a new pharmacy.

“I called 14 infusion pharmacies and haven’t been able to find anyone to take me,” said the Dallas 37-year-old. She suffers from weight loss and low blood sugar, and rationing her supplies raises dangers of seizures or coma, she said.

Trumble, 52, who started on PN 13 months ago because of colon cancer and severe intestinal issues, said she was grateful to the hospital and gets excellent care there, but missed her mother, son, and 8-year-old grandson, Jordan — and her cats — during her 17-day hospitalization.

What’s worse, Trumble said, her mother and son, who get Medicaid payments to care for her, weren’t paid while she was away.

But without IV nutrition at home, she said, “I’d starve.”

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KANSAS CITY, Mo. — Twenty-four minutes before the mass shooting at the Kansas City Chiefs Super Bowl victory parade in February left one person dead and at least 24 people injured, Jenipher Cabrera felt a bullet pierce the back of her right thigh.

The 20-year-old and her family were just four blocks from Union Station, in a river of red-shirted Chiefs fans walking toward the massive rally after the parade that warm Valentine’s Day. The bullet — fired by teen boys fighting in the street — thrust Cabrera forward.

She grabbed her mom by the shoulder and signaled in panic to her bleeding leg with her large brown eyes, not saying a word. Cabrera was being treated in an ambulance when she heard reports blasting from the police radio.

“My mom was trying to get on the ambulance,” Cabrera said. “I remember them saying, like, ‘You can’t get on. There might be other victims that we need to pick up.’”

Cabrera’s shooting happened before the one that garnered the big headlines that day and is one of hundreds that kill or injure Kansas City-area residents each year. That endless drumbeat of gun violence — from one-off incidents to mass shootings — has shattered the sense of safety for those who survive. As victims and their families try to move forward, reminders of gun violence are inescapable in the media, in their communities, in their daily lives.

“I look at people differently,” said James Lemons, who was shot in the thigh at the rally. Now when he’s around strangers he can’t help but wonder if they have a gun and if his kids are safe.

The new NFL season opened here with a moment of silence for Lisa Lopez-Galvan, the only person killed at the parade. Kansas City has recorded at least 124 homicides this year. Local police say there have been an additional 476 “bullet-to-skin victims” — people who were shot and survived. And there were at least 50 school shootings nationwide by mid-September.

Collectively it is all taking a toll.

Survivors suffer panic attacks and feel a heightened sense of danger in crowds and deep anxieties about the threat of violence anywhere in Kansas City.

Every shooting survivor responds in their own way to gun violence and even the threat of it, according to LJ Punch, a trauma surgeon by training and founder of the Bullet Related Injury Clinic in St. Louis.

For some, getting shot ensures they will always be on guard, perhaps even armed. Others want nothing to do with guns ever again.

“But what’s the common ground? That people desperately want to be safe,” Punch said.

Cabrera’s search to make meaning out of what happened has led her to work with a frustrated local lawmaker seeking new gun laws — something akin to impossible given Missouri state law, which prohibits nearly any local restrictions on firearms.

Learning of Other Shootings on the Phone

Feb. 14 is a movie in Cabrera’s mind, in slow motion, frame by frame, and the soundtrack is her voice, talking and talking. She sees a group of rowdy teenage boys running around her and her family. Then two pops — fireworks? Another pop. Finally, a fourth.

“I think that’s where the shock kicked in, and I grabbed my mom,” Cabrera remembered. “I didn’t say anything to her. I just, like, looked at her, and I had, like, my eyes were widened, and I kind of signaled with my eyes to look down at my leg.”

Cabrera fell and other fans rushed to her rescue, calling 911, and began cutting off her leggings. Four men instantly pulled off their belts when asked for a tourniquet. She remembers thinking that if she lost consciousness, she could die. So she talked and talked. Or so she thought.

One of her rescuers later said she actually didn’t say a word even when he asked how many fingers he was holding up.

