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In early 2020, Justin Bullock, MD, MPH, did what few, if any, resident physicians have done: He published an honest account in the New England Journal of Medicine of a would-be suicide attempt during medical training.

In the article, Dr. Bullock matter-of-factly laid out how, in 2019, intern-year night shifts contributed to a depressive episode. For Dr. Bullock, who has a bipolar disorder, sleep dysregulation can be deadly. He had a plan for completing suicide, and this wouldn’t have been his first attempt. Thanks to his history and openness about his condition, Dr. Bullock had an experienced care team that helped him get to a psychiatric hospital before anything happened. While there for around 5 days, he wrote the bulk of the NEJM article.

The article took Dr. Bullock’s impact nationwide. In the medical world, where mental illness is a serious problem but still deeply stigmatized, Dr. Bullock’s unblinking honesty on the issue is still radical to many. On Twitter and in interviews, Dr. Bullock is an unapologetic advocate for accommodations for people in medicine with mental illness. “One of the things that inspired me to speak out early on is that I feel I stand in a place of so much privilege,” Dr. Bullock told this news organization. “I often feel this sense of ... ‘you have to speak up, Justin; no one else can.’ ”

Dr. Bullock’s activism is especially noteworthy, given that he is still establishing his career. In August, while an internal medicine resident at the University of California, San Francisco, he received a lifetime teaching award from UCSF because he had received three prior teaching awards; a recognition like this is considered rare someone so early in their career. Now in his final year of residency, he actively researches medical education, advocates for mental health support, and is working to become a leading voice on related issues.

“It seems to be working,” his older sister, Jacquis Mahoney, RN, said during a visit to the UCSF campus. Instead of any awkwardness, everyone is thrilled to learn that she is Justin’s sister. “There’s a lot of pride and excitement.”
 

Suicide attempts during medical training

Now 28, Dr. Bullock grew up in Detroit, with his mom and two older sisters. His father was incarcerated for much of Dr. Bullock’s childhood, in part because of his own bipolar disorder not being well controlled, Dr. Bullock said.

When he was younger, Dr. Bullock was the peacekeeper in the house between his two sisters, said Ms. Mahoney: “Justin was always very delicate and kind.”

He played soccer and ran track but also loved math and science. While outwardly accumulating an impressive resume, Dr. Bullock was internally struggling. In high school, he made what he now calls an “immature” attempt at suicide after coming out as gay to his family. While Dr. Bullock said he doesn’t necessarily dwell on the discrimination he has faced as a gay, Black man, his awareness of how others perceive and treat him because of his identity increases the background stress present in his daily life.

After high school, Dr. Bullock went to MIT in Boston, where he continued running and studied chemical-biological engineering. During college, Dr. Bullock thought he was going to have to withdraw from MIT because of his depression. Thankfully, he received counseling from student services and advice from a track coach who sat him down and talked about pragmatic solutions, like medication. “That was life-changing,” said Dr. Bullock.

When trying to decide between engineering and medicine, Dr. Bullock realized he preferred contemplating medical problems to engineering ones. So he applied to medical school. Dr. Bullock eventually ended up at UCSF, where he was selected to participate in the Program in Medical Education for the Urban Underserved, a 5-year track at the college for students committed to working with underserved communities.

By the time Dr. Bullock got to medical school, he was feeling good. In consultation with his psychiatrist, he thought it worthwhile to take a break from his medications. At that time, his diagnosis was major depressive disorder and he had only had one serious depressive episode, which didn’t necessarily indicate that he would need medication long-term, he said. 

Dr. Bullock loved everything about medical school. “One day when I was in my first year of med school, I called my mom and said: ‘It’s like science summer camp but every day!’” he recalled.

Despite his enthusiasm, though, he began feeling something troubling. Recognizing the symptoms of early depression, Dr. Bullock restarted his medication. But this time, the same SSRI only made things worse. He went from sleeping 8 hours to 90 minutes a night. He felt angry. One day, he went on a furious 22-mile run. Plus, within the first 6 months of moving to San Francisco, Dr. Bullock was stopped by the police three different times while riding his bike. He attributes this to his race, which has only further added to his stress. In September 2015, during his second year of medical school, Dr. Bullock attempted suicide again. This time, he was intubated in the ED and rushed to the ICU.

He was given a new diagnosis: bipolar disorder. He changed medications and lived for a time with Ms. Mahoney and his other sister, who moved from Chicago to California to be with him. “My family has helped me a lot,” he said.

Dr. Bullock was initially not sure whether he would be able to return to school after his attempted suicide. Overall, UCSF was extremely supportive, he said. That came as a relief. Medical school was a grounding force in his life, not a destabilizing one: “If I had been pushed out, it would have been really harmful to me.”

Then Dr. Bullock started residency. The sleep disruption that comes with the night shift – the resident rite of passage – triggered another episode. At first, Dr. Bullock was overly productive; his mind was active and alert after staying up all night. He worked on new research during the day instead of sleeping. 

Sleep disturbance is a hallmark symptom of bipolar disorder. “Justin should never be on a 24-hour call,” said Lisa Meeks, PhD, associate professor of psychiatry and family medicine at the University of Colorado at Denver, Aurora, and a leading scholar on disability advocacy for medical trainees. When he started residency, Dr. Bullock was open with his program director about his diagnosis and sought accommodations to go to therapy each week. But he didn’t try to get out of night shifts or 24-hour calls, despite his care team urging him to do so. “I have this sense of wanting to tough it out,” he said. He also felt guilty making his peers take on his share of those challenging shifts.

In December 2019, Dr. Bullock was voluntarily hospitalized for a few days and started writing the article that would later appear in NEJM. In January, a friend and UCSF medical student completed suicide. In March, the same month his NEJM article came out, Dr. Bullock attempted suicide again. This time, he quickly recognized that he was making a mistake and called an ambulance. “For me, as far as suicide attempts go, it’s the most positive one.”
 

Advocating for changes in medical training

Throughout his medical training, Dr. Bullock was always open about his struggles with his peers and with the administration. He shared his suicidal thoughts at a Mental Illness Among Us event during medical school. His story resonated with peers who were surprised that Dr. Bullock, who was thriving academically, could be struggling emotionally. 

During residency, he led small group discussions and gave lectures at the medical school, including a talk about his attempts to create institutional change at UCSF, such as his public fight against the college’s Fitness for Duty (FFD) assessment process. That discussion earned him an Outstanding Lecturer award. Because it was the third award he had received from the medical school, Dr. Bullock also automatically earned a lifetime teaching award. When he told his mom, a teacher herself, about the award, she joked: “Are you old enough for ‘lifetime’ anything?”

Dr. Bullock has also spoken out and actively fought against the processes within the medical community that prevent people from coming forward until it is too late. Physicians and trainees often fear that if they seek mental health treatment, they will have to disclose that treatment to a potential employer or licensing board and then be barred from practicing medicine. Because he has been open about his mental health for so long, Dr. Bullock feels that he is in a position to push back against these norms. For example, in June he coauthored another article, this time for the Journal of Hospital Medicine, describing the traumatizing FFD assessment that followed his March 2020 suicide attempt.

In that article, Dr. Bullock wrote how no mental health professional served on the UCSF Physician Well Being Committee – comprising physicians and lawyers who evaluate physician impairment or potential physician impairment – that evaluated him. Dr. Bullock was referred to an outside psychiatrist. He also describes how he was forced to release all of his psychiatric records and undergo extensive drug testing, despite having no history of substance abuse. To return to work, he had to sign a contract, agreeing to be monitored and to attend a specific kind of therapy.

While steps like these can, in the right circumstances, protect both the public and doctors-in-training in important ways, they can also “be very punitive and isolating for someone going through a mental health crisis,” said Dr. Meeks. There were also no Black physicians or lawyers on the committee evaluating Dr. Bullock. “That was really egregious, when you look back.” Dr. Meeks is a coauthor on Dr. Bullock’s JHM article and a mentor and previous student disability officer at UCSF. 

Dr. Bullock raised objections to UCSF administrators about how he felt that the committee was discriminating against him because of his mental illness despite assurances from the director of his program that there have never been any performance or professionalism concerns with him. He said the administrators told him he was the first person to question the FFD process. This isn’t surprising, given that all the power in such situations usually lies with the hospital and the administrators, whereas the resident or physician is worried about losing their job and their license, said Dr. Meeks.

Dr. Bullock contends that he’s in a unique position to speak out, considering his stellar academic and work records, openness about his mental illness before a crisis, access to quality mental health care, and extensive personal network among the UCSF administration. “I know that I hold power within my institution; I spoke out because I could,” Dr. Bullock said. In addition to writing an article about his experience, Dr. Bullock shared his story with a task force appointed by the medical staff president to review the Physician Well-Being Committee and the overall FFD process. Even before Dr. Bullock shared his story with the public, the task force had already been appointed as a result of the increased concern about physician mental health during the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, Michelle Guy, MD, clinical professor of medicine at UCSF, told this news organization. 

Elizabeth Fernandez, a UCSF senior public information representative, declined to comment on Dr. Bullock’s specific experience as reported in the JHM. “As with every hospital accredited by the Joint Commission, UCSF Medical Center has a Physician Well Being Committee that provides resources for physicians who may need help with chemical dependency or mental illness,” Ms. Fernandez said.

“Our goal through this program is always, first, to provide the compassion and assistance our physicians need to address the issues they face and continue to pursue their careers. This program is entirely voluntary and is bound by federal and state laws and regulations to protect the confidentiality of its participants, while ensuring that – first and foremost – no one is harmed by the situation, including the participant.”
 

Overcoming stigma to change the system

All of the attention – from national media outlets such as Vox to struggling peers and others – is fulfilling, Dr. Bullock said. But it can also be overwhelming. “I have definitely been praised as ‘Black excellence,’ and that definitely has added to the pressure to keep going ... to keep pushing at times,” he said.

Ms. Mahoney added: “He’s willing to sacrifice himself in order to make a difference. He would be a sacrificial lamb” for the Black community, the gay community, or any minority community.

Despite these concerns and his past suicide attempts, colleagues feel that Dr. Bullock is in a strong place to make decisions. “I trust Justin to put the boundaries up when they are needed and to engage in a way that feels comfortable for him,” said Ms. Meeks. “He is someone who has incredible self-awareness.”

Dr. Bullock’s history isn’t just something he overcame: It’s something that makes him a better, more empathetic doctor, said Ms. Mahoney. He knows what it’s like to be hospitalized, to deal with the frustration of insurance, to navigate the complexity of the health care system as a patient, or to be facing a deep internal darkness. He “can genuinely hold that person’s hand and say: ‘I know what you’re going through and we’re going to work through this day by day,’ ” she said. “That is something he can bring that no other physician can bring.”

In his advocacy on Twitter, in lectures, and in conversations with UCSF administrators, Dr. Bullock is pushing for board licensing questions to be reformed so physicians are no longer penalized for seeking mental health treatment. He would also like residency programs to make it easier and less stigmatizing for trainees to receive accommodations for a disability or mental illness.

“They say one person can’t change a system,” said Dr. Meeks, “but I do think Justin is calling an awful lot of attention to the system and I do think there will be changes because of his advocacy.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

In early 2020, Justin Bullock, MD, MPH, did what few, if any, resident physicians have done: He published an honest account in the New England Journal of Medicine of a would-be suicide attempt during medical training.

In the article, Dr. Bullock matter-of-factly laid out how, in 2019, intern-year night shifts contributed to a depressive episode. For Dr. Bullock, who has a bipolar disorder, sleep dysregulation can be deadly. He had a plan for completing suicide, and this wouldn’t have been his first attempt. Thanks to his history and openness about his condition, Dr. Bullock had an experienced care team that helped him get to a psychiatric hospital before anything happened. While there for around 5 days, he wrote the bulk of the NEJM article.

The article took Dr. Bullock’s impact nationwide. In the medical world, where mental illness is a serious problem but still deeply stigmatized, Dr. Bullock’s unblinking honesty on the issue is still radical to many. On Twitter and in interviews, Dr. Bullock is an unapologetic advocate for accommodations for people in medicine with mental illness. “One of the things that inspired me to speak out early on is that I feel I stand in a place of so much privilege,” Dr. Bullock told this news organization. “I often feel this sense of ... ‘you have to speak up, Justin; no one else can.’ ”

Dr. Bullock’s activism is especially noteworthy, given that he is still establishing his career. In August, while an internal medicine resident at the University of California, San Francisco, he received a lifetime teaching award from UCSF because he had received three prior teaching awards; a recognition like this is considered rare someone so early in their career. Now in his final year of residency, he actively researches medical education, advocates for mental health support, and is working to become a leading voice on related issues.

“It seems to be working,” his older sister, Jacquis Mahoney, RN, said during a visit to the UCSF campus. Instead of any awkwardness, everyone is thrilled to learn that she is Justin’s sister. “There’s a lot of pride and excitement.”
 

Suicide attempts during medical training

Now 28, Dr. Bullock grew up in Detroit, with his mom and two older sisters. His father was incarcerated for much of Dr. Bullock’s childhood, in part because of his own bipolar disorder not being well controlled, Dr. Bullock said.

When he was younger, Dr. Bullock was the peacekeeper in the house between his two sisters, said Ms. Mahoney: “Justin was always very delicate and kind.”

He played soccer and ran track but also loved math and science. While outwardly accumulating an impressive resume, Dr. Bullock was internally struggling. In high school, he made what he now calls an “immature” attempt at suicide after coming out as gay to his family. While Dr. Bullock said he doesn’t necessarily dwell on the discrimination he has faced as a gay, Black man, his awareness of how others perceive and treat him because of his identity increases the background stress present in his daily life.

After high school, Dr. Bullock went to MIT in Boston, where he continued running and studied chemical-biological engineering. During college, Dr. Bullock thought he was going to have to withdraw from MIT because of his depression. Thankfully, he received counseling from student services and advice from a track coach who sat him down and talked about pragmatic solutions, like medication. “That was life-changing,” said Dr. Bullock.

When trying to decide between engineering and medicine, Dr. Bullock realized he preferred contemplating medical problems to engineering ones. So he applied to medical school. Dr. Bullock eventually ended up at UCSF, where he was selected to participate in the Program in Medical Education for the Urban Underserved, a 5-year track at the college for students committed to working with underserved communities.

By the time Dr. Bullock got to medical school, he was feeling good. In consultation with his psychiatrist, he thought it worthwhile to take a break from his medications. At that time, his diagnosis was major depressive disorder and he had only had one serious depressive episode, which didn’t necessarily indicate that he would need medication long-term, he said. 

Dr. Bullock loved everything about medical school. “One day when I was in my first year of med school, I called my mom and said: ‘It’s like science summer camp but every day!’” he recalled.

Despite his enthusiasm, though, he began feeling something troubling. Recognizing the symptoms of early depression, Dr. Bullock restarted his medication. But this time, the same SSRI only made things worse. He went from sleeping 8 hours to 90 minutes a night. He felt angry. One day, he went on a furious 22-mile run. Plus, within the first 6 months of moving to San Francisco, Dr. Bullock was stopped by the police three different times while riding his bike. He attributes this to his race, which has only further added to his stress. In September 2015, during his second year of medical school, Dr. Bullock attempted suicide again. This time, he was intubated in the ED and rushed to the ICU.

He was given a new diagnosis: bipolar disorder. He changed medications and lived for a time with Ms. Mahoney and his other sister, who moved from Chicago to California to be with him. “My family has helped me a lot,” he said.

Dr. Bullock was initially not sure whether he would be able to return to school after his attempted suicide. Overall, UCSF was extremely supportive, he said. That came as a relief. Medical school was a grounding force in his life, not a destabilizing one: “If I had been pushed out, it would have been really harmful to me.”

Then Dr. Bullock started residency. The sleep disruption that comes with the night shift – the resident rite of passage – triggered another episode. At first, Dr. Bullock was overly productive; his mind was active and alert after staying up all night. He worked on new research during the day instead of sleeping. 

Sleep disturbance is a hallmark symptom of bipolar disorder. “Justin should never be on a 24-hour call,” said Lisa Meeks, PhD, associate professor of psychiatry and family medicine at the University of Colorado at Denver, Aurora, and a leading scholar on disability advocacy for medical trainees. When he started residency, Dr. Bullock was open with his program director about his diagnosis and sought accommodations to go to therapy each week. But he didn’t try to get out of night shifts or 24-hour calls, despite his care team urging him to do so. “I have this sense of wanting to tough it out,” he said. He also felt guilty making his peers take on his share of those challenging shifts.

In December 2019, Dr. Bullock was voluntarily hospitalized for a few days and started writing the article that would later appear in NEJM. In January, a friend and UCSF medical student completed suicide. In March, the same month his NEJM article came out, Dr. Bullock attempted suicide again. This time, he quickly recognized that he was making a mistake and called an ambulance. “For me, as far as suicide attempts go, it’s the most positive one.”
 

Advocating for changes in medical training

Throughout his medical training, Dr. Bullock was always open about his struggles with his peers and with the administration. He shared his suicidal thoughts at a Mental Illness Among Us event during medical school. His story resonated with peers who were surprised that Dr. Bullock, who was thriving academically, could be struggling emotionally. 

During residency, he led small group discussions and gave lectures at the medical school, including a talk about his attempts to create institutional change at UCSF, such as his public fight against the college’s Fitness for Duty (FFD) assessment process. That discussion earned him an Outstanding Lecturer award. Because it was the third award he had received from the medical school, Dr. Bullock also automatically earned a lifetime teaching award. When he told his mom, a teacher herself, about the award, she joked: “Are you old enough for ‘lifetime’ anything?”

Dr. Bullock has also spoken out and actively fought against the processes within the medical community that prevent people from coming forward until it is too late. Physicians and trainees often fear that if they seek mental health treatment, they will have to disclose that treatment to a potential employer or licensing board and then be barred from practicing medicine. Because he has been open about his mental health for so long, Dr. Bullock feels that he is in a position to push back against these norms. For example, in June he coauthored another article, this time for the Journal of Hospital Medicine, describing the traumatizing FFD assessment that followed his March 2020 suicide attempt.

In that article, Dr. Bullock wrote how no mental health professional served on the UCSF Physician Well Being Committee – comprising physicians and lawyers who evaluate physician impairment or potential physician impairment – that evaluated him. Dr. Bullock was referred to an outside psychiatrist. He also describes how he was forced to release all of his psychiatric records and undergo extensive drug testing, despite having no history of substance abuse. To return to work, he had to sign a contract, agreeing to be monitored and to attend a specific kind of therapy.

While steps like these can, in the right circumstances, protect both the public and doctors-in-training in important ways, they can also “be very punitive and isolating for someone going through a mental health crisis,” said Dr. Meeks. There were also no Black physicians or lawyers on the committee evaluating Dr. Bullock. “That was really egregious, when you look back.” Dr. Meeks is a coauthor on Dr. Bullock’s JHM article and a mentor and previous student disability officer at UCSF. 

Dr. Bullock raised objections to UCSF administrators about how he felt that the committee was discriminating against him because of his mental illness despite assurances from the director of his program that there have never been any performance or professionalism concerns with him. He said the administrators told him he was the first person to question the FFD process. This isn’t surprising, given that all the power in such situations usually lies with the hospital and the administrators, whereas the resident or physician is worried about losing their job and their license, said Dr. Meeks.

Dr. Bullock contends that he’s in a unique position to speak out, considering his stellar academic and work records, openness about his mental illness before a crisis, access to quality mental health care, and extensive personal network among the UCSF administration. “I know that I hold power within my institution; I spoke out because I could,” Dr. Bullock said. In addition to writing an article about his experience, Dr. Bullock shared his story with a task force appointed by the medical staff president to review the Physician Well-Being Committee and the overall FFD process. Even before Dr. Bullock shared his story with the public, the task force had already been appointed as a result of the increased concern about physician mental health during the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, Michelle Guy, MD, clinical professor of medicine at UCSF, told this news organization. 

Elizabeth Fernandez, a UCSF senior public information representative, declined to comment on Dr. Bullock’s specific experience as reported in the JHM. “As with every hospital accredited by the Joint Commission, UCSF Medical Center has a Physician Well Being Committee that provides resources for physicians who may need help with chemical dependency or mental illness,” Ms. Fernandez said.

“Our goal through this program is always, first, to provide the compassion and assistance our physicians need to address the issues they face and continue to pursue their careers. This program is entirely voluntary and is bound by federal and state laws and regulations to protect the confidentiality of its participants, while ensuring that – first and foremost – no one is harmed by the situation, including the participant.”
 

Overcoming stigma to change the system

All of the attention – from national media outlets such as Vox to struggling peers and others – is fulfilling, Dr. Bullock said. But it can also be overwhelming. “I have definitely been praised as ‘Black excellence,’ and that definitely has added to the pressure to keep going ... to keep pushing at times,” he said.

Ms. Mahoney added: “He’s willing to sacrifice himself in order to make a difference. He would be a sacrificial lamb” for the Black community, the gay community, or any minority community.

Despite these concerns and his past suicide attempts, colleagues feel that Dr. Bullock is in a strong place to make decisions. “I trust Justin to put the boundaries up when they are needed and to engage in a way that feels comfortable for him,” said Ms. Meeks. “He is someone who has incredible self-awareness.”

Dr. Bullock’s history isn’t just something he overcame: It’s something that makes him a better, more empathetic doctor, said Ms. Mahoney. He knows what it’s like to be hospitalized, to deal with the frustration of insurance, to navigate the complexity of the health care system as a patient, or to be facing a deep internal darkness. He “can genuinely hold that person’s hand and say: ‘I know what you’re going through and we’re going to work through this day by day,’ ” she said. “That is something he can bring that no other physician can bring.”

In his advocacy on Twitter, in lectures, and in conversations with UCSF administrators, Dr. Bullock is pushing for board licensing questions to be reformed so physicians are no longer penalized for seeking mental health treatment. He would also like residency programs to make it easier and less stigmatizing for trainees to receive accommodations for a disability or mental illness.

“They say one person can’t change a system,” said Dr. Meeks, “but I do think Justin is calling an awful lot of attention to the system and I do think there will be changes because of his advocacy.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

In early 2020, Justin Bullock, MD, MPH, did what few, if any, resident physicians have done: He published an honest account in the New England Journal of Medicine of a would-be suicide attempt during medical training.

In the article, Dr. Bullock matter-of-factly laid out how, in 2019, intern-year night shifts contributed to a depressive episode. For Dr. Bullock, who has a bipolar disorder, sleep dysregulation can be deadly. He had a plan for completing suicide, and this wouldn’t have been his first attempt. Thanks to his history and openness about his condition, Dr. Bullock had an experienced care team that helped him get to a psychiatric hospital before anything happened. While there for around 5 days, he wrote the bulk of the NEJM article.

The article took Dr. Bullock’s impact nationwide. In the medical world, where mental illness is a serious problem but still deeply stigmatized, Dr. Bullock’s unblinking honesty on the issue is still radical to many. On Twitter and in interviews, Dr. Bullock is an unapologetic advocate for accommodations for people in medicine with mental illness. “One of the things that inspired me to speak out early on is that I feel I stand in a place of so much privilege,” Dr. Bullock told this news organization. “I often feel this sense of ... ‘you have to speak up, Justin; no one else can.’ ”

Dr. Bullock’s activism is especially noteworthy, given that he is still establishing his career. In August, while an internal medicine resident at the University of California, San Francisco, he received a lifetime teaching award from UCSF because he had received three prior teaching awards; a recognition like this is considered rare someone so early in their career. Now in his final year of residency, he actively researches medical education, advocates for mental health support, and is working to become a leading voice on related issues.

“It seems to be working,” his older sister, Jacquis Mahoney, RN, said during a visit to the UCSF campus. Instead of any awkwardness, everyone is thrilled to learn that she is Justin’s sister. “There’s a lot of pride and excitement.”
 

Suicide attempts during medical training

Now 28, Dr. Bullock grew up in Detroit, with his mom and two older sisters. His father was incarcerated for much of Dr. Bullock’s childhood, in part because of his own bipolar disorder not being well controlled, Dr. Bullock said.

When he was younger, Dr. Bullock was the peacekeeper in the house between his two sisters, said Ms. Mahoney: “Justin was always very delicate and kind.”

He played soccer and ran track but also loved math and science. While outwardly accumulating an impressive resume, Dr. Bullock was internally struggling. In high school, he made what he now calls an “immature” attempt at suicide after coming out as gay to his family. While Dr. Bullock said he doesn’t necessarily dwell on the discrimination he has faced as a gay, Black man, his awareness of how others perceive and treat him because of his identity increases the background stress present in his daily life.

After high school, Dr. Bullock went to MIT in Boston, where he continued running and studied chemical-biological engineering. During college, Dr. Bullock thought he was going to have to withdraw from MIT because of his depression. Thankfully, he received counseling from student services and advice from a track coach who sat him down and talked about pragmatic solutions, like medication. “That was life-changing,” said Dr. Bullock.

When trying to decide between engineering and medicine, Dr. Bullock realized he preferred contemplating medical problems to engineering ones. So he applied to medical school. Dr. Bullock eventually ended up at UCSF, where he was selected to participate in the Program in Medical Education for the Urban Underserved, a 5-year track at the college for students committed to working with underserved communities.

By the time Dr. Bullock got to medical school, he was feeling good. In consultation with his psychiatrist, he thought it worthwhile to take a break from his medications. At that time, his diagnosis was major depressive disorder and he had only had one serious depressive episode, which didn’t necessarily indicate that he would need medication long-term, he said. 

Dr. Bullock loved everything about medical school. “One day when I was in my first year of med school, I called my mom and said: ‘It’s like science summer camp but every day!’” he recalled.

Despite his enthusiasm, though, he began feeling something troubling. Recognizing the symptoms of early depression, Dr. Bullock restarted his medication. But this time, the same SSRI only made things worse. He went from sleeping 8 hours to 90 minutes a night. He felt angry. One day, he went on a furious 22-mile run. Plus, within the first 6 months of moving to San Francisco, Dr. Bullock was stopped by the police three different times while riding his bike. He attributes this to his race, which has only further added to his stress. In September 2015, during his second year of medical school, Dr. Bullock attempted suicide again. This time, he was intubated in the ED and rushed to the ICU.

He was given a new diagnosis: bipolar disorder. He changed medications and lived for a time with Ms. Mahoney and his other sister, who moved from Chicago to California to be with him. “My family has helped me a lot,” he said.

Dr. Bullock was initially not sure whether he would be able to return to school after his attempted suicide. Overall, UCSF was extremely supportive, he said. That came as a relief. Medical school was a grounding force in his life, not a destabilizing one: “If I had been pushed out, it would have been really harmful to me.”

Then Dr. Bullock started residency. The sleep disruption that comes with the night shift – the resident rite of passage – triggered another episode. At first, Dr. Bullock was overly productive; his mind was active and alert after staying up all night. He worked on new research during the day instead of sleeping. 

Sleep disturbance is a hallmark symptom of bipolar disorder. “Justin should never be on a 24-hour call,” said Lisa Meeks, PhD, associate professor of psychiatry and family medicine at the University of Colorado at Denver, Aurora, and a leading scholar on disability advocacy for medical trainees. When he started residency, Dr. Bullock was open with his program director about his diagnosis and sought accommodations to go to therapy each week. But he didn’t try to get out of night shifts or 24-hour calls, despite his care team urging him to do so. “I have this sense of wanting to tough it out,” he said. He also felt guilty making his peers take on his share of those challenging shifts.

In December 2019, Dr. Bullock was voluntarily hospitalized for a few days and started writing the article that would later appear in NEJM. In January, a friend and UCSF medical student completed suicide. In March, the same month his NEJM article came out, Dr. Bullock attempted suicide again. This time, he quickly recognized that he was making a mistake and called an ambulance. “For me, as far as suicide attempts go, it’s the most positive one.”
 

Advocating for changes in medical training

Throughout his medical training, Dr. Bullock was always open about his struggles with his peers and with the administration. He shared his suicidal thoughts at a Mental Illness Among Us event during medical school. His story resonated with peers who were surprised that Dr. Bullock, who was thriving academically, could be struggling emotionally. 

During residency, he led small group discussions and gave lectures at the medical school, including a talk about his attempts to create institutional change at UCSF, such as his public fight against the college’s Fitness for Duty (FFD) assessment process. That discussion earned him an Outstanding Lecturer award. Because it was the third award he had received from the medical school, Dr. Bullock also automatically earned a lifetime teaching award. When he told his mom, a teacher herself, about the award, she joked: “Are you old enough for ‘lifetime’ anything?”

Dr. Bullock has also spoken out and actively fought against the processes within the medical community that prevent people from coming forward until it is too late. Physicians and trainees often fear that if they seek mental health treatment, they will have to disclose that treatment to a potential employer or licensing board and then be barred from practicing medicine. Because he has been open about his mental health for so long, Dr. Bullock feels that he is in a position to push back against these norms. For example, in June he coauthored another article, this time for the Journal of Hospital Medicine, describing the traumatizing FFD assessment that followed his March 2020 suicide attempt.

In that article, Dr. Bullock wrote how no mental health professional served on the UCSF Physician Well Being Committee – comprising physicians and lawyers who evaluate physician impairment or potential physician impairment – that evaluated him. Dr. Bullock was referred to an outside psychiatrist. He also describes how he was forced to release all of his psychiatric records and undergo extensive drug testing, despite having no history of substance abuse. To return to work, he had to sign a contract, agreeing to be monitored and to attend a specific kind of therapy.

While steps like these can, in the right circumstances, protect both the public and doctors-in-training in important ways, they can also “be very punitive and isolating for someone going through a mental health crisis,” said Dr. Meeks. There were also no Black physicians or lawyers on the committee evaluating Dr. Bullock. “That was really egregious, when you look back.” Dr. Meeks is a coauthor on Dr. Bullock’s JHM article and a mentor and previous student disability officer at UCSF. 

Dr. Bullock raised objections to UCSF administrators about how he felt that the committee was discriminating against him because of his mental illness despite assurances from the director of his program that there have never been any performance or professionalism concerns with him. He said the administrators told him he was the first person to question the FFD process. This isn’t surprising, given that all the power in such situations usually lies with the hospital and the administrators, whereas the resident or physician is worried about losing their job and their license, said Dr. Meeks.

Dr. Bullock contends that he’s in a unique position to speak out, considering his stellar academic and work records, openness about his mental illness before a crisis, access to quality mental health care, and extensive personal network among the UCSF administration. “I know that I hold power within my institution; I spoke out because I could,” Dr. Bullock said. In addition to writing an article about his experience, Dr. Bullock shared his story with a task force appointed by the medical staff president to review the Physician Well-Being Committee and the overall FFD process. Even before Dr. Bullock shared his story with the public, the task force had already been appointed as a result of the increased concern about physician mental health during the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, Michelle Guy, MD, clinical professor of medicine at UCSF, told this news organization. 

Elizabeth Fernandez, a UCSF senior public information representative, declined to comment on Dr. Bullock’s specific experience as reported in the JHM. “As with every hospital accredited by the Joint Commission, UCSF Medical Center has a Physician Well Being Committee that provides resources for physicians who may need help with chemical dependency or mental illness,” Ms. Fernandez said.

“Our goal through this program is always, first, to provide the compassion and assistance our physicians need to address the issues they face and continue to pursue their careers. This program is entirely voluntary and is bound by federal and state laws and regulations to protect the confidentiality of its participants, while ensuring that – first and foremost – no one is harmed by the situation, including the participant.”
 

Overcoming stigma to change the system

All of the attention – from national media outlets such as Vox to struggling peers and others – is fulfilling, Dr. Bullock said. But it can also be overwhelming. “I have definitely been praised as ‘Black excellence,’ and that definitely has added to the pressure to keep going ... to keep pushing at times,” he said.

Ms. Mahoney added: “He’s willing to sacrifice himself in order to make a difference. He would be a sacrificial lamb” for the Black community, the gay community, or any minority community.

Despite these concerns and his past suicide attempts, colleagues feel that Dr. Bullock is in a strong place to make decisions. “I trust Justin to put the boundaries up when they are needed and to engage in a way that feels comfortable for him,” said Ms. Meeks. “He is someone who has incredible self-awareness.”

Dr. Bullock’s history isn’t just something he overcame: It’s something that makes him a better, more empathetic doctor, said Ms. Mahoney. He knows what it’s like to be hospitalized, to deal with the frustration of insurance, to navigate the complexity of the health care system as a patient, or to be facing a deep internal darkness. He “can genuinely hold that person’s hand and say: ‘I know what you’re going through and we’re going to work through this day by day,’ ” she said. “That is something he can bring that no other physician can bring.”

In his advocacy on Twitter, in lectures, and in conversations with UCSF administrators, Dr. Bullock is pushing for board licensing questions to be reformed so physicians are no longer penalized for seeking mental health treatment. He would also like residency programs to make it easier and less stigmatizing for trainees to receive accommodations for a disability or mental illness.

“They say one person can’t change a system,” said Dr. Meeks, “but I do think Justin is calling an awful lot of attention to the system and I do think there will be changes because of his advocacy.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

The Biden administration on Nov. 4 unveiled its rule to require most of the country’s larger employers to mandate workers be fully vaccinated against COVID-19, but set a Jan. 4 deadline, avoiding the busy holiday season.

The White House also shifted the time lines for earlier mandates applying to federal workers and contractors to Jan. 4. And the same deadline applies to a new separate rule for health care workers.

The new rules are meant to preempt “any inconsistent state or local laws,” including bans and limits on employers’ authority to require vaccination, masks, or testing, the White House said in a statement.

The rule on employers from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration will apply to organizations with 100 or more employees. These employers will need to make sure each worker is fully vaccinated or tests for COVID-19 on at least a weekly basis. The OSHA rule will also require that employers provide paid time for employees to get vaccinated and ensure that all unvaccinated workers wear a face mask in the workplace. This rule will cover 84 million employees. The OSHA rule will not apply to workplaces covered by either the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services rule or the federal contractor vaccination requirement

“The virus will not go away by itself, or because we wish it away: We have to act,” President Joe Biden said in a statement. “Vaccination is the single best pathway out of this pandemic.”

Mandates were not the preferred route to managing the pandemic, he said.

“Too many people remain unvaccinated for us to get out of this pandemic for good,” he said. “So I instituted requirements – and they are working.”

The White House said 70% percent of U.S. adults are now fully vaccinated – up from less than 1% when Mr. Biden took office in January.

The CMS vaccine rule is meant to cover more than 17 million workers and about 76,000 medical care sites, including hospitals, ambulatory surgery centers, nursing homes, dialysis facilities, home health agencies, and long-term care facilities. The rule will apply to employees whether their positions involve patient care or not.

Unlike the OSHA mandate, the one for health care workers will not offer the option of frequent COVID-19 testing instead of vaccination. There is a “higher bar” for health care workers, given their role in treating patients, so the mandate allows only for vaccination or limited exemptions, a senior administration official said on Nov. 3 during a call with reporters.

