Nearly half of that money is , to be distributed by county commissioners and city councilors. The idea is that local leaders know their communities best and can do justice to these payouts, often described as “blood money” by people who’ve lost loved ones to an overdose.

But many local leaders have little to no training in addiction policy and may lack robust local health departments and policy guardrails to assist them.

That has resulted in spending decisions that many clinicians, researchers, and addiction recovery advocates say are unlikely to save lives or treat substance use disorders.

In New York, where is directly controlled by local governments, counties have spent tens of thousands of dollars on surveillance cameras, technology to help police access data on locked cellphones, and goggles that simulate being drunk, according to public records obtained by the nonprofit advocacy group and shared exclusively with ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ. Though the purchases were likely legal, many people consider them a slap in the face because they don’t directly help people struggling with addiction or their families.

Without oversight, counties have the chance “to go rogue” with this money, said , director of drug policy at VOCAL-NY, an advocacy organization that is tracking settlement money as part of its mission to serve people affected by the war on drugs.

When advocates and families of overdose victims raise concerns to the various state agencies that could hold localities accountable, those agencies often punt to one another, Budnella and other local advocates said.

It feels “like the where it’s like everybody’s pointing at each other,” Budnella said. “Somebody needs to be able to have the stick and slam their hand on the table and be like, ‘You’re doing this wrong and this is the consequence.’”

The experience in New York provides a microcosm of regulators evading oversight responsibility nationwide while varied interests vie for the financial windfall.

Years of data collected by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ, the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health, and the addiction nonprofit Shatterproof have found that settlement money was spent on law enforcement gear, such as night-vision goggles and bulletproof vests; unproven prevention initiatives, such as a drug-awareness magician for kids; and budget stopgaps.

It’s unclear who should — or will — take action on such expenditures that many people harmed by the crisis consider questionable.

In each state, control of the money is split among various entities, creating a leadership vacuum. The federal government . Advocates and families who’ve lost loved ones have pushed for accountability but have limited power. A few states have passed new laws, but change is slow and uneven.

The require the majority of the money to be spent on “opioid remediation,” with . But the list is broad and open to interpretation. Further complicating the issue, many states — including New York — designate some portion of the settlement dollars as unrestricted, which allows for general spending.

Meanwhile, federal budget cuts have threatened addiction-related services and created more demand for funding. And though overdose deaths have decreased since , they still claim about 186 lives per day.

“We really are wasting this opportunity to use these funds to turn the epidemic around,” said , a Binghamton, New York, resident, whose 28-year-old son, Jeff Dugon, died of a heroin overdose in 2014.

He was a chef who loved to rib Pleus about her bad knife skills. She thinks of him and smiles every time she peels garlic the way he taught her. If the money could spare other families such heartache, that would give her solace.

“We need oversight,” said Pleus, who runs a nonprofit that is receiving opioid settlement cash from her county to serve people who use drugs and provide support groups for families.

In New York, there are three prime watchdog contenders: the Office of Addiction Services and Supports, the attorney general, and the comptroller.

The Lead State Agency

New York’s opioid settlement documents designate the as the “.”

It distributes a portion of settlement dollars via grants, according to recommendations from the state’s . It also has the power to “engage in oversight and audits of projects and programs” funded by settlement cash and “may withhold future funds” from local governments that do not comply with certain requirements, according to the agreement.

Agency spokesperson Jerry Gretzinger told ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ the office has not yet exercised its power to withhold funds but understands its oversight role.

“OASAS has a duty to ensure these funds are used responsibly and strategically to build programs that will have a lasting impact in reversing this crisis,” Gretzinger wrote in a statement.

The office is currently auditing 19 local governments’ use of the money to ensure compliance with “reporting and recordkeeping requirements,” he said. However, that may not encompass the broader question of whether money was spent on appropriate uses, which many advocates want addressed.

Some people are frustrated with the narrow role OASAS has carved out.

For example, required local governments for the first time to publicly report how they spent settlement money. OASAS on its site. But it does not review the accuracy or detail of that data, instead relying on “the information as it is provided” by localities, Gretzinger said.

“That doesn’t feel like oversight,” said , a deputy director at the Legal Action Center, which obtained public records about local spending in New York.

Members of the state’s Opioid Settlement Fund Advisory Board have also to provide more data and evaluation of how dollars are being used. But at a , OASAS Commissioner Chinazo Cunningham deflected.

“OASAS has no oversight over these portions of dollars,” she said of the 46% of settlement money that goes directly to counties and cities. “In terms of what kind of data each county collects,” she added, “we cannot dictate exactly what that information is.”

Click for Examples of spending decisions Local Spending That’s Fueling Calls for Oversight in New York

To uncover how opioid settlement cash is being spent, the nonprofit advocacy group filed public records requests with 56 New York counties and New York City, all of which are to disburse as they see fit.