“He told me [that] my eyes were huge, like oranges, and that all I was basically doing was, like, looking up and down four times since he had four fingers up,” Cabrera said.

Cabrera remembers being moved out of the emergency room at University Health to make room for 12 people who came in from the shooting at the rally, including eight with gunshot wounds. She checked social media on her phone — another shooting? Unreal. Finally her parents found her. She spent seven days in the hospital.

Cabrera is grateful to be alive. But she is triggered now when she sees groups of teenage boys cursing and playing, or when she sees red Chiefs shirts. Hearing four pops in a row — a regular occurrence in her northeast Kansas City neighborhood — makes Cabrera’s chest swell and she braces for a panic attack.

“It runs over and over and over and over in my mind,” she said.

‘An Increasing Sense of Threat?’

The U.S. surgeon general declared gun violence a public health crisis in June, but nearly any new regulation on guns is a political nonstarter in Missouri. In fact, a 2021 state law — signed at the Kansas City-area gun store where one of the weapons used in the parade shooting was purchased — would have barred local police from enforcing federal gun laws. The law was struck down by a federal appeals court in August.

Missouri has no age restrictions on gun use and possession, although federal law largely prohibits juveniles from carrying handguns.

Polling of Missouri voters shows support for requiring background checks and instituting age restrictions for gun purchases, but also nearly half were opposed to allowing counties and cities to pass their own gun rules.

Per capita, Kansas City, Missouri, is among the more violent places in the nation. From 2014 to 2023, there were at least 2,175 shootings in this city of 510,000, leaving 1,275 people dead and 1,624 injured. And while murder rates fell in more than 100 cities across the country last year, Kansas City recorded its deadliest year on record.

Shared with permission from The Trace.

Punch, of the Bullet Related Injury Clinic, likened the violence to a disease outbreak that goes unaddressed and spreads. The state’s permissive posture toward guns might supercharge the reality in Kansas City, Punch said, but it didn’t start it.

“So is there something going on? Is there an increasing sense of threat?” Punch asked.

Jason Barton was familiar with that violence growing up in Kansas City. Now settled in Osawatomie, Kansas, he thought long and hard about bringing his own gun for protection when he drove his family to the Super Bowl parade.

Ultimately he decided against it, surmising that if something happened and he pulled out a gun, he would be arrested or shot.

Barton responded quickly to the shooting, which happened right in front of him and his family. His wife found a bullet in her backpack. His stepdaughter’s legs were burned by sparks from a bullet ricochet.

Despite his worst fears coming true, Barton said not bringing his gun that day was the right decision.

“Guns don’t need to be brought into places like that,” he said.

‘A 12-Gauge With Teeth’

Mass shootings can derail survivors’ sense of safety, according to Heather Martin, a survivor of the Columbine High School shooting in 1999 and co-founder of The Rebels Project, which provides peer support to survivors of mass trauma.

“Trying to find a way to feel safe again is very common,” Martin said, “in the years following it.”

James Lemons had always felt trepidation about returning to Kansas City, where he grew up. He even brought his gun with him to the parade but left it in the car at the urging of his wife. His 5-year-old daughter was on his shoulders when a bullet entered the back of his thigh. He shielded her from the ground as he fell. What was he realistically going to do with a gun?

And yet he can’t help but wonder “what if.” He can’t shake the feeling that he failed to protect his family. Waking up from dreams about the parade, “I just start crying,” he said. He knows he hasn’t processed it yet but he doesn’t know how to start. He has focused on his family’s safety.

They got two American bulldogs this summer, making three total in the house now — one for each kid. Lemons described them as “like having a gun without having a gun.”

“I’ve got a 12-gauge with teeth,” Lemons joked, “just a big, softy protector.”

Most nights he sleeps only a few hours at a time before waking up to check on the kids. Usually he’s on the couch. It’s more comfortable for his leg that is still healing, and it helps him avoid the restless kicks of his 5-year-old, who has slept with her parents since the parade.