The CMS rule includes a “range of remedies,” including penalties and denial of payment for health care facilities that fail to meet the vaccine mandate. CMS could theoretically cut off hospitals and other medical organizations for failure to comply, but that would be a “last resort,” a senior administration official said. CMS will instead work with health care facilities to help them comply with the federal rule on vaccination of medical workers.

The new CMS rules apply only to Medicare- and Medicaid-certified centers and organizations. The rule does not directly apply to other health care entities, such as doctor’s offices, that are not regulated by CMS.

“Most states have separate licensing requirements for health care staff and health care providers that would be applicable to physician office staff and other staff in small health care entities that are not subject to vaccination requirements under this IFC,” CMS said in the rule.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

The Biden administration on Nov. 4 unveiled its rule to require most of the country’s larger employers to mandate workers be fully vaccinated against COVID-19, but set a Jan. 4 deadline, avoiding the busy holiday season.

The White House also shifted the time lines for earlier mandates applying to federal workers and contractors to Jan. 4. And the same deadline applies to a new separate rule for health care workers.

The new rules are meant to preempt “any inconsistent state or local laws,” including bans and limits on employers’ authority to require vaccination, masks, or testing, the White House said in a statement.

The rule on employers from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration will apply to organizations with 100 or more employees. These employers will need to make sure each worker is fully vaccinated or tests for COVID-19 on at least a weekly basis. The OSHA rule will also require that employers provide paid time for employees to get vaccinated and ensure that all unvaccinated workers wear a face mask in the workplace. This rule will cover 84 million employees. The OSHA rule will not apply to workplaces covered by either the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services rule or the federal contractor vaccination requirement

“The virus will not go away by itself, or because we wish it away: We have to act,” President Joe Biden said in a statement. “Vaccination is the single best pathway out of this pandemic.”

Mandates were not the preferred route to managing the pandemic, he said.

“Too many people remain unvaccinated for us to get out of this pandemic for good,” he said. “So I instituted requirements – and they are working.”

The White House said 70% percent of U.S. adults are now fully vaccinated – up from less than 1% when Mr. Biden took office in January.

The CMS vaccine rule is meant to cover more than 17 million workers and about 76,000 medical care sites, including hospitals, ambulatory surgery centers, nursing homes, dialysis facilities, home health agencies, and long-term care facilities. The rule will apply to employees whether their positions involve patient care or not.

Unlike the OSHA mandate, the one for health care workers will not offer the option of frequent COVID-19 testing instead of vaccination. There is a “higher bar” for health care workers, given their role in treating patients, so the mandate allows only for vaccination or limited exemptions, a senior administration official said on Nov. 3 during a call with reporters.

The CMS rule includes a “range of remedies,” including penalties and denial of payment for health care facilities that fail to meet the vaccine mandate. CMS could theoretically cut off hospitals and other medical organizations for failure to comply, but that would be a “last resort,” a senior administration official said. CMS will instead work with health care facilities to help them comply with the federal rule on vaccination of medical workers.

The new CMS rules apply only to Medicare- and Medicaid-certified centers and organizations. The rule does not directly apply to other health care entities, such as doctor’s offices, that are not regulated by CMS.

“Most states have separate licensing requirements for health care staff and health care providers that would be applicable to physician office staff and other staff in small health care entities that are not subject to vaccination requirements under this IFC,” CMS said in the rule.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

The Biden administration on Nov. 4 unveiled its rule to require most of the country’s larger employers to mandate workers be fully vaccinated against COVID-19, but set a Jan. 4 deadline, avoiding the busy holiday season.

The White House also shifted the time lines for earlier mandates applying to federal workers and contractors to Jan. 4. And the same deadline applies to a new separate rule for health care workers.

The new rules are meant to preempt “any inconsistent state or local laws,” including bans and limits on employers’ authority to require vaccination, masks, or testing, the White House said in a statement.

The rule on employers from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration will apply to organizations with 100 or more employees. These employers will need to make sure each worker is fully vaccinated or tests for COVID-19 on at least a weekly basis. The OSHA rule will also require that employers provide paid time for employees to get vaccinated and ensure that all unvaccinated workers wear a face mask in the workplace. This rule will cover 84 million employees. The OSHA rule will not apply to workplaces covered by either the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services rule or the federal contractor vaccination requirement

“The virus will not go away by itself, or because we wish it away: We have to act,” President Joe Biden said in a statement. “Vaccination is the single best pathway out of this pandemic.”

Mandates were not the preferred route to managing the pandemic, he said.

“Too many people remain unvaccinated for us to get out of this pandemic for good,” he said. “So I instituted requirements – and they are working.”

The White House said 70% percent of U.S. adults are now fully vaccinated – up from less than 1% when Mr. Biden took office in January.

The CMS vaccine rule is meant to cover more than 17 million workers and about 76,000 medical care sites, including hospitals, ambulatory surgery centers, nursing homes, dialysis facilities, home health agencies, and long-term care facilities. The rule will apply to employees whether their positions involve patient care or not.

Unlike the OSHA mandate, the one for health care workers will not offer the option of frequent COVID-19 testing instead of vaccination. There is a “higher bar” for health care workers, given their role in treating patients, so the mandate allows only for vaccination or limited exemptions, a senior administration official said on Nov. 3 during a call with reporters.

The CMS rule includes a “range of remedies,” including penalties and denial of payment for health care facilities that fail to meet the vaccine mandate. CMS could theoretically cut off hospitals and other medical organizations for failure to comply, but that would be a “last resort,” a senior administration official said. CMS will instead work with health care facilities to help them comply with the federal rule on vaccination of medical workers.

The new CMS rules apply only to Medicare- and Medicaid-certified centers and organizations. The rule does not directly apply to other health care entities, such as doctor’s offices, that are not regulated by CMS.

“Most states have separate licensing requirements for health care staff and health care providers that would be applicable to physician office staff and other staff in small health care entities that are not subject to vaccination requirements under this IFC,” CMS said in the rule.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

Susan Haney, MD, a board-certified emergency physician in Coos Bay, Ore., was 2 years into her career when she had her first manic episode, likely a side effect of the steroid prednisone, which she had been prescribed for an asthma flare-up. Her boss at Bay Area Hospital told her that if she wanted to return to work, she would need to have written clearance from the medical board.

In retrospect, Dr. Haney says, “I don’t think they had any idea of what they would set in motion.”

Dr. Haney says the Oregon Medical Board posted her name and the nondisciplinary action on their website and in their newsletter. Her local newspaper read it and ran a story about her. “They effectively announced my mental illness to the general public despite my objections,” she says.

During the next decade, she had two more manic episodes, and more board investigations and actions followed. Despite being cleared for work each time, Dr. Haney says the board actions decimated her career in emergency medicine and her income, which is about half of what she would have earned by now. She is frustrated, sad, and angry about what happened but considers herself lucky to be practicing medicine in urgent care.
 

Being investigated is scary

After her first manic episode in 2006, Dr. Haney contacted the board’s medical director, a retired general surgeon, who told her the only way the board would authorize her return to work was if she agreed to open a board investigation.

She gave them the green light because she thought she had nothing to fear – she was cooperating fully and wasn’t impaired. Now Dr. Haney says she was naive. “The board is not your friend,” she says.

Dr. Haney was also anxious to return to work. She worked in a seven-person emergency department, and two colleagues were on maternity leave or medical leave.

“My colleagues kept calling asking me when I was going to return to work, and I kept saying, ‘I don’t know because the board won’t tell me,’ “ she says.

She was also feeling a lot of financial pressure. She was 2 years out of residency, owed $100,000 in student loans, and had just bought a house.

“I was really scared – I didn’t know how long this would last or if they would let me return to work. Early on, I even got a fitness for duty evaluation from the state’s consulting psychiatrist, who cleared me for work, and the board still wouldn’t let me return. They told me I had to go through their bureaucracy and a board meeting, which didn’t make sense to me.”

Dr. Haney consented to give the board’s investigative staff access to her medical records because she feared that if she challenged them, they would suspend or revoke her license immediately.

After investigating her for 4 months, the board cleared Dr. Haney to return to work at Bay Area Hospital. She agreed to the board’s “corrective action” terms: She would continue to receive psychiatric care, maintain a physician-patient relationship with a primary care physician, and enroll in the Health Physicians Program (HPP) for substance abuse monitoring.

Dr. Haney suspects that the board investigation damaged her reputation at work. “Before this, my work evaluations were consistently excellent. Afterwards, they were all adequate. I don’t think that was a coincidence.”
 

Worst time of her life

Five years later, after taking prednisone for another asthma flare-up, Dr. Haney had a more severe manic episode and was hospitalized.

The consulting psychiatrist who evaluated her reported her case to the medical board, stating she had bipolar disorder, was mentally incompetent, and shouldn’t be practicing medicine. The board opened a second investigation of her in 2012, which lasted 4 months.

Dr. Haney had quit her job at Bay Area Hospital in 2011 because she was pregnant and was planning to take a year off to care for the baby at home.

“That was the worst time of my life. I lost the baby at 4 months, I wasn’t working, and now I was under investigation by the board again,” she says.

The board issued an “interim stipulated order” that required that she be monitored regularly for mental illness and substance abuse by the Health Professionals Services Program (HPSP) for 2 years. “The board accused me of abusing prednisone, which I wasn’t. I was using it as prescribed and medically indicated,” she said.

The board order was reported to the National Practitioner Databank and is now permanently in her record. Although the board cleared her to work, she could not find a permanent job in a hospital emergency department.

“The repeated ‘nondisciplinary’ public board orders have had the same net impact on my career as if I had been disciplined for killing or harming my patients. For all intents and purposes, people treat it as a disciplinary action for the rest of your career,” she said.

To keep afloat financially, she found locum tenens work in local emergency departments until 2019.
 

Mental health toll

Dr. Haney feels that the stress of repeated board investigations has affected her mental health. “Both times this happened, it made my mental health worse, made the mania worse, and subsequent depression worse.”

Particularly distressing to her was the fact that the administrative staff who investigated her were attorneys and persons in law enforcement, rather than medical professionals with mental health training.

“I was required to disclose intimate personal details of my psychological and psychiatric history to anybody at the board who requested them. These investigators were asking me about my childhood history. That was traumatic and none of their business!”

Dr. Haney had quietly managed episodes of major depression since she was in her early 20s with the help of a psychiatrist. Her third episode of mania, which occurred in 2014, triggered a more severe depression, which she says deepened when she learned that the HPSP had notified the board about her manic symptoms and that she would not be released from the 2-year monitoring contract. When the board notified her 2 weeks later that they were opening another investigation, Dr. Haney says she had an emotional crisis, attempted suicide, and was briefly hospitalized. Several weeks later, she decided to take a mood stabilizer, which she continues to take.

The board’s 2015 corrective action agreement required Dr. Haney to practice medicine only in settings that the board’s medical director preapproved and to obtain a preapproved monitoring health care provider who would send quarterly reports to the medical director. Dr. Haney says the “nondisciplinary” action agreement was also reported to the National Practitioner Data Bank.

She also agreed to ongoing monitoring by the HPSP for mental illness and substance abuse, which involved random drug testing. When she didn’t call in one day in 2019 and missed a scheduled test, the board opened another investigation on her that lasted 7 months until July 2020. Dr. Haney said this was despite three subsequent negative tests.

Dr. Haney believes that the “open investigation” doomed a job offer from a hospital emergency department in the Virgin Islands. “I had passed all the required credentialing and explained previous board orders. They pulled the rug from under me 1 week before I was supposed to move there,” says Dr. Haney.

Her license was inactivated again because she hadn’t practiced medicine for a year, which she says was a new board policy. Although Dr. Haney says the medical director reactivated her license after talking with her, “By the time I was able to apply emergency medicine jobs, no one was interested in me anymore.”
 

Financial toll

Dr. Haney started her medical career when she was 42 as a second career. She says the board investigations and actions have resulted in a significant loss of work and income. “I have only worked 14 of the past 17 years as a doctor. I live cheaply because I never know how much longer my career will last,” says Dr. Haney.

The ordeal has devastated her finances. She has shelled out at least $200,000 in legal fees – she hired an attorney in 2007 and filed a lawsuit against the board in Oregon district court alleging that members had violated several of her rights. The district judge sided with the state medical board, and it was upheld on appeal in 2012, referring to state laws that gave the board absolute immunity from civil lawsuits. “I had no legal recourse to contest their decisions, no matter how injurious or unjust,” says Dr. Haney.

She has also shelled out at least $100,000 to be evaluated and monitored by the health physician program (now HPSP) for several years. Physicians who agree to be monitored by these health programs have to pay their fees. The board finally agreed last July to end her HPSP participation.

Dr. Haney also filed a complaint in 2007 with the federal Department of Health & Human Services Office for Civil Rights, alleging that the board violated her civil rights under the Americans with Disabilities Act. She says that her lawsuit and the OCR investigation of the board enabled her to withdraw from the HPP in good standing in 2008..
 

What would she have done differently?

She regrets not hiring an attorney earlier because “most likely the board action would not have been made public. It snowballed after that -- any mistake I made in my career was viewed in the lens of potential impairment.”

She also regrets telling her employer about the nature of her illness and reporting it to the board. A psychiatrist she saw later shared advice he gives to other patients who want to remain anonymous: get help but go out of town, use a false name, and pay cash.

“I wish I had that advice when all this started. That was the best way to protect my career,” says Dr. Haney.
 

Protecting the public?

The Oregon Medical Board declined to comment on Dr. Haney’s experience because investigations are confidential, but the executive director, Nicole Krishnaswami, JD, answered questions in an email about how the current board operates.

She says the board has 11 medical professionals and employs a medical director and expert consultants in specialty-specific fields. MDs with mental health training are involved in investigating/reviewing cases involving doctors with mental illnesses.

“State medical boards have a responsibility to protect and inform the public. State laws further require state agencies to provide access and transparency regarding the board’s official actions. If the board receives a complaint that a licensee is impaired and thus unable to safely practice, the board has a responsibility to investigate and ensure the licensee is practicing medicine safely,” Ms. Krishnaswami said.

The HPSP is the monitoring program established by state law to provide oversight in order to ensure that licensees are not practicing while impaired. HPSP is separate from the board and the board adopted a statement outlining its perspective on the program in support of doctors with substance abuse and mental health disorder.

The board also founded the Oregon Wellness Program, which provides free, confidential counseling to all Oregon-licensed physicians and physician assistants.
 

Stigma continues

Dr. Haney feels there is huge stigma associated with mental illness in the medical profession. “If I had cancer twice, I wouldn’t have been put in this position and would be at the peak of my career,” she says.

Nearly half of the 862 emergency medicine physicians surveyed last October said they were reluctant to seek mental health treatment. The reasons included fear of professional repercussions and stigma in the workplace. Several physicians said they were concerned about potentially having to report the treatment on medical license applications in the future, according to a survey by the American College of Emergency Physicians.

In addition, 26% of the more than 12,000 physicians who responded to a Medscape survey last year said they didn’t want to risk disclosure (20%) or that they distrusted mental health professionals (6%).
 

Another physician fights back

Steven Miles, MD, an award-winning professor emeritus of medicine and bioethics at the Center for Bioethics at the University of Minnesota, in Minneapolis, understands their reluctance. In 1996, he disclosed on his license renewal application that he had recently been diagnosed with a mainly depressive type of bipolar disorder and was in treatment. He had already told his employer, who was supportive.

That set off a 14-month investigation of him by the Minnesota Board of Medical Practice. Dr. Miles and his psychiatrist refused to release his confidential records to a panel of physicians, most of whom had no expertise in mental health care. He also filed a federal claim that the board’s requests violated the ADA, and he won the case.

“Had the board given me evidence of impaired ability to practice with ordinary skill and safety, I would have cooperated. Instead, they proposed a course of action, which would have degraded the privacy of my relationship with my psychiatrist and arguably increased the barrier to getting proper care and the risk of impairment,” he said.

The board kept renewing his license, and Dr. Miles continued to work full time. “I was empowered and protected by my stature in the field at the time my mental illness was diagnosed. Early-career physicians do not yet have that protection and should be very careful of disclosing, given the still widespread stigma of mental illnesses,” he said.
 

His advocacy led to changes

Dr. Miles went public to mobilize support for his ADA claim. He wrote editorials that were published in JAMA and Minnesota Medicine that refer to the American Psychiatric Association’s 1984 position paper, which says that the mandatory disclosure of the physician’s confidential medical record is without merit. Dr. Miles adds that major newspapers ran stories based on his editorials.

The board backed down after Dr. Miles won his ADA case, and it met with him. “I said this is not good stewardship of the medical profession; you are injuring doctors by keeping them from psychiatric care, which is out of line with the medical view of the treatability of depression and that needs to change,” he says.

Dr. Miles says he won a victory because his practice continued. “I also won a victory in the way the board was handling these questions, which was an opening salvo in a process that continues to this day.”

The original form asked whether he had ever been diagnosed with or treated for manic depression, schizophrenia, compulsive gambling, or other psychiatric conditions.

The revised form asks, “Do you have a physical or mental condition that would affect your ability, with or without reasonable accommodation, to provide appropriate care to patients and otherwise perform the essential functions of a practitioner in your area of practice without posing a health or safety risk to your patients? If yes, what accommodations would help you provide appropriate care to patients and perform other essential functions?”

Dr. Miles says that the final wording wasn’t ideal and that it was confusing to physicians. He says this prompted additional changes in wording by the board. Starting in January, applicants will be asked, “Do you currently have any condition that is not being appropriately treated that is likely to impair or adversely affect your ability to practice medicine with reasonable skill and safety in a competent, ethical, and professional manner?” the medical board’s executive director, Ruth M. Martinez, said in an email.

When asked whether the board still investigates physicians who reveal mental illnesses on licensing applications, Ms. Martinez responded, “All disclosures are evaluated to assure that the practitioner is qualified and safe to practice.”

This article was updated 11/4/21.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Susan Haney, MD, a board-certified emergency physician in Coos Bay, Ore., was 2 years into her career when she had her first manic episode, likely a side effect of the steroid prednisone, which she had been prescribed for an asthma flare-up. Her boss at Bay Area Hospital told her that if she wanted to return to work, she would need to have written clearance from the medical board.

In retrospect, Dr. Haney says, “I don’t think they had any idea of what they would set in motion.”

Dr. Haney says the Oregon Medical Board posted her name and the nondisciplinary action on their website and in their newsletter. Her local newspaper read it and ran a story about her. “They effectively announced my mental illness to the general public despite my objections,” she says.

During the next decade, she had two more manic episodes, and more board investigations and actions followed. Despite being cleared for work each time, Dr. Haney says the board actions decimated her career in emergency medicine and her income, which is about half of what she would have earned by now. She is frustrated, sad, and angry about what happened but considers herself lucky to be practicing medicine in urgent care.
 

Being investigated is scary

After her first manic episode in 2006, Dr. Haney contacted the board’s medical director, a retired general surgeon, who told her the only way the board would authorize her return to work was if she agreed to open a board investigation.

She gave them the green light because she thought she had nothing to fear – she was cooperating fully and wasn’t impaired. Now Dr. Haney says she was naive. “The board is not your friend,” she says.

Dr. Haney was also anxious to return to work. She worked in a seven-person emergency department, and two colleagues were on maternity leave or medical leave.

“My colleagues kept calling asking me when I was going to return to work, and I kept saying, ‘I don’t know because the board won’t tell me,’ “ she says.

She was also feeling a lot of financial pressure. She was 2 years out of residency, owed $100,000 in student loans, and had just bought a house.

“I was really scared – I didn’t know how long this would last or if they would let me return to work. Early on, I even got a fitness for duty evaluation from the state’s consulting psychiatrist, who cleared me for work, and the board still wouldn’t let me return. They told me I had to go through their bureaucracy and a board meeting, which didn’t make sense to me.”

Dr. Haney consented to give the board’s investigative staff access to her medical records because she feared that if she challenged them, they would suspend or revoke her license immediately.

After investigating her for 4 months, the board cleared Dr. Haney to return to work at Bay Area Hospital. She agreed to the board’s “corrective action” terms: She would continue to receive psychiatric care, maintain a physician-patient relationship with a primary care physician, and enroll in the Health Physicians Program (HPP) for substance abuse monitoring.

Dr. Haney suspects that the board investigation damaged her reputation at work. “Before this, my work evaluations were consistently excellent. Afterwards, they were all adequate. I don’t think that was a coincidence.”
 

Worst time of her life

Five years later, after taking prednisone for another asthma flare-up, Dr. Haney had a more severe manic episode and was hospitalized.

The consulting psychiatrist who evaluated her reported her case to the medical board, stating she had bipolar disorder, was mentally incompetent, and shouldn’t be practicing medicine. The board opened a second investigation of her in 2012, which lasted 4 months.

Dr. Haney had quit her job at Bay Area Hospital in 2011 because she was pregnant and was planning to take a year off to care for the baby at home.

“That was the worst time of my life. I lost the baby at 4 months, I wasn’t working, and now I was under investigation by the board again,” she says.

The board issued an “interim stipulated order” that required that she be monitored regularly for mental illness and substance abuse by the Health Professionals Services Program (HPSP) for 2 years. “The board accused me of abusing prednisone, which I wasn’t. I was using it as prescribed and medically indicated,” she said.

The board order was reported to the National Practitioner Databank and is now permanently in her record. Although the board cleared her to work, she could not find a permanent job in a hospital emergency department.

“The repeated ‘nondisciplinary’ public board orders have had the same net impact on my career as if I had been disciplined for killing or harming my patients. For all intents and purposes, people treat it as a disciplinary action for the rest of your career,” she said.

To keep afloat financially, she found locum tenens work in local emergency departments until 2019.
 

Mental health toll

Dr. Haney feels that the stress of repeated board investigations has affected her mental health. “Both times this happened, it made my mental health worse, made the mania worse, and subsequent depression worse.”

Particularly distressing to her was the fact that the administrative staff who investigated her were attorneys and persons in law enforcement, rather than medical professionals with mental health training.

“I was required to disclose intimate personal details of my psychological and psychiatric history to anybody at the board who requested them. These investigators were asking me about my childhood history. That was traumatic and none of their business!”

Dr. Haney had quietly managed episodes of major depression since she was in her early 20s with the help of a psychiatrist. Her third episode of mania, which occurred in 2014, triggered a more severe depression, which she says deepened when she learned that the HPSP had notified the board about her manic symptoms and that she would not be released from the 2-year monitoring contract. When the board notified her 2 weeks later that they were opening another investigation, Dr. Haney says she had an emotional crisis, attempted suicide, and was briefly hospitalized. Several weeks later, she decided to take a mood stabilizer, which she continues to take.

The board’s 2015 corrective action agreement required Dr. Haney to practice medicine only in settings that the board’s medical director preapproved and to obtain a preapproved monitoring health care provider who would send quarterly reports to the medical director. Dr. Haney says the “nondisciplinary” action agreement was also reported to the National Practitioner Data Bank.

She also agreed to ongoing monitoring by the HPSP for mental illness and substance abuse, which involved random drug testing. When she didn’t call in one day in 2019 and missed a scheduled test, the board opened another investigation on her that lasted 7 months until July 2020. Dr. Haney said this was despite three subsequent negative tests.

Dr. Haney believes that the “open investigation” doomed a job offer from a hospital emergency department in the Virgin Islands. “I had passed all the required credentialing and explained previous board orders. They pulled the rug from under me 1 week before I was supposed to move there,” says Dr. Haney.

Her license was inactivated again because she hadn’t practiced medicine for a year, which she says was a new board policy. Although Dr. Haney says the medical director reactivated her license after talking with her, “By the time I was able to apply emergency medicine jobs, no one was interested in me anymore.”
 

Financial toll

Dr. Haney started her medical career when she was 42 as a second career. She says the board investigations and actions have resulted in a significant loss of work and income. “I have only worked 14 of the past 17 years as a doctor. I live cheaply because I never know how much longer my career will last,” says Dr. Haney.

The ordeal has devastated her finances. She has shelled out at least $200,000 in legal fees – she hired an attorney in 2007 and filed a lawsuit against the board in Oregon district court alleging that members had violated several of her rights. The district judge sided with the state medical board, and it was upheld on appeal in 2012, referring to state laws that gave the board absolute immunity from civil lawsuits. “I had no legal recourse to contest their decisions, no matter how injurious or unjust,” says Dr. Haney.

She has also shelled out at least $100,000 to be evaluated and monitored by the health physician program (now HPSP) for several years. Physicians who agree to be monitored by these health programs have to pay their fees. The board finally agreed last July to end her HPSP participation.

Dr. Haney also filed a complaint in 2007 with the federal Department of Health & Human Services Office for Civil Rights, alleging that the board violated her civil rights under the Americans with Disabilities Act. She says that her lawsuit and the OCR investigation of the board enabled her to withdraw from the HPP in good standing in 2008..
 

What would she have done differently?

She regrets not hiring an attorney earlier because “most likely the board action would not have been made public. It snowballed after that -- any mistake I made in my career was viewed in the lens of potential impairment.”

She also regrets telling her employer about the nature of her illness and reporting it to the board. A psychiatrist she saw later shared advice he gives to other patients who want to remain anonymous: get help but go out of town, use a false name, and pay cash.

“I wish I had that advice when all this started. That was the best way to protect my career,” says Dr. Haney.
 

Protecting the public?

The Oregon Medical Board declined to comment on Dr. Haney’s experience because investigations are confidential, but the executive director, Nicole Krishnaswami, JD, answered questions in an email about how the current board operates.

She says the board has 11 medical professionals and employs a medical director and expert consultants in specialty-specific fields. MDs with mental health training are involved in investigating/reviewing cases involving doctors with mental illnesses.

“State medical boards have a responsibility to protect and inform the public. State laws further require state agencies to provide access and transparency regarding the board’s official actions. If the board receives a complaint that a licensee is impaired and thus unable to safely practice, the board has a responsibility to investigate and ensure the licensee is practicing medicine safely,” Ms. Krishnaswami said.

The HPSP is the monitoring program established by state law to provide oversight in order to ensure that licensees are not practicing while impaired. HPSP is separate from the board and the board adopted a statement outlining its perspective on the program in support of doctors with substance abuse and mental health disorder.

The board also founded the Oregon Wellness Program, which provides free, confidential counseling to all Oregon-licensed physicians and physician assistants.
 

Stigma continues

Dr. Haney feels there is huge stigma associated with mental illness in the medical profession. “If I had cancer twice, I wouldn’t have been put in this position and would be at the peak of my career,” she says.

Nearly half of the 862 emergency medicine physicians surveyed last October said they were reluctant to seek mental health treatment. The reasons included fear of professional repercussions and stigma in the workplace. Several physicians said they were concerned about potentially having to report the treatment on medical license applications in the future, according to a survey by the American College of Emergency Physicians.

In addition, 26% of the more than 12,000 physicians who responded to a Medscape survey last year said they didn’t want to risk disclosure (20%) or that they distrusted mental health professionals (6%).
 

Another physician fights back

Steven Miles, MD, an award-winning professor emeritus of medicine and bioethics at the Center for Bioethics at the University of Minnesota, in Minneapolis, understands their reluctance. In 1996, he disclosed on his license renewal application that he had recently been diagnosed with a mainly depressive type of bipolar disorder and was in treatment. He had already told his employer, who was supportive.

That set off a 14-month investigation of him by the Minnesota Board of Medical Practice. Dr. Miles and his psychiatrist refused to release his confidential records to a panel of physicians, most of whom had no expertise in mental health care. He also filed a federal claim that the board’s requests violated the ADA, and he won the case.

“Had the board given me evidence of impaired ability to practice with ordinary skill and safety, I would have cooperated. Instead, they proposed a course of action, which would have degraded the privacy of my relationship with my psychiatrist and arguably increased the barrier to getting proper care and the risk of impairment,” he said.

The board kept renewing his license, and Dr. Miles continued to work full time. “I was empowered and protected by my stature in the field at the time my mental illness was diagnosed. Early-career physicians do not yet have that protection and should be very careful of disclosing, given the still widespread stigma of mental illnesses,” he said.
 

His advocacy led to changes

Dr. Miles went public to mobilize support for his ADA claim. He wrote editorials that were published in JAMA and Minnesota Medicine that refer to the American Psychiatric Association’s 1984 position paper, which says that the mandatory disclosure of the physician’s confidential medical record is without merit. Dr. Miles adds that major newspapers ran stories based on his editorials.

The board backed down after Dr. Miles won his ADA case, and it met with him. “I said this is not good stewardship of the medical profession; you are injuring doctors by keeping them from psychiatric care, which is out of line with the medical view of the treatability of depression and that needs to change,” he says.

Dr. Miles says he won a victory because his practice continued. “I also won a victory in the way the board was handling these questions, which was an opening salvo in a process that continues to this day.”

The original form asked whether he had ever been diagnosed with or treated for manic depression, schizophrenia, compulsive gambling, or other psychiatric conditions.

The revised form asks, “Do you have a physical or mental condition that would affect your ability, with or without reasonable accommodation, to provide appropriate care to patients and otherwise perform the essential functions of a practitioner in your area of practice without posing a health or safety risk to your patients? If yes, what accommodations would help you provide appropriate care to patients and perform other essential functions?”

Dr. Miles says that the final wording wasn’t ideal and that it was confusing to physicians. He says this prompted additional changes in wording by the board. Starting in January, applicants will be asked, “Do you currently have any condition that is not being appropriately treated that is likely to impair or adversely affect your ability to practice medicine with reasonable skill and safety in a competent, ethical, and professional manner?” the medical board’s executive director, Ruth M. Martinez, said in an email.

When asked whether the board still investigates physicians who reveal mental illnesses on licensing applications, Ms. Martinez responded, “All disclosures are evaluated to assure that the practitioner is qualified and safe to practice.”

This article was updated 11/4/21.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Susan Haney, MD, a board-certified emergency physician in Coos Bay, Ore., was 2 years into her career when she had her first manic episode, likely a side effect of the steroid prednisone, which she had been prescribed for an asthma flare-up. Her boss at Bay Area Hospital told her that if she wanted to return to work, she would need to have written clearance from the medical board.

In retrospect, Dr. Haney says, “I don’t think they had any idea of what they would set in motion.”

Dr. Haney says the Oregon Medical Board posted her name and the nondisciplinary action on their website and in their newsletter. Her local newspaper read it and ran a story about her. “They effectively announced my mental illness to the general public despite my objections,” she says.

During the next decade, she had two more manic episodes, and more board investigations and actions followed. Despite being cleared for work each time, Dr. Haney says the board actions decimated her career in emergency medicine and her income, which is about half of what she would have earned by now. She is frustrated, sad, and angry about what happened but considers herself lucky to be practicing medicine in urgent care.
 

Being investigated is scary

After her first manic episode in 2006, Dr. Haney contacted the board’s medical director, a retired general surgeon, who told her the only way the board would authorize her return to work was if she agreed to open a board investigation.

She gave them the green light because she thought she had nothing to fear – she was cooperating fully and wasn’t impaired. Now Dr. Haney says she was naive. “The board is not your friend,” she says.

Dr. Haney was also anxious to return to work. She worked in a seven-person emergency department, and two colleagues were on maternity leave or medical leave.

“My colleagues kept calling asking me when I was going to return to work, and I kept saying, ‘I don’t know because the board won’t tell me,’ “ she says.

She was also feeling a lot of financial pressure. She was 2 years out of residency, owed $100,000 in student loans, and had just bought a house.

“I was really scared – I didn’t know how long this would last or if they would let me return to work. Early on, I even got a fitness for duty evaluation from the state’s consulting psychiatrist, who cleared me for work, and the board still wouldn’t let me return. They told me I had to go through their bureaucracy and a board meeting, which didn’t make sense to me.”

Dr. Haney consented to give the board’s investigative staff access to her medical records because she feared that if she challenged them, they would suspend or revoke her license immediately.

After investigating her for 4 months, the board cleared Dr. Haney to return to work at Bay Area Hospital. She agreed to the board’s “corrective action” terms: She would continue to receive psychiatric care, maintain a physician-patient relationship with a primary care physician, and enroll in the Health Physicians Program (HPP) for substance abuse monitoring.

Dr. Haney suspects that the board investigation damaged her reputation at work. “Before this, my work evaluations were consistently excellent. Afterwards, they were all adequate. I don’t think that was a coincidence.”
 

Worst time of her life

Five years later, after taking prednisone for another asthma flare-up, Dr. Haney had a more severe manic episode and was hospitalized.

The consulting psychiatrist who evaluated her reported her case to the medical board, stating she had bipolar disorder, was mentally incompetent, and shouldn’t be practicing medicine. The board opened a second investigation of her in 2012, which lasted 4 months.

Dr. Haney had quit her job at Bay Area Hospital in 2011 because she was pregnant and was planning to take a year off to care for the baby at home.

“That was the worst time of my life. I lost the baby at 4 months, I wasn’t working, and now I was under investigation by the board again,” she says.

The board issued an “interim stipulated order” that required that she be monitored regularly for mental illness and substance abuse by the Health Professionals Services Program (HPSP) for 2 years. “The board accused me of abusing prednisone, which I wasn’t. I was using it as prescribed and medically indicated,” she said.

The board order was reported to the National Practitioner Databank and is now permanently in her record. Although the board cleared her to work, she could not find a permanent job in a hospital emergency department.

“The repeated ‘nondisciplinary’ public board orders have had the same net impact on my career as if I had been disciplined for killing or harming my patients. For all intents and purposes, people treat it as a disciplinary action for the rest of your career,” she said.

To keep afloat financially, she found locum tenens work in local emergency departments until 2019.
 

Mental health toll

Dr. Haney feels that the stress of repeated board investigations has affected her mental health. “Both times this happened, it made my mental health worse, made the mania worse, and subsequent depression worse.”

Particularly distressing to her was the fact that the administrative staff who investigated her were attorneys and persons in law enforcement, rather than medical professionals with mental health training.

“I was required to disclose intimate personal details of my psychological and psychiatric history to anybody at the board who requested them. These investigators were asking me about my childhood history. That was traumatic and none of their business!”

Dr. Haney had quietly managed episodes of major depression since she was in her early 20s with the help of a psychiatrist. Her third episode of mania, which occurred in 2014, triggered a more severe depression, which she says deepened when she learned that the HPSP had notified the board about her manic symptoms and that she would not be released from the 2-year monitoring contract. When the board notified her 2 weeks later that they were opening another investigation, Dr. Haney says she had an emotional crisis, attempted suicide, and was briefly hospitalized. Several weeks later, she decided to take a mood stabilizer, which she continues to take.

The board’s 2015 corrective action agreement required Dr. Haney to practice medicine only in settings that the board’s medical director preapproved and to obtain a preapproved monitoring health care provider who would send quarterly reports to the medical director. Dr. Haney says the “nondisciplinary” action agreement was also reported to the National Practitioner Data Bank.