Many of the responses showed spending on addiction treatment, recovery, and prevention initiatives that researchers and clinicians agree are a good use of money. Others surfaced questionable expenditures.

, for example, showed $150,000 in settlement cash directed to “Sheriff Jail” with no further description. The county did not respond to repeated inquiries for more details.

Sullivan County spent more than $30,000 on Cellebrite technology, used to extract data from cellphones, and more than $37,000 on Tasers. Though county officials didn’t respond to requests for comment, explained that those purchases came from unrestricted funds.

Such justifications rankle some families affected by the crisis, who say even if there aren’t legal restrictions on those dollars, there should be moral ones.

“Anything that is not directly tied to people who are struggling with opioid addiction or the loss of someone is a poor use of funds,” said , who lost a son to an overdose and now runs a nonprofit aimed at helping families dealing with addiction. Her organization has received settlement funds from Broome County, New York.

Records also revealed that many jurisdictions have yet to spend a significant portion of their money — a other .

Local officials say thoughtful planning takes time. But some advocates suspect ulterior motives. Millions of settlement dollars in bank accounts can generate sizable interest.

In March, it came to light that Nassau County had in interest accrued from unused opioid settlement funds to the county’s general fund, where it could be used for any purpose. County officials didn’t respond to requests for comment. The money was following public backlash.

Advocates suspect such attempts are happening elsewhere but are difficult to identify within complex budgeting documents.

It feels like “it’s up to us all — the organizers, the advocates, the service providers” — to be constantly watching, said , director of drug policy at the advocacy organization VOCAL-NY. “It’s frustrating.”

That’s why state agencies are being called on to step into an oversight role.

The Top Law Enforcement Officer

New York has been one of the leading national voices on prosecuting pharmaceutical companies that fueled the overdose crisis. Her office has issued on the topic, touting her role in securing billions of opioid settlement dollars for the state.

But when asked about the attorney general’s role in ensuring this windfall is spent appropriately, her office passed the buck to other agencies.

“While our partners in state and local governments distribute and oversee these funds, we will continue our work to hold accountable the companies responsible for fueling the spread of addictions and overdoses,” spokesperson Grant Fox wrote in a statement.

That stance contrasts starkly with many people’s views of the office’s responsibility.

A state senator, a member of the opioid settlement advisory board, and several advocates named the attorney general’s office as a key enforcement entity.

“The money is here because of their efforts,” said Democratic state , who chairs the committee on alcoholism and substance use disorders and has introduced of related to settlement funds. “I believe it is under the Office of the Attorney General to enforce.”

Budnella, the advocate with VOCAL-NY, agreed, saying, “It would be a shame for all of their work that they have done to secure all this funding for it to be misspent.”

Attorneys general in and have taken more active roles, issuing lists of ways opioid settlement money cannot be spent. The lists include many law enforcement expenditures that have raised concerns for advocates in New York.

James’ office did not respond to a specific question about whether she’d consider creating a similar list.

The Fiscal Watchdog

Some people have suggested that the state comptroller, as a steward of New York’s finances, could play an oversight role, perhaps by conducting or requiring audits.

Early this year, the Reason Foundation, a libertarian think tank, that would create audit requirements for organizations receiving settlement cash. The blueprint suggests recipients of more than $1 million in opioid settlements be required to undergo an independent review of financial statements and transaction testing to determine whether funds were used for their intended purpose. Smaller grantees, receiving less than $1 million, could simply provide an unaudited accounting of the funds.

It’s “not telling states what is and what isn’t an appropriate use,” said , a co-author of the Reason Foundation plan. “We’re simply trying to ensure recipients follow through with their promises.”

No state has adopted the model law yet. But the office of New York told ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ it is already conducting an audit.

The process, which began in February, “is looking at OASAS’ oversight” of the opioid settlement money, said spokesperson Mary Mueller. It includes settlement money controlled by the state and local governments.

Mueller said any future enforcement action “will depend on the results of our current work and our ongoing monitoring.”

The office is following in the footsteps of comptrollers and auditors in , , and , Tennessee, who have taken action on settlement cash.

These initial steps have given some advocates and researchers hope for the future of opioid settlement dollars, which are expected to flow for more than a decade.

“We’re already years in and we’ve seen the craziest stories” of this money and a , said , a co-author of the Reason Foundation’s model law. “If we can prevent that at least a little and have these funds be a bit more focused, I don’t think it’s too late.”

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

Overnight, a nurse aide walked into their room and saw blood splattered on the floor, walls, and ceiling, according to a grand jury transcript. Cecchetto’s face “looked twisted and smashed,” the aide testified. A Banning city police officer testified that Timaloa, 77, told him that he had punched Cecchetto twice.