It also ensures he’ll be the one to intercept an intruder who breaks into the house.

Emily Tavis, who was shot through the leg, found solace at her church and from a sister congregation’s in-house therapist.

But then, the Sunday morning after the Donald Trump rally shooting in July, the preacher’s sermon turned to gun violence — triggering panic inside her.

“And it just, like, overwhelmed me so much, where I just went to the bathroom,” Tavis said, “and I just stayed in the bathroom for the rest of the sermon.” Now even attending church gives her pause.

Tavis recently moved into a new house in Leavenworth, Kansas, that she is renting from a friend. The friend’s husband cautioned that if Tavis was going to be alone she needed a gun for protection. She told him she just can’t deal with guns right now.

“And he’s like, ‘OK, well, take this.’ And he pulls out this giant machete,” Tavis recalled, laughing.

“So I have a machete now.”

A Search for Something Good

Cabrera, the young woman who couldn’t speak after being shot, is now trying to use her voice in the fight against gun violence.

Manny Abarca, a Jackson County, Missouri, legislator, lives down the street. One evening, he came to visit. Cabrera’s parents did most of the talking; she’s shy by nature. But then he turned and asked her directly: What did she want?

“I just want, like, some justice for my case,” she said, “or something good to happen.”

Before the parade, Cabrera was offered a factory job where her sister worked, but she hadn’t started because her leg was still healing. So Abarca offered her an internship, helping him establish a Jackson County Office of Gun Violence Prevention, a plan he introduced in July in response to the parade shootings.

Abarca was in the Chiefs victory parade with his 5-year-old daughter, Camila. They were in Union Station when shots were fired — and they huddled in a downstairs bathroom.

“I just said, ‘Hey, you know, just be calm. Just be quiet. Let’s just find out what’s going on. Something’s happened,’” Abarca said. “And then she said, ‘This is a drill.’ And hey, it tore everything out of me, because I was like, she’s referring to her training” at school.

They emerged shaken but safe, only to learn that Lopez-Galvan had died. Abarca knew the 43-year-old mother and popular Tejano DJ through the area’s tight-knit Hispanic community.

Abarca has taken advantage of this heated time after the Super Bowl parade shootings to work on anti-violence measures, despite knowing the severe limitations posed by state law.

In June, the Jackson County Legislature passed a measure that gives local teeth to a federal domestic violence law that allows judges to remove firearms from offenders.

But Abarca hasn’t been able to get the gun violence office approved, and county officials have refused to take up another measure that would establish age limits for purchasing or possessing firearms, fearing a lawsuit from a combative state attorney general. He hired Cabrera, he said, because she is bilingual and he wants her help as a survivor.

In a sense, the work makes Cabrera feel stronger in her fight to move forward from the shooting. Still, her family’s perception of safety has been shattered, and no one will be attending games or a possible Super Bowl victory parade anytime soon.

“We just never expected something like that to happen,” she said. “And so I think we’re gonna be more cautious now and maybe just watch it through TV.”

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“I didn’t know what I was going to do, where I was going to go,” he told me, describing a period of crisis that began in 2017.

Seeking a change of venue, Rousseau moved to the mountains of North Carolina, the start of an extended period of wandering. Soon, a sense of emptiness enveloped him. He had no friends or hobbies — his work as a doctor had been all-consuming. Former colleagues didn’t get in touch, nor did he reach out.

His wife had passed away after a painful illness a decade earlier. Rousseau was estranged from one adult daughter and in only occasional contact with another. His isolation mounted as his three dogs, his most reliable companions, died.

Rousseau was completely alone — without friends, family, or a professional identity — and overcome by a sense of loss.

“I was a somewhat distinguished physician with a 60-page resume,” Rousseau, now 73, wrote in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society in May. “Now, I’m ‘no one,’ a retired, forgotten old man who dithers away the days.”

In some ways, older men living alone are disadvantaged compared with older women in similar circumstances. Research shows that men tend to have fewer friends than women and be less inclined to make new friends. Often, they’re reluctant to ask for help.