She also agreed to ongoing monitoring by the HPSP for mental illness and substance abuse, which involved random drug testing. When she didn’t call in one day in 2019 and missed a scheduled test, the board opened another investigation on her that lasted 7 months until July 2020. Dr. Haney said this was despite three subsequent negative tests.

Dr. Haney believes that the “open investigation” doomed a job offer from a hospital emergency department in the Virgin Islands. “I had passed all the required credentialing and explained previous board orders. They pulled the rug from under me 1 week before I was supposed to move there,” says Dr. Haney.

Her license was inactivated again because she hadn’t practiced medicine for a year, which she says was a new board policy. Although Dr. Haney says the medical director reactivated her license after talking with her, “By the time I was able to apply emergency medicine jobs, no one was interested in me anymore.”
 

Financial toll

Dr. Haney started her medical career when she was 42 as a second career. She says the board investigations and actions have resulted in a significant loss of work and income. “I have only worked 14 of the past 17 years as a doctor. I live cheaply because I never know how much longer my career will last,” says Dr. Haney.

The ordeal has devastated her finances. She has shelled out at least $200,000 in legal fees – she hired an attorney in 2007 and filed a lawsuit against the board in Oregon district court alleging that members had violated several of her rights. The district judge sided with the state medical board, and it was upheld on appeal in 2012, referring to state laws that gave the board absolute immunity from civil lawsuits. “I had no legal recourse to contest their decisions, no matter how injurious or unjust,” says Dr. Haney.

She has also shelled out at least $100,000 to be evaluated and monitored by the health physician program (now HPSP) for several years. Physicians who agree to be monitored by these health programs have to pay their fees. The board finally agreed last July to end her HPSP participation.

Dr. Haney also filed a complaint in 2007 with the federal Department of Health & Human Services Office for Civil Rights, alleging that the board violated her civil rights under the Americans with Disabilities Act. She says that her lawsuit and the OCR investigation of the board enabled her to withdraw from the HPP in good standing in 2008..
 

What would she have done differently?

She regrets not hiring an attorney earlier because “most likely the board action would not have been made public. It snowballed after that -- any mistake I made in my career was viewed in the lens of potential impairment.”

She also regrets telling her employer about the nature of her illness and reporting it to the board. A psychiatrist she saw later shared advice he gives to other patients who want to remain anonymous: get help but go out of town, use a false name, and pay cash.

“I wish I had that advice when all this started. That was the best way to protect my career,” says Dr. Haney.
 

Protecting the public?

The Oregon Medical Board declined to comment on Dr. Haney’s experience because investigations are confidential, but the executive director, Nicole Krishnaswami, JD, answered questions in an email about how the current board operates.

She says the board has 11 medical professionals and employs a medical director and expert consultants in specialty-specific fields. MDs with mental health training are involved in investigating/reviewing cases involving doctors with mental illnesses.

“State medical boards have a responsibility to protect and inform the public. State laws further require state agencies to provide access and transparency regarding the board’s official actions. If the board receives a complaint that a licensee is impaired and thus unable to safely practice, the board has a responsibility to investigate and ensure the licensee is practicing medicine safely,” Ms. Krishnaswami said.

The HPSP is the monitoring program established by state law to provide oversight in order to ensure that licensees are not practicing while impaired. HPSP is separate from the board and the board adopted a statement outlining its perspective on the program in support of doctors with substance abuse and mental health disorder.

The board also founded the Oregon Wellness Program, which provides free, confidential counseling to all Oregon-licensed physicians and physician assistants.
 

Stigma continues

Dr. Haney feels there is huge stigma associated with mental illness in the medical profession. “If I had cancer twice, I wouldn’t have been put in this position and would be at the peak of my career,” she says.

Nearly half of the 862 emergency medicine physicians surveyed last October said they were reluctant to seek mental health treatment. The reasons included fear of professional repercussions and stigma in the workplace. Several physicians said they were concerned about potentially having to report the treatment on medical license applications in the future, according to a survey by the American College of Emergency Physicians.

In addition, 26% of the more than 12,000 physicians who responded to a Medscape survey last year said they didn’t want to risk disclosure (20%) or that they distrusted mental health professionals (6%).
 

Another physician fights back

Steven Miles, MD, an award-winning professor emeritus of medicine and bioethics at the Center for Bioethics at the University of Minnesota, in Minneapolis, understands their reluctance. In 1996, he disclosed on his license renewal application that he had recently been diagnosed with a mainly depressive type of bipolar disorder and was in treatment. He had already told his employer, who was supportive.

That set off a 14-month investigation of him by the Minnesota Board of Medical Practice. Dr. Miles and his psychiatrist refused to release his confidential records to a panel of physicians, most of whom had no expertise in mental health care. He also filed a federal claim that the board’s requests violated the ADA, and he won the case.

“Had the board given me evidence of impaired ability to practice with ordinary skill and safety, I would have cooperated. Instead, they proposed a course of action, which would have degraded the privacy of my relationship with my psychiatrist and arguably increased the barrier to getting proper care and the risk of impairment,” he said.

The board kept renewing his license, and Dr. Miles continued to work full time. “I was empowered and protected by my stature in the field at the time my mental illness was diagnosed. Early-career physicians do not yet have that protection and should be very careful of disclosing, given the still widespread stigma of mental illnesses,” he said.
 

His advocacy led to changes

Dr. Miles went public to mobilize support for his ADA claim. He wrote editorials that were published in JAMA and Minnesota Medicine that refer to the American Psychiatric Association’s 1984 position paper, which says that the mandatory disclosure of the physician’s confidential medical record is without merit. Dr. Miles adds that major newspapers ran stories based on his editorials.

The board backed down after Dr. Miles won his ADA case, and it met with him. “I said this is not good stewardship of the medical profession; you are injuring doctors by keeping them from psychiatric care, which is out of line with the medical view of the treatability of depression and that needs to change,” he says.

Dr. Miles says he won a victory because his practice continued. “I also won a victory in the way the board was handling these questions, which was an opening salvo in a process that continues to this day.”

The original form asked whether he had ever been diagnosed with or treated for manic depression, schizophrenia, compulsive gambling, or other psychiatric conditions.

The revised form asks, “Do you have a physical or mental condition that would affect your ability, with or without reasonable accommodation, to provide appropriate care to patients and otherwise perform the essential functions of a practitioner in your area of practice without posing a health or safety risk to your patients? If yes, what accommodations would help you provide appropriate care to patients and perform other essential functions?”

Dr. Miles says that the final wording wasn’t ideal and that it was confusing to physicians. He says this prompted additional changes in wording by the board. Starting in January, applicants will be asked, “Do you currently have any condition that is not being appropriately treated that is likely to impair or adversely affect your ability to practice medicine with reasonable skill and safety in a competent, ethical, and professional manner?” the medical board’s executive director, Ruth M. Martinez, said in an email.

When asked whether the board still investigates physicians who reveal mental illnesses on licensing applications, Ms. Martinez responded, “All disclosures are evaluated to assure that the practitioner is qualified and safe to practice.”

This article was updated 11/4/21.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die

Movie watching usually requires a certain suspension of disbelief, and it’s safe to say James Bond movies require this more than most. Between the impossible gadgets and ludicrous doomsday plans, very few have ever stopped to consider the health risks of the James Bond universe.

Tumisu/Pixabay

Now, however, Bond, James Bond, has met his most formidable opponent: Wouter Graumans, a graduate student in epidemiology from the Netherlands. During a foray to Burkina Faso to study infectious diseases, Mr. Graumans came down with a case of food poisoning, which led him to wonder how 007 is able to trot across this big world of ours without contracting so much as a sinus infection.

Because Mr. Graumans is a man of science and conviction, mere speculation wasn’t enough. He and a group of coauthors wrote an entire paper on the health risks of the James Bond universe.

Doing so required watching over 3,000 minutes of numerous movies and analyzing Bond’s 86 total trips to 46 different countries based on current Centers for Disease Control and Prevention advice for travel to those countries. Time which, the authors state in the abstract, “could easily have been spent on more pressing societal issues or forms of relaxation that are more acceptable in academic circles.”

Naturally, Mr. Bond’s line of work entails exposure to unpleasant things, such as poison, dehydration, heatstroke, and dangerous wildlife (everything from ticks to crocodiles), though oddly enough he never succumbs to any of it. He’s also curiously immune to hangovers, despite rarely drinking anything nonalcoholic. There are also less obvious risks: For one, 007 rarely washes his hands. During one movie, he handles raw chicken to lure away a pack of crocodiles but fails to wash his hands afterward, leaving him at risk for multiple food-borne illnesses.

Of course, we must address the elephant in the bedroom: Mr. Bond’s numerous, er, encounters with women. One would imagine the biggest risk to those women would be from the various STDs that likely course through Bond’s body, but of the 27% who died shortly after … encountering … him, all involved violence, with disease playing no obvious role. Who knows, maybe he’s clean? Stranger things have happened.

The timing of this article may seem a bit suspicious. Was it a PR stunt by the studio? Rest assured, the authors addressed this, noting that they received no funding for the study, and that, “given the futility of its academic value, this is deemed entirely appropriate by all authors.” We love when a punchline writes itself.
 

How to see Atlanta on $688.35 a day

The world is always changing, so we have to change with it. This week, LOTME becomes a travel guide, and our first stop is the Big A, the Big Peach, Dogwood City, Empire City of the South, Wakanda.

There’s lots to do in Atlanta: Celebrate a World Series win, visit the College Football Hall of Fame or the World of Coca Cola, or take the Stranger Things/Upside Down film locations tour. Serious adventurers, however, get out of the city and go to Emory Decatur Hospital in – you guessed it – Decatur (unofficial motto: “Everything is Greater in Decatur”).

©Getty Images

Find the emergency room and ask for Taylor Davis, who will be your personal guide. She’ll show you how to check in at the desk, sit in the waiting room for 7 hours, and then leave without seeing any medical personnel or receiving any sort of attention whatsoever. All the things she did when she went there in July for a head injury.

Ms. Davis told Fox5 Atlanta: “I didn’t get my vitals taken, nobody called my name. I wasn’t seen at all.”

But wait! There’s more! By booking your trip through LOTMEgo* and using the code “Decatur,” you’ll get the Taylor Davis special, which includes a bill/cover charge for $688.35 from the hospital. An Emory Healthcare patient financial services employee told Ms. Davis that “you get charged before you are seen. Not for being seen.”

If all this has you ready to hop in your car (really?), then check out LOTMEgo* on Twittbook and InstaTok. You’ll also find trick-or-treating tips and discounts on haunted hospital tours.

*Does not actually exist

Breaking down the hot flash

Do you ever wonder why we scramble for cold things when we’re feeling nauseous? Whether it’s the cool air that needs to hit your face in the car or a cold, damp towel on the back of your neck, scientists think it could possibly be an evolutionary mechanism at the cellular level.

Piqsels

Motion sickness it’s actually a battle of body temperature, according to an article from LiveScience. Capillaries in the skin dilate, allowing for more blood flow near the skin’s surface and causing core temperature to fall. Once body temperature drops, the hypothalamus, which regulates temperature, tries to do its job by raising body temperature. Thus the hot flash!

The cold compress and cool air help fight the battle by counteracting the hypothalamus, but why the drop in body temperature to begin with?

There are a few theories. Dr. Robert Glatter, an emergency physician at Lenox Hill Hospital in New York, told LiveScience that the lack of oxygen needed in body tissue to survive at lower temperatures could be making it difficult to get oxygen to the body when a person is ill, and is “more likely an adaptive response influenced by poorly understood mechanisms at the cellular level.”

Another theory is that the nausea and body temperature shift is the body’s natural response to help people vomit.

Then there’s the theory of “defensive hypothermia,” which suggests that cold sweats are a possible mechanism to conserve energy so the body can fight off an intruder, which was supported by a 2014 study and a 2016 review.

It’s another one of the body’s many survival tricks.
 

Teachers were right: Pupils can do the math

Teachers liked to preach that we wouldn’t have calculators with us all the time, but that wound up not being true. Our phones have calculators at the press of a button. But maybe even calculators aren’t always needed because our pupils do more math than you think.

pxfuel

The pupil light reflex – constrict in light and dilate in darkness – is well known, but recent work shows that pupil size is also regulated by cognitive and perceptual factors. By presenting subjects with images of various numbers of dots and measuring pupil size, the investigators were able to show “that numerical information is intrinsically related to perception,” lead author Dr. Elisa Castaldi of Florence University noted in a written statement.

The researchers found that pupils are responsible for important survival techniques. Coauthor David Burr of the University of Sydney and the University of Florence gave an evolutionary perspective: “When we look around, we spontaneously perceive the form, size, movement and colour of a scene. Equally spontaneously, we perceive the number of items before us. This ability, shared with most other animals, is an evolutionary fundamental: It reveals immediately important quantities, such as how many apples there are on the tree, or how many enemies are attacking.”

Useful information, indeed, but our pupils seem to be more interested in the quantity of beers in the refrigerator.

No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die

Movie watching usually requires a certain suspension of disbelief, and it’s safe to say James Bond movies require this more than most. Between the impossible gadgets and ludicrous doomsday plans, very few have ever stopped to consider the health risks of the James Bond universe.

Tumisu/Pixabay

Now, however, Bond, James Bond, has met his most formidable opponent: Wouter Graumans, a graduate student in epidemiology from the Netherlands. During a foray to Burkina Faso to study infectious diseases, Mr. Graumans came down with a case of food poisoning, which led him to wonder how 007 is able to trot across this big world of ours without contracting so much as a sinus infection.

Because Mr. Graumans is a man of science and conviction, mere speculation wasn’t enough. He and a group of coauthors wrote an entire paper on the health risks of the James Bond universe.

Doing so required watching over 3,000 minutes of numerous movies and analyzing Bond’s 86 total trips to 46 different countries based on current Centers for Disease Control and Prevention advice for travel to those countries. Time which, the authors state in the abstract, “could easily have been spent on more pressing societal issues or forms of relaxation that are more acceptable in academic circles.”

Naturally, Mr. Bond’s line of work entails exposure to unpleasant things, such as poison, dehydration, heatstroke, and dangerous wildlife (everything from ticks to crocodiles), though oddly enough he never succumbs to any of it. He’s also curiously immune to hangovers, despite rarely drinking anything nonalcoholic. There are also less obvious risks: For one, 007 rarely washes his hands. During one movie, he handles raw chicken to lure away a pack of crocodiles but fails to wash his hands afterward, leaving him at risk for multiple food-borne illnesses.

Of course, we must address the elephant in the bedroom: Mr. Bond’s numerous, er, encounters with women. One would imagine the biggest risk to those women would be from the various STDs that likely course through Bond’s body, but of the 27% who died shortly after … encountering … him, all involved violence, with disease playing no obvious role. Who knows, maybe he’s clean? Stranger things have happened.

The timing of this article may seem a bit suspicious. Was it a PR stunt by the studio? Rest assured, the authors addressed this, noting that they received no funding for the study, and that, “given the futility of its academic value, this is deemed entirely appropriate by all authors.” We love when a punchline writes itself.
 

How to see Atlanta on $688.35 a day

The world is always changing, so we have to change with it. This week, LOTME becomes a travel guide, and our first stop is the Big A, the Big Peach, Dogwood City, Empire City of the South, Wakanda.

There’s lots to do in Atlanta: Celebrate a World Series win, visit the College Football Hall of Fame or the World of Coca Cola, or take the Stranger Things/Upside Down film locations tour. Serious adventurers, however, get out of the city and go to Emory Decatur Hospital in – you guessed it – Decatur (unofficial motto: “Everything is Greater in Decatur”).

©Getty Images

Find the emergency room and ask for Taylor Davis, who will be your personal guide. She’ll show you how to check in at the desk, sit in the waiting room for 7 hours, and then leave without seeing any medical personnel or receiving any sort of attention whatsoever. All the things she did when she went there in July for a head injury.

Ms. Davis told Fox5 Atlanta: “I didn’t get my vitals taken, nobody called my name. I wasn’t seen at all.”

But wait! There’s more! By booking your trip through LOTMEgo* and using the code “Decatur,” you’ll get the Taylor Davis special, which includes a bill/cover charge for $688.35 from the hospital. An Emory Healthcare patient financial services employee told Ms. Davis that “you get charged before you are seen. Not for being seen.”

If all this has you ready to hop in your car (really?), then check out LOTMEgo* on Twittbook and InstaTok. You’ll also find trick-or-treating tips and discounts on haunted hospital tours.

*Does not actually exist

Breaking down the hot flash

Do you ever wonder why we scramble for cold things when we’re feeling nauseous? Whether it’s the cool air that needs to hit your face in the car or a cold, damp towel on the back of your neck, scientists think it could possibly be an evolutionary mechanism at the cellular level.

Piqsels

Motion sickness it’s actually a battle of body temperature, according to an article from LiveScience. Capillaries in the skin dilate, allowing for more blood flow near the skin’s surface and causing core temperature to fall. Once body temperature drops, the hypothalamus, which regulates temperature, tries to do its job by raising body temperature. Thus the hot flash!

The cold compress and cool air help fight the battle by counteracting the hypothalamus, but why the drop in body temperature to begin with?

There are a few theories. Dr. Robert Glatter, an emergency physician at Lenox Hill Hospital in New York, told LiveScience that the lack of oxygen needed in body tissue to survive at lower temperatures could be making it difficult to get oxygen to the body when a person is ill, and is “more likely an adaptive response influenced by poorly understood mechanisms at the cellular level.”

Another theory is that the nausea and body temperature shift is the body’s natural response to help people vomit.

Then there’s the theory of “defensive hypothermia,” which suggests that cold sweats are a possible mechanism to conserve energy so the body can fight off an intruder, which was supported by a 2014 study and a 2016 review.

It’s another one of the body’s many survival tricks.
 

Teachers were right: Pupils can do the math

Teachers liked to preach that we wouldn’t have calculators with us all the time, but that wound up not being true. Our phones have calculators at the press of a button. But maybe even calculators aren’t always needed because our pupils do more math than you think.

pxfuel

The pupil light reflex – constrict in light and dilate in darkness – is well known, but recent work shows that pupil size is also regulated by cognitive and perceptual factors. By presenting subjects with images of various numbers of dots and measuring pupil size, the investigators were able to show “that numerical information is intrinsically related to perception,” lead author Dr. Elisa Castaldi of Florence University noted in a written statement.

The researchers found that pupils are responsible for important survival techniques. Coauthor David Burr of the University of Sydney and the University of Florence gave an evolutionary perspective: “When we look around, we spontaneously perceive the form, size, movement and colour of a scene. Equally spontaneously, we perceive the number of items before us. This ability, shared with most other animals, is an evolutionary fundamental: It reveals immediately important quantities, such as how many apples there are on the tree, or how many enemies are attacking.”

Useful information, indeed, but our pupils seem to be more interested in the quantity of beers in the refrigerator.

No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die

Movie watching usually requires a certain suspension of disbelief, and it’s safe to say James Bond movies require this more than most. Between the impossible gadgets and ludicrous doomsday plans, very few have ever stopped to consider the health risks of the James Bond universe.

Tumisu/Pixabay

Now, however, Bond, James Bond, has met his most formidable opponent: Wouter Graumans, a graduate student in epidemiology from the Netherlands. During a foray to Burkina Faso to study infectious diseases, Mr. Graumans came down with a case of food poisoning, which led him to wonder how 007 is able to trot across this big world of ours without contracting so much as a sinus infection.

Because Mr. Graumans is a man of science and conviction, mere speculation wasn’t enough. He and a group of coauthors wrote an entire paper on the health risks of the James Bond universe.

Doing so required watching over 3,000 minutes of numerous movies and analyzing Bond’s 86 total trips to 46 different countries based on current Centers for Disease Control and Prevention advice for travel to those countries. Time which, the authors state in the abstract, “could easily have been spent on more pressing societal issues or forms of relaxation that are more acceptable in academic circles.”

Naturally, Mr. Bond’s line of work entails exposure to unpleasant things, such as poison, dehydration, heatstroke, and dangerous wildlife (everything from ticks to crocodiles), though oddly enough he never succumbs to any of it. He’s also curiously immune to hangovers, despite rarely drinking anything nonalcoholic. There are also less obvious risks: For one, 007 rarely washes his hands. During one movie, he handles raw chicken to lure away a pack of crocodiles but fails to wash his hands afterward, leaving him at risk for multiple food-borne illnesses.

Of course, we must address the elephant in the bedroom: Mr. Bond’s numerous, er, encounters with women. One would imagine the biggest risk to those women would be from the various STDs that likely course through Bond’s body, but of the 27% who died shortly after … encountering … him, all involved violence, with disease playing no obvious role. Who knows, maybe he’s clean? Stranger things have happened.

The timing of this article may seem a bit suspicious. Was it a PR stunt by the studio? Rest assured, the authors addressed this, noting that they received no funding for the study, and that, “given the futility of its academic value, this is deemed entirely appropriate by all authors.” We love when a punchline writes itself.
 

How to see Atlanta on $688.35 a day

The world is always changing, so we have to change with it. This week, LOTME becomes a travel guide, and our first stop is the Big A, the Big Peach, Dogwood City, Empire City of the South, Wakanda.

There’s lots to do in Atlanta: Celebrate a World Series win, visit the College Football Hall of Fame or the World of Coca Cola, or take the Stranger Things/Upside Down film locations tour. Serious adventurers, however, get out of the city and go to Emory Decatur Hospital in – you guessed it – Decatur (unofficial motto: “Everything is Greater in Decatur”).

©Getty Images

Find the emergency room and ask for Taylor Davis, who will be your personal guide. She’ll show you how to check in at the desk, sit in the waiting room for 7 hours, and then leave without seeing any medical personnel or receiving any sort of attention whatsoever. All the things she did when she went there in July for a head injury.

Ms. Davis told Fox5 Atlanta: “I didn’t get my vitals taken, nobody called my name. I wasn’t seen at all.”

But wait! There’s more! By booking your trip through LOTMEgo* and using the code “Decatur,” you’ll get the Taylor Davis special, which includes a bill/cover charge for $688.35 from the hospital. An Emory Healthcare patient financial services employee told Ms. Davis that “you get charged before you are seen. Not for being seen.”

If all this has you ready to hop in your car (really?), then check out LOTMEgo* on Twittbook and InstaTok. You’ll also find trick-or-treating tips and discounts on haunted hospital tours.

*Does not actually exist

Breaking down the hot flash

Do you ever wonder why we scramble for cold things when we’re feeling nauseous? Whether it’s the cool air that needs to hit your face in the car or a cold, damp towel on the back of your neck, scientists think it could possibly be an evolutionary mechanism at the cellular level.

Piqsels

Motion sickness it’s actually a battle of body temperature, according to an article from LiveScience. Capillaries in the skin dilate, allowing for more blood flow near the skin’s surface and causing core temperature to fall. Once body temperature drops, the hypothalamus, which regulates temperature, tries to do its job by raising body temperature. Thus the hot flash!

The cold compress and cool air help fight the battle by counteracting the hypothalamus, but why the drop in body temperature to begin with?

There are a few theories. Dr. Robert Glatter, an emergency physician at Lenox Hill Hospital in New York, told LiveScience that the lack of oxygen needed in body tissue to survive at lower temperatures could be making it difficult to get oxygen to the body when a person is ill, and is “more likely an adaptive response influenced by poorly understood mechanisms at the cellular level.”

Another theory is that the nausea and body temperature shift is the body’s natural response to help people vomit.

Then there’s the theory of “defensive hypothermia,” which suggests that cold sweats are a possible mechanism to conserve energy so the body can fight off an intruder, which was supported by a 2014 study and a 2016 review.

It’s another one of the body’s many survival tricks.
 

Teachers were right: Pupils can do the math

Teachers liked to preach that we wouldn’t have calculators with us all the time, but that wound up not being true. Our phones have calculators at the press of a button. But maybe even calculators aren’t always needed because our pupils do more math than you think.

pxfuel

The pupil light reflex – constrict in light and dilate in darkness – is well known, but recent work shows that pupil size is also regulated by cognitive and perceptual factors. By presenting subjects with images of various numbers of dots and measuring pupil size, the investigators were able to show “that numerical information is intrinsically related to perception,” lead author Dr. Elisa Castaldi of Florence University noted in a written statement.

The researchers found that pupils are responsible for important survival techniques. Coauthor David Burr of the University of Sydney and the University of Florence gave an evolutionary perspective: “When we look around, we spontaneously perceive the form, size, movement and colour of a scene. Equally spontaneously, we perceive the number of items before us. This ability, shared with most other animals, is an evolutionary fundamental: It reveals immediately important quantities, such as how many apples there are on the tree, or how many enemies are attacking.”

Useful information, indeed, but our pupils seem to be more interested in the quantity of beers in the refrigerator.

A psychiatrist was treating a couple individually, one of whom was HIV-positive. During a session, the infected partner revealed he was having sex with other men outside the relationship and not using safe sex practices.

“He was being treated for major depression and anxiety at the time,” explained the anonymous psychiatrist.  “I strongly encouraged him to tell his partner, but he was scared of doing so. He stated that they had not been using safe sex practices between the two of them, but he was willing to start at that point.”

At a session with the HIV-negative partner, the psychiatrist inquired about the couple’s current sex practices. The HIV-negative partner reported no changes and said the two continued to have sex without condoms, said the psychiatrist, who shared the experience in Medscape’s Ethics 2020 Survey open-ended questions.

“My dilemma now was whether or not to inform him about his partner’s ‘extracurricular sex behavior,’ the psychiatrist said. “Since he was now at greater risk of contracting HIV, I felt compelled to do something to intervene.”

What would you do in this situation?

Hearing about infidelity while treating two family members is a bothersome ethical quandary for many physicians, according to responses from the Ethics 2020 Report. When asked to share their toughest ethical dilemma, one internist for example, wrote, “I have couples as patients, and it is very challenging if they reveal infidelity or separate/divorce; I cannot reveal info to the spouse, but it makes me very uncomfortable caring for both.” Similarly, an obstetrician-gynecologist wrote about her experience counseling patients who reveal extramarital affairs.

“Women confide deeply with their gynecologist, and although I was not successful in rescuing 100% of them, the majority accepted my counseling and saved their marriages,” the anonymous ob/gyn wrote. “In every case in which my patient was willing to resume her marital relationship, I always ensured that she advised her spouse of the infidelity, and the couple was referred to a qualified provider for marriage counseling.”

When a sexually transmitted infection (STI) comes into play however, physicians describe a deeper level of internal conflict. A family physician wrote her top ethical dilemma was “Cheating spouses and STIs: how do you get the other spouse treated?” An ob-gyn stated that, “disclosure of STI status in couples when this may indicate infidelity,” was a frequent ethical issue in her specialty. Commenters on Medscape’s recent story, “The Secret I’ll Take to my Grave: Doc Reveals,” also raised the uncomfortable topic. One physician recalled a deaf female patient who requested in writing not to test for syphilis and not to discuss the issue with her husband. “Patient knew that she had syphilis, but she did not want her husband to know,” the physician wrote.    

It’s not uncommon for physicians to encounter such scenarios when treating long-term couples, especially in the digital era, said Shannon Dowler, MD, chief medical officer for North Carolina Medicaid and a family physician at the Buncombe County STI Clinic.

“This is definitely something I think we see more of in our age of ‘hookup apps’ and easier access to casual sexual connections than we did before,” said Dr. Dowler, who serves on the CDC Advisory Committee on HIV, Viral Hepatitis, and STD Prevention and Treatment. 

The topic is particularly timely because of the pandemic’s impact on STI testing and the expected rise in sexually transmitted infection rates over the next year, Dr. Dowler notes.

“People weren’t necessarily coming in for routine screening or testing during the pandemic because they didn’t want to take a chance on being exposed to COVID,” she said. “But also, the reagent used for testing for certain types of transmitted infections was in short supply because they use that same reagent for the COVID test. We had shortages of STI testing in many parts of the country. I expect what we’re going to see over the next year are a lot of diagnoses that were missed during the pandemic and a lot of asymptomatic spread.”
 

What do the experts suggest?

Caring for spouses or two partners when an STI is discovered can be challenging for physicians, particularly in small towns where many people know each other, said Kenneth Goodman, PhD, founder and director of the Institute for Bioethics and Health Policy at the University of Miami.

“This can be a real challenge for family physicians and others in a small town,” he said. “If you discover one partner is positive for a sexually transmitted infection and the other is negative, then you’ve got a challenge to manage. The way to do that is to start with moral persuasion, namely you tell your patient, ‘You really need to disclose this. Because when he or she gets it, chances are, you’re going to be the prime suspect.’ “

Dr. Dowler, who practices in an STI clinic, said she once diagnosed a sexually transmitted infection in a patient who was married to one of Dowler’s coworkers. The patient would not allow the partner to be notified, she said. In this case, Dr. Dowler practiced expedited partner therapy (EPT), the clinical practice of treating sex partners of patients diagnosed with chlamydia or gonorrhea by giving the patient prescriptions or medications to take to the partner without having first examined the partner. The practice is legal to some extent in all states, Dr. Dowler said, but some states have different rules about how the practice can be utilized. 

Physicians are obligated to report communicable diseases to their local health department, Dr. Goodman said. The health department would then do contract tracing and be responsible for conveying the STI diagnosis to any relevant parties. Even so, Dr. Goodman said physicians have a moral obligation to strongly encourage patients to divulge the infection to their partner.

“Doctors should work on being persuasive to change behavior,” he said. “Tell your patients to do the right thing and follow up with them. You should tell patients they have a responsibility to disclose a sexually transmitted infection to any of their partners and a responsibility not to have unprotected sex. Doctors can be very powerful advocates for that.”

Dr. Dowler said if she is treating two partners, and one is diagnosed with a sexually transmitted infection, she generally asks the patient for their consent to disclose the diagnosis to the partner. She ensures a witness, usually a nurse, is present when she asks. If consent is refused, Dr. Dowler guides her treatment to be as protective as possible, she said. A helpful resource for patients is Tellyourpartner.org, a website that sends an anonymous text or email about infection exposure and provides guidance on treatment locations and options.

Of course, if the sexually transmitted infection is HIV, another set of rules apply. As of 2021, 35 states have laws that criminalize HIV exposure. Laws vary, but many hold patients criminally liable if they knowingly expose another party to HIV. Many states and some cities also have ‘partner notification’ laws that require health providers to disclose an HIV diagnosis to the patient’s sex partners or to report the names of sex partners to the health department, if known. 

However, case law on a physician’s duty to warn is mixed, and doctors’ responsibility for STI reporting and partner notification is determined by individual states. Making matters more complex is the fact that some states have recently changed their HIV control requirements, Dr. Dowler said. In North Carolina for example, patients living with HIV who have been virally suppressed for 6 months and who are adherent to medications, are no longer in violation of the control measure if they do not disclose their HIV diagnosis to sex partners or if they don’t wear a condom.

“This means physicians would not have to report a virally suppressed, adequately treated HIV-positive patient who is having unprotected sex or take measures to inform any known sex partners of the diagnosis,” she said. “The landscape is constantly changing so physicians have to be vigilant about their state public health statutes. It’s a tricky area. It takes an already complicated topic and makes it just a little more complicated.”
 

Consider drafting a policy

It’s a good idea to have a policy in place at your practice that addresses such ethical dilemmas before they occur, says Michael Heitt, PsyD, a clinical psychologist on the faculty of Loyola University Maryland in Baltimore, and a member of the Maryland Psychological Association’s Ethics Committee. Dr. Heitt developed a model of ethical reasoning called CLEAR Lenses, which stands for Clinical, Legal, Ethical, Administrative, and Risk management. The approach encourages clinicians to identify often competing factors in the decision-making process before choosing a course of action to take.

In the situation of an unfaithful spouse who contracted an STI for example, the physician should consider clinical issues such as the medical likelihood the unaware partner has the STI, and legal issues such as maintaining the confidentiality of all patient information and possible mandated reporting of STI data, Dr. Heitt said. The lenses overlap since confidentiality is also a key ethical issue, and other ethical issues involve the balance of helping the unaware spouse and not harming the infected spouse, he explained. Administrative issues might include how medical records are maintained and whether the physician documents information about patients’ family members in the medical record, while risk management elements may include informed consent, documentation, and consultation. 

“So, if the physician has a policy about how such matters are dealt with, and patients are informed about this when they come to the practice, this can guide the physician much more easily through this sticky situation,” Dr. Heitt said. “Documentation of the decision-making process in the medical record demonstrates the physician’s thought process should it ever be challenged in the future, and consultation with peers (while disguising the identity of the patients, of course) sets a foundation of what a ‘reasonable standard’ might be in such situations.”

There is also the conflict-avoidant approach, Dr. Heitt said, in which the physician could perform “routine” STI testing if the unaware spouse was due for an appointment soon.

“But of course, this is far from avoiding any conflict; it just kicks the can down the road as there will surely be conflict — and plenty of confusion — if the wife tests positive for an STI,” he said. “In most situations, it is usually best to be brave, do the hard work upfront, and deal with the tough situation then, rather than trying to avoid the probable inevitable difficult conversation.”

As for the psychiatrist who was treating the cheating HIV-positive partner, the physician ultimately convinced both patients to come in for a couple’s session. The doctor allowed for a 2-hour timeframe to encourage discussion of any conflicts and unresolved issues, the psychiatrist said. After several more couple’s sessions, it was apparent the HIV-positive partner wanted out of the relationship, according to the psychiatrist’s account. The physician referred them to a couples’ therapist for ongoing treatment.

“During that same session, the HIV positive partner disclosed his recent behaviors and, as a result, they decided not to have further sexual contact until they could explore this further in therapy,” the psychiatrist wrote. “At last communication the couple decided to end the relationship, and the HIV negative partner remained negative.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

A psychiatrist was treating a couple individually, one of whom was HIV-positive. During a session, the infected partner revealed he was having sex with other men outside the relationship and not using safe sex practices.

“He was being treated for major depression and anxiety at the time,” explained the anonymous psychiatrist.  “I strongly encouraged him to tell his partner, but he was scared of doing so. He stated that they had not been using safe sex practices between the two of them, but he was willing to start at that point.”

At a session with the HIV-negative partner, the psychiatrist inquired about the couple’s current sex practices. The HIV-negative partner reported no changes and said the two continued to have sex without condoms, said the psychiatrist, who shared the experience in Medscape’s Ethics 2020 Survey open-ended questions.

“My dilemma now was whether or not to inform him about his partner’s ‘extracurricular sex behavior,’ the psychiatrist said. “Since he was now at greater risk of contracting HIV, I felt compelled to do something to intervene.”

What would you do in this situation?