“He just kept saying that Attilio was being too loud: ‘He talks too much,’” the officer said.

Cecchetto died two days later from blunt force facial trauma.

“You get placed in a facility like this to be taken care of, not to be murdered,” one of his sons, Gino Cecchetto, said in an interview. “This was completely preventable at many different points.”

Timaloa pleaded not guilty to assault. The charges were later upgraded to murder, and a judge ordered a mental health evaluation. The judge will rule as early as August on whether Timaloa is competent to stand trial.

PACS Group, the nursing home chain that owns Sunrise, denied negligence. “We strive to provide quality care to everyone we serve, and our hearts continue to go out to the Cecchetto family for their loss,” PACS spokesman Brooks Stevenson said in an email.

In nursing homes primarily occupied by impoverished people as well as posh assisted living facilities that cost upward of $10,000 a month, agitated residents have shoved, punched, bit, and kicked others. They have wielded canes, walkers, pens, a plate, a mop stick, a shoe, a belt buckle, and even the footrests of wheelchairs as weapons, federal inspection reports show.

How often these altercations take place nationwide is unknown, but an of 14 assisted living facilities in New York state led by Cornell University researchers estimated 1 in 7 residents experienced aggression within a month, including verbal, physical, or sexual acts. Their of 10 New York state nursing homes estimated 1 in 5 residents experienced an altercation in a month. Researchers have found that these assailants are to have dementia.

The diseases that cause dementia can impair brain circuits involved in impulse control and threat perception, raising the risk of aggressive behavior. Residents with Alzheimer’s disease and other dementias constitute more than living in these settings, many of which include specialized units.

Often, altercations involving a resident with dementia erupt after danger signals are missed or ineffectively addressed, according to a ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ examination of court records, police reports, and state and federal inspection reports.

Since the start of 2024, the federal Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services has faulted nursing homes at least 700 times for failing to protect residents from physical, sexual, or verbal abuse by other residents, CMS inspection reports show. The federal records do not include assisted living facilities, which are regulated by states.

In the first three months of this year, CMS cited nursing homes more often for resident-to-resident abuse than for any other type of abuse, neglect, or exploitation, including abuse by employees, the reports show.

The long-term care industry says not every clash can be averted. Presbyterian Homes & Services, a nonprofit Christian chain of senior living facilities, said in a statement: “Caring for individuals living with advanced dementia is complex, and behaviors can change in ways that are difficult to fully predict or prevent, even with clinical interventions in place.”

Eilon Caspi, a and researcher who studies resident-on-resident altercations, said that usually there is a specific unmet need that precedes an altercation. “In the vast majority of incidents,” he said, “there are warning signs in the months, weeks, days, hours, and sometimes minutes and seconds prior.”

Fertile Battlegrounds

One about Alzheimer’s, the most common dementia disease, holds that as the brain’s networks deteriorate, the balance shifts between the prefrontal cortex, which helps govern judgment and self-control, and limbic regions including the amygdala, which helps process fear and threat responses.

As cognition clouds, people lose the ability to understand what is happening around them and to put distress into words, researchers say. Pain, infection, medication side effects, and other physical and emotional distresses through shouting, intimidating gestures, kicking, pushing, or punching. Long-term care facilities can be triggering environments, with intimate care often delivered by a changing stream of aides whom residents can’t recognize. Amid noise, close quarters, and rigid routines, interactions become flash points.

“You don’t feel safe, because you don’t know these strangers who are coming in and taking off your clothes,” said Al Power, a geriatrician and an advocate for alternative models of care for people with cognitive issues. “These things will be distressing to anybody.”

The Cornell researchers found verbal altercations were the most common type of aggressive interaction but estimated 4% of assisted living residents and 5% of nursing home residents in their studies experienced physical assaults in a month.

Another Cornell study found that Connecticut police were called to nursing homes for more often than allegations of staff abuse, theft, and residents wandering away without supervision combined. A national analysis of survey data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention calculated in assisted living facilities engaged in physical aggression or abuse toward other residents or staff members.

Many of the physical aggressions ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ identified in CMS inspection reports were perpetrated by residents with diagnoses of dementia, schizophrenia, or other cognitive disorders. In some physical altercations, both residents were aggressors, while other fights were one-sided. Sometimes the residents were roommates.

Laura Mosqueda, a geriatrician at the University of Southern California’s Keck Medicine in Los Angeles and a senior adviser to the National Center on Elder Abuse, said: “What worries me is that we just end up blaming two people who have either cognitive impairment or severe, uncontrolled mental health issues, when they’re supposed to be in an environment where people are safe.”

‘Only a Matter of Time’

Gladys Lynch, a retired department store accountant, transferred into