“Men have a harder time being connected and reaching out,” said Robert Waldinger, a psychiatrist who directs the Harvard Study of Adult Development, which has traced the arc of hundreds of men’s lives over a span of more than eight decades. The men in the study who fared the worst, Waldinger said, “didn’t have friendships and things they were interested in — and couldn’t find them.” He recommends that men invest in their “social fitness” in addition to their physical fitness to ensure they have satisfying social interactions.

Slightly more than 1 in every 5 men ages 65 to 74 live alone, according to 2022 Census Bureau data. That rises to nearly 1 in 4 for those 75 or older. Nearly 40% of these men are divorced, 31% are widowed, and 21% never married.

That’s a significant change from 2000, when only 1 in 6 older men lived by themselves. Longer life spans for men and rising divorce rates are contributing to the trend. It’s difficult to find information about this group — which is dwarfed by the number of women who live alone — because it hasn’t been studied in depth. But psychologists and psychiatrists say these older men can be quite vulnerable.

When men are widowed, their health and well-being tend to decline more than women’s.

“Older men have a tendency to ruminate, to get into our heads with worries and fears and to feel more lonely and isolated,” said Jed Diamond, 80, a therapist and the author of “Surviving Male Menopause” and “The Irritable Male Syndrome.”

Add in the decline of civic institutions where men used to congregate — think of the Elks or the Shriners — and older men’s reduced ability to participate in athletic activities, and the result is a lack of stimulation and the loss of a sense of belonging.

Depression can ensue, fueling excessive alcohol use, accidents, or, in the most extreme cases, suicide. Of all age groups in the United States, men over age 75 have the highest suicide rate, by far.

For this column, I spoke at length to several older men who live alone. All but two (who’d been divorced) were widowed. Their experiences don’t represent all men who live alone. But still, they’re revealing.

The first person I called was Art Koff, 88, of Chicago, a longtime marketing executive I’d known for several years. When I reached out in January, I learned that Koff’s wife, Norma, had died the year before, leaving him hobbled by grief. Uninterested in eating and beset by unremitting loneliness, Koff lost 45 pounds.

“I’ve had a long and wonderful life, and I have lots of family and lots of friends who are terrific,” Koff told me. But now, he said, “nothing is of interest to me any longer.”

“I’m not happy living this life,” he said.

Nine days later, I learned that Koff had died. His nephew, Alexander Koff, said he had passed out and was gone within a day. The death certificate cited “end stage protein calorie malnutrition” as the cause.

The transition from being coupled to being single can be profoundly disorienting for older men. Lodovico Balducci, 80, was married to his wife, Claudia, for 52 years before she died in October 2023. Balducci, a renowned physician known as the “patriarch of geriatric oncology,” wrote about his emotional reaction in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society, likening Claudia’s death to an “amputation.”

“I find myself talking to her all the time, most of the time in my head,” Balducci told me in a phone conversation. When I asked him whom he confides in, he admitted, “Maybe I don’t have any close friends.”

Disoriented and disorganized since Claudia died, he said his “anxiety has exploded.”

We spoke in late February. Two weeks later, Balducci moved from Tampa to New Orleans, to be near his son and daughter-in-law and their two teenagers.

“I am planning to help as much as possible with my grandchildren,” he said. “Life has to go on.”

Verne Ostrander, a carpenter in the small town of Willits, California, about 140 miles north of San Francisco, was reflective when I spoke with him, also in late February. His second wife, Cindy Morninglight, died four years ago after a long battle with cancer.

“Here I am, almost 80 years old — alone,” Ostrander said. “Who would have guessed?”

When Ostrander isn’t painting watercolors, composing music, or playing guitar, “I fall into this lonely state, and I cry quite a bit,” he told me. “I don’t ignore those feelings. I let myself feel them. It’s like therapy.”