Hearing about infidelity while treating two family members is a bothersome ethical quandary for many physicians, according to responses from the Ethics 2020 Report. When asked to share their toughest ethical dilemma, one internist for example, wrote, “I have couples as patients, and it is very challenging if they reveal infidelity or separate/divorce; I cannot reveal info to the spouse, but it makes me very uncomfortable caring for both.” Similarly, an obstetrician-gynecologist wrote about her experience counseling patients who reveal extramarital affairs.

“Women confide deeply with their gynecologist, and although I was not successful in rescuing 100% of them, the majority accepted my counseling and saved their marriages,” the anonymous ob/gyn wrote. “In every case in which my patient was willing to resume her marital relationship, I always ensured that she advised her spouse of the infidelity, and the couple was referred to a qualified provider for marriage counseling.”

When a sexually transmitted infection (STI) comes into play however, physicians describe a deeper level of internal conflict. A family physician wrote her top ethical dilemma was “Cheating spouses and STIs: how do you get the other spouse treated?” An ob-gyn stated that, “disclosure of STI status in couples when this may indicate infidelity,” was a frequent ethical issue in her specialty. Commenters on Medscape’s recent story, “The Secret I’ll Take to my Grave: Doc Reveals,” also raised the uncomfortable topic. One physician recalled a deaf female patient who requested in writing not to test for syphilis and not to discuss the issue with her husband. “Patient knew that she had syphilis, but she did not want her husband to know,” the physician wrote.    

It’s not uncommon for physicians to encounter such scenarios when treating long-term couples, especially in the digital era, said Shannon Dowler, MD, chief medical officer for North Carolina Medicaid and a family physician at the Buncombe County STI Clinic.

“This is definitely something I think we see more of in our age of ‘hookup apps’ and easier access to casual sexual connections than we did before,” said Dr. Dowler, who serves on the CDC Advisory Committee on HIV, Viral Hepatitis, and STD Prevention and Treatment. 

The topic is particularly timely because of the pandemic’s impact on STI testing and the expected rise in sexually transmitted infection rates over the next year, Dr. Dowler notes.

“People weren’t necessarily coming in for routine screening or testing during the pandemic because they didn’t want to take a chance on being exposed to COVID,” she said. “But also, the reagent used for testing for certain types of transmitted infections was in short supply because they use that same reagent for the COVID test. We had shortages of STI testing in many parts of the country. I expect what we’re going to see over the next year are a lot of diagnoses that were missed during the pandemic and a lot of asymptomatic spread.”
 

What do the experts suggest?

Caring for spouses or two partners when an STI is discovered can be challenging for physicians, particularly in small towns where many people know each other, said Kenneth Goodman, PhD, founder and director of the Institute for Bioethics and Health Policy at the University of Miami.

“This can be a real challenge for family physicians and others in a small town,” he said. “If you discover one partner is positive for a sexually transmitted infection and the other is negative, then you’ve got a challenge to manage. The way to do that is to start with moral persuasion, namely you tell your patient, ‘You really need to disclose this. Because when he or she gets it, chances are, you’re going to be the prime suspect.’ “

Dr. Dowler, who practices in an STI clinic, said she once diagnosed a sexually transmitted infection in a patient who was married to one of Dowler’s coworkers. The patient would not allow the partner to be notified, she said. In this case, Dr. Dowler practiced expedited partner therapy (EPT), the clinical practice of treating sex partners of patients diagnosed with chlamydia or gonorrhea by giving the patient prescriptions or medications to take to the partner without having first examined the partner. The practice is legal to some extent in all states, Dr. Dowler said, but some states have different rules about how the practice can be utilized. 

Physicians are obligated to report communicable diseases to their local health department, Dr. Goodman said. The health department would then do contract tracing and be responsible for conveying the STI diagnosis to any relevant parties. Even so, Dr. Goodman said physicians have a moral obligation to strongly encourage patients to divulge the infection to their partner.

“Doctors should work on being persuasive to change behavior,” he said. “Tell your patients to do the right thing and follow up with them. You should tell patients they have a responsibility to disclose a sexually transmitted infection to any of their partners and a responsibility not to have unprotected sex. Doctors can be very powerful advocates for that.”

Dr. Dowler said if she is treating two partners, and one is diagnosed with a sexually transmitted infection, she generally asks the patient for their consent to disclose the diagnosis to the partner. She ensures a witness, usually a nurse, is present when she asks. If consent is refused, Dr. Dowler guides her treatment to be as protective as possible, she said. A helpful resource for patients is Tellyourpartner.org, a website that sends an anonymous text or email about infection exposure and provides guidance on treatment locations and options.

Of course, if the sexually transmitted infection is HIV, another set of rules apply. As of 2021, 35 states have laws that criminalize HIV exposure. Laws vary, but many hold patients criminally liable if they knowingly expose another party to HIV. Many states and some cities also have ‘partner notification’ laws that require health providers to disclose an HIV diagnosis to the patient’s sex partners or to report the names of sex partners to the health department, if known. 

However, case law on a physician’s duty to warn is mixed, and doctors’ responsibility for STI reporting and partner notification is determined by individual states. Making matters more complex is the fact that some states have recently changed their HIV control requirements, Dr. Dowler said. In North Carolina for example, patients living with HIV who have been virally suppressed for 6 months and who are adherent to medications, are no longer in violation of the control measure if they do not disclose their HIV diagnosis to sex partners or if they don’t wear a condom.

“This means physicians would not have to report a virally suppressed, adequately treated HIV-positive patient who is having unprotected sex or take measures to inform any known sex partners of the diagnosis,” she said. “The landscape is constantly changing so physicians have to be vigilant about their state public health statutes. It’s a tricky area. It takes an already complicated topic and makes it just a little more complicated.”
 

Consider drafting a policy

It’s a good idea to have a policy in place at your practice that addresses such ethical dilemmas before they occur, says Michael Heitt, PsyD, a clinical psychologist on the faculty of Loyola University Maryland in Baltimore, and a member of the Maryland Psychological Association’s Ethics Committee. Dr. Heitt developed a model of ethical reasoning called CLEAR Lenses, which stands for Clinical, Legal, Ethical, Administrative, and Risk management. The approach encourages clinicians to identify often competing factors in the decision-making process before choosing a course of action to take.

In the situation of an unfaithful spouse who contracted an STI for example, the physician should consider clinical issues such as the medical likelihood the unaware partner has the STI, and legal issues such as maintaining the confidentiality of all patient information and possible mandated reporting of STI data, Dr. Heitt said. The lenses overlap since confidentiality is also a key ethical issue, and other ethical issues involve the balance of helping the unaware spouse and not harming the infected spouse, he explained. Administrative issues might include how medical records are maintained and whether the physician documents information about patients’ family members in the medical record, while risk management elements may include informed consent, documentation, and consultation. 

“So, if the physician has a policy about how such matters are dealt with, and patients are informed about this when they come to the practice, this can guide the physician much more easily through this sticky situation,” Dr. Heitt said. “Documentation of the decision-making process in the medical record demonstrates the physician’s thought process should it ever be challenged in the future, and consultation with peers (while disguising the identity of the patients, of course) sets a foundation of what a ‘reasonable standard’ might be in such situations.”

There is also the conflict-avoidant approach, Dr. Heitt said, in which the physician could perform “routine” STI testing if the unaware spouse was due for an appointment soon.

“But of course, this is far from avoiding any conflict; it just kicks the can down the road as there will surely be conflict — and plenty of confusion — if the wife tests positive for an STI,” he said. “In most situations, it is usually best to be brave, do the hard work upfront, and deal with the tough situation then, rather than trying to avoid the probable inevitable difficult conversation.”

As for the psychiatrist who was treating the cheating HIV-positive partner, the physician ultimately convinced both patients to come in for a couple’s session. The doctor allowed for a 2-hour timeframe to encourage discussion of any conflicts and unresolved issues, the psychiatrist said. After several more couple’s sessions, it was apparent the HIV-positive partner wanted out of the relationship, according to the psychiatrist’s account. The physician referred them to a couples’ therapist for ongoing treatment.

“During that same session, the HIV positive partner disclosed his recent behaviors and, as a result, they decided not to have further sexual contact until they could explore this further in therapy,” the psychiatrist wrote. “At last communication the couple decided to end the relationship, and the HIV negative partner remained negative.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

A psychiatrist was treating a couple individually, one of whom was HIV-positive. During a session, the infected partner revealed he was having sex with other men outside the relationship and not using safe sex practices.

“He was being treated for major depression and anxiety at the time,” explained the anonymous psychiatrist.  “I strongly encouraged him to tell his partner, but he was scared of doing so. He stated that they had not been using safe sex practices between the two of them, but he was willing to start at that point.”

At a session with the HIV-negative partner, the psychiatrist inquired about the couple’s current sex practices. The HIV-negative partner reported no changes and said the two continued to have sex without condoms, said the psychiatrist, who shared the experience in Medscape’s Ethics 2020 Survey open-ended questions.

“My dilemma now was whether or not to inform him about his partner’s ‘extracurricular sex behavior,’ the psychiatrist said. “Since he was now at greater risk of contracting HIV, I felt compelled to do something to intervene.”

What would you do in this situation?

Hearing about infidelity while treating two family members is a bothersome ethical quandary for many physicians, according to responses from the Ethics 2020 Report. When asked to share their toughest ethical dilemma, one internist for example, wrote, “I have couples as patients, and it is very challenging if they reveal infidelity or separate/divorce; I cannot reveal info to the spouse, but it makes me very uncomfortable caring for both.” Similarly, an obstetrician-gynecologist wrote about her experience counseling patients who reveal extramarital affairs.

“Women confide deeply with their gynecologist, and although I was not successful in rescuing 100% of them, the majority accepted my counseling and saved their marriages,” the anonymous ob/gyn wrote. “In every case in which my patient was willing to resume her marital relationship, I always ensured that she advised her spouse of the infidelity, and the couple was referred to a qualified provider for marriage counseling.”

When a sexually transmitted infection (STI) comes into play however, physicians describe a deeper level of internal conflict. A family physician wrote her top ethical dilemma was “Cheating spouses and STIs: how do you get the other spouse treated?” An ob-gyn stated that, “disclosure of STI status in couples when this may indicate infidelity,” was a frequent ethical issue in her specialty. Commenters on Medscape’s recent story, “The Secret I’ll Take to my Grave: Doc Reveals,” also raised the uncomfortable topic. One physician recalled a deaf female patient who requested in writing not to test for syphilis and not to discuss the issue with her husband. “Patient knew that she had syphilis, but she did not want her husband to know,” the physician wrote.    

It’s not uncommon for physicians to encounter such scenarios when treating long-term couples, especially in the digital era, said Shannon Dowler, MD, chief medical officer for North Carolina Medicaid and a family physician at the Buncombe County STI Clinic.

“This is definitely something I think we see more of in our age of ‘hookup apps’ and easier access to casual sexual connections than we did before,” said Dr. Dowler, who serves on the CDC Advisory Committee on HIV, Viral Hepatitis, and STD Prevention and Treatment. 

The topic is particularly timely because of the pandemic’s impact on STI testing and the expected rise in sexually transmitted infection rates over the next year, Dr. Dowler notes.

“People weren’t necessarily coming in for routine screening or testing during the pandemic because they didn’t want to take a chance on being exposed to COVID,” she said. “But also, the reagent used for testing for certain types of transmitted infections was in short supply because they use that same reagent for the COVID test. We had shortages of STI testing in many parts of the country. I expect what we’re going to see over the next year are a lot of diagnoses that were missed during the pandemic and a lot of asymptomatic spread.”
 

What do the experts suggest?

Caring for spouses or two partners when an STI is discovered can be challenging for physicians, particularly in small towns where many people know each other, said Kenneth Goodman, PhD, founder and director of the Institute for Bioethics and Health Policy at the University of Miami.

“This can be a real challenge for family physicians and others in a small town,” he said. “If you discover one partner is positive for a sexually transmitted infection and the other is negative, then you’ve got a challenge to manage. The way to do that is to start with moral persuasion, namely you tell your patient, ‘You really need to disclose this. Because when he or she gets it, chances are, you’re going to be the prime suspect.’ “

Dr. Dowler, who practices in an STI clinic, said she once diagnosed a sexually transmitted infection in a patient who was married to one of Dowler’s coworkers. The patient would not allow the partner to be notified, she said. In this case, Dr. Dowler practiced expedited partner therapy (EPT), the clinical practice of treating sex partners of patients diagnosed with chlamydia or gonorrhea by giving the patient prescriptions or medications to take to the partner without having first examined the partner. The practice is legal to some extent in all states, Dr. Dowler said, but some states have different rules about how the practice can be utilized. 

Physicians are obligated to report communicable diseases to their local health department, Dr. Goodman said. The health department would then do contract tracing and be responsible for conveying the STI diagnosis to any relevant parties. Even so, Dr. Goodman said physicians have a moral obligation to strongly encourage patients to divulge the infection to their partner.

“Doctors should work on being persuasive to change behavior,” he said. “Tell your patients to do the right thing and follow up with them. You should tell patients they have a responsibility to disclose a sexually transmitted infection to any of their partners and a responsibility not to have unprotected sex. Doctors can be very powerful advocates for that.”

Dr. Dowler said if she is treating two partners, and one is diagnosed with a sexually transmitted infection, she generally asks the patient for their consent to disclose the diagnosis to the partner. She ensures a witness, usually a nurse, is present when she asks. If consent is refused, Dr. Dowler guides her treatment to be as protective as possible, she said. A helpful resource for patients is Tellyourpartner.org, a website that sends an anonymous text or email about infection exposure and provides guidance on treatment locations and options.

Of course, if the sexually transmitted infection is HIV, another set of rules apply. As of 2021, 35 states have laws that criminalize HIV exposure. Laws vary, but many hold patients criminally liable if they knowingly expose another party to HIV. Many states and some cities also have ‘partner notification’ laws that require health providers to disclose an HIV diagnosis to the patient’s sex partners or to report the names of sex partners to the health department, if known. 

However, case law on a physician’s duty to warn is mixed, and doctors’ responsibility for STI reporting and partner notification is determined by individual states. Making matters more complex is the fact that some states have recently changed their HIV control requirements, Dr. Dowler said. In North Carolina for example, patients living with HIV who have been virally suppressed for 6 months and who are adherent to medications, are no longer in violation of the control measure if they do not disclose their HIV diagnosis to sex partners or if they don’t wear a condom.

“This means physicians would not have to report a virally suppressed, adequately treated HIV-positive patient who is having unprotected sex or take measures to inform any known sex partners of the diagnosis,” she said. “The landscape is constantly changing so physicians have to be vigilant about their state public health statutes. It’s a tricky area. It takes an already complicated topic and makes it just a little more complicated.”
 

Consider drafting a policy

It’s a good idea to have a policy in place at your practice that addresses such ethical dilemmas before they occur, says Michael Heitt, PsyD, a clinical psychologist on the faculty of Loyola University Maryland in Baltimore, and a member of the Maryland Psychological Association’s Ethics Committee. Dr. Heitt developed a model of ethical reasoning called CLEAR Lenses, which stands for Clinical, Legal, Ethical, Administrative, and Risk management. The approach encourages clinicians to identify often competing factors in the decision-making process before choosing a course of action to take.

In the situation of an unfaithful spouse who contracted an STI for example, the physician should consider clinical issues such as the medical likelihood the unaware partner has the STI, and legal issues such as maintaining the confidentiality of all patient information and possible mandated reporting of STI data, Dr. Heitt said. The lenses overlap since confidentiality is also a key ethical issue, and other ethical issues involve the balance of helping the unaware spouse and not harming the infected spouse, he explained. Administrative issues might include how medical records are maintained and whether the physician documents information about patients’ family members in the medical record, while risk management elements may include informed consent, documentation, and consultation. 

“So, if the physician has a policy about how such matters are dealt with, and patients are informed about this when they come to the practice, this can guide the physician much more easily through this sticky situation,” Dr. Heitt said. “Documentation of the decision-making process in the medical record demonstrates the physician’s thought process should it ever be challenged in the future, and consultation with peers (while disguising the identity of the patients, of course) sets a foundation of what a ‘reasonable standard’ might be in such situations.”

There is also the conflict-avoidant approach, Dr. Heitt said, in which the physician could perform “routine” STI testing if the unaware spouse was due for an appointment soon.

“But of course, this is far from avoiding any conflict; it just kicks the can down the road as there will surely be conflict — and plenty of confusion — if the wife tests positive for an STI,” he said. “In most situations, it is usually best to be brave, do the hard work upfront, and deal with the tough situation then, rather than trying to avoid the probable inevitable difficult conversation.”

As for the psychiatrist who was treating the cheating HIV-positive partner, the physician ultimately convinced both patients to come in for a couple’s session. The doctor allowed for a 2-hour timeframe to encourage discussion of any conflicts and unresolved issues, the psychiatrist said. After several more couple’s sessions, it was apparent the HIV-positive partner wanted out of the relationship, according to the psychiatrist’s account. The physician referred them to a couples’ therapist for ongoing treatment.

“During that same session, the HIV positive partner disclosed his recent behaviors and, as a result, they decided not to have further sexual contact until they could explore this further in therapy,” the psychiatrist wrote. “At last communication the couple decided to end the relationship, and the HIV negative partner remained negative.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Douglas Flora, MD, an oncologist with St. Elizabeth Healthcare, in Edgewood, Ky., considers himself a deep empath. It’s one reason he became an oncologist.

But when he was diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2017, he was shocked at the places his brain took him. His mind fast-forwarded through treatment options, statistical probabilities, and anguish over his wife and children.

“It’s a very surreal experience,” Dr. Flora said. “In 20 seconds, you go from diagnostics to, ‘What videos will I have to film for my babies?’ “

He could be having a wonderful evening surrounded by friends, music, and beer. Then he would go to the restroom and the realization of what was lurking inside his would body hit him like a brick.

“It’s like the scene in the Harry Potter movies where the Dementors fly over,” he explained. “Everything feels dark. There’s no hope. Everything you thought was good is gone.”

Oncologists counsel patients through life-threatening diagnoses and frightening decisions every day, so one might think they’d be ready to confront their own diagnosis, treatment, and mortality better than anyone. But that’s not always the case.

So, what happens when oncology practitioners trade their white coat for a hospital gown? Does their expertise equip them to navigate their diagnosis and treatment better than their patients? How does the emotional toll of their personal cancer journey change the way they interact with their patients?
 

Navigating the diagnosis and treatment

In January 2017, Karen Hendershott, MD, a breast surgical oncologist, felt a lump in her armpit while taking a shower. The blunt force of her fate came into view in an instant: It was almost certainly a locally advanced breast cancer that had spread to her lymph nodes and would require surgery, radiotherapy, and chemotherapy.

She said a few unprintable words and headed to work at St. Mary’s Hospital, in Tucson, Ariz., where her assumptions were confirmed.

Taylor Riall, MD, PhD, also suspected cancer.

Last December, Dr. Riall, a general surgeon and surgical oncologist at the University of Arizona Cancer Center, in Tucson, developed a persistent cough. An x-ray revealed a mass in her lung. Initially, she was misdiagnosed with a fungal infection and was given medication that made her skin peel off.

Doctors advised Dr. Riall to monitor her condition for another 6 months. But her knowledge of oncology made her think cancer, so she insisted on more tests. In June 2021, a biopsy confirmed she had lung cancer.

Having oncology expertise helped Dr. Riall and Dr. Hendershott recognize the signs of cancer and push for a diagnosis. But there are also downsides to being hyper-informed, Dr. Hendershott, said.

“I think sometimes knowing everything at once is harder vs. giving yourself time to wrap your mind around this and do it in baby steps,” she explained. “There weren’t any baby steps here.”

Still, oncology practitioners who are diagnosed with cancer are navigating a familiar landscape and are often buoyed by a support network of expert colleagues. That makes a huge difference psychologically, explained Shenitha Edwards, a pharmacy technician at Cancer Specialists of North Florida, in Jacksonville, who was diagnosed with breast cancer in July.

“I felt stronger and a little more ready to fight because I had resources, whereas my patients sometimes do not,” Ms. Edwards said. “I was connected with a lot of people who could help me make informed decisions, so I didn’t have to walk so much in fear.”

It can also prepare practitioners to make bold treatment choices. In Dr. Riall’s case, surgeons were reluctant to excise her tumor because they would have to remove the entire upper lobe of her lung, and she is a marathoner and triathlete. Still, because of her surgical oncology experience, Dr. Riall didn’t flinch at the prospect of a major operation.

“I was, like, ‘Look, just take it out.’ I’m less afraid to have cancer than I am to not know and let it grow,” said Dr. Riall, whose Peloton name is WhoNeeds2Lungs.

Similarly, Dr. Hendershott’s experience gave her the assurance to pursue a more intense strategy. “Because I had a really candid understanding of the risks and what the odds looked like, it helped me be more comfortable with a more aggressive approach,” she said. “There wasn’t a doubt in my mind, particularly [having] a 10-year-old child, that I wanted to do everything I could, and even do a couple of things that were still in clinical trials.”

Almost paradoxically, Mark Lewis’ oncology training gave him the courage to risk watching and waiting after finding benign growths in his parathyroid and malignant tumors in his pancreas. Dr. Lewis monitored the tumors amassing in his pancreas for 8 years. When some grew so large they threatened to metastasize to his liver, he underwent the Whipple procedure to remove the head of the pancreas, part of the small intestine, and the gallbladder.

“It was a bit of a gamble, but one that paid off and allowed me to get my career off the ground and have another child,” said Dr. Lewis, a gastrointestinal oncologist at Intermountain Healthcare, in Salt Lake City. Treating patients for nearly a decade also showed him how fortunate he was to have a slow-growing, operable cancer. That gratitude, he said, gave him mental strength to endure the ordeal.

Whether taking a more aggressive or minimalist approach to their own care, each practitioner’s decision was deeply personal and deeply informed by their oncology expertise.

Although research on this question is scarce, studies show that differences in end-of-life care may occur. According to a 2016 study published in JAMA, physicians choose significantly less intensive end-stage care in three of five categories — undergoing surgery, being admitted to the intensive care unit (ICU), and dying in the hospital — than the general U.S. population. The reason, the researchers posited, is because doctors know these eleventh-hour interventions are typically brutal and futile.

But these differences were fairly small, and a 2019 study published in JAMA Open Network found the opposite: Physicians with cancer were more likely to die in an ICU and receive chemotherapy in the last 6 months of life, suggesting a more aggressive approach to end-of-life care.

When it comes to their own long-term or curative cancer care, oncologists generally don’t seem to approach treatment differently than their patients. In a 2015 study, researchers compared two groups of people with early breast cancer — 46 physicians and 230 well-educated, nonmedically qualified patients — and found no differences in the choices the groups made about whether to undergo mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, or breast reconstruction.

Still, no amount of oncology expertise can fully prepare a person for the emotional crucible of cancer.
 

“A very surreal experience”

Although the fear can become less intense and more manageable over time, it may never truly go away.

At first, despair dragged Flora into an abyss for 6 hours a night, then overcame him 10 times a day, then gripped him briefly at random moments. Four years later and cancer-free, the dread still returns.

Hendershott cried every time she got into her car and contemplated her prognosis. Now 47, she has about a 60% chance of being alive in 15 years, and the fear still hits her.

“I think it’s hard to understand the moments of sheer terror that you have at 2 AM when you’re confronting your own mortality,” she said. “The implications that has not just for you but more importantly for the people that you love and want to protect. That just kind of washes over you in waves that you don’t have much control over.”

Cancer, Riall felt, had smashed her life, but she figured out a way to help herself cope. Severe blood loss, chest tubes, and tests and needles ad nauseum left Riall feeling excruciatingly exhausted after her surgery and delayed her return to work. At the same time, she was passed over for a promotion. Frustrated and dejected, she took comfort in the memory of doing Kintsugi with her surgery residents. The Japanese art form involves shattering pottery with a hammer, fitting the fragments back together, and painting the cracks gold.

“My instinct as a surgeon is to pick up those pieces and put them back together so nobody sees it’s broken,” she reflected. But as a patient, she learned that an important part of recovery is to allow yourself to sit in a broken state and feel angry, miserable, and betrayed by your body. And then examine your shattered priorities and consider how you want to reassemble them.

For Barbara Buttin, MD, a gynecologic oncologist at Cancer Treatment Centers of America, in Chicago, Illinois, it wasn’t cancer that almost took her life. Rather, a near-death experience and life-threatening diagnosis made her a better, more empathetic cancer doctor — a refrain echoed by many oncologist-patients. Confronting her own mortality crystallized what matters in life. She uses that understanding to make sure she understands what matters to her patients ― what they care about most, what their greatest fear is, what is going to keep them up at night.
 

“We’re part of the same club”

Ultimately, when oncology practitioners become patients, it balances the in-control and vulnerable, the rational and emotional. And their patients respond positively.

In fall 2020, oncology nurse Jenn Adams, RN, turned 40 and underwent her first mammogram. Unexpectedly, it revealed invasive stage I cancer that would require a double mastectomy, chemotherapy, and a year of immunotherapy. A week after her diagnosis, she was scheduled to start a new job at Cancer Clinic, in Bryan, Tex. So, she asked her manager if she could become a patient and an employee.

Ms. Adams worked 5 days a week, but every Thursday at 2 PM, she sat next to her patients while her coworkers became her nurses. Her chemo port was implanted, she lost her hair, and she felt terrible along with her patients. “It just created this incredible bond,” said the mother of three.

Having cancer, Dr. Flora said, “was completely different than I had imagined. When I thought I was walking with [my patients] in the depths of their caves, I wasn’t even visiting their caves.” But, he added, it has also “let me connect with [patients] on a deeper level because we’re part of the same club. You can see their body language change when I share that. They almost relax, like, ‘Oh, this guy gets it. He does understand how terrified I am.’ And I do.”

When Dr. Flora’s patients are scanned, he gives them their results immediately, because he knows what it’s like to wait on tenterhooks. He tells his patients to text him anytime they’re afraid or depressed, which he admits isn’t great for his own mental health but believes is worth it.

Likewise, Dr. Hendershott can hold out her shoulder-length locks to reassure a crying patient that hair does grow back after chemo. She can describe her experience with hormone-blocking pills to allay the fears of a pharmaceutical skeptic.

This role equalizer fosters so much empathy that doctors sometimes find themselves being helped by their patients. When one of Dr. Flora’s patients heard he had cancer, she sent him an email that began. “A wise doctor once told me....” and repeated the advice he’d given her years before.

Dr. Lewis has a special bond with his patients because people who have pancreatic neuroendocrine tumors seek him out for treatment. “I’m getting to take care of people who, on some level, are like my kindred spirits,” he said. “So, I get to see their coping mechanisms and how they do.”

Ms. Edwards told some of her patients about her breast cancer diagnosis, and now they give each other high-fives and share words of encouragement. “I made it a big thing of mine to associate my patients as my family,” she said. “If you’ve learned to embrace love and love people, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for people. I’ve chosen that to be my practice when I’m dealing with all of my patients.”

Ms. Adams is on a similar mission. She joined a group of moms with cancer so she can receive guidance and then become a guide for others. “I feel like that’s what I want to be at my cancer practice,” she said, “so [my patients] have someone to say, ‘I’m gonna walk alongside you because I’ve been there.’ “

That transformation has made all the heartbreaking moments worth it, Ms. Adams said. “I love the oncology nurse that I get to be now because of my diagnosis. I don’t love the diagnosis. But I love the way it’s changed what I do.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Douglas Flora, MD, an oncologist with St. Elizabeth Healthcare, in Edgewood, Ky., considers himself a deep empath. It’s one reason he became an oncologist.

But when he was diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2017, he was shocked at the places his brain took him. His mind fast-forwarded through treatment options, statistical probabilities, and anguish over his wife and children.

“It’s a very surreal experience,” Dr. Flora said. “In 20 seconds, you go from diagnostics to, ‘What videos will I have to film for my babies?’ “

He could be having a wonderful evening surrounded by friends, music, and beer. Then he would go to the restroom and the realization of what was lurking inside his would body hit him like a brick.

“It’s like the scene in the Harry Potter movies where the Dementors fly over,” he explained. “Everything feels dark. There’s no hope. Everything you thought was good is gone.”

Oncologists counsel patients through life-threatening diagnoses and frightening decisions every day, so one might think they’d be ready to confront their own diagnosis, treatment, and mortality better than anyone. But that’s not always the case.

So, what happens when oncology practitioners trade their white coat for a hospital gown? Does their expertise equip them to navigate their diagnosis and treatment better than their patients? How does the emotional toll of their personal cancer journey change the way they interact with their patients?
 

Navigating the diagnosis and treatment

In January 2017, Karen Hendershott, MD, a breast surgical oncologist, felt a lump in her armpit while taking a shower. The blunt force of her fate came into view in an instant: It was almost certainly a locally advanced breast cancer that had spread to her lymph nodes and would require surgery, radiotherapy, and chemotherapy.

She said a few unprintable words and headed to work at St. Mary’s Hospital, in Tucson, Ariz., where her assumptions were confirmed.

Taylor Riall, MD, PhD, also suspected cancer.

Last December, Dr. Riall, a general surgeon and surgical oncologist at the University of Arizona Cancer Center, in Tucson, developed a persistent cough. An x-ray revealed a mass in her lung. Initially, she was misdiagnosed with a fungal infection and was given medication that made her skin peel off.

Doctors advised Dr. Riall to monitor her condition for another 6 months. But her knowledge of oncology made her think cancer, so she insisted on more tests. In June 2021, a biopsy confirmed she had lung cancer.

Having oncology expertise helped Dr. Riall and Dr. Hendershott recognize the signs of cancer and push for a diagnosis. But there are also downsides to being hyper-informed, Dr. Hendershott, said.

“I think sometimes knowing everything at once is harder vs. giving yourself time to wrap your mind around this and do it in baby steps,” she explained. “There weren’t any baby steps here.”

Still, oncology practitioners who are diagnosed with cancer are navigating a familiar landscape and are often buoyed by a support network of expert colleagues. That makes a huge difference psychologically, explained Shenitha Edwards, a pharmacy technician at Cancer Specialists of North Florida, in Jacksonville, who was diagnosed with breast cancer in July.

“I felt stronger and a little more ready to fight because I had resources, whereas my patients sometimes do not,” Ms. Edwards said. “I was connected with a lot of people who could help me make informed decisions, so I didn’t have to walk so much in fear.”

It can also prepare practitioners to make bold treatment choices. In Dr. Riall’s case, surgeons were reluctant to excise her tumor because they would have to remove the entire upper lobe of her lung, and she is a marathoner and triathlete. Still, because of her surgical oncology experience, Dr. Riall didn’t flinch at the prospect of a major operation.

“I was, like, ‘Look, just take it out.’ I’m less afraid to have cancer than I am to not know and let it grow,” said Dr. Riall, whose Peloton name is WhoNeeds2Lungs.

Similarly, Dr. Hendershott’s experience gave her the assurance to pursue a more intense strategy. “Because I had a really candid understanding of the risks and what the odds looked like, it helped me be more comfortable with a more aggressive approach,” she said. “There wasn’t a doubt in my mind, particularly [having] a 10-year-old child, that I wanted to do everything I could, and even do a couple of things that were still in clinical trials.”

Almost paradoxically, Mark Lewis’ oncology training gave him the courage to risk watching and waiting after finding benign growths in his parathyroid and malignant tumors in his pancreas. Dr. Lewis monitored the tumors amassing in his pancreas for 8 years. When some grew so large they threatened to metastasize to his liver, he underwent the Whipple procedure to remove the head of the pancreas, part of the small intestine, and the gallbladder.

“It was a bit of a gamble, but one that paid off and allowed me to get my career off the ground and have another child,” said Dr. Lewis, a gastrointestinal oncologist at Intermountain Healthcare, in Salt Lake City. Treating patients for nearly a decade also showed him how fortunate he was to have a slow-growing, operable cancer. That gratitude, he said, gave him mental strength to endure the ordeal.

Whether taking a more aggressive or minimalist approach to their own care, each practitioner’s decision was deeply personal and deeply informed by their oncology expertise.

Although research on this question is scarce, studies show that differences in end-of-life care may occur. According to a 2016 study published in JAMA, physicians choose significantly less intensive end-stage care in three of five categories — undergoing surgery, being admitted to the intensive care unit (ICU), and dying in the hospital — than the general U.S. population. The reason, the researchers posited, is because doctors know these eleventh-hour interventions are typically brutal and futile.

But these differences were fairly small, and a 2019 study published in JAMA Open Network found the opposite: Physicians with cancer were more likely to die in an ICU and receive chemotherapy in the last 6 months of life, suggesting a more aggressive approach to end-of-life care.

When it comes to their own long-term or curative cancer care, oncologists generally don’t seem to approach treatment differently than their patients. In a 2015 study, researchers compared two groups of people with early breast cancer — 46 physicians and 230 well-educated, nonmedically qualified patients — and found no differences in the choices the groups made about whether to undergo mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, or breast reconstruction.

Still, no amount of oncology expertise can fully prepare a person for the emotional crucible of cancer.
 

“A very surreal experience”

Although the fear can become less intense and more manageable over time, it may never truly go away.

At first, despair dragged Flora into an abyss for 6 hours a night, then overcame him 10 times a day, then gripped him briefly at random moments. Four years later and cancer-free, the dread still returns.

Hendershott cried every time she got into her car and contemplated her prognosis. Now 47, she has about a 60% chance of being alive in 15 years, and the fear still hits her.

“I think it’s hard to understand the moments of sheer terror that you have at 2 AM when you’re confronting your own mortality,” she said. “The implications that has not just for you but more importantly for the people that you love and want to protect. That just kind of washes over you in waves that you don’t have much control over.”

Cancer, Riall felt, had smashed her life, but she figured out a way to help herself cope. Severe blood loss, chest tubes, and tests and needles ad nauseum left Riall feeling excruciatingly exhausted after her surgery and delayed her return to work. At the same time, she was passed over for a promotion. Frustrated and dejected, she took comfort in the memory of doing Kintsugi with her surgery residents. The Japanese art form involves shattering pottery with a hammer, fitting the fragments back together, and painting the cracks gold.

“My instinct as a surgeon is to pick up those pieces and put them back together so nobody sees it’s broken,” she reflected. But as a patient, she learned that an important part of recovery is to allow yourself to sit in a broken state and feel angry, miserable, and betrayed by your body. And then examine your shattered priorities and consider how you want to reassemble them.

For Barbara Buttin, MD, a gynecologic oncologist at Cancer Treatment Centers of America, in Chicago, Illinois, it wasn’t cancer that almost took her life. Rather, a near-death experience and life-threatening diagnosis made her a better, more empathetic cancer doctor — a refrain echoed by many oncologist-patients. Confronting her own mortality crystallized what matters in life. She uses that understanding to make sure she understands what matters to her patients ― what they care about most, what their greatest fear is, what is going to keep them up at night.
 