Ostrander has lived in Willits for nearly 50 years and belongs to a men’s group and a couples’ group that’s been meeting for 20 years. He’s in remarkably good health and in close touch with his three adult children, who live within easy driving distance.

“The hard part of living alone is missing Cindy,” he told me. “The good part is the freedom to do whatever I want. My goal is to live another 20 to 30 years and become a better artist and get to know my kids when they get older.”

The Rev. Johnny Walker, 76, lives in a low-income apartment building in a financially challenged neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side. Twice divorced, he’s been on his own for five years. He, too, has close family connections. At least one of his several children and grandchildren checks in on him every day.

Walker says he had a life-changing religious conversion in 1993. Since then, he has depended on his faith and his church for a sense of meaning and community.

“It’s not hard being alone,” Walker said when I asked whether he was lonely. “I accept Christ in my life, and he said that he would never leave us or forsake us. When I wake up in the morning, that’s a new blessing. I just thank God that he has brought me this far.”

Waldinger recommended that men “make an effort every day to be in touch with people. Find what you love — golf, gardening, birdwatching, pickleball, working on a political campaign — and pursue it,” he said. “Put yourself in a situation where you’re going to see the same people over and over again. Because that’s the most natural way conversations get struck up and friendships start to develop.”

Rousseau, the retired South Carolina doctor, said he doesn’t think about the future much. After feeling lost for several years, he moved across the country to Jackson, Wyoming, in the summer of 2023. He embraced solitude, choosing a remarkably isolated spot to live — a 150-square-foot cabin with no running water and no bathroom, surrounded by 25,000 undeveloped acres of public and privately owned land.

“Yes, I’m still lonely, but the nature and the beauty here totally changed me and focused me on what’s really important,” he told me, describing a feeling of redemption in his solitude.

Rousseau realizes that the death of his parents and a very close friend in his childhood left him with a sense of loss that he kept at bay for most of his life. Now, he said, rather than denying his vulnerability, he’s trying to live with it. “There’s only so long you can put off dealing with all the things you’re trying to escape from.”

It’s not the life he envisioned, but it’s one that fits him, Rousseau said. He stays busy with volunteer activities — cleaning tanks and running tours at Jackson’s fish hatchery, serving as a part-time park ranger, and maintaining trails in nearby national forests. Those activities put him in touch with other people, mostly strangers, only intermittently.

What will happen to him when this way of living is no longer possible?

“I wish I had an answer, but I don’t,” Rousseau said. “I don’t see my daughters taking care of me. As far as someone else, I don’t think there’s anyone else who’s going to help me.”

We’re eager to hear from readers about questions you’d like answered, problems you’ve been having with your care, and advice you need in dealing with the health care system. Visit kffhealthnews.org/columnists to submit your requests or tips.

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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They showed that in 2023, for example, there were four active tuberculosis cases in Clark County, which includes Springfield, up from three in 2022. HIV cases had risen, but sexually transmitted illnesses overall were decreasing.

“I wouldn’t call it skyrocketing,” said Cook, noting that there were 190 active cases in 2023 in all of Ohio. “You hear the rhetoric. But as a whole, reportable infectious diseases to the health department are decreasing.”

Tensions are running high in this industrial town of about 58,000 people. Bomb threats closed schools and public buildings after GOP presidential nominee Donald Trump falsely claimed that Haitian immigrants — who he alleged were there illegally — were stealing and eating household pets. City and county officials disputed the claims the former president levied during his Sept. 10 debate with Vice President Kamala Harris, his Democratic opponent.

Trump was amplifying comments made by Vance that — along with his claims about the immigration status of this population — were broadly panned as false. When asked during a CNN interview about the debunked pet-eating rumor, Vance, a U.S. senator from Ohio, acknowledged that the image he created was based not on facts but on “firsthand accounts from my constituents.” He said he was willing “to create” stories to focus attention on how immigration can overrun communities.

But Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine, also a Republican, has said immigrants have been an economic boon to Springfield. Many began arriving because businesses in the town, which had seen its population decrease, needed labor.

Largely lost in the political rancor is the way Springfield and the surrounding area responded to the influx of Haitian immigrants. Local health institutions tried to address the needs of this new population, which had lacked basic public health care such as immunization and often didn’t understand the U.S. health system.

The town is a microcosm of how immigration is reshaping communities throughout the United States. In the Springfield area, Catholic charities, other philanthropies, volunteers, and county agencies have banded together over the past three to four years to tackle the challenge and connect immigrants who have critical health needs with providers and care.

For instance, a community health center added Haitian Creole interpreters. The county health department opened a refugee health testing clinic to provide immunizations and basic health screenings, operating on such a shoestring budget that it’s open only two days a week.

And a coalition of groups to aid the Haitian community was created about two years ago to identify and respond to immigrant community needs. The group meets once a month with about 55 or 60 participants. On Sept. 18, about a week after Trump ramped up the furor at the debate, a record 138 participants joined in.

“We have all learned the necessity of collaboration,” said Casey Rollins, director of Springfield’s St. Vincent de Paul, a nonprofit Catholic social services organization that has become a lifeline for many of the town’s Haitian immigrants. “There’s a lot of medical need. Many of the people have high blood pressure, or they frequently have diabetes.”

Several factors have led Haitians to leave their Caribbean country for the United States, including a devastating earthquake in 2010, political unrest after the 2021 assassination of Haiti’s president, and ongoing gang violence. Even when health facilities in the country are open, it can be too treacherous for Haitians to travel for treatment.

“The gangs typically leave us alone, but it’s not a guarantee,” said Paul Glover, who helps oversee the St. Vincent’s Center for children with disabilities in Haiti. “We had a 3,000-square-foot clinic. It was destroyed. So was the X-ray machine. People have been putting off health care.”

An estimated 12,000 to 15,000 Haitian immigrants live in Clark County, officials said. About 700,000 Haitian immigrants lived in the United States in 2022, according to U.S. Census data.

Those who have settled in the Springfield area are generally in the country legally under a federal program that lets noncitizens temporarily enter and stay in the United States under certain circumstances, such as for urgent humanitarian reasons, according to city officials.

The influx of immigrants created a learning curve for hospitals and primary care providers in Springfield, as well as for the newcomers themselves. In Haiti, people often go directly to a hospital to receive care for all sorts of maladies, and county officials and advocacy groups said many of the immigrants were unfamiliar with the U.S. system of seeing primary care doctors first or making appointments for treatment.

Many sought care at Rocking Horse Community Health Center, a nonprofit, federally qualified health center that provides mental health, primary, and preventive care to people regardless of their insurance status or ability to pay. Federally qualified health centers serve medically underserved areas and populations.

The center treated 410 patients from Haiti in 2022, up more than 250% from 115 in 2021, according to Nettie Carter-Smith, the center’s director of community relations. Because the patients required interpreters, visits often stretched twice as long.

Rocking Horse hired patient navigators fluent in Haitian Creole, one of the two official languages of Haiti. Its roving purple bus provides on-site health screenings, vaccinations, and management of chronic conditions. And this school year, it’s operating a $2 million health clinic at Springfield High.

Many Haitians in Springfield have reported threats since Trump and Vance made their town a focus of the campaign. Community organizations were unable to identify any immigrants willing to be interviewed for this story.

Hospitals have also felt the impact. Mercy Health’s Springfield Regional Medical Center also saw a rapid influx of patients, spokesperson Jennifer Robinson said, with high utilization of emergency, primary care, and women’s health services.

This year, hospitals also have seen several readmissions for newborns struggling to thrive as some new mothers have trouble breastfeeding or getting supplemental formula, county officials said. One reason: New Haitian immigrants must wait six to eight weeks to get into a program that provides supplemental food for low-income pregnant, breastfeeding, or non-breastfeeding postpartum women, as well as for children and infants.