“We’re part of the same club”

Ultimately, when oncology practitioners become patients, it balances the in-control and vulnerable, the rational and emotional. And their patients respond positively.

In fall 2020, oncology nurse Jenn Adams, RN, turned 40 and underwent her first mammogram. Unexpectedly, it revealed invasive stage I cancer that would require a double mastectomy, chemotherapy, and a year of immunotherapy. A week after her diagnosis, she was scheduled to start a new job at Cancer Clinic, in Bryan, Tex. So, she asked her manager if she could become a patient and an employee.

Ms. Adams worked 5 days a week, but every Thursday at 2 PM, she sat next to her patients while her coworkers became her nurses. Her chemo port was implanted, she lost her hair, and she felt terrible along with her patients. “It just created this incredible bond,” said the mother of three.

Having cancer, Dr. Flora said, “was completely different than I had imagined. When I thought I was walking with [my patients] in the depths of their caves, I wasn’t even visiting their caves.” But, he added, it has also “let me connect with [patients] on a deeper level because we’re part of the same club. You can see their body language change when I share that. They almost relax, like, ‘Oh, this guy gets it. He does understand how terrified I am.’ And I do.”

When Dr. Flora’s patients are scanned, he gives them their results immediately, because he knows what it’s like to wait on tenterhooks. He tells his patients to text him anytime they’re afraid or depressed, which he admits isn’t great for his own mental health but believes is worth it.

Likewise, Dr. Hendershott can hold out her shoulder-length locks to reassure a crying patient that hair does grow back after chemo. She can describe her experience with hormone-blocking pills to allay the fears of a pharmaceutical skeptic.

This role equalizer fosters so much empathy that doctors sometimes find themselves being helped by their patients. When one of Dr. Flora’s patients heard he had cancer, she sent him an email that began. “A wise doctor once told me....” and repeated the advice he’d given her years before.

Dr. Lewis has a special bond with his patients because people who have pancreatic neuroendocrine tumors seek him out for treatment. “I’m getting to take care of people who, on some level, are like my kindred spirits,” he said. “So, I get to see their coping mechanisms and how they do.”

Ms. Edwards told some of her patients about her breast cancer diagnosis, and now they give each other high-fives and share words of encouragement. “I made it a big thing of mine to associate my patients as my family,” she said. “If you’ve learned to embrace love and love people, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for people. I’ve chosen that to be my practice when I’m dealing with all of my patients.”

Ms. Adams is on a similar mission. She joined a group of moms with cancer so she can receive guidance and then become a guide for others. “I feel like that’s what I want to be at my cancer practice,” she said, “so [my patients] have someone to say, ‘I’m gonna walk alongside you because I’ve been there.’ “

That transformation has made all the heartbreaking moments worth it, Ms. Adams said. “I love the oncology nurse that I get to be now because of my diagnosis. I don’t love the diagnosis. But I love the way it’s changed what I do.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Douglas Flora, MD, an oncologist with St. Elizabeth Healthcare, in Edgewood, Ky., considers himself a deep empath. It’s one reason he became an oncologist.

But when he was diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2017, he was shocked at the places his brain took him. His mind fast-forwarded through treatment options, statistical probabilities, and anguish over his wife and children.

“It’s a very surreal experience,” Dr. Flora said. “In 20 seconds, you go from diagnostics to, ‘What videos will I have to film for my babies?’ “

He could be having a wonderful evening surrounded by friends, music, and beer. Then he would go to the restroom and the realization of what was lurking inside his would body hit him like a brick.

“It’s like the scene in the Harry Potter movies where the Dementors fly over,” he explained. “Everything feels dark. There’s no hope. Everything you thought was good is gone.”

Oncologists counsel patients through life-threatening diagnoses and frightening decisions every day, so one might think they’d be ready to confront their own diagnosis, treatment, and mortality better than anyone. But that’s not always the case.

So, what happens when oncology practitioners trade their white coat for a hospital gown? Does their expertise equip them to navigate their diagnosis and treatment better than their patients? How does the emotional toll of their personal cancer journey change the way they interact with their patients?
 

Navigating the diagnosis and treatment

In January 2017, Karen Hendershott, MD, a breast surgical oncologist, felt a lump in her armpit while taking a shower. The blunt force of her fate came into view in an instant: It was almost certainly a locally advanced breast cancer that had spread to her lymph nodes and would require surgery, radiotherapy, and chemotherapy.

She said a few unprintable words and headed to work at St. Mary’s Hospital, in Tucson, Ariz., where her assumptions were confirmed.

Taylor Riall, MD, PhD, also suspected cancer.

Last December, Dr. Riall, a general surgeon and surgical oncologist at the University of Arizona Cancer Center, in Tucson, developed a persistent cough. An x-ray revealed a mass in her lung. Initially, she was misdiagnosed with a fungal infection and was given medication that made her skin peel off.

Doctors advised Dr. Riall to monitor her condition for another 6 months. But her knowledge of oncology made her think cancer, so she insisted on more tests. In June 2021, a biopsy confirmed she had lung cancer.

Having oncology expertise helped Dr. Riall and Dr. Hendershott recognize the signs of cancer and push for a diagnosis. But there are also downsides to being hyper-informed, Dr. Hendershott, said.

“I think sometimes knowing everything at once is harder vs. giving yourself time to wrap your mind around this and do it in baby steps,” she explained. “There weren’t any baby steps here.”

Still, oncology practitioners who are diagnosed with cancer are navigating a familiar landscape and are often buoyed by a support network of expert colleagues. That makes a huge difference psychologically, explained Shenitha Edwards, a pharmacy technician at Cancer Specialists of North Florida, in Jacksonville, who was diagnosed with breast cancer in July.

“I felt stronger and a little more ready to fight because I had resources, whereas my patients sometimes do not,” Ms. Edwards said. “I was connected with a lot of people who could help me make informed decisions, so I didn’t have to walk so much in fear.”

It can also prepare practitioners to make bold treatment choices. In Dr. Riall’s case, surgeons were reluctant to excise her tumor because they would have to remove the entire upper lobe of her lung, and she is a marathoner and triathlete. Still, because of her surgical oncology experience, Dr. Riall didn’t flinch at the prospect of a major operation.

“I was, like, ‘Look, just take it out.’ I’m less afraid to have cancer than I am to not know and let it grow,” said Dr. Riall, whose Peloton name is WhoNeeds2Lungs.

Similarly, Dr. Hendershott’s experience gave her the assurance to pursue a more intense strategy. “Because I had a really candid understanding of the risks and what the odds looked like, it helped me be more comfortable with a more aggressive approach,” she said. “There wasn’t a doubt in my mind, particularly [having] a 10-year-old child, that I wanted to do everything I could, and even do a couple of things that were still in clinical trials.”

Almost paradoxically, Mark Lewis’ oncology training gave him the courage to risk watching and waiting after finding benign growths in his parathyroid and malignant tumors in his pancreas. Dr. Lewis monitored the tumors amassing in his pancreas for 8 years. When some grew so large they threatened to metastasize to his liver, he underwent the Whipple procedure to remove the head of the pancreas, part of the small intestine, and the gallbladder.

“It was a bit of a gamble, but one that paid off and allowed me to get my career off the ground and have another child,” said Dr. Lewis, a gastrointestinal oncologist at Intermountain Healthcare, in Salt Lake City. Treating patients for nearly a decade also showed him how fortunate he was to have a slow-growing, operable cancer. That gratitude, he said, gave him mental strength to endure the ordeal.

Whether taking a more aggressive or minimalist approach to their own care, each practitioner’s decision was deeply personal and deeply informed by their oncology expertise.

Although research on this question is scarce, studies show that differences in end-of-life care may occur. According to a 2016 study published in JAMA, physicians choose significantly less intensive end-stage care in three of five categories — undergoing surgery, being admitted to the intensive care unit (ICU), and dying in the hospital — than the general U.S. population. The reason, the researchers posited, is because doctors know these eleventh-hour interventions are typically brutal and futile.

But these differences were fairly small, and a 2019 study published in JAMA Open Network found the opposite: Physicians with cancer were more likely to die in an ICU and receive chemotherapy in the last 6 months of life, suggesting a more aggressive approach to end-of-life care.

When it comes to their own long-term or curative cancer care, oncologists generally don’t seem to approach treatment differently than their patients. In a 2015 study, researchers compared two groups of people with early breast cancer — 46 physicians and 230 well-educated, nonmedically qualified patients — and found no differences in the choices the groups made about whether to undergo mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, or breast reconstruction.

Still, no amount of oncology expertise can fully prepare a person for the emotional crucible of cancer.
 

“A very surreal experience”

Although the fear can become less intense and more manageable over time, it may never truly go away.

At first, despair dragged Flora into an abyss for 6 hours a night, then overcame him 10 times a day, then gripped him briefly at random moments. Four years later and cancer-free, the dread still returns.

Hendershott cried every time she got into her car and contemplated her prognosis. Now 47, she has about a 60% chance of being alive in 15 years, and the fear still hits her.

“I think it’s hard to understand the moments of sheer terror that you have at 2 AM when you’re confronting your own mortality,” she said. “The implications that has not just for you but more importantly for the people that you love and want to protect. That just kind of washes over you in waves that you don’t have much control over.”

Cancer, Riall felt, had smashed her life, but she figured out a way to help herself cope. Severe blood loss, chest tubes, and tests and needles ad nauseum left Riall feeling excruciatingly exhausted after her surgery and delayed her return to work. At the same time, she was passed over for a promotion. Frustrated and dejected, she took comfort in the memory of doing Kintsugi with her surgery residents. The Japanese art form involves shattering pottery with a hammer, fitting the fragments back together, and painting the cracks gold.

“My instinct as a surgeon is to pick up those pieces and put them back together so nobody sees it’s broken,” she reflected. But as a patient, she learned that an important part of recovery is to allow yourself to sit in a broken state and feel angry, miserable, and betrayed by your body. And then examine your shattered priorities and consider how you want to reassemble them.

For Barbara Buttin, MD, a gynecologic oncologist at Cancer Treatment Centers of America, in Chicago, Illinois, it wasn’t cancer that almost took her life. Rather, a near-death experience and life-threatening diagnosis made her a better, more empathetic cancer doctor — a refrain echoed by many oncologist-patients. Confronting her own mortality crystallized what matters in life. She uses that understanding to make sure she understands what matters to her patients ― what they care about most, what their greatest fear is, what is going to keep them up at night.
 

“We’re part of the same club”

Ultimately, when oncology practitioners become patients, it balances the in-control and vulnerable, the rational and emotional. And their patients respond positively.

In fall 2020, oncology nurse Jenn Adams, RN, turned 40 and underwent her first mammogram. Unexpectedly, it revealed invasive stage I cancer that would require a double mastectomy, chemotherapy, and a year of immunotherapy. A week after her diagnosis, she was scheduled to start a new job at Cancer Clinic, in Bryan, Tex. So, she asked her manager if she could become a patient and an employee.

Ms. Adams worked 5 days a week, but every Thursday at 2 PM, she sat next to her patients while her coworkers became her nurses. Her chemo port was implanted, she lost her hair, and she felt terrible along with her patients. “It just created this incredible bond,” said the mother of three.

Having cancer, Dr. Flora said, “was completely different than I had imagined. When I thought I was walking with [my patients] in the depths of their caves, I wasn’t even visiting their caves.” But, he added, it has also “let me connect with [patients] on a deeper level because we’re part of the same club. You can see their body language change when I share that. They almost relax, like, ‘Oh, this guy gets it. He does understand how terrified I am.’ And I do.”

When Dr. Flora’s patients are scanned, he gives them their results immediately, because he knows what it’s like to wait on tenterhooks. He tells his patients to text him anytime they’re afraid or depressed, which he admits isn’t great for his own mental health but believes is worth it.

Likewise, Dr. Hendershott can hold out her shoulder-length locks to reassure a crying patient that hair does grow back after chemo. She can describe her experience with hormone-blocking pills to allay the fears of a pharmaceutical skeptic.

This role equalizer fosters so much empathy that doctors sometimes find themselves being helped by their patients. When one of Dr. Flora’s patients heard he had cancer, she sent him an email that began. “A wise doctor once told me....” and repeated the advice he’d given her years before.

Dr. Lewis has a special bond with his patients because people who have pancreatic neuroendocrine tumors seek him out for treatment. “I’m getting to take care of people who, on some level, are like my kindred spirits,” he said. “So, I get to see their coping mechanisms and how they do.”

Ms. Edwards told some of her patients about her breast cancer diagnosis, and now they give each other high-fives and share words of encouragement. “I made it a big thing of mine to associate my patients as my family,” she said. “If you’ve learned to embrace love and love people, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for people. I’ve chosen that to be my practice when I’m dealing with all of my patients.”

Ms. Adams is on a similar mission. She joined a group of moms with cancer so she can receive guidance and then become a guide for others. “I feel like that’s what I want to be at my cancer practice,” she said, “so [my patients] have someone to say, ‘I’m gonna walk alongside you because I’ve been there.’ “

That transformation has made all the heartbreaking moments worth it, Ms. Adams said. “I love the oncology nurse that I get to be now because of my diagnosis. I don’t love the diagnosis. But I love the way it’s changed what I do.”

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

This story was originally published on ProPublica and was co-published with NPR.

When Mai Yang is looking for a patient, she travels light. She dresses deliberately — not too formal, so she won’t be mistaken for a police officer; not too casual, so people will look past her tiny 4-foot-10 stature and youthful face and trust her with sensitive health information. Always, she wears closed-toed shoes, “just in case I need to run.”

Yang carries a stack of cards issued by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that show what happens when the Treponema pallidum bacteria invades a patient’s body. There’s a photo of an angry red sore on a penis. There’s one of a tongue, marred by mucus-lined lesions. And there’s one of a newborn baby, its belly, torso and thighs dotted in a rash, its mouth open, as if caught midcry.

It was because of the prospect of one such baby that Yang found herself walking through a homeless encampment on a blazing July day in Huron, Calif., an hour’s drive southwest of her office at the Fresno County Department of Public Health. She was looking for a pregnant woman named Angelica, whose visit to a community clinic had triggered a report to the health department’s sexually transmitted disease program. Angelica had tested positive for syphilis. If she was not treated, her baby could end up like the one in the picture or worse — there was a 40% chance the baby would die.

Ms. Yang knew, though, that if she helped Angelica get treated with three weekly shots of penicillin at least 30 days before she gave birth, it was likely that the infection would be wiped out and her baby would be born without any symptoms at all. Every case of congenital syphilis, when a baby is born with the disease, is avoidable. Each is considered a “sentinel event,” a warning that the public health system is failing.

The alarms are now clamoring. In the United States, more than 129,800 syphilis cases were recorded in 2019, double the case count of five years prior. In the same time period, cases of congenital syphilis quadrupled: 1,870 babies were born with the disease; 128 died. Case counts from 2020 are still being finalized, but the CDC has said that reported cases of congenital syphilis have already exceeded the prior year. Black, Hispanic, and Native American babies are disproportionately at risk.

There was a time, not too long ago, when CDC officials thought they could eliminate the centuries-old scourge from the United States, for adults and babies. But the effort lost steam and cases soon crept up again. Syphilis is not an outlier. The United States goes through what former CDC director Dr. Tom Frieden calls “a deadly cycle of panic and neglect” in which emergencies propel officials to scramble and throw money at a problem — whether that’s Ebola, Zika, or COVID-19. Then, as fear ebbs, so does the attention and motivation to finish the task.

The last fraction of cases can be the hardest to solve, whether that’s eradicating a bug or getting vaccines into arms, yet too often, that’s exactly when political attention gets diverted to the next alarm. The result: The hardest to reach and most vulnerable populations are the ones left suffering, after everyone else looks away.

Ms. Yang first received Angelica’s lab report on June 17. The address listed was a P.O. box, and the phone number belonged to her sister, who said Angelica was living in Huron. That was a piece of luck: Huron is tiny; the city spans just 1.6 square miles. On her first visit, a worker at the Alamo Motel said she knew Angelica and directed Ms. Yang to a nearby homeless encampment. Angelica wasn’t there, so Ms. Yang returned a second time, bringing one of the health department nurses who could serve as an interpreter.

They made their way to the barren patch of land behind Huron Valley Foods, the local grocery store, where people took shelter in makeshift lean-tos composed of cardboard boxes, scrap wood ,and scavenged furniture, draped with sheets that served as ceilings and curtains. Yang stopped outside one of the structures, calling a greeting.

“Hi, I’m from the health department, I’m looking for Angelica.”

The nurse echoed her in Spanish.

Angelica emerged, squinting in the sunlight. Ms. Yang couldn’t tell if she was visibly pregnant yet, as her body was obscured by an oversized shirt. The two women were about the same age: Ms. Yang 26 and Angelica 27. Ms. Yang led her away from the tent, so they could speak privately. Angelica seemed reticent, surprised by the sudden appearance of the two health officers. “You’re not in trouble,” Ms. Yang said, before revealing the results of her blood test.

Angelica had never heard of syphilis.

“Have you been to prenatal care?”

Angelica shook her head. The local clinic had referred her to an obstetrician in Hanford, a 30-minute drive away. She had no car. She also mentioned that she didn’t intend to raise her baby; her two oldest children lived with her mother, and this one likely would, too.

Ms. Yang pulled out the CDC cards, showing them to Angelica and asking if she had experienced any of the symptoms illustrated. No, Angelica said, her lips pursed with disgust.

“Right now you still feel healthy, but this bacteria is still in your body,” Ms. Yang pressed. “You need to get the infection treated to prevent further health complications to yourself and your baby.”

The community clinic was just across the street. “Can we walk you over to the clinic and make sure you get seen so we can get this taken care of?”

Angelica demurred. She said she hadn’t showered for a week and wanted to wash up first. She said she’d go later.

Ms. Yang tried once more to extract a promise: “What time do you think you’ll go?”

“Today, for sure.”

Syphilis is called The Great Imitator: It can look like any number of diseases. In its first stage, the only evidence of infection is a painless sore at the bacteria’s point of entry. Weeks later, as the bacteria multiplies, skin rashes bloom on the palms of the hands and bottoms of the feet. Other traits of this stage include fever, headaches, muscle aches, sore throat, and fatigue. These symptoms eventually disappear and the patient progresses into the latent phase, which betrays no external signs. But if left untreated, after a decade or more, syphilis will reemerge in up to 30% of patients, capable of wreaking horror on a wide range of organ systems. Dr. Marion Sims, president of the American Medical Association in 1876, called it a “terrible scourge, which begins with lamb-like mildness and ends with lion-like rage that ruthlessly destroys everything in its way.”

The corkscrew-shaped bacteria can infiltrate the nervous system at any stage of the infection. Ms. Yang is haunted by her memory of interviewing a young man whose dementia was so severe that he didn’t know why he was in the hospital or how old he was. And regardless of symptoms or stage, the bacteria can penetrate the placenta to infect a fetus. Even in these cases the infection is unpredictable: Many babies are born with normal physical features, but others can have deformed bones or damaged brains, and they can struggle to hear, see, or breathe.

From its earliest days, syphilis has been shrouded in stigma. The first recorded outbreak was in the late 15th century, when Charles VIII led the French army to invade Naples. Italian physicians described French soldiers covered with pustules, dying from a sexually transmitted disease. As the affliction spread, Italians called it the French Disease. The French blamed the Neopolitans. It was also called the German, Polish, or Spanish disease, depending on which neighbor one wanted to blame. Even its name bears the taint of divine judgement: It comes from a 16th-century poem that tells of a shepherd, Syphilus, who offended the god Apollo and was punished with a hideous disease.

By 1937 in America, when former Surgeon General Thomas Parran wrote the book “Shadow on the Land,” he estimated some 680,000 people were under treatment for syphilis; about 60,000 babies were being born annually with congenital syphilis. There was no cure, and the stigma was so strong that public health officials feared even properly documenting cases.

Thanks to Dr. Parran’s ardent advocacy, Congress in 1938 passed the National Venereal Disease Control Act, which created grants for states to set up clinics and support testing and treatment. Other than a short-lived funding effort during World War I, this was the first coordinated federal push to respond to the disease.

Around the same time, the Public Health Service launched an effort to record the natural history of syphilis. Situated in Tuskegee, Ala., the infamous study recruited 600 black men. By the early 1940s, penicillin became widely available and was found to be a reliable cure, but the treatment was withheld from the study participants. Outrage over the ethical violations would cast a stain across syphilis research for decades to come and fuel generations of mistrust in the medical system among Black Americans that continues to this day.

With the introduction of penicillin, cases began to plummet. Twice, the CDC has announced efforts to wipe out the disease — once in the 1960s and again in 1999.

In the latest effort, the CDC announced that the United States had “a unique opportunity to eliminate syphilis within its borders,” thanks to historically low rates, with 80% of counties reporting zero cases. The concentration of cases in the South “identifies communities in which there is a fundamental failure of public health capacity,” the agency noted, adding that elimination — which it defined as fewer than 1,000 cases a year — would “decrease one of our most glaring racial disparities in health.”

Two years after the campaign began, cases started climbing, first among gay men and later, heterosexuals. Cases in women started accelerating in 2013, followed shortly by increasing numbers of babies born with syphilis.The reasons for failure are complex; people relaxed safer sex practices after the advent of potent HIV combination therapies, increased methamphetamine use drove riskier behavior and an explosion of online dating made it hard to track and test sexual partners, according to Dr. Ina Park, medical director of the California Prevention Training Center at the University of California San Francisco.

But federal and state public health efforts were hamstrung from the get-go. In 1999, the CDC said it would need about $35 million to $39 million in new federal funds annually for at least five years to eliminate syphilis. The agency got less than half of what it asked for, according to Jo Valentine, former program coordinator of the CDC’s Syphilis Elimination Effort. As cases rose, the CDC modified its goals in 2006 from 0.4 primary and secondary syphilis cases per 100,000 in population to 2.2 cases per 100,000. By 2013, as elimination seemed less and less viable, the CDC changed its focus to ending congenital syphilis only.

Since then, funding has remained anemic. From 2015 to 2020, the CDC’s budget for preventing sexually transmitted infections grew by 2.2%. Taking inflation into account, that’s a 7.4% reduction in purchasing power. In the same period, cases of syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia — the three STDs that have federally funded control programs — increased by nearly 30%.

“We have a long history of nearly eradicating something, then changing our attention, and seeing a resurgence in numbers,” said David Harvey, executive director of the National Coalition of STD Directors. “We have more congenital syphilis cases today in America than we ever had pediatric AIDS at the height of the AIDS epidemic. It’s heartbreaking.”

Adriane Casalotti, chief of government and public affairs at the National Association of County and City Health Officials, warns that the United States should not be surprised to see case counts continue to climb. “The bugs don’t go away,” she said. “They’re just waiting for the next opportunity, when you’re not paying attention.”

Ms. Yang waited until the end of the day, then called the clinic to see if Angelica had gone for her shot. She had not. Ms. Yang would have to block off another half day to visit Huron again, but she had three dozen other cases to deal with.

States in the South and West have seen the highest syphilis rates in recent years. In 2017, 64 babies in Fresno County were born with syphilis at a rate of 440 babies per 100,000 live births — about 19 times the national rate. While the county had managed to lower case counts in the two years that followed, the pandemic threatened to unravel that progress, forcing STD staffers to do COVID-19 contact tracing, pausing field visits to find infected people, and scaring patients from seeking care. Ms. Yang’s colleague handled three cases of stillbirth in 2020; in each, the woman was never diagnosed with syphilis because she feared catching the coronavirus and skipped prenatal care.

Ms. Yang, whose caseload peaked at 70 during a COVID-19 surge, knew she would not be able handle them all as thoroughly as she’d like to. “When I was being mentored by another investigator, he said: ‘You’re not a superhero. You can’t save everybody,’” she said. She prioritizes men who have sex with men, because there’s a higher prevalence of syphilis in that population, and pregnant people, because of the horrific consequences for babies.

The job of a disease intervention specialist isn’t for everyone: It means meeting patients whenever and wherever they are available — in the mop closet of a bus station, in a quiet parking lot — to inform them about the disease, to extract names of sex partners and to encourage treatment. Patients are often reluctant to talk. They can get belligerent, upset that “the government” has their personal information or shattered at the thought that a partner is likely cheating on them. Salaries typically start in the low $40,000s.

Jena Adams, Ms. Yang’s supervisor, has eight investigators working on HIV and syphilis. In the middle of 2020, she lost two and replaced them only recently. “It’s been exhausting,” Ms. Adams said. She has only one specialist who is trained to take blood samples in the field, crucial for guaranteeing that the partners of those who test positive for syphilis also get tested. Ms. Adams wants to get phlebotomy training for the rest of her staff, but it’s $2,000 per person. The department also doesn’t have anyone who can administer penicillin injections in the field; that would have been key when Ms. Yang met Angelica. For a while, a nurse who worked in the tuberculosis program would ride along to give penicillin shots on a volunteer basis. Then he, too, left the health department.

Much of the resources in public health trickle down from the CDC, which distributes money to states, which then parcel it out to counties. The CDC gets its budget from Congress, which tells the agency, by line item, exactly how much money it can spend to fight a disease or virus, in an uncommonly specific manner not seen in many other agencies. The decisions are often politically driven and can be detached from actual health needs.

When the House and Senate appropriations committees meet to decide how much the CDC will get for each line item, they are barraged by lobbyists for individual disease interests. Stephanie Arnold Pang, senior director of policy and government relations at the National Coalition of STD Directors, can pick out the groups by sight: breast cancer wears pink, Alzheimer’s goes in purple, multiple sclerosis comes in orange, HIV in red. STD prevention advocates, like herself, don a green ribbon, but they’re far outnumbered.

And unlike diseases that might already be familiar to lawmakers, or have patient and family spokespeople who can tell their own powerful stories, syphilis doesn’t have many willing poster children. “Congressmen don’t wake up one day and say, ‘Oh hey, there’s congenital syphilis in my jurisdiction.’ You have to raise awareness,” Arnold Pang said. It can be hard jockeying for a meeting. “Some offices might say, ‘I don’t have time for you because we’ve just seen HIV.’ ... Sometimes, it feels like you’re talking into a void.”

The consequences of the political nature of public health funding have become more obvious during the coronavirus pandemic. The 2014 Ebola epidemic was seen as a “global wakeup call” that the world wasn’t prepared for a major pandemic, yet in 2018, the CDC scaled back its epidemic prevention work as money ran out. “If you’ve got to choose between Alzheimer’s research and stopping an outbreak that may not happen? Stopping an outbreak that might not happen doesn’t do well,” said Dr. Frieden, the former CDC director. “The CDC needs to have more money and more flexible money. Otherwise, we’re going to be in this situation long term.”

In May 2021, President Joe Biden’s administration announced it would set aside $7.4 billion over the next five years to hire and train public health workers, including $1.1 billion for more disease intervention specialists like Ms. Yang. Public health officials are thrilled to have the chance to expand their workforce, but some worry the time horizon may be too short. “We’ve seen this movie before, right?” Dr. Frieden said. “Everyone gets concerned when there’s an outbreak, and when that outbreak stops, the headlines stop, and an economic downturn happens, the budget gets cut.”

Fresno’s STD clinic was shuttered in 2010 amid the Great Recession. Many others have vanished since the passage of the Affordable Care Act. Health leaders thought “by magically beefing up the primary care system, that we would do a better job of catching STIs and treating them,” said Mr. Harvey, the executive director of the National Coalition of STD Directors. That hasn’t worked out; people want access to anonymous services, and primary care doctors often don’t have STDs top of mind. The coalition is lobbying Congress for funding to support STD clinical services, proposing a three-year demonstration project funded at $600 million.

It’s one of Ms. Adams’ dreams to see Fresno’s STD clinic restored as it was. “You could come in for an HIV test and get other STDs checked,” she said. “And if a patient is positive, you can give a first injection on the spot.”

On Aug. 12, Ms. Yang set out for Huron again, speeding past groves of almond trees and fields of grapes in the department’s white Chevy Cruze. She brought along a colleague, Jorge Sevilla, who had recently transferred to the STD program from COVID-19 contact tracing. Ms. Yang was anxious to find Angelica again. “She’s probably in her second trimester now,” she said.

They found her outside of a pale yellow house a few blocks from the homeless encampment; the owner was letting her stay in a shed tucked in the corner of the dirt yard. This time, it was evident that she was pregnant. Ms. Yang noted that Angelica was wearing a wig; hair loss is a symptom of syphilis.

“Do you remember me?” Ms. Yang asked.

Angelica nodded. She didn’t seem surprised to see Ms. Yang again. (I came along, and Mr. Sevilla explained who I was and that I was writing about syphilis and the people affected by it. Angelica signed a release for me to report about her case, and she said she had no problem with me writing about her or even using her full name. ProPublica chose to only print her first name.)

“How are you doing? How’s the baby?”

“Bien.”

“So the last time we talked, we were going to have you go to United Healthcare Center to get treatment. Have you gone since?”

Angelica shook her head.

“We brought some gift cards...” Mr. Sevilla started in Spanish. The department uses them as incentives for completing injections. But Angelica was already shaking her head. The nearest Walmart was the next town over.

Ms. Yang turned to her partner. “Tell her: So the reason why we’re coming out here again is because we really need her to go in for treatment. ... We really are concerned for the baby’s health especially since she’s had the infection for quite a while.”

Angelica listened while Mr. Sevilla interpreted, her eyes on the ground. Then she looked up. “Orita?” she asked. Right now?

“I’ll walk with you,” Ms. Yang offered. Angelica shook her head. “She said she wants to shower first before she goes over there,” Mr. Sevilla said.

Ms. Yang made a face. “She said that to me last time.” Ms. Yang offered to wait, but Angelica didn’t want the health officers to linger by the house. She said she would meet them by the clinic in 15 minutes.

Ms. Yang was reluctant to let her go but again had no other option. She and Mr. Sevilla drove to the clinic, then stood on the corner of the parking lot, staring down the road.

Talk to the pediatricians, obstetricians, and families on the front lines of the congenital syphilis surge and it becomes clear why Ms. Yang and others are trying so desperately to prevent cases. Dr. J. B. Cantey, associate professor in pediatrics at UT Health San Antonio, remembers a baby girl born at 25 weeks gestation who weighed a pound and a half. Syphilis had spread through her bones and lungs. She spent five months in the neonatal intensive care unit, breathing through a ventilator, and was still eating through a tube when she was discharged.

Then, there are the miscarriages, the stillbirths and the inconsolable parents. Dr. Irene Stafford, an associate professor and maternal-fetal medicine specialist at UT Health in Houston, cannot forget a patient who came in at 36 weeks for a routine checkup, pregnant with her first child. Dr. Stafford realized that there was no heartbeat. “She could see on my face that something was really wrong,” Dr. Stafford recalled. She had to let the patient know that syphilis had killed her baby. “She was hysterical, just bawling,” Dr. Stafford said. “I’ve seen people’s families ripped apart and I’ve seen beautiful babies die.” Fewer than 10% of patients who experience a stillbirth are tested for syphilis, suggesting that cases are underdiagnosed.

A Texas grandmother named Solidad Odunuga offers a glimpse into what the future could hold for Angelica’s mother, who may wind up raising her baby.

In February of last year, Ms. Odunuga got a call from the Lyndon B. Johnson Hospital in Houston. A nurse told her that her daughter was about to give birth and that child protective services had been called. Ms. Odunuga had lost contact with her daughter, who struggled with homelessness and substance abuse. She arrived in time to see her grandson delivered, premature at 30 weeks old, weighing 2.7 pounds. He tested positive for syphilis.

When a child protective worker asked Ms. Odunuga to take custody of the infant, she felt a wave of dread. “I was in denial,” she recalled. “I did not plan to be a mom again.” The baby’s medical problems were daunting: “Global developmental delays ... concerns for visual impairments ... high risk of cerebral palsy,” read a note from the doctor at the time.

Still, Ms. Odunuga visited her grandson every day for three months, driving to the NICU from her job at the University of Houston. “I’d put him in my shirt to keep him warm and hold him there.” She fell in love. She named him Emmanuel.

Once Emmanuel was discharged, Ms. Odunuga realized she had no choice but to quit her job. While Medicaid covered the costs of Emmanuel’s treatment, it was on her to care for him. From infancy, Emmanuel’s life has been a whirlwind of constant therapy. Today, at 20 months old, Odunuga brings him to physical, occupational, speech, and developmental therapy, each a different appointment on a different day of the week.

Emmanuel has thrived beyond what his doctors predicted, toddling so fast that Ms. Odunuga can’t look away for a minute and beaming as he waves his favorite toy phone. Yet he still suffers from gagging issues, which means Ms. Odunuga can’t feed him any solid foods. Liquid gets into his lungs when he aspirates; it has led to pneumonia three times. Emmanuel has a special stroller that helps keep his head in a position that won’t aggravate his persistent reflux, but Odunuga said she still has to pull over on the side of the road sometimes when she hears him projectile vomiting from the backseat.

The days are endless. Once she puts Emmanuel to bed, Ms. Odunuga starts planning the next day’s appointments. “I’ve had to cry alone, scream out alone,” she said. “Sometimes I wake up and think, Is this real? And then I hear him in the next room.”

Putting aside the challenge of eliminating syphilis entirely, everyone agrees it’s both doable and necessary to prevent newborn cases. “There was a crisis in perinatal HIV almost 30 years ago and people stood up and said this is not OK — it’s not acceptable for babies to be born in that condition. ... [We] brought it down from 1,700 babies born each year with perinatal HIV to less than 40 per year today,” said Virginia Bowen, an epidemiologist at the CDC. “Now here we are with a slightly different condition. We can also stand up and say, ‘This is not acceptable.’” Belarus, Bermuda, Cuba, Malaysia, Thailand, and Sri Lanka are among countries recognized by the World Health Organization for eliminating congenital syphilis.

Success starts with filling gaps across the health care system.

For almost a century, public health experts have advocated for testing pregnant patients more than once for syphilis in order to catch the infection. But policies nationwide still don’t reflect this best practice. Six states have no prenatal screening requirement at all. Even in states that require three tests, public health officials say that many physicians aren’t aware of the requirements. Dr. Stafford, the maternal-fetal medicine specialist in Houston, says she’s tired of hearing her own peers in medicine tell her, “Oh, syphilis is a problem?”

It costs public health departments less than 25 cents a dose to buy penicillin, but for a private practice, it’s more than $1,000, according to Dr. Park of the University of California San Francisco. “There’s no incentive for a private physician to stock a dose that could expire before it’s used, so they often don’t have it. So a woman comes in, they say, ‘We’ll send you to the emergency department or health department to get it,’ then [the patients] don’t show up.”

A vaccine would be invaluable for preventing spread among people at high risk for reinfection. But there is none. Scientists only recently figured out how to grow the bacteria in the lab, prompting grants from the National Institutes of Health to fund research into a vaccine. Dr. Justin Radolf, a researcher at the University of Connecticut School of Medicine, said he hopes his team will have a vaccine candidate by the end of its five-year grant. But it’ll likely take years more to find a manufacturer and run human trials.

Public health agencies also need to recognize that many of the hurdles to getting pregnant people treated involve access to care, economic stability, safe housing and transportation. In Fresno, Ms. Adams has been working on ways her department can collaborate with mental health services. Recently, one of her disease intervention specialists managed to get a pregnant woman treated with penicillin shots and, at the patient’s request, connected her with an addiction treatment center.

Gaining a patient’s cooperation means seeing them as complex humans instead of just a case to solve. “There may be past traumas with the health care system,” said Cynthia Deverson, project manager of the Houston Fetal Infant Morbidity Review. “There’s the fear of being discovered if she’s doing something illegal to survive. ... She may need to be in a certain place at a certain time so she can get something to eat, or maybe it’s the only time of the day that’s safe for her to sleep. They’re not going to tell you that. Yes, they understand there’s a problem, but it’s not an immediate threat, maybe they don’t feel bad yet, so obviously this is not urgent. ...

“What helps to gain trust is consistency,” she said. “Literally, it’s seeing that [disease specialist] constantly, daily. ... The woman can see that you’re not going to harm her, you’re saying, ‘I’m here at this time if you need me.’”

Ms. Yang stood outside the clinic, waiting for Angelica to show up, baking in the 90-degree heat. Her feelings ranged from irritation — Why didn’t she just go? I’d have more energy for other cases — to an appreciation for the parts of Angelica’s story that she didn’t know — She’s in survival mode. I need to be more patient.

Fifteen minutes ticked by, then 20.

“OK,” Ms. Yang announced. “We’re going back.”

She asked Sevilla if he would be OK if they drove Angelica to the clinic; they technically weren’t supposed to because of coronavirus precautions, but Ms. Yang wasn’t sure she could convince Angelica to walk. Mr. Sevilla gave her the thumbs up.

When they pulled up, they saw Angelica sitting in the backyard, chatting with a friend. She now wore a fresh T-shirt and had shoes on her feet. Angelica sat silently in the back seat as Ms. Yang drove to the clinic. A few minutes later, they pulled up to the parking lot.

Finally, Ms. Yang thought. We got her here.

The clinic was packed with people waiting for COVID-19 tests and vaccinations. A worker there had previously told Ms. Yang that a walk-in would be fine, but a receptionist now said they were too busy to treat Angelica. She would have to return.

Ms. Yang felt a surge of frustration, sensing that her hard-fought opportunity was slipping away. She tried to talk to the nurse supervisor, but he wasn’t available. She tried to leave the gift cards at the office to reward Angelica if she came, but the receptionist said she couldn’t hold them. While Ms. Yang negotiated, Mr. Sevilla sat with Angelica in the car, waiting.

Finally, Ms. Yang accepted this was yet another thing she couldn’t control.

She drove Angelica back to the yellow house. As they arrived, she tried once more to impress on her just how important it was to get treated, asking Mr. Sevilla to interpret. “We don’t want it to get any more serious, because she can go blind, she could go deaf, she could lose her baby.”

Angelica already had the door halfway open.

“So on a scale from one to 10, how important is this to get treated?” Ms. Yang asked.

“Ten,” Angelica said. Ms. Yang reminded her of the appointment that afternoon. Then Angelica stepped out and returned to the dusty yard.

Ms. Yang lingered for a moment, watching Angelica go. Then she turned the car back onto the highway and set off toward Fresno, knowing, already, that she’d be back.

Postscript: A reporter visited Huron twice more in the months that followed, including once independently to try to interview Angelica, but she wasn’t in town. Ms. Yang has visited Huron twice more as well — six times in total thus far. In October, a couple of men at the yellow house said Angelica was still in town, still pregnant. Ms. Yang and Mr. Sevilla spent an hour driving around, talking to residents, hoping to catch Angelica. But she was nowhere to be found.

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This story was originally published on ProPublica and was co-published with NPR.

When Mai Yang is looking for a patient, she travels light. She dresses deliberately — not too formal, so she won’t be mistaken for a police officer; not too casual, so people will look past her tiny 4-foot-10 stature and youthful face and trust her with sensitive health information. Always, she wears closed-toed shoes, “just in case I need to run.”

Yang carries a stack of cards issued by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that show what happens when the Treponema pallidum bacteria invades a patient’s body. There’s a photo of an angry red sore on a penis. There’s one of a tongue, marred by mucus-lined lesions. And there’s one of a newborn baby, its belly, torso and thighs dotted in a rash, its mouth open, as if caught midcry.

It was because of the prospect of one such baby that Yang found herself walking through a homeless encampment on a blazing July day in Huron, Calif., an hour’s drive southwest of her office at the Fresno County Department of Public Health. She was looking for a pregnant woman named Angelica, whose visit to a community clinic had triggered a report to the health department’s sexually transmitted disease program. Angelica had tested positive for syphilis. If she was not treated, her baby could end up like the one in the picture or worse — there was a 40% chance the baby would die.

Ms. Yang knew, though, that if she helped Angelica get treated with three weekly shots of penicillin at least 30 days before she gave birth, it was likely that the infection would be wiped out and her baby would be born without any symptoms at all. Every case of congenital syphilis, when a baby is born with the disease, is avoidable. Each is considered a “sentinel event,” a warning that the public health system is failing.

The alarms are now clamoring. In the United States, more than 129,800 syphilis cases were recorded in 2019, double the case count of five years prior. In the same time period, cases of congenital syphilis quadrupled: 1,870 babies were born with the disease; 128 died. Case counts from 2020 are still being finalized, but the CDC has said that reported cases of congenital syphilis have already exceeded the prior year. Black, Hispanic, and Native American babies are disproportionately at risk.

There was a time, not too long ago, when CDC officials thought they could eliminate the centuries-old scourge from the United States, for adults and babies. But the effort lost steam and cases soon crept up again. Syphilis is not an outlier. The United States goes through what former CDC director Dr. Tom Frieden calls “a deadly cycle of panic and neglect” in which emergencies propel officials to scramble and throw money at a problem — whether that’s Ebola, Zika, or COVID-19. Then, as fear ebbs, so does the attention and motivation to finish the task.

The last fraction of cases can be the hardest to solve, whether that’s eradicating a bug or getting vaccines into arms, yet too often, that’s exactly when political attention gets diverted to the next alarm. The result: The hardest to reach and most vulnerable populations are the ones left suffering, after everyone else looks away.

Ms. Yang first received Angelica’s lab report on June 17. The address listed was a P.O. box, and the phone number belonged to her sister, who said Angelica was living in Huron. That was a piece of luck: Huron is tiny; the city spans just 1.6 square miles. On her first visit, a worker at the Alamo Motel said she knew Angelica and directed Ms. Yang to a nearby homeless encampment. Angelica wasn’t there, so Ms. Yang returned a second time, bringing one of the health department nurses who could serve as an interpreter.

They made their way to the barren patch of land behind Huron Valley Foods, the local grocery store, where people took shelter in makeshift lean-tos composed of cardboard boxes, scrap wood ,and scavenged furniture, draped with sheets that served as ceilings and curtains. Yang stopped outside one of the structures, calling a greeting.

“Hi, I’m from the health department, I’m looking for Angelica.”

The nurse echoed her in Spanish.

Angelica emerged, squinting in the sunlight. Ms. Yang couldn’t tell if she was visibly pregnant yet, as her body was obscured by an oversized shirt. The two women were about the same age: Ms. Yang 26 and Angelica 27. Ms. Yang led her away from the tent, so they could speak privately. Angelica seemed reticent, surprised by the sudden appearance of the two health officers. “You’re not in trouble,” Ms. Yang said, before revealing the results of her blood test.

Angelica had never heard of syphilis.

“Have you been to prenatal care?”

Angelica shook her head. The local clinic had referred her to an obstetrician in Hanford, a 30-minute drive away. She had no car. She also mentioned that she didn’t intend to raise her baby; her two oldest children lived with her mother, and this one likely would, too.

Ms. Yang pulled out the CDC cards, showing them to Angelica and asking if she had experienced any of the symptoms illustrated. No, Angelica said, her lips pursed with disgust.

“Right now you still feel healthy, but this bacteria is still in your body,” Ms. Yang pressed. “You need to get the infection treated to prevent further health complications to yourself and your baby.”

The community clinic was just across the street. “Can we walk you over to the clinic and make sure you get seen so we can get this taken care of?”

Angelica demurred. She said she hadn’t showered for a week and wanted to wash up first. She said she’d go later.

Ms. Yang tried once more to extract a promise: “What time do you think you’ll go?”

“Today, for sure.”

Syphilis is called The Great Imitator: It can look like any number of diseases. In its first stage, the only evidence of infection is a painless sore at the bacteria’s point of entry. Weeks later, as the bacteria multiplies, skin rashes bloom on the palms of the hands and bottoms of the feet. Other traits of this stage include fever, headaches, muscle aches, sore throat, and fatigue. These symptoms eventually disappear and the patient progresses into the latent phase, which betrays no external signs. But if left untreated, after a decade or more, syphilis will reemerge in up to 30% of patients, capable of wreaking horror on a wide range of organ systems. Dr. Marion Sims, president of the American Medical Association in 1876, called it a “terrible scourge, which begins with lamb-like mildness and ends with lion-like rage that ruthlessly destroys everything in its way.”

The corkscrew-shaped bacteria can infiltrate the nervous system at any stage of the infection. Ms. Yang is haunted by her memory of interviewing a young man whose dementia was so severe that he didn’t know why he was in the hospital or how old he was. And regardless of symptoms or stage, the bacteria can penetrate the placenta to infect a fetus. Even in these cases the infection is unpredictable: Many babies are born with normal physical features, but others can have deformed bones or damaged brains, and they can struggle to hear, see, or breathe.

From its earliest days, syphilis has been shrouded in stigma. The first recorded outbreak was in the late 15th century, when Charles VIII led the French army to invade Naples. Italian physicians described French soldiers covered with pustules, dying from a sexually transmitted disease. As the affliction spread, Italians called it the French Disease. The French blamed the Neopolitans. It was also called the German, Polish, or Spanish disease, depending on which neighbor one wanted to blame. Even its name bears the taint of divine judgement: It comes from a 16th-century poem that tells of a shepherd, Syphilus, who offended the god Apollo and was punished with a hideous disease.

By 1937 in America, when former Surgeon General Thomas Parran wrote the book “Shadow on the Land,” he estimated some 680,000 people were under treatment for syphilis; about 60,000 babies were being born annually with congenital syphilis. There was no cure, and the stigma was so strong that public health officials feared even properly documenting cases.

Thanks to Dr. Parran’s ardent advocacy, Congress in 1938 passed the National Venereal Disease Control Act, which created grants for states to set up clinics and support testing and treatment. Other than a short-lived funding effort during World War I, this was the first coordinated federal push to respond to the disease.

Around the same time, the Public Health Service launched an effort to record the natural history of syphilis. Situated in Tuskegee, Ala., the infamous study recruited 600 black men. By the early 1940s, penicillin became widely available and was found to be a reliable cure, but the treatment was withheld from the study participants. Outrage over the ethical violations would cast a stain across syphilis research for decades to come and fuel generations of mistrust in the medical system among Black Americans that continues to this day.

With the introduction of penicillin, cases began to plummet. Twice, the CDC has announced efforts to wipe out the disease — once in the 1960s and again in 1999.

In the latest effort, the CDC announced that the United States had “a unique opportunity to eliminate syphilis within its borders,” thanks to historically low rates, with 80% of counties reporting zero cases. The concentration of cases in the South “identifies communities in which there is a fundamental failure of public health capacity,” the agency noted, adding that elimination — which it defined as fewer than 1,000 cases a year — would “decrease one of our most glaring racial disparities in health.”

Two years after the campaign began, cases started climbing, first among gay men and later, heterosexuals. Cases in women started accelerating in 2013, followed shortly by increasing numbers of babies born with syphilis.The reasons for failure are complex; people relaxed safer sex practices after the advent of potent HIV combination therapies, increased methamphetamine use drove riskier behavior and an explosion of online dating made it hard to track and test sexual partners, according to Dr. Ina Park, medical director of the California Prevention Training Center at the University of California San Francisco.

But federal and state public health efforts were hamstrung from the get-go. In 1999, the CDC said it would need about $35 million to $39 million in new federal funds annually for at least five years to eliminate syphilis. The agency got less than half of what it asked for, according to Jo Valentine, former program coordinator of the CDC’s Syphilis Elimination Effort. As cases rose, the CDC modified its goals in 2006 from 0.4 primary and secondary syphilis cases per 100,000 in population to 2.2 cases per 100,000. By 2013, as elimination seemed less and less viable, the CDC changed its focus to ending congenital syphilis only.

Since then, funding has remained anemic. From 2015 to 2020, the CDC’s budget for preventing sexually transmitted infections grew by 2.2%. Taking inflation into account, that’s a 7.4% reduction in purchasing power. In the same period, cases of syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia — the three STDs that have federally funded control programs — increased by nearly 30%.

“We have a long history of nearly eradicating something, then changing our attention, and seeing a resurgence in numbers,” said David Harvey, executive director of the National Coalition of STD Directors. “We have more congenital syphilis cases today in America than we ever had pediatric AIDS at the height of the AIDS epidemic. It’s heartbreaking.”

Adriane Casalotti, chief of government and public affairs at the National Association of County and City Health Officials, warns that the United States should not be surprised to see case counts continue to climb. “The bugs don’t go away,” she said. “They’re just waiting for the next opportunity, when you’re not paying attention.”

Ms. Yang waited until the end of the day, then called the clinic to see if Angelica had gone for her shot. She had not. Ms. Yang would have to block off another half day to visit Huron again, but she had three dozen other cases to deal with.

States in the South and West have seen the highest syphilis rates in recent years. In 2017, 64 babies in Fresno County were born with syphilis at a rate of 440 babies per 100,000 live births — about 19 times the national rate. While the county had managed to lower case counts in the two years that followed, the pandemic threatened to unravel that progress, forcing STD staffers to do COVID-19 contact tracing, pausing field visits to find infected people, and scaring patients from seeking care. Ms. Yang’s colleague handled three cases of stillbirth in 2020; in each, the woman was never diagnosed with syphilis because she feared catching the coronavirus and skipped prenatal care.

Ms. Yang, whose caseload peaked at 70 during a COVID-19 surge, knew she would not be able handle them all as thoroughly as she’d like to. “When I was being mentored by another investigator, he said: ‘You’re not a superhero. You can’t save everybody,’” she said. She prioritizes men who have sex with men, because there’s a higher prevalence of syphilis in that population, and pregnant people, because of the horrific consequences for babies.

The job of a disease intervention specialist isn’t for everyone: It means meeting patients whenever and wherever they are available — in the mop closet of a bus station, in a quiet parking lot — to inform them about the disease, to extract names of sex partners and to encourage treatment. Patients are often reluctant to talk. They can get belligerent, upset that “the government” has their personal information or shattered at the thought that a partner is likely cheating on them. Salaries typically start in the low $40,000s.

Jena Adams, Ms. Yang’s supervisor, has eight investigators working on HIV and syphilis. In the middle of 2020, she lost two and replaced them only recently. “It’s been exhausting,” Ms. Adams said. She has only one specialist who is trained to take blood samples in the field, crucial for guaranteeing that the partners of those who test positive for syphilis also get tested. Ms. Adams wants to get phlebotomy training for the rest of her staff, but it’s $2,000 per person. The department also doesn’t have anyone who can administer penicillin injections in the field; that would have been key when Ms. Yang met Angelica. For a while, a nurse who worked in the tuberculosis program would ride along to give penicillin shots on a volunteer basis. Then he, too, left the health department.

Much of the resources in public health trickle down from the CDC, which distributes money to states, which then parcel it out to counties. The CDC gets its budget from Congress, which tells the agency, by line item, exactly how much money it can spend to fight a disease or virus, in an uncommonly specific manner not seen in many other agencies. The decisions are often politically driven and can be detached from actual health needs.

When the House and Senate appropriations committees meet to decide how much the CDC will get for each line item, they are barraged by lobbyists for individual disease interests. Stephanie Arnold Pang, senior director of policy and government relations at the National Coalition of STD Directors, can pick out the groups by sight: breast cancer wears pink, Alzheimer’s goes in purple, multiple sclerosis comes in orange, HIV in red. STD prevention advocates, like herself, don a green ribbon, but they’re far outnumbered.

And unlike diseases that might already be familiar to lawmakers, or have patient and family spokespeople who can tell their own powerful stories, syphilis doesn’t have many willing poster children. “Congressmen don’t wake up one day and say, ‘Oh hey, there’s congenital syphilis in my jurisdiction.’ You have to raise awareness,” Arnold Pang said. It can be hard jockeying for a meeting. “Some offices might say, ‘I don’t have time for you because we’ve just seen HIV.’ ... Sometimes, it feels like you’re talking into a void.”

The consequences of the political nature of public health funding have become more obvious during the coronavirus pandemic. The 2014 Ebola epidemic was seen as a “global wakeup call” that the world wasn’t prepared for a major pandemic, yet in 2018, the CDC scaled back its epidemic prevention work as money ran out. “If you’ve got to choose between Alzheimer’s research and stopping an outbreak that may not happen? Stopping an outbreak that might not happen doesn’t do well,” said Dr. Frieden, the former CDC director. “The CDC needs to have more money and more flexible money. Otherwise, we’re going to be in this situation long term.”

In May 2021, President Joe Biden’s administration announced it would set aside $7.4 billion over the next five years to hire and train public health workers, including $1.1 billion for more disease intervention specialists like Ms. Yang. Public health officials are thrilled to have the chance to expand their workforce, but some worry the time horizon may be too short. “We’ve seen this movie before, right?” Dr. Frieden said. “Everyone gets concerned when there’s an outbreak, and when that outbreak stops, the headlines stop, and an economic downturn happens, the budget gets cut.”

Fresno’s STD clinic was shuttered in 2010 amid the Great Recession. Many others have vanished since the passage of the Affordable Care Act. Health leaders thought “by magically beefing up the primary care system, that we would do a better job of catching STIs and treating them,” said Mr. Harvey, the executive director of the National Coalition of STD Directors. That hasn’t worked out; people want access to anonymous services, and primary care doctors often don’t have STDs top of mind. The coalition is lobbying Congress for funding to support STD clinical services, proposing a three-year demonstration project funded at $600 million.

It’s one of Ms. Adams’ dreams to see Fresno’s STD clinic restored as it was. “You could come in for an HIV test and get other STDs checked,” she said. “And if a patient is positive, you can give a first injection on the spot.”

On Aug. 12, Ms. Yang set out for Huron again, speeding past groves of almond trees and fields of grapes in the department’s white Chevy Cruze. She brought along a colleague, Jorge Sevilla, who had recently transferred to the STD program from COVID-19 contact tracing. Ms. Yang was anxious to find Angelica again. “She’s probably in her second trimester now,” she said.

They found her outside of a pale yellow house a few blocks from the homeless encampment; the owner was letting her stay in a shed tucked in the corner of the dirt yard. This time, it was evident that she was pregnant. Ms. Yang noted that Angelica was wearing a wig; hair loss is a symptom of syphilis.

“Do you remember me?” Ms. Yang asked.

Angelica nodded. She didn’t seem surprised to see Ms. Yang again. (I came along, and Mr. Sevilla explained who I was and that I was writing about syphilis and the people affected by it. Angelica signed a release for me to report about her case, and she said she had no problem with me writing about her or even using her full name. ProPublica chose to only print her first name.)

“How are you doing? How’s the baby?”

“Bien.”

“So the last time we talked, we were going to have you go to United Healthcare Center to get treatment. Have you gone since?”

Angelica shook her head.

“We brought some gift cards...” Mr. Sevilla started in Spanish. The department uses them as incentives for completing injections. But Angelica was already shaking her head. The nearest Walmart was the next town over.

Ms. Yang turned to her partner. “Tell her: So the reason why we’re coming out here again is because we really need her to go in for treatment. ... We really are concerned for the baby’s health especially since she’s had the infection for quite a while.”

Angelica listened while Mr. Sevilla interpreted, her eyes on the ground. Then she looked up. “Orita?” she asked. Right now?

“I’ll walk with you,” Ms. Yang offered. Angelica shook her head. “She said she wants to shower first before she goes over there,” Mr. Sevilla said.

Ms. Yang made a face. “She said that to me last time.” Ms. Yang offered to wait, but Angelica didn’t want the health officers to linger by the house. She said she would meet them by the clinic in 15 minutes.

Ms. Yang was reluctant to let her go but again had no other option. She and Mr. Sevilla drove to the clinic, then stood on the corner of the parking lot, staring down the road.

Talk to the pediatricians, obstetricians, and families on the front lines of the congenital syphilis surge and it becomes clear why Ms. Yang and others are trying so desperately to prevent cases. Dr. J. B. Cantey, associate professor in pediatrics at UT Health San Antonio, remembers a baby girl born at 25 weeks gestation who weighed a pound and a half. Syphilis had spread through her bones and lungs. She spent five months in the neonatal intensive care unit, breathing through a ventilator, and was still eating through a tube when she was discharged.

Then, there are the miscarriages, the stillbirths and the inconsolable parents. Dr. Irene Stafford, an associate professor and maternal-fetal medicine specialist at UT Health in Houston, cannot forget a patient who came in at 36 weeks for a routine checkup, pregnant with her first child. Dr. Stafford realized that there was no heartbeat. “She could see on my face that something was really wrong,” Dr. Stafford recalled. She had to let the patient know that syphilis had killed her baby. “She was hysterical, just bawling,” Dr. Stafford said. “I’ve seen people’s families ripped apart and I’ve seen beautiful babies die.” Fewer than 10% of patients who experience a stillbirth are tested for syphilis, suggesting that cases are underdiagnosed.

A Texas grandmother named Solidad Odunuga offers a glimpse into what the future could hold for Angelica’s mother, who may wind up raising her baby.

In February of last year, Ms. Odunuga got a call from the Lyndon B. Johnson Hospital in Houston. A nurse told her that her daughter was about to give birth and that child protective services had been called. Ms. Odunuga had lost contact with her daughter, who struggled with homelessness and substance abuse. She arrived in time to see her grandson delivered, premature at 30 weeks old, weighing 2.7 pounds. He tested positive for syphilis.

When a child protective worker asked Ms. Odunuga to take custody of the infant, she felt a wave of dread. “I was in denial,” she recalled. “I did not plan to be a mom again.” The baby’s medical problems were daunting: “Global developmental delays ... concerns for visual impairments ... high risk of cerebral palsy,” read a note from the doctor at the time.

Still, Ms. Odunuga visited her grandson every day for three months, driving to the NICU from her job at the University of Houston. “I’d put him in my shirt to keep him warm and hold him there.” She fell in love. She named him Emmanuel.

Once Emmanuel was discharged, Ms. Odunuga realized she had no choice but to quit her job. While Medicaid covered the costs of Emmanuel’s treatment, it was on her to care for him. From infancy, Emmanuel’s life has been a whirlwind of constant therapy. Today, at 20 months old, Odunuga brings him to physical, occupational, speech, and developmental therapy, each a different appointment on a different day of the week.

Emmanuel has thrived beyond what his doctors predicted, toddling so fast that Ms. Odunuga can’t look away for a minute and beaming as he waves his favorite toy phone. Yet he still suffers from gagging issues, which means Ms. Odunuga can’t feed him any solid foods. Liquid gets into his lungs when he aspirates; it has led to pneumonia three times. Emmanuel has a special stroller that helps keep his head in a position that won’t aggravate his persistent reflux, but Odunuga said she still has to pull over on the side of the road sometimes when she hears him projectile vomiting from the backseat.

The days are endless. Once she puts Emmanuel to bed, Ms. Odunuga starts planning the next day’s appointments. “I’ve had to cry alone, scream out alone,” she said. “Sometimes I wake up and think, Is this real? And then I hear him in the next room.”

Putting aside the challenge of eliminating syphilis entirely, everyone agrees it’s both doable and necessary to prevent newborn cases. “There was a crisis in perinatal HIV almost 30 years ago and people stood up and said this is not OK — it’s not acceptable for babies to be born in that condition. ... [We] brought it down from 1,700 babies born each year with perinatal HIV to less than 40 per year today,” said Virginia Bowen, an epidemiologist at the CDC. “Now here we are with a slightly different condition. We can also stand up and say, ‘This is not acceptable.’” Belarus, Bermuda, Cuba, Malaysia, Thailand, and Sri Lanka are among countries recognized by the World Health Organization for eliminating congenital syphilis.

Success starts with filling gaps across the health care system.

For almost a century, public health experts have advocated for testing pregnant patients more than once for syphilis in order to catch the infection. But policies nationwide still don’t reflect this best practice. Six states have no prenatal screening requirement at all. Even in states that require three tests, public health officials say that many physicians aren’t aware of the requirements. Dr. Stafford, the maternal-fetal medicine specialist in Houston, says she’s tired of hearing her own peers in medicine tell her, “Oh, syphilis is a problem?”

It costs public health departments less than 25 cents a dose to buy penicillin, but for a private practice, it’s more than $1,000, according to Dr. Park of the University of California San Francisco. “There’s no incentive for a private physician to stock a dose that could expire before it’s used, so they often don’t have it. So a woman comes in, they say, ‘We’ll send you to the emergency department or health department to get it,’ then [the patients] don’t show up.”

A vaccine would be invaluable for preventing spread among people at high risk for reinfection. But there is none. Scientists only recently figured out how to grow the bacteria in the lab, prompting grants from the National Institutes of Health to fund research into a vaccine. Dr. Justin Radolf, a researcher at the University of Connecticut School of Medicine, said he hopes his team will have a vaccine candidate by the end of its five-year grant. But it’ll likely take years more to find a manufacturer and run human trials.

Public health agencies also need to recognize that many of the hurdles to getting pregnant people treated involve access to care, economic stability, safe housing and transportation. In Fresno, Ms. Adams has been working on ways her department can collaborate with mental health services. Recently, one of her disease intervention specialists managed to get a pregnant woman treated with penicillin shots and, at the patient’s request, connected her with an addiction treatment center.

Gaining a patient’s cooperation means seeing them as complex humans instead of just a case to solve. “There may be past traumas with the health care system,” said Cynthia Deverson, project manager of the Houston Fetal Infant Morbidity Review. “There’s the fear of being discovered if she’s doing something illegal to survive. ... She may need to be in a certain place at a certain time so she can get something to eat, or maybe it’s the only time of the day that’s safe for her to sleep. They’re not going to tell you that. Yes, they understand there’s a problem, but it’s not an immediate threat, maybe they don’t feel bad yet, so obviously this is not urgent. ...

“What helps to gain trust is consistency,” she said. “Literally, it’s seeing that [disease specialist] constantly, daily. ... The woman can see that you’re not going to harm her, you’re saying, ‘I’m here at this time if you need me.’”

Ms. Yang stood outside the clinic, waiting for Angelica to show up, baking in the 90-degree heat. Her feelings ranged from irritation — Why didn’t she just go? I’d have more energy for other cases — to an appreciation for the parts of Angelica’s story that she didn’t know — She’s in survival mode. I need to be more patient.

Fifteen minutes ticked by, then 20.

“OK,” Ms. Yang announced. “We’re going back.”

She asked Sevilla if he would be OK if they drove Angelica to the clinic; they technically weren’t supposed to because of coronavirus precautions, but Ms. Yang wasn’t sure she could convince Angelica to walk. Mr. Sevilla gave her the thumbs up.

When they pulled up, they saw Angelica sitting in the backyard, chatting with a friend. She now wore a fresh T-shirt and had shoes on her feet. Angelica sat silently in the back seat as Ms. Yang drove to the clinic. A few minutes later, they pulled up to the parking lot.

Finally, Ms. Yang thought. We got her here.

The clinic was packed with people waiting for COVID-19 tests and vaccinations. A worker there had previously told Ms. Yang that a walk-in would be fine, but a receptionist now said they were too busy to treat Angelica. She would have to return.

Ms. Yang felt a surge of frustration, sensing that her hard-fought opportunity was slipping away. She tried to talk to the nurse supervisor, but he wasn’t available. She tried to leave the gift cards at the office to reward Angelica if she came, but the receptionist said she couldn’t hold them. While Ms. Yang negotiated, Mr. Sevilla sat with Angelica in the car, waiting.

Finally, Ms. Yang accepted this was yet another thing she couldn’t control.

She drove Angelica back to the yellow house. As they arrived, she tried once more to impress on her just how important it was to get treated, asking Mr. Sevilla to interpret. “We don’t want it to get any more serious, because she can go blind, she could go deaf, she could lose her baby.”

Angelica already had the door halfway open.

“So on a scale from one to 10, how important is this to get treated?” Ms. Yang asked.

“Ten,” Angelica said. Ms. Yang reminded her of the appointment that afternoon. Then Angelica stepped out and returned to the dusty yard.

Ms. Yang lingered for a moment, watching Angelica go. Then she turned the car back onto the highway and set off toward Fresno, knowing, already, that she’d be back.

Postscript: A reporter visited Huron twice more in the months that followed, including once independently to try to interview Angelica, but she wasn’t in town. Ms. Yang has visited Huron twice more as well — six times in total thus far. In October, a couple of men at the yellow house said Angelica was still in town, still pregnant. Ms. Yang and Mr. Sevilla spent an hour driving around, talking to residents, hoping to catch Angelica. But she was nowhere to be found.

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This story was originally published on ProPublica and was co-published with NPR.

When Mai Yang is looking for a patient, she travels light. She dresses deliberately — not too formal, so she won’t be mistaken for a police officer; not too casual, so people will look past her tiny 4-foot-10 stature and youthful face and trust her with sensitive health information. Always, she wears closed-toed shoes, “just in case I need to run.”

Yang carries a stack of cards issued by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that show what happens when the Treponema pallidum bacteria invades a patient’s body. There’s a photo of an angry red sore on a penis. There’s one of a tongue, marred by mucus-lined lesions. And there’s one of a newborn baby, its belly, torso and thighs dotted in a rash, its mouth open, as if caught midcry.

It was because of the prospect of one such baby that Yang found herself walking through a homeless encampment on a blazing July day in Huron, Calif., an hour’s drive southwest of her office at the Fresno County Department of Public Health. She was looking for a pregnant woman named Angelica, whose visit to a community clinic had triggered a report to the health department’s sexually transmitted disease program. Angelica had tested positive for syphilis. If she was not treated, her baby could end up like the one in the picture or worse — there was a 40% chance the baby would die.

Ms. Yang knew, though, that if she helped Angelica get treated with three weekly shots of penicillin at least 30 days before she gave birth, it was likely that the infection would be wiped out and her baby would be born without any symptoms at all. Every case of congenital syphilis, when a baby is born with the disease, is avoidable. Each is considered a “sentinel event,” a warning that the public health system is failing.

The alarms are now clamoring. In the United States, more than 129,800 syphilis cases were recorded in 2019, double the case count of five years prior. In the same time period, cases of congenital syphilis quadrupled: 1,870 babies were born with the disease; 128 died. Case counts from 2020 are still being finalized, but the CDC has said that reported cases of congenital syphilis have already exceeded the prior year. Black, Hispanic, and Native American babies are disproportionately at risk.

There was a time, not too long ago, when CDC officials thought they could eliminate the centuries-old scourge from the United States, for adults and babies. But the effort lost steam and cases soon crept up again. Syphilis is not an outlier. The United States goes through what former CDC director Dr. Tom Frieden calls “a deadly cycle of panic and neglect” in which emergencies propel officials to scramble and throw money at a problem — whether that’s Ebola, Zika, or COVID-19. Then, as fear ebbs, so does the attention and motivation to finish the task.

The last fraction of cases can be the hardest to solve, whether that’s eradicating a bug or getting vaccines into arms, yet too often, that’s exactly when political attention gets diverted to the next alarm. The result: The hardest to reach and most vulnerable populations are the ones left suffering, after everyone else looks away.

Ms. Yang first received Angelica’s lab report on June 17. The address listed was a P.O. box, and the phone number belonged to her sister, who said Angelica was living in Huron. That was a piece of luck: Huron is tiny; the city spans just 1.6 square miles. On her first visit, a worker at the Alamo Motel said she knew Angelica and directed Ms. Yang to a nearby homeless encampment. Angelica wasn’t there, so Ms. Yang returned a second time, bringing one of the health department nurses who could serve as an interpreter.

They made their way to the barren patch of land behind Huron Valley Foods, the local grocery store, where people took shelter in makeshift lean-tos composed of cardboard boxes, scrap wood ,and scavenged furniture, draped with sheets that served as ceilings and curtains. Yang stopped outside one of the structures, calling a greeting.

“Hi, I’m from the health department, I’m looking for Angelica.”

The nurse echoed her in Spanish.

Angelica emerged, squinting in the sunlight. Ms. Yang couldn’t tell if she was visibly pregnant yet, as her body was obscured by an oversized shirt. The two women were about the same age: Ms. Yang 26 and Angelica 27. Ms. Yang led her away from the tent, so they could speak privately. Angelica seemed reticent, surprised by the sudden appearance of the two health officers. “You’re not in trouble,” Ms. Yang said, before revealing the results of her blood test.

Angelica had never heard of syphilis.

“Have you been to prenatal care?”

Angelica shook her head. The local clinic had referred her to an obstetrician in Hanford, a 30-minute drive away. She had no car. She also mentioned that she didn’t intend to raise her baby; her two oldest children lived with her mother, and this one likely would, too.

Ms. Yang pulled out the CDC cards, showing them to Angelica and asking if she had experienced any of the symptoms illustrated. No, Angelica said, her lips pursed with disgust.

“Right now you still feel healthy, but this bacteria is still in your body,” Ms. Yang pressed. “You need to get the infection treated to prevent further health complications to yourself and your baby.”

The community clinic was just across the street. “Can we walk you over to the clinic and make sure you get seen so we can get this taken care of?”

Angelica demurred. She said she hadn’t showered for a week and wanted to wash up first. She said she’d go later.

Ms. Yang tried once more to extract a promise: “What time do you think you’ll go?”

“Today, for sure.”

Syphilis is called The Great Imitator: It can look like any number of diseases. In its first stage, the only evidence of infection is a painless sore at the bacteria’s point of entry. Weeks later, as the bacteria multiplies, skin rashes bloom on the palms of the hands and bottoms of the feet. Other traits of this stage include fever, headaches, muscle aches, sore throat, and fatigue. These symptoms eventually disappear and the patient progresses into the latent phase, which betrays no external signs. But if left untreated, after a decade or more, syphilis will reemerge in up to 30% of patients, capable of wreaking horror on a wide range of organ systems. Dr. Marion Sims, president of the American Medical Association in 1876, called it a “terrible scourge, which begins with lamb-like mildness and ends with lion-like rage that ruthlessly destroys everything in its way.”