At Kettering Health Springfield, Haitian immigrants come to the emergency department for nonemergency care. Nurses are working on two related projects, one focusing on cultural awareness for staff and another exploring ways to improve communication with Haitian immigrants during discharge and in scheduling follow-up appointments.

Many of the immigrants are able to get health insurance. Haitian entrants generally qualify for Medicaid, the state-federal program for the low-income and disabled. For hospitals, that means lower reimbursement rates than with traditional insurance.

During 2023, 60,494 people in Clark County were enrolled in Medicaid, about 25% of whom were Black, according to state data. That’s up from 50,112 in 2017, when 17% of the enrollees were Black. That increase coincides with the rise of the Haitian population.

In September, DeWine pledged $2.5 million to help health centers and the county health department meet the Haitian and broader community’s needs. The Republican governor has pushed back on the recent national focus on the town, saying the spread of false rumors has been hurtful for the community.

Ken Gordon, a spokesperson for the Ohio Department of Health, acknowledged the difficulties Springfield’s health systems have faced and said the department is monitoring to avert potential outbreaks of measles, whooping cough, and even polio.

People diagnosed with HIV in the county increased from 142 residents in 2018 to 178 to 2022, according to state health department data. Cook, the Clark County health commissioner, said the data lags by about 1.5 years.

But Cook said, “as a whole, all reportable infections to the health department are not increasing.” Last year, he said, no one died of tuberculosis. “But 42 people died of covid.”

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This formed the multimedia “Silence in Sikeston” project from KFF Health News, Retro Report, and WORLD as told through a documentary film, educational videos, digital articles, and a limited-series podcast. Hear about Anthony’s journey and join this conversation about the toll of racialized violence on our health and our communities.

Explore more of the “Silence in Sikeston”project:

LISTEN: The limited-series podcast is available on PRX, Apple Podcasts, Spotify, iHeart, or wherever you get your podcasts.

• Episode 1: “Racism Can Make You Sick”
• Episode 2: “Hush, Fix Your Face”
• Episode 3: “Trauma Lives in the Body”
• Episode 4: “Is There a Cure for Racism”

WATCH: The documentary film “Silence in Sikeston,” a co-production of KFF Health News and Retro Report, is now available to stream on WORLD’s YouTube channel, WORLDchannel.org, and the PBS app.

READ: KFF Health News Midwest correspondent Cara Anthony wrote an essay about what her reporting for this project helped her learn about her own family’s hidden past.

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.

USE OUR CONTENT

This story can be republished for free (details).

In the series finale of the podcast, a confident, outspoken Sikeston teenager shares her feelings in an uncommonly frank conversation with Chief James McMillen, head of Sikeston’s Department of Public Safety, which includes Sikeston police. 

Host Cara Anthony asks what kind of systemic change is possible to reduce the burden of racism on the health of Black Americans. Health equity expert Gail Christopher says it starts with institutional leaders who recognize the problem, measure it, and take concrete steps to change things. 

“It is a process, and it’s not enough to march and get a victory,” Christopher said. “We have to transform the systems of inequity in this country.” 

Host

In Conversation With …

Editor’s note: If you are able, we encourage you to listen to the audio of “Silence in Sikeston,” which includes emotion and emphasis not found in the transcript. This transcript, generated using transcription software, has been edited for style and clarity. Please use the transcript as a tool but check the corresponding audio before quoting the podcast. 

[Ambient sounds from Sikeston, Missouri’s 2021 Juneteenth celebration — a DJ making an announcement over funky music, people chatting — begin playing.] 

Cara Anthony: It’s 2021. It’s hot and humid. We’re at a park in the heart of Sunset — Sikeston, Missouri’s historically Black neighborhood. 

Emory: Today is Juneteenth, baby. 

Cara Anthony: The basketball courts are jumping. And old-school funk is blaring from the speakers. Kids are playing. 

Cara Anthony: [Laughter] Are you enjoying the water?