The corkscrew-shaped bacteria can infiltrate the nervous system at any stage of the infection. Ms. Yang is haunted by her memory of interviewing a young man whose dementia was so severe that he didn’t know why he was in the hospital or how old he was. And regardless of symptoms or stage, the bacteria can penetrate the placenta to infect a fetus. Even in these cases the infection is unpredictable: Many babies are born with normal physical features, but others can have deformed bones or damaged brains, and they can struggle to hear, see, or breathe.

From its earliest days, syphilis has been shrouded in stigma. The first recorded outbreak was in the late 15th century, when Charles VIII led the French army to invade Naples. Italian physicians described French soldiers covered with pustules, dying from a sexually transmitted disease. As the affliction spread, Italians called it the French Disease. The French blamed the Neopolitans. It was also called the German, Polish, or Spanish disease, depending on which neighbor one wanted to blame. Even its name bears the taint of divine judgement: It comes from a 16th-century poem that tells of a shepherd, Syphilus, who offended the god Apollo and was punished with a hideous disease.

By 1937 in America, when former Surgeon General Thomas Parran wrote the book “Shadow on the Land,” he estimated some 680,000 people were under treatment for syphilis; about 60,000 babies were being born annually with congenital syphilis. There was no cure, and the stigma was so strong that public health officials feared even properly documenting cases.

Thanks to Dr. Parran’s ardent advocacy, Congress in 1938 passed the National Venereal Disease Control Act, which created grants for states to set up clinics and support testing and treatment. Other than a short-lived funding effort during World War I, this was the first coordinated federal push to respond to the disease.

Around the same time, the Public Health Service launched an effort to record the natural history of syphilis. Situated in Tuskegee, Ala., the infamous study recruited 600 black men. By the early 1940s, penicillin became widely available and was found to be a reliable cure, but the treatment was withheld from the study participants. Outrage over the ethical violations would cast a stain across syphilis research for decades to come and fuel generations of mistrust in the medical system among Black Americans that continues to this day.

With the introduction of penicillin, cases began to plummet. Twice, the CDC has announced efforts to wipe out the disease — once in the 1960s and again in 1999.

In the latest effort, the CDC announced that the United States had “a unique opportunity to eliminate syphilis within its borders,” thanks to historically low rates, with 80% of counties reporting zero cases. The concentration of cases in the South “identifies communities in which there is a fundamental failure of public health capacity,” the agency noted, adding that elimination — which it defined as fewer than 1,000 cases a year — would “decrease one of our most glaring racial disparities in health.”

Two years after the campaign began, cases started climbing, first among gay men and later, heterosexuals. Cases in women started accelerating in 2013, followed shortly by increasing numbers of babies born with syphilis.The reasons for failure are complex; people relaxed safer sex practices after the advent of potent HIV combination therapies, increased methamphetamine use drove riskier behavior and an explosion of online dating made it hard to track and test sexual partners, according to Dr. Ina Park, medical director of the California Prevention Training Center at the University of California San Francisco.

But federal and state public health efforts were hamstrung from the get-go. In 1999, the CDC said it would need about $35 million to $39 million in new federal funds annually for at least five years to eliminate syphilis. The agency got less than half of what it asked for, according to Jo Valentine, former program coordinator of the CDC’s Syphilis Elimination Effort. As cases rose, the CDC modified its goals in 2006 from 0.4 primary and secondary syphilis cases per 100,000 in population to 2.2 cases per 100,000. By 2013, as elimination seemed less and less viable, the CDC changed its focus to ending congenital syphilis only.

Since then, funding has remained anemic. From 2015 to 2020, the CDC’s budget for preventing sexually transmitted infections grew by 2.2%. Taking inflation into account, that’s a 7.4% reduction in purchasing power. In the same period, cases of syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia — the three STDs that have federally funded control programs — increased by nearly 30%.

“We have a long history of nearly eradicating something, then changing our attention, and seeing a resurgence in numbers,” said David Harvey, executive director of the National Coalition of STD Directors. “We have more congenital syphilis cases today in America than we ever had pediatric AIDS at the height of the AIDS epidemic. It’s heartbreaking.”

Adriane Casalotti, chief of government and public affairs at the National Association of County and City Health Officials, warns that the United States should not be surprised to see case counts continue to climb. “The bugs don’t go away,” she said. “They’re just waiting for the next opportunity, when you’re not paying attention.”

Ms. Yang waited until the end of the day, then called the clinic to see if Angelica had gone for her shot. She had not. Ms. Yang would have to block off another half day to visit Huron again, but she had three dozen other cases to deal with.

States in the South and West have seen the highest syphilis rates in recent years. In 2017, 64 babies in Fresno County were born with syphilis at a rate of 440 babies per 100,000 live births — about 19 times the national rate. While the county had managed to lower case counts in the two years that followed, the pandemic threatened to unravel that progress, forcing STD staffers to do COVID-19 contact tracing, pausing field visits to find infected people, and scaring patients from seeking care. Ms. Yang’s colleague handled three cases of stillbirth in 2020; in each, the woman was never diagnosed with syphilis because she feared catching the coronavirus and skipped prenatal care.

Ms. Yang, whose caseload peaked at 70 during a COVID-19 surge, knew she would not be able handle them all as thoroughly as she’d like to. “When I was being mentored by another investigator, he said: ‘You’re not a superhero. You can’t save everybody,’” she said. She prioritizes men who have sex with men, because there’s a higher prevalence of syphilis in that population, and pregnant people, because of the horrific consequences for babies.

The job of a disease intervention specialist isn’t for everyone: It means meeting patients whenever and wherever they are available — in the mop closet of a bus station, in a quiet parking lot — to inform them about the disease, to extract names of sex partners and to encourage treatment. Patients are often reluctant to talk. They can get belligerent, upset that “the government” has their personal information or shattered at the thought that a partner is likely cheating on them. Salaries typically start in the low $40,000s.

Jena Adams, Ms. Yang’s supervisor, has eight investigators working on HIV and syphilis. In the middle of 2020, she lost two and replaced them only recently. “It’s been exhausting,” Ms. Adams said. She has only one specialist who is trained to take blood samples in the field, crucial for guaranteeing that the partners of those who test positive for syphilis also get tested. Ms. Adams wants to get phlebotomy training for the rest of her staff, but it’s $2,000 per person. The department also doesn’t have anyone who can administer penicillin injections in the field; that would have been key when Ms. Yang met Angelica. For a while, a nurse who worked in the tuberculosis program would ride along to give penicillin shots on a volunteer basis. Then he, too, left the health department.

Much of the resources in public health trickle down from the CDC, which distributes money to states, which then parcel it out to counties. The CDC gets its budget from Congress, which tells the agency, by line item, exactly how much money it can spend to fight a disease or virus, in an uncommonly specific manner not seen in many other agencies. The decisions are often politically driven and can be detached from actual health needs.

When the House and Senate appropriations committees meet to decide how much the CDC will get for each line item, they are barraged by lobbyists for individual disease interests. Stephanie Arnold Pang, senior director of policy and government relations at the National Coalition of STD Directors, can pick out the groups by sight: breast cancer wears pink, Alzheimer’s goes in purple, multiple sclerosis comes in orange, HIV in red. STD prevention advocates, like herself, don a green ribbon, but they’re far outnumbered.

And unlike diseases that might already be familiar to lawmakers, or have patient and family spokespeople who can tell their own powerful stories, syphilis doesn’t have many willing poster children. “Congressmen don’t wake up one day and say, ‘Oh hey, there’s congenital syphilis in my jurisdiction.’ You have to raise awareness,” Arnold Pang said. It can be hard jockeying for a meeting. “Some offices might say, ‘I don’t have time for you because we’ve just seen HIV.’ ... Sometimes, it feels like you’re talking into a void.”

The consequences of the political nature of public health funding have become more obvious during the coronavirus pandemic. The 2014 Ebola epidemic was seen as a “global wakeup call” that the world wasn’t prepared for a major pandemic, yet in 2018, the CDC scaled back its epidemic prevention work as money ran out. “If you’ve got to choose between Alzheimer’s research and stopping an outbreak that may not happen? Stopping an outbreak that might not happen doesn’t do well,” said Dr. Frieden, the former CDC director. “The CDC needs to have more money and more flexible money. Otherwise, we’re going to be in this situation long term.”

In May 2021, President Joe Biden’s administration announced it would set aside $7.4 billion over the next five years to hire and train public health workers, including $1.1 billion for more disease intervention specialists like Ms. Yang. Public health officials are thrilled to have the chance to expand their workforce, but some worry the time horizon may be too short. “We’ve seen this movie before, right?” Dr. Frieden said. “Everyone gets concerned when there’s an outbreak, and when that outbreak stops, the headlines stop, and an economic downturn happens, the budget gets cut.”

Fresno’s STD clinic was shuttered in 2010 amid the Great Recession. Many others have vanished since the passage of the Affordable Care Act. Health leaders thought “by magically beefing up the primary care system, that we would do a better job of catching STIs and treating them,” said Mr. Harvey, the executive director of the National Coalition of STD Directors. That hasn’t worked out; people want access to anonymous services, and primary care doctors often don’t have STDs top of mind. The coalition is lobbying Congress for funding to support STD clinical services, proposing a three-year demonstration project funded at $600 million.

It’s one of Ms. Adams’ dreams to see Fresno’s STD clinic restored as it was. “You could come in for an HIV test and get other STDs checked,” she said. “And if a patient is positive, you can give a first injection on the spot.”

On Aug. 12, Ms. Yang set out for Huron again, speeding past groves of almond trees and fields of grapes in the department’s white Chevy Cruze. She brought along a colleague, Jorge Sevilla, who had recently transferred to the STD program from COVID-19 contact tracing. Ms. Yang was anxious to find Angelica again. “She’s probably in her second trimester now,” she said.

They found her outside of a pale yellow house a few blocks from the homeless encampment; the owner was letting her stay in a shed tucked in the corner of the dirt yard. This time, it was evident that she was pregnant. Ms. Yang noted that Angelica was wearing a wig; hair loss is a symptom of syphilis.

“Do you remember me?” Ms. Yang asked.

Angelica nodded. She didn’t seem surprised to see Ms. Yang again. (I came along, and Mr. Sevilla explained who I was and that I was writing about syphilis and the people affected by it. Angelica signed a release for me to report about her case, and she said she had no problem with me writing about her or even using her full name. ProPublica chose to only print her first name.)

“How are you doing? How’s the baby?”

“Bien.”

“So the last time we talked, we were going to have you go to United Healthcare Center to get treatment. Have you gone since?”

Angelica shook her head.

“We brought some gift cards...” Mr. Sevilla started in Spanish. The department uses them as incentives for completing injections. But Angelica was already shaking her head. The nearest Walmart was the next town over.

Ms. Yang turned to her partner. “Tell her: So the reason why we’re coming out here again is because we really need her to go in for treatment. ... We really are concerned for the baby’s health especially since she’s had the infection for quite a while.”

Angelica listened while Mr. Sevilla interpreted, her eyes on the ground. Then she looked up. “Orita?” she asked. Right now?

“I’ll walk with you,” Ms. Yang offered. Angelica shook her head. “She said she wants to shower first before she goes over there,” Mr. Sevilla said.

Ms. Yang made a face. “She said that to me last time.” Ms. Yang offered to wait, but Angelica didn’t want the health officers to linger by the house. She said she would meet them by the clinic in 15 minutes.

Ms. Yang was reluctant to let her go but again had no other option. She and Mr. Sevilla drove to the clinic, then stood on the corner of the parking lot, staring down the road.

Talk to the pediatricians, obstetricians, and families on the front lines of the congenital syphilis surge and it becomes clear why Ms. Yang and others are trying so desperately to prevent cases. Dr. J. B. Cantey, associate professor in pediatrics at UT Health San Antonio, remembers a baby girl born at 25 weeks gestation who weighed a pound and a half. Syphilis had spread through her bones and lungs. She spent five months in the neonatal intensive care unit, breathing through a ventilator, and was still eating through a tube when she was discharged.

Then, there are the miscarriages, the stillbirths and the inconsolable parents. Dr. Irene Stafford, an associate professor and maternal-fetal medicine specialist at UT Health in Houston, cannot forget a patient who came in at 36 weeks for a routine checkup, pregnant with her first child. Dr. Stafford realized that there was no heartbeat. “She could see on my face that something was really wrong,” Dr. Stafford recalled. She had to let the patient know that syphilis had killed her baby. “She was hysterical, just bawling,” Dr. Stafford said. “I’ve seen people’s families ripped apart and I’ve seen beautiful babies die.” Fewer than 10% of patients who experience a stillbirth are tested for syphilis, suggesting that cases are underdiagnosed.

A Texas grandmother named Solidad Odunuga offers a glimpse into what the future could hold for Angelica’s mother, who may wind up raising her baby.

In February of last year, Ms. Odunuga got a call from the Lyndon B. Johnson Hospital in Houston. A nurse told her that her daughter was about to give birth and that child protective services had been called. Ms. Odunuga had lost contact with her daughter, who struggled with homelessness and substance abuse. She arrived in time to see her grandson delivered, premature at 30 weeks old, weighing 2.7 pounds. He tested positive for syphilis.

When a child protective worker asked Ms. Odunuga to take custody of the infant, she felt a wave of dread. “I was in denial,” she recalled. “I did not plan to be a mom again.” The baby’s medical problems were daunting: “Global developmental delays ... concerns for visual impairments ... high risk of cerebral palsy,” read a note from the doctor at the time.

Still, Ms. Odunuga visited her grandson every day for three months, driving to the NICU from her job at the University of Houston. “I’d put him in my shirt to keep him warm and hold him there.” She fell in love. She named him Emmanuel.

Once Emmanuel was discharged, Ms. Odunuga realized she had no choice but to quit her job. While Medicaid covered the costs of Emmanuel’s treatment, it was on her to care for him. From infancy, Emmanuel’s life has been a whirlwind of constant therapy. Today, at 20 months old, Odunuga brings him to physical, occupational, speech, and developmental therapy, each a different appointment on a different day of the week.

Emmanuel has thrived beyond what his doctors predicted, toddling so fast that Ms. Odunuga can’t look away for a minute and beaming as he waves his favorite toy phone. Yet he still suffers from gagging issues, which means Ms. Odunuga can’t feed him any solid foods. Liquid gets into his lungs when he aspirates; it has led to pneumonia three times. Emmanuel has a special stroller that helps keep his head in a position that won’t aggravate his persistent reflux, but Odunuga said she still has to pull over on the side of the road sometimes when she hears him projectile vomiting from the backseat.

The days are endless. Once she puts Emmanuel to bed, Ms. Odunuga starts planning the next day’s appointments. “I’ve had to cry alone, scream out alone,” she said. “Sometimes I wake up and think, Is this real? And then I hear him in the next room.”

Putting aside the challenge of eliminating syphilis entirely, everyone agrees it’s both doable and necessary to prevent newborn cases. “There was a crisis in perinatal HIV almost 30 years ago and people stood up and said this is not OK — it’s not acceptable for babies to be born in that condition. ... [We] brought it down from 1,700 babies born each year with perinatal HIV to less than 40 per year today,” said Virginia Bowen, an epidemiologist at the CDC. “Now here we are with a slightly different condition. We can also stand up and say, ‘This is not acceptable.’” Belarus, Bermuda, Cuba, Malaysia, Thailand, and Sri Lanka are among countries recognized by the World Health Organization for eliminating congenital syphilis.

Success starts with filling gaps across the health care system.

For almost a century, public health experts have advocated for testing pregnant patients more than once for syphilis in order to catch the infection. But policies nationwide still don’t reflect this best practice. Six states have no prenatal screening requirement at all. Even in states that require three tests, public health officials say that many physicians aren’t aware of the requirements. Dr. Stafford, the maternal-fetal medicine specialist in Houston, says she’s tired of hearing her own peers in medicine tell her, “Oh, syphilis is a problem?”

It costs public health departments less than 25 cents a dose to buy penicillin, but for a private practice, it’s more than $1,000, according to Dr. Park of the University of California San Francisco. “There’s no incentive for a private physician to stock a dose that could expire before it’s used, so they often don’t have it. So a woman comes in, they say, ‘We’ll send you to the emergency department or health department to get it,’ then [the patients] don’t show up.”

A vaccine would be invaluable for preventing spread among people at high risk for reinfection. But there is none. Scientists only recently figured out how to grow the bacteria in the lab, prompting grants from the National Institutes of Health to fund research into a vaccine. Dr. Justin Radolf, a researcher at the University of Connecticut School of Medicine, said he hopes his team will have a vaccine candidate by the end of its five-year grant. But it’ll likely take years more to find a manufacturer and run human trials.

Public health agencies also need to recognize that many of the hurdles to getting pregnant people treated involve access to care, economic stability, safe housing and transportation. In Fresno, Ms. Adams has been working on ways her department can collaborate with mental health services. Recently, one of her disease intervention specialists managed to get a pregnant woman treated with penicillin shots and, at the patient’s request, connected her with an addiction treatment center.

Gaining a patient’s cooperation means seeing them as complex humans instead of just a case to solve. “There may be past traumas with the health care system,” said Cynthia Deverson, project manager of the Houston Fetal Infant Morbidity Review. “There’s the fear of being discovered if she’s doing something illegal to survive. ... She may need to be in a certain place at a certain time so she can get something to eat, or maybe it’s the only time of the day that’s safe for her to sleep. They’re not going to tell you that. Yes, they understand there’s a problem, but it’s not an immediate threat, maybe they don’t feel bad yet, so obviously this is not urgent. ...

“What helps to gain trust is consistency,” she said. “Literally, it’s seeing that [disease specialist] constantly, daily. ... The woman can see that you’re not going to harm her, you’re saying, ‘I’m here at this time if you need me.’”

Ms. Yang stood outside the clinic, waiting for Angelica to show up, baking in the 90-degree heat. Her feelings ranged from irritation — Why didn’t she just go? I’d have more energy for other cases — to an appreciation for the parts of Angelica’s story that she didn’t know — She’s in survival mode. I need to be more patient.

Fifteen minutes ticked by, then 20.

“OK,” Ms. Yang announced. “We’re going back.”

She asked Sevilla if he would be OK if they drove Angelica to the clinic; they technically weren’t supposed to because of coronavirus precautions, but Ms. Yang wasn’t sure she could convince Angelica to walk. Mr. Sevilla gave her the thumbs up.

When they pulled up, they saw Angelica sitting in the backyard, chatting with a friend. She now wore a fresh T-shirt and had shoes on her feet. Angelica sat silently in the back seat as Ms. Yang drove to the clinic. A few minutes later, they pulled up to the parking lot.

Finally, Ms. Yang thought. We got her here.

The clinic was packed with people waiting for COVID-19 tests and vaccinations. A worker there had previously told Ms. Yang that a walk-in would be fine, but a receptionist now said they were too busy to treat Angelica. She would have to return.

Ms. Yang felt a surge of frustration, sensing that her hard-fought opportunity was slipping away. She tried to talk to the nurse supervisor, but he wasn’t available. She tried to leave the gift cards at the office to reward Angelica if she came, but the receptionist said she couldn’t hold them. While Ms. Yang negotiated, Mr. Sevilla sat with Angelica in the car, waiting.

Finally, Ms. Yang accepted this was yet another thing she couldn’t control.

She drove Angelica back to the yellow house. As they arrived, she tried once more to impress on her just how important it was to get treated, asking Mr. Sevilla to interpret. “We don’t want it to get any more serious, because she can go blind, she could go deaf, she could lose her baby.”

Angelica already had the door halfway open.

“So on a scale from one to 10, how important is this to get treated?” Ms. Yang asked.

“Ten,” Angelica said. Ms. Yang reminded her of the appointment that afternoon. Then Angelica stepped out and returned to the dusty yard.

Ms. Yang lingered for a moment, watching Angelica go. Then she turned the car back onto the highway and set off toward Fresno, knowing, already, that she’d be back.

Postscript: A reporter visited Huron twice more in the months that followed, including once independently to try to interview Angelica, but she wasn’t in town. Ms. Yang has visited Huron twice more as well — six times in total thus far. In October, a couple of men at the yellow house said Angelica was still in town, still pregnant. Ms. Yang and Mr. Sevilla spent an hour driving around, talking to residents, hoping to catch Angelica. But she was nowhere to be found.

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Inside the emergency department at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich., staff members are struggling to care for patients showing up much sicker than they’ve ever seen.

Tiffani Dusang, the ER’s nursing director, practically vibrates with pent-up anxiety, looking at patients lying on a long line of stretchers pushed up against the beige walls of the hospital hallways. “It’s hard to watch,” she said in a warm Texas twang.

But there’s nothing she can do. The ER’s 72 rooms are already filled.

“I always feel very, very bad when I walk down the hallway and see that people are in pain, or needing to sleep, or needing quiet. But they have to be in the hallway with, as you can see, 10 or 15 people walking by every minute,” Ms. Dusang said.

The scene is a stark contrast to where this emergency department — and thousands of others — were at the start of the pandemic. Except for initial hot spots like New York City, in spring 2020 many ERs across the country were often eerily empty. Terrified of contracting COVID-19, people who were sick with other things did their best to stay away from hospitals. Visits to emergency rooms dropped to half their typical levels, according to the Epic Health Research Network, and didn’t fully rebound until this summer.

But now, they’re too full. Even in parts of the country where covid isn’t overwhelming the health system, patients are showing up to the ER sicker than before the pandemic, their diseases more advanced and in need of more complicated care.

Months of treatment delays have exacerbated chronic conditions and worsened symptoms. Doctors and nurses say the severity of illness ranges widely and includes abdominal pain, respiratory problems, blood clots, heart conditions and suicide attempts, among other conditions.

But they can hardly be accommodated. Emergency departments, ideally, are meant to be brief ports in a storm, with patients staying just long enough to be sent home with instructions to follow up with primary care physicians, or sufficiently stabilized to be transferred “upstairs” to inpatient or intensive care units.

Except now those long-term care floors are full too, with a mix of covid and non-covid patients. People coming to the ER get warehoused for hours, even days, forcing ER staffers to perform long-term care roles they weren’t trained to do.

At Sparrow, space is a valuable commodity in the ER: A separate section of the hospital was turned into an overflow unit. Stretchers stack up in halls. A row of brown reclining chairs lines a wall, intended for patients who aren’t sick enough for a stretcher but are too sick to stay in the main waiting room.

Forget privacy, Alejos Perrientoz learned when he arrived. He came to the ER because his arm had been tingling and painful for over a week. He couldn’t hold a cup of coffee. A nurse gave him a full physical exam in a brown recliner, which made him self-conscious about having his shirt lifted in front of strangers. “I felt a little uncomfortable,” he whispered. “But I have no choice, you know? I’m in the hallway. There’s no rooms.

“We could have done the physical in the parking lot,” he added, managing a laugh.

Even patients who arrive by ambulance are not guaranteed a room: One nurse runs triage, screening those who absolutely need a bed, and those who can be put in the waiting area.

“I hate that we even have to make that determination,” MS. Dusang said. Lately, staff members have been pulling out some patients already in the ER’s rooms when others arrive who are more critically ill. “No one likes to take someone out of the privacy of their room and say, ‘We’re going to put you in a hallway because we need to get care to someone else.’”

ER patients have grown sicker

“We are hearing from members in every part of the country,” said Dr. Lisa Moreno, president of the American Academy of Emergency Medicine. “The Midwest, the South, the Northeast, the West … they are seeing this exact same phenomenon.”

Although the number of ER visits returned to pre-COVID levels this summer, admission rates, from the ER to the hospital’s inpatient floors, are still almost 20% higher. That’s according to the most recent analysis by the Epic Health Research Network, which pulls data from more than 120 million patients across the country.

“It’s an early indicator that what’s happening in the ED is that we’re seeing more acute cases than we were pre-pandemic,” said Caleb Cox, a data scientist at Epic.

Less acute cases, such as people with health issues like rashes or conjunctivitis, still aren’t going to the ER as much as they used to. Instead, they may be opting for an urgent care center or their primary care doctor, Mr. Cox explained. Meanwhile, there has been an increase in people coming to the ER with more serious conditions, like strokes and heart attacks.

So, even though the total number of patients coming to ERs is about the same as before the pandemic, “that’s absolutely going to feel like [if I’m an ER doctor or nurse] I’m seeing more patients and I’m seeing more acute patients,” Mr. Cox said.

Dr. Moreno, the AAEM president, works at an emergency department in New Orleans. She said the level of illness, and the inability to admit patients quickly and move them to beds upstairs, has created a level of chaos she described as “not even humane.”

At the beginning of a recent shift, she heard a patient crying nearby and went to investigate. It was a paraplegic man who’d recently had surgery for colon cancer. His large post-operative wound was sealed with a device called a wound vac, which pulls fluid from the wound into a drainage tube attached to a portable vacuum pump.

But the wound vac had malfunctioned, which is why he had come to the ER. Staffers were so busy, however, that by the time Dr. Moreno came in, the fluid from his wound was leaking everywhere.

“When I went in, the bed was covered,” she recalled. “I mean, he was lying in a puddle of secretions from this wound. And he was crying, because he said to me, ‘I’m paralyzed. I can’t move to get away from all these secretions, and I know I’m going to end up getting an infection. I know I’m going to end up getting an ulcer. I’ve been laying in this for, like, eight or nine hours.’”

The nurse in charge of his care told Dr. Moreno she simply hadn’t had time to help this patient yet. “She said, ‘I’ve had so many patients to take care of, and so many critical patients. I started [an IV] drip on this person. This person is on a cardiac monitor. I just didn’t have time to get in there.’”

“This is not humane care,” Dr. Moreno said. “This is horrible care.”

But it’s what can happen when emergency department staffers don’t have the resources they need to deal with the onslaught of competing demands.

“All the nurses and doctors had the highest level of intent to do the right thing for the person,” Dr. Moreno said. “But because of the high acuity of … a large number of patients, the staffing ratio of nurse to patient, even the staffing ratio of doctor to patient, this guy did not get the care that he deserved to get, just as a human being.”

The instance of unintended neglect that Dr. Moreno saw is extreme, and not the experience of most patients who arrive at ERs these days. But the problem is not new: Even before the pandemic, ER overcrowding had been a “widespread problem and a source of patient harm, according to a recent commentary in NEJM Catalyst Innovations in Care Delivery.

“ED crowding is not an issue of inconvenience,” the authors wrote. “There is incontrovertible evidence that ED crowding leads to significant patient harm, including morbidity and mortality related to consequential delays of treatment for both high- and low-acuity patients.”

And already-overwhelmed staffers are burning out.

Burnout feeds staffing shortages, and vice versa

Every morning, Tiffani Dusang wakes up and checks her Sparrow email with one singular hope: that she will not see yet another nurse resignation letter in her inbox.

“I cannot tell you how many of them [the nurses] tell me they went home crying” after their shifts, she said.

Despite Ms. Dusang’s best efforts to support her staffers, they’re leaving too fast to be replaced, either to take higher-paying gigs as a travel nurse, to try a less-stressful type of nursing, or simply walking away from the profession entirely.

Kelly Spitz has been an emergency department nurse at Sparrow for 10 years. But, lately, she has also fantasized about leaving. “It has crossed my mind several times,” she said, and yet she continues to come back. “Because I have a team here. And I love what I do.” But then she started to cry. The issue is not the hard work, or even the stress. She struggles with not being able to give her patients the kind of care and attention she wants to give them, and that they need and deserve, she said.

She often thinks about a patient whose test results revealed terminal cancer, she said. Ms. Spitz spent all day working the phones, hustling case managers, trying to get hospice care set up in the man’s home. He was going to die, and she just didn’t want him to have to die in the hospital, where only one visitor was allowed. She wanted to get him home, and back with his family.

Finally, after many hours, they found an ambulance to take him home.

Three days later, the man’s family members called Ms. Spitz: He had died surrounded by family. They were calling to thank her.

“I felt like I did my job there, because I got him home,” she said. But that’s a rare feeling these days. “I just hope it gets better. I hope it gets better soon.”

Around 4 p.m. at Sparrow Hospital as one shift approached its end, Ms. Dusang faced a new crisis: The overnight shift was more short-staffed than usual.

“Can we get two inpatient nurses?” she asked, hoping to borrow two nurses from one of the hospital floors upstairs.

“Already tried,” replied nurse Troy Latunski.

Without more staff, it’s going to be hard to care for new patients who come in overnight — from car crashes to seizures or other emergencies.

But Mr. Latunski had a plan: He would go home, snatch a few hours of sleep and return at 11 p.m. to work the overnight shift in the ER’s overflow unit. That meant he would be largely caring for eight patients, alone. On just a few short hours of sleep. But lately that seemed to be their only, and best, option.

Ms. Dusang considered for a moment, took a deep breath and nodded. “OK,” she said.

“Go home. Get some sleep. Thank you,” she added, shooting Mr. Latunski a grateful smile. And then she pivoted, because another nurse was approaching with an urgent question. On to the next crisis.

KHN (Kaiser Health News) is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues. Together with Policy Analysis and Polling, KHN is one of the three major operating programs at KFF (Kaiser Family Foundation). KFF is an endowed nonprofit organization providing information on health issues to the nation. This story is part of a partnership that includes Michigan Radio, NPR and KHN.

Inside the emergency department at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich., staff members are struggling to care for patients showing up much sicker than they’ve ever seen.

Tiffani Dusang, the ER’s nursing director, practically vibrates with pent-up anxiety, looking at patients lying on a long line of stretchers pushed up against the beige walls of the hospital hallways. “It’s hard to watch,” she said in a warm Texas twang.

But there’s nothing she can do. The ER’s 72 rooms are already filled.

“I always feel very, very bad when I walk down the hallway and see that people are in pain, or needing to sleep, or needing quiet. But they have to be in the hallway with, as you can see, 10 or 15 people walking by every minute,” Ms. Dusang said.

The scene is a stark contrast to where this emergency department — and thousands of others — were at the start of the pandemic. Except for initial hot spots like New York City, in spring 2020 many ERs across the country were often eerily empty. Terrified of contracting COVID-19, people who were sick with other things did their best to stay away from hospitals. Visits to emergency rooms dropped to half their typical levels, according to the Epic Health Research Network, and didn’t fully rebound until this summer.

But now, they’re too full. Even in parts of the country where covid isn’t overwhelming the health system, patients are showing up to the ER sicker than before the pandemic, their diseases more advanced and in need of more complicated care.

Months of treatment delays have exacerbated chronic conditions and worsened symptoms. Doctors and nurses say the severity of illness ranges widely and includes abdominal pain, respiratory problems, blood clots, heart conditions and suicide attempts, among other conditions.

But they can hardly be accommodated. Emergency departments, ideally, are meant to be brief ports in a storm, with patients staying just long enough to be sent home with instructions to follow up with primary care physicians, or sufficiently stabilized to be transferred “upstairs” to inpatient or intensive care units.

Except now those long-term care floors are full too, with a mix of covid and non-covid patients. People coming to the ER get warehoused for hours, even days, forcing ER staffers to perform long-term care roles they weren’t trained to do.

At Sparrow, space is a valuable commodity in the ER: A separate section of the hospital was turned into an overflow unit. Stretchers stack up in halls. A row of brown reclining chairs lines a wall, intended for patients who aren’t sick enough for a stretcher but are too sick to stay in the main waiting room.

Forget privacy, Alejos Perrientoz learned when he arrived. He came to the ER because his arm had been tingling and painful for over a week. He couldn’t hold a cup of coffee. A nurse gave him a full physical exam in a brown recliner, which made him self-conscious about having his shirt lifted in front of strangers. “I felt a little uncomfortable,” he whispered. “But I have no choice, you know? I’m in the hallway. There’s no rooms.

“We could have done the physical in the parking lot,” he added, managing a laugh.

Even patients who arrive by ambulance are not guaranteed a room: One nurse runs triage, screening those who absolutely need a bed, and those who can be put in the waiting area.

“I hate that we even have to make that determination,” MS. Dusang said. Lately, staff members have been pulling out some patients already in the ER’s rooms when others arrive who are more critically ill. “No one likes to take someone out of the privacy of their room and say, ‘We’re going to put you in a hallway because we need to get care to someone else.’”

ER patients have grown sicker

“We are hearing from members in every part of the country,” said Dr. Lisa Moreno, president of the American Academy of Emergency Medicine. “The Midwest, the South, the Northeast, the West … they are seeing this exact same phenomenon.”

Although the number of ER visits returned to pre-COVID levels this summer, admission rates, from the ER to the hospital’s inpatient floors, are still almost 20% higher. That’s according to the most recent analysis by the Epic Health Research Network, which pulls data from more than 120 million patients across the country.

“It’s an early indicator that what’s happening in the ED is that we’re seeing more acute cases than we were pre-pandemic,” said Caleb Cox, a data scientist at Epic.

Less acute cases, such as people with health issues like rashes or conjunctivitis, still aren’t going to the ER as much as they used to. Instead, they may be opting for an urgent care center or their primary care doctor, Mr. Cox explained. Meanwhile, there has been an increase in people coming to the ER with more serious conditions, like strokes and heart attacks.

So, even though the total number of patients coming to ERs is about the same as before the pandemic, “that’s absolutely going to feel like [if I’m an ER doctor or nurse] I’m seeing more patients and I’m seeing more acute patients,” Mr. Cox said.

Dr. Moreno, the AAEM president, works at an emergency department in New Orleans. She said the level of illness, and the inability to admit patients quickly and move them to beds upstairs, has created a level of chaos she described as “not even humane.”

At the beginning of a recent shift, she heard a patient crying nearby and went to investigate. It was a paraplegic man who’d recently had surgery for colon cancer. His large post-operative wound was sealed with a device called a wound vac, which pulls fluid from the wound into a drainage tube attached to a portable vacuum pump.

But the wound vac had malfunctioned, which is why he had come to the ER. Staffers were so busy, however, that by the time Dr. Moreno came in, the fluid from his wound was leaking everywhere.

“When I went in, the bed was covered,” she recalled. “I mean, he was lying in a puddle of secretions from this wound. And he was crying, because he said to me, ‘I’m paralyzed. I can’t move to get away from all these secretions, and I know I’m going to end up getting an infection. I know I’m going to end up getting an ulcer. I’ve been laying in this for, like, eight or nine hours.’”

The nurse in charge of his care told Dr. Moreno she simply hadn’t had time to help this patient yet. “She said, ‘I’ve had so many patients to take care of, and so many critical patients. I started [an IV] drip on this person. This person is on a cardiac monitor. I just didn’t have time to get in there.’”

“This is not humane care,” Dr. Moreno said. “This is horrible care.”

But it’s what can happen when emergency department staffers don’t have the resources they need to deal with the onslaught of competing demands.

“All the nurses and doctors had the highest level of intent to do the right thing for the person,” Dr. Moreno said. “But because of the high acuity of … a large number of patients, the staffing ratio of nurse to patient, even the staffing ratio of doctor to patient, this guy did not get the care that he deserved to get, just as a human being.”

The instance of unintended neglect that Dr. Moreno saw is extreme, and not the experience of most patients who arrive at ERs these days. But the problem is not new: Even before the pandemic, ER overcrowding had been a “widespread problem and a source of patient harm, according to a recent commentary in NEJM Catalyst Innovations in Care Delivery.

“ED crowding is not an issue of inconvenience,” the authors wrote. “There is incontrovertible evidence that ED crowding leads to significant patient harm, including morbidity and mortality related to consequential delays of treatment for both high- and low-acuity patients.”

And already-overwhelmed staffers are burning out.

Burnout feeds staffing shortages, and vice versa

Every morning, Tiffani Dusang wakes up and checks her Sparrow email with one singular hope: that she will not see yet another nurse resignation letter in her inbox.

“I cannot tell you how many of them [the nurses] tell me they went home crying” after their shifts, she said.

Despite Ms. Dusang’s best efforts to support her staffers, they’re leaving too fast to be replaced, either to take higher-paying gigs as a travel nurse, to try a less-stressful type of nursing, or simply walking away from the profession entirely.

Kelly Spitz has been an emergency department nurse at Sparrow for 10 years. But, lately, she has also fantasized about leaving. “It has crossed my mind several times,” she said, and yet she continues to come back. “Because I have a team here. And I love what I do.” But then she started to cry. The issue is not the hard work, or even the stress. She struggles with not being able to give her patients the kind of care and attention she wants to give them, and that they need and deserve, she said.

She often thinks about a patient whose test results revealed terminal cancer, she said. Ms. Spitz spent all day working the phones, hustling case managers, trying to get hospice care set up in the man’s home. He was going to die, and she just didn’t want him to have to die in the hospital, where only one visitor was allowed. She wanted to get him home, and back with his family.

Finally, after many hours, they found an ambulance to take him home.

Three days later, the man’s family members called Ms. Spitz: He had died surrounded by family. They were calling to thank her.

“I felt like I did my job there, because I got him home,” she said. But that’s a rare feeling these days. “I just hope it gets better. I hope it gets better soon.”

Around 4 p.m. at Sparrow Hospital as one shift approached its end, Ms. Dusang faced a new crisis: The overnight shift was more short-staffed than usual.

“Can we get two inpatient nurses?” she asked, hoping to borrow two nurses from one of the hospital floors upstairs.

“Already tried,” replied nurse Troy Latunski.

Without more staff, it’s going to be hard to care for new patients who come in overnight — from car crashes to seizures or other emergencies.

But Mr. Latunski had a plan: He would go home, snatch a few hours of sleep and return at 11 p.m. to work the overnight shift in the ER’s overflow unit. That meant he would be largely caring for eight patients, alone. On just a few short hours of sleep. But lately that seemed to be their only, and best, option.

Ms. Dusang considered for a moment, took a deep breath and nodded. “OK,” she said.

“Go home. Get some sleep. Thank you,” she added, shooting Mr. Latunski a grateful smile. And then she pivoted, because another nurse was approaching with an urgent question. On to the next crisis.

KHN (Kaiser Health News) is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues. Together with Policy Analysis and Polling, KHN is one of the three major operating programs at KFF (Kaiser Family Foundation). KFF is an endowed nonprofit organization providing information on health issues to the nation. This story is part of a partnership that includes Michigan Radio, NPR and KHN.

Inside the emergency department at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich., staff members are struggling to care for patients showing up much sicker than they’ve ever seen.

Tiffani Dusang, the ER’s nursing director, practically vibrates with pent-up anxiety, looking at patients lying on a long line of stretchers pushed up against the beige walls of the hospital hallways. “It’s hard to watch,” she said in a warm Texas twang.

But there’s nothing she can do. The ER’s 72 rooms are already filled.

“I always feel very, very bad when I walk down the hallway and see that people are in pain, or needing to sleep, or needing quiet. But they have to be in the hallway with, as you can see, 10 or 15 people walking by every minute,” Ms. Dusang said.

The scene is a stark contrast to where this emergency department — and thousands of others — were at the start of the pandemic. Except for initial hot spots like New York City, in spring 2020 many ERs across the country were often eerily empty. Terrified of contracting COVID-19, people who were sick with other things did their best to stay away from hospitals. Visits to emergency rooms dropped to half their typical levels, according to the Epic Health Research Network, and didn’t fully rebound until this summer.

But now, they’re too full. Even in parts of the country where covid isn’t overwhelming the health system, patients are showing up to the ER sicker than before the pandemic, their diseases more advanced and in need of more complicated care.

Months of treatment delays have exacerbated chronic conditions and worsened symptoms. Doctors and nurses say the severity of illness ranges widely and includes abdominal pain, respiratory problems, blood clots, heart conditions and suicide attempts, among other conditions.

But they can hardly be accommodated. Emergency departments, ideally, are meant to be brief ports in a storm, with patients staying just long enough to be sent home with instructions to follow up with primary care physicians, or sufficiently stabilized to be transferred “upstairs” to inpatient or intensive care units.

Except now those long-term care floors are full too, with a mix of covid and non-covid patients. People coming to the ER get warehoused for hours, even days, forcing ER staffers to perform long-term care roles they weren’t trained to do.

At Sparrow, space is a valuable commodity in the ER: A separate section of the hospital was turned into an overflow unit. Stretchers stack up in halls. A row of brown reclining chairs lines a wall, intended for patients who aren’t sick enough for a stretcher but are too sick to stay in the main waiting room.

Forget privacy, Alejos Perrientoz learned when he arrived. He came to the ER because his arm had been tingling and painful for over a week. He couldn’t hold a cup of coffee. A nurse gave him a full physical exam in a brown recliner, which made him self-conscious about having his shirt lifted in front of strangers. “I felt a little uncomfortable,” he whispered. “But I have no choice, you know? I’m in the hallway. There’s no rooms.

“We could have done the physical in the parking lot,” he added, managing a laugh.

Even patients who arrive by ambulance are not guaranteed a room: One nurse runs triage, screening those who absolutely need a bed, and those who can be put in the waiting area.

“I hate that we even have to make that determination,” MS. Dusang said. Lately, staff members have been pulling out some patients already in the ER’s rooms when others arrive who are more critically ill. “No one likes to take someone out of the privacy of their room and say, ‘We’re going to put you in a hallway because we need to get care to someone else.’”

ER patients have grown sicker

“We are hearing from members in every part of the country,” said Dr. Lisa Moreno, president of the American Academy of Emergency Medicine. “The Midwest, the South, the Northeast, the West … they are seeing this exact same phenomenon.”

Although the number of ER visits returned to pre-COVID levels this summer, admission rates, from the ER to the hospital’s inpatient floors, are still almost 20% higher. That’s according to the most recent analysis by the Epic Health Research Network, which pulls data from more than 120 million patients across the country.

“It’s an early indicator that what’s happening in the ED is that we’re seeing more acute cases than we were pre-pandemic,” said Caleb Cox, a data scientist at Epic.

Less acute cases, such as people with health issues like rashes or conjunctivitis, still aren’t going to the ER as much as they used to. Instead, they may be opting for an urgent care center or their primary care doctor, Mr. Cox explained. Meanwhile, there has been an increase in people coming to the ER with more serious conditions, like strokes and heart attacks.

So, even though the total number of patients coming to ERs is about the same as before the pandemic, “that’s absolutely going to feel like [if I’m an ER doctor or nurse] I’m seeing more patients and I’m seeing more acute patients,” Mr. Cox said.

Dr. Moreno, the AAEM president, works at an emergency department in New Orleans. She said the level of illness, and the inability to admit patients quickly and move them to beds upstairs, has created a level of chaos she described as “not even humane.”

At the beginning of a recent shift, she heard a patient crying nearby and went to investigate. It was a paraplegic man who’d recently had surgery for colon cancer. His large post-operative wound was sealed with a device called a wound vac, which pulls fluid from the wound into a drainage tube attached to a portable vacuum pump.

But the wound vac had malfunctioned, which is why he had come to the ER. Staffers were so busy, however, that by the time Dr. Moreno came in, the fluid from his wound was leaking everywhere.

“When I went in, the bed was covered,” she recalled. “I mean, he was lying in a puddle of secretions from this wound. And he was crying, because he said to me, ‘I’m paralyzed. I can’t move to get away from all these secretions, and I know I’m going to end up getting an infection. I know I’m going to end up getting an ulcer. I’ve been laying in this for, like, eight or nine hours.’”

The nurse in charge of his care told Dr. Moreno she simply hadn’t had time to help this patient yet. “She said, ‘I’ve had so many patients to take care of, and so many critical patients. I started [an IV] drip on this person. This person is on a cardiac monitor. I just didn’t have time to get in there.’”

“This is not humane care,” Dr. Moreno said. “This is horrible care.”

But it’s what can happen when emergency department staffers don’t have the resources they need to deal with the onslaught of competing demands.

“All the nurses and doctors had the highest level of intent to do the right thing for the person,” Dr. Moreno said. “But because of the high acuity of … a large number of patients, the staffing ratio of nurse to patient, even the staffing ratio of doctor to patient, this guy did not get the care that he deserved to get, just as a human being.”

The instance of unintended neglect that Dr. Moreno saw is extreme, and not the experience of most patients who arrive at ERs these days. But the problem is not new: Even before the pandemic, ER overcrowding had been a “widespread problem and a source of patient harm, according to a recent commentary in NEJM Catalyst Innovations in Care Delivery.

“ED crowding is not an issue of inconvenience,” the authors wrote. “There is incontrovertible evidence that ED crowding leads to significant patient harm, including morbidity and mortality related to consequential delays of treatment for both high- and low-acuity patients.”

And already-overwhelmed staffers are burning out.

Burnout feeds staffing shortages, and vice versa

Every morning, Tiffani Dusang wakes up and checks her Sparrow email with one singular hope: that she will not see yet another nurse resignation letter in her inbox.

“I cannot tell you how many of them [the nurses] tell me they went home crying” after their shifts, she said.

Despite Ms. Dusang’s best efforts to support her staffers, they’re leaving too fast to be replaced, either to take higher-paying gigs as a travel nurse, to try a less-stressful type of nursing, or simply walking away from the profession entirely.

Kelly Spitz has been an emergency department nurse at Sparrow for 10 years. But, lately, she has also fantasized about leaving. “It has crossed my mind several times,” she said, and yet she continues to come back. “Because I have a team here. And I love what I do.” But then she started to cry. The issue is not the hard work, or even the stress. She struggles with not being able to give her patients the kind of care and attention she wants to give them, and that they need and deserve, she said.

She often thinks about a patient whose test results revealed terminal cancer, she said. Ms. Spitz spent all day working the phones, hustling case managers, trying to get hospice care set up in the man’s home. He was going to die, and she just didn’t want him to have to die in the hospital, where only one visitor was allowed. She wanted to get him home, and back with his family.

Finally, after many hours, they found an ambulance to take him home.

Three days later, the man’s family members called Ms. Spitz: He had died surrounded by family. They were calling to thank her.

“I felt like I did my job there, because I got him home,” she said. But that’s a rare feeling these days. “I just hope it gets better. I hope it gets better soon.”

Around 4 p.m. at Sparrow Hospital as one shift approached its end, Ms. Dusang faced a new crisis: The overnight shift was more short-staffed than usual.

“Can we get two inpatient nurses?” she asked, hoping to borrow two nurses from one of the hospital floors upstairs.

“Already tried,” replied nurse Troy Latunski.

Without more staff, it’s going to be hard to care for new patients who come in overnight — from car crashes to seizures or other emergencies.

But Mr. Latunski had a plan: He would go home, snatch a few hours of sleep and return at 11 p.m. to work the overnight shift in the ER’s overflow unit. That meant he would be largely caring for eight patients, alone. On just a few short hours of sleep. But lately that seemed to be their only, and best, option.

Ms. Dusang considered for a moment, took a deep breath and nodded. “OK,” she said.

“Go home. Get some sleep. Thank you,” she added, shooting Mr. Latunski a grateful smile. And then she pivoted, because another nurse was approaching with an urgent question. On to the next crisis.

KHN (Kaiser Health News) is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues. Together with Policy Analysis and Polling, KHN is one of the three major operating programs at KFF (Kaiser Family Foundation). KFF is an endowed nonprofit organization providing information on health issues to the nation. This story is part of a partnership that includes Michigan Radio, NPR and KHN.

Nearly two-thirds of Americans are not confident that they understood their doctor’s recommendations and the health information they discussed with their doctor after a visit, according to a new survey.

Confusion over health information and doctor advice is even higher among people who care for patients than among those who don’t provide care to their loved ones, the nationally representative survey from the AHIMA Foundation found.

The survey also shows that 80% of Americans – and an even higher portion of caregivers – are likely to research medical recommendations online after a doctor’s visit. But 1 in 4 people don’t know how to access their own medical records or find it difficult to do so.

The findings reflect the same low level of health literacy in the U.S. population that earlier surveys did. The results also indicate that little has changed since the Department of Health and Human Services released a National Action Plan to Improve Health Literacy in 2010.

That plan emphasized the need to develop and share accurate health information that helps people make decisions; to promote changes in the health care system that improve health information, communication, informed decision-making, and access to health services; and to increase the sharing and use of evidence-based health literacy practices.

According to the AHIMA Foundation report, 62% of Americans are not sure they understand their doctor’s advice and the health information discussed during a visit. Twenty-four percent say they don’t comprehend any of it, and 31% can’t remember what was said during the visit. Fifteen percent of those surveyed said they were more confused about their health than they were before the encounter with their doctor.
 

Caregivers have special issues

Forty-three percent of Americans are caregivers, the report notes, and 91% of those play an active role in managing someone else’s health. Millennials (65%) and Gen Xers (50%) are significantly more likely than Gen Zers (39%) and Boomers (20%) to be a caregiver.

Most caregivers have concerns about their loved ones’ ability to manage their own health. Most of them believe that doctors provide enough information, but 38% don’t believe a doctor can communicate effectively with the patient if the caregiver is not present.

Forty-three percent of caretakers don’t think their loved ones can understand medical information on their own. On the other hand, caregivers are more likely than people who don’t provide care to say the doctor confused them and to research the doctor’s advice after an appointment.

For many patients and caregivers, communications break down when they are with their health care provider. Twenty-two percent of Americans say they do not feel comfortable asking their doctor certain health questions. This inability to have a satisfactory dialogue with their doctor means that many patients leave their appointments without getting clear answers to their questions (24%) or without having an opportunity to ask any questions at all (17%).

This is not surprising, considering that a 2018 study found that doctors spend only 11 seconds, on average, listening to patients before interrupting them.
 

Depending on the internet

Overall, the AHIMA survey found, 42% of Americans research their doctor’s recommendations after an appointment. A higher percentage of caregivers than noncaregiver peers do so (47% vs. 38%). Eighty percent of respondents say they are “likely” to research their doctor’s advice online after a visit.

When they have a medical problem or a question about their condition, just as many Americans (59%) turn to the internet for an answer as contact their doctor directly, the survey found. Twenty-nine percent of the respondents consult friends, family, or colleagues; 23% look up medical records if they’re easily accessible; 19% ask pharmacists for advice; and 6% call an unspecified 800 number.

Americans feel secure in the health information they find on the internet. Among those who go online to look up information, 86% are confident that it is credible. And 42% report feeling relieved that they can find a lot of information about their health concerns. Respondents also say that the information they gather allows them to feel more confident in their doctor’s recommendations (35%) and that they feel better after having learned more on the internet than their doctor had told them (39%). Men are more likely than women to say that their confidence in their doctor’s recommendations increased after doing online research (40% vs. 30%).
 

Access to health records

Access to medical records would help people better understand their condition or diagnosis. But nearly half of Americans (48%) admit they don’t usually review their medical records until long after an appointment, and 52% say they rarely access their records at all.

One in four Americans say that they don’t know where to go to access their health information or that they didn’t find the process easy. More than half of those who have never had to find their records think the process would be difficult if they had to try.

Eighty-one percent of Americans use an online platform or portal to access their medical records or health information. Two-thirds of Americans who use an online portal trust that their medical information is kept safe and not shared with other people or organizations.

Four in five respondents agree that if they had access to all of their health information, including medical records, recommendations, conditions, and test results, they’d see an improvement in their health management. Fifty-nine percent of them believe they’d also be more confident about understanding their health, and 47% say they’d have greater trust in their doctor’s recommendations. Higher percentages of caregivers than noncaregivers say the same.

Younger people, those with a high school degree or less, and those who earn less than $50,000 are less likely than older, better educated, and more affluent people to understand their doctor’s health information and to ask questions of their providers.

People of color struggle with their relationships with doctors, are less satisfied than white people with the information they receive during visits, and are more likely than white peers to feel that if they had access to all their health information, they’d manage their health better and be more confident in their doctors’ recommendations, the survey found.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

Nearly two-thirds of Americans are not confident that they understood their doctor’s recommendations and the health information they discussed with their doctor after a visit, according to a new survey.

Confusion over health information and doctor advice is even higher among people who care for patients than among those who don’t provide care to their loved ones, the nationally representative survey from the AHIMA Foundation found.

The survey also shows that 80% of Americans – and an even higher portion of caregivers – are likely to research medical recommendations online after a doctor’s visit. But 1 in 4 people don’t know how to access their own medical records or find it difficult to do so.

The findings reflect the same low level of health literacy in the U.S. population that earlier surveys did. The results also indicate that little has changed since the Department of Health and Human Services released a National Action Plan to Improve Health Literacy in 2010.

That plan emphasized the need to develop and share accurate health information that helps people make decisions; to promote changes in the health care system that improve health information, communication, informed decision-making, and access to health services; and to increase the sharing and use of evidence-based health literacy practices.

According to the AHIMA Foundation report, 62% of Americans are not sure they understand their doctor’s advice and the health information discussed during a visit. Twenty-four percent say they don’t comprehend any of it, and 31% can’t remember what was said during the visit. Fifteen percent of those surveyed said they were more confused about their health than they were before the encounter with their doctor.
 

Caregivers have special issues

Forty-three percent of Americans are caregivers, the report notes, and 91% of those play an active role in managing someone else’s health. Millennials (65%) and Gen Xers (50%) are significantly more likely than Gen Zers (39%) and Boomers (20%) to be a caregiver.

Most caregivers have concerns about their loved ones’ ability to manage their own health. Most of them believe that doctors provide enough information, but 38% don’t believe a doctor can communicate effectively with the patient if the caregiver is not present.

Forty-three percent of caretakers don’t think their loved ones can understand medical information on their own. On the other hand, caregivers are more likely than people who don’t provide care to say the doctor confused them and to research the doctor’s advice after an appointment.

For many patients and caregivers, communications break down when they are with their health care provider. Twenty-two percent of Americans say they do not feel comfortable asking their doctor certain health questions. This inability to have a satisfactory dialogue with their doctor means that many patients leave their appointments without getting clear answers to their questions (24%) or without having an opportunity to ask any questions at all (17%).

This is not surprising, considering that a 2018 study found that doctors spend only 11 seconds, on average, listening to patients before interrupting them.
 

Depending on the internet

Overall, the AHIMA survey found, 42% of Americans research their doctor’s recommendations after an appointment. A higher percentage of caregivers than noncaregiver peers do so (47% vs. 38%). Eighty percent of respondents say they are “likely” to research their doctor’s advice online after a visit.

When they have a medical problem or a question about their condition, just as many Americans (59%) turn to the internet for an answer as contact their doctor directly, the survey found. Twenty-nine percent of the respondents consult friends, family, or colleagues; 23% look up medical records if they’re easily accessible; 19% ask pharmacists for advice; and 6% call an unspecified 800 number.

Americans feel secure in the health information they find on the internet. Among those who go online to look up information, 86% are confident that it is credible. And 42% report feeling relieved that they can find a lot of information about their health concerns. Respondents also say that the information they gather allows them to feel more confident in their doctor’s recommendations (35%) and that they feel better after having learned more on the internet than their doctor had told them (39%). Men are more likely than women to say that their confidence in their doctor’s recommendations increased after doing online research (40% vs. 30%).
 

Access to health records

Access to medical records would help people better understand their condition or diagnosis. But nearly half of Americans (48%) admit they don’t usually review their medical records until long after an appointment, and 52% say they rarely access their records at all.

One in four Americans say that they don’t know where to go to access their health information or that they didn’t find the process easy. More than half of those who have never had to find their records think the process would be difficult if they had to try.

Eighty-one percent of Americans use an online platform or portal to access their medical records or health information. Two-thirds of Americans who use an online portal trust that their medical information is kept safe and not shared with other people or organizations.

Four in five respondents agree that if they had access to all of their health information, including medical records, recommendations, conditions, and test results, they’d see an improvement in their health management. Fifty-nine percent of them believe they’d also be more confident about understanding their health, and 47% say they’d have greater trust in their doctor’s recommendations. Higher percentages of caregivers than noncaregivers say the same.

Younger people, those with a high school degree or less, and those who earn less than $50,000 are less likely than older, better educated, and more affluent people to understand their doctor’s health information and to ask questions of their providers.

People of color struggle with their relationships with doctors, are less satisfied than white people with the information they receive during visits, and are more likely than white peers to feel that if they had access to all their health information, they’d manage their health better and be more confident in their doctors’ recommendations, the survey found.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

Nearly two-thirds of Americans are not confident that they understood their doctor’s recommendations and the health information they discussed with their doctor after a visit, according to a new survey.

Confusion over health information and doctor advice is even higher among people who care for patients than among those who don’t provide care to their loved ones, the nationally representative survey from the AHIMA Foundation found.

The survey also shows that 80% of Americans – and an even higher portion of caregivers – are likely to research medical recommendations online after a doctor’s visit. But 1 in 4 people don’t know how to access their own medical records or find it difficult to do so.

The findings reflect the same low level of health literacy in the U.S. population that earlier surveys did. The results also indicate that little has changed since the Department of Health and Human Services released a National Action Plan to Improve Health Literacy in 2010.

That plan emphasized the need to develop and share accurate health information that helps people make decisions; to promote changes in the health care system that improve health information, communication, informed decision-making, and access to health services; and to increase the sharing and use of evidence-based health literacy practices.

According to the AHIMA Foundation report, 62% of Americans are not sure they understand their doctor’s advice and the health information discussed during a visit. Twenty-four percent say they don’t comprehend any of it, and 31% can’t remember what was said during the visit. Fifteen percent of those surveyed said they were more confused about their health than they were before the encounter with their doctor.
 

Caregivers have special issues

Forty-three percent of Americans are caregivers, the report notes, and 91% of those play an active role in managing someone else’s health. Millennials (65%) and Gen Xers (50%) are significantly more likely than Gen Zers (39%) and Boomers (20%) to be a caregiver.

Most caregivers have concerns about their loved ones’ ability to manage their own health. Most of them believe that doctors provide enough information, but 38% don’t believe a doctor can communicate effectively with the patient if the caregiver is not present.

Forty-three percent of caretakers don’t think their loved ones can understand medical information on their own. On the other hand, caregivers are more likely than people who don’t provide care to say the doctor confused them and to research the doctor’s advice after an appointment.

For many patients and caregivers, communications break down when they are with their health care provider. Twenty-two percent of Americans say they do not feel comfortable asking their doctor certain health questions. This inability to have a satisfactory dialogue with their doctor means that many patients leave their appointments without getting clear answers to their questions (24%) or without having an opportunity to ask any questions at all (17%).

This is not surprising, considering that a 2018 study found that doctors spend only 11 seconds, on average, listening to patients before interrupting them.
 

Depending on the internet

Overall, the AHIMA survey found, 42% of Americans research their doctor’s recommendations after an appointment. A higher percentage of caregivers than noncaregiver peers do so (47% vs. 38%). Eighty percent of respondents say they are “likely” to research their doctor’s advice online after a visit.

When they have a medical problem or a question about their condition, just as many Americans (59%) turn to the internet for an answer as contact their doctor directly, the survey found. Twenty-nine percent of the respondents consult friends, family, or colleagues; 23% look up medical records if they’re easily accessible; 19% ask pharmacists for advice; and 6% call an unspecified 800 number.

Americans feel secure in the health information they find on the internet. Among those who go online to look up information, 86% are confident that it is credible. And 42% report feeling relieved that they can find a lot of information about their health concerns. Respondents also say that the information they gather allows them to feel more confident in their doctor’s recommendations (35%) and that they feel better after having learned more on the internet than their doctor had told them (39%). Men are more likely than women to say that their confidence in their doctor’s recommendations increased after doing online research (40% vs. 30%).
 

Access to health records

Access to medical records would help people better understand their condition or diagnosis. But nearly half of Americans (48%) admit they don’t usually review their medical records until long after an appointment, and 52% say they rarely access their records at all.

One in four Americans say that they don’t know where to go to access their health information or that they didn’t find the process easy. More than half of those who have never had to find their records think the process would be difficult if they had to try.

Eighty-one percent of Americans use an online platform or portal to access their medical records or health information. Two-thirds of Americans who use an online portal trust that their medical information is kept safe and not shared with other people or organizations.

Four in five respondents agree that if they had access to all of their health information, including medical records, recommendations, conditions, and test results, they’d see an improvement in their health management. Fifty-nine percent of them believe they’d also be more confident about understanding their health, and 47% say they’d have greater trust in their doctor’s recommendations. Higher percentages of caregivers than noncaregivers say the same.

Younger people, those with a high school degree or less, and those who earn less than $50,000 are less likely than older, better educated, and more affluent people to understand their doctor’s health information and to ask questions of their providers.

People of color struggle with their relationships with doctors, are less satisfied than white people with the information they receive during visits, and are more likely than white peers to feel that if they had access to all their health information, they’d manage their health better and be more confident in their doctors’ recommendations, the survey found.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

A number of fatal child poisonings have been linked to common cough and cold medications, according to a report.

The Pediatric Cough and Cold Safety Surveillance System, which tracks fatal child poisonings, has identified 40 such deaths in recent years and raised particular concern about medications containing diphenhydramine, a common antihistamine that can be sedating.

“There is little evidence that cough and cold medicines make children feel better or reduce their symptoms, but there is evidence they can suffer harm,” says Kevin Osterhoudt, MD, medical director of the Poison Control Center at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.

In recent years, the FDA has advised labeling changes and recommended that cough and cold medications not be given to children younger than 2. Drugmakers also voluntarily relabeled these products to state “do not use in children under 4 years of age.”

Compared to older children or adults, young children have a different physiology when they breathe, so any product containing antihistamines can be a danger to little kids, Dr. Osterhoudt says.

But a recent survey shows about half of American parents gave their child cough and cold medication the last time they were ill, Dr. Osterhoudt says. And the findings suggest that cough and cold medications are in homes where children might find them.

Using the new evidence from the national surveillance system, investigators set up an expert panel to review the results. They found that most of the deaths were in children under the age of 2. The results were reported in the October issue of Pediatrics.

In seven instances, death followed the intentional use of medication to sedate the child, reports lead investigator Laurie Seidel Halmo, MD, from Children’s Hospital Colorado, Aurora.

“It’s not uncommon for parents to use sedatives like diphenhydramine to make their child sleepy for activities like air travel,” Dr. Osterhoudt says.

While antihistamines can be sedating, “an overdose of antihistamines like diphenhydramine can paradoxically become a stimulant,” having the opposite effect, he explains.

Adults and teens who take overdoses will sometimes become delirious, hallucinate, and have a racing heart.

But in young children, “if not careful with your dosing, you could actually give too much and create this stimulant activity,” Dr. Osterhoudt says.

In six other cases, the cough and cold medication was given to murder the child, the investigators reported.

The findings are “concerning,” especially with “more than one-half of nontherapeutic intent cases determined to be malicious in nature,” Michele Burns, MD, from Boston Children’s Hospital, and Madeline Renny, MD, from the Grossman School of Medicine in New York, wrote in a commentary with the report.

This important fatality review shows that despite safety efforts, young children remain at risk for death, they report.

The investigators point out that labeling changes do not seem to have protected vulnerable children, and they recommend that doctors educate parents and caregivers about the risk of cough and cold medications.

Dr. Halmo and her team also recommend that the medical community and child welfare advocates be on the lookout for medication use as a source of child abuse.

At home, preventing accidental ingestion could go along with other practices already ingrained in the minds of many, Dr. Osterhoudt says.

“We know to change the clocks in the spring and fall and make sure your smoke detector and carbon monoxide detector has fresh batteries, but maybe it’s also a good time to look at medicines in the house.”

In other words, after you change the clocks, it’s time to take inventory of medications around the house, and if they’re no longer in use, safely dispose of them.

The American Academy of Pediatrics offers guidelines on the safe home storage of medications to keep them out of reach of children and the use of protective caps on drugs.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

A number of fatal child poisonings have been linked to common cough and cold medications, according to a report.

The Pediatric Cough and Cold Safety Surveillance System, which tracks fatal child poisonings, has identified 40 such deaths in recent years and raised particular concern about medications containing diphenhydramine, a common antihistamine that can be sedating.

“There is little evidence that cough and cold medicines make children feel better or reduce their symptoms, but there is evidence they can suffer harm,” says Kevin Osterhoudt, MD, medical director of the Poison Control Center at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.

In recent years, the FDA has advised labeling changes and recommended that cough and cold medications not be given to children younger than 2. Drugmakers also voluntarily relabeled these products to state “do not use in children under 4 years of age.”

Compared to older children or adults, young children have a different physiology when they breathe, so any product containing antihistamines can be a danger to little kids, Dr. Osterhoudt says.

But a recent survey shows about half of American parents gave their child cough and cold medication the last time they were ill, Dr. Osterhoudt says. And the findings suggest that cough and cold medications are in homes where children might find them.

Using the new evidence from the national surveillance system, investigators set up an expert panel to review the results. They found that most of the deaths were in children under the age of 2. The results were reported in the October issue of Pediatrics.

In seven instances, death followed the intentional use of medication to sedate the child, reports lead investigator Laurie Seidel Halmo, MD, from Children’s Hospital Colorado, Aurora.

“It’s not uncommon for parents to use sedatives like diphenhydramine to make their child sleepy for activities like air travel,” Dr. Osterhoudt says.

While antihistamines can be sedating, “an overdose of antihistamines like diphenhydramine can paradoxically become a stimulant,” having the opposite effect, he explains.

Adults and teens who take overdoses will sometimes become delirious, hallucinate, and have a racing heart.

But in young children, “if not careful with your dosing, you could actually give too much and create this stimulant activity,” Dr. Osterhoudt says.

In six other cases, the cough and cold medication was given to murder the child, the investigators reported.

The findings are “concerning,” especially with “more than one-half of nontherapeutic intent cases determined to be malicious in nature,” Michele Burns, MD, from Boston Children’s Hospital, and Madeline Renny, MD, from the Grossman School of Medicine in New York, wrote in a commentary with the report.

This important fatality review shows that despite safety efforts, young children remain at risk for death, they report.

The investigators point out that labeling changes do not seem to have protected vulnerable children, and they recommend that doctors educate parents and caregivers about the risk of cough and cold medications.

Dr. Halmo and her team also recommend that the medical community and child welfare advocates be on the lookout for medication use as a source of child abuse.

At home, preventing accidental ingestion could go along with other practices already ingrained in the minds of many, Dr. Osterhoudt says.

“We know to change the clocks in the spring and fall and make sure your smoke detector and carbon monoxide detector has fresh batteries, but maybe it’s also a good time to look at medicines in the house.”

In other words, after you change the clocks, it’s time to take inventory of medications around the house, and if they’re no longer in use, safely dispose of them.

The American Academy of Pediatrics offers guidelines on the safe home storage of medications to keep them out of reach of children and the use of protective caps on drugs.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.

A number of fatal child poisonings have been linked to common cough and cold medications, according to a report.

The Pediatric Cough and Cold Safety Surveillance System, which tracks fatal child poisonings, has identified 40 such deaths in recent years and raised particular concern about medications containing diphenhydramine, a common antihistamine that can be sedating.

“There is little evidence that cough and cold medicines make children feel better or reduce their symptoms, but there is evidence they can suffer harm,” says Kevin Osterhoudt, MD, medical director of the Poison Control Center at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.

In recent years, the FDA has advised labeling changes and recommended that cough and cold medications not be given to children younger than 2. Drugmakers also voluntarily relabeled these products to state “do not use in children under 4 years of age.”

Compared to older children or adults, young children have a different physiology when they breathe, so any product containing antihistamines can be a danger to little kids, Dr. Osterhoudt says.

But a recent survey shows about half of American parents gave their child cough and cold medication the last time they were ill, Dr. Osterhoudt says. And the findings suggest that cough and cold medications are in homes where children might find them.

Using the new evidence from the national surveillance system, investigators set up an expert panel to review the results. They found that most of the deaths were in children under the age of 2. The results were reported in the October issue of Pediatrics.

In seven instances, death followed the intentional use of medication to sedate the child, reports lead investigator Laurie Seidel Halmo, MD, from Children’s Hospital Colorado, Aurora.

“It’s not uncommon for parents to use sedatives like diphenhydramine to make their child sleepy for activities like air travel,” Dr. Osterhoudt says.

While antihistamines can be sedating, “an overdose of antihistamines like diphenhydramine can paradoxically become a stimulant,” having the opposite effect, he explains.

Adults and teens who take overdoses will sometimes become delirious, hallucinate, and have a racing heart.

But in young children, “if not careful with your dosing, you could actually give too much and create this stimulant activity,” Dr. Osterhoudt says.

In six other cases, the cough and cold medication was given to murder the child, the investigators reported.

The findings are “concerning,” especially with “more than one-half of nontherapeutic intent cases determined to be malicious in nature,” Michele Burns, MD, from Boston Children’s Hospital, and Madeline Renny, MD, from the Grossman School of Medicine in New York, wrote in a commentary with the report.

This important fatality review shows that despite safety efforts, young children remain at risk for death, they report.

The investigators point out that labeling changes do not seem to have protected vulnerable children, and they recommend that doctors educate parents and caregivers about the risk of cough and cold medications.

Dr. Halmo and her team also recommend that the medical community and child welfare advocates be on the lookout for medication use as a source of child abuse.

At home, preventing accidental ingestion could go along with other practices already ingrained in the minds of many, Dr. Osterhoudt says.

“We know to change the clocks in the spring and fall and make sure your smoke detector and carbon monoxide detector has fresh batteries, but maybe it’s also a good time to look at medicines in the house.”

In other words, after you change the clocks, it’s time to take inventory of medications around the house, and if they’re no longer in use, safely dispose of them.

The American Academy of Pediatrics offers guidelines on the safe home storage of medications to keep them out of reach of children and the use of protective caps on drugs.

A version of this article first appeared on WebMD.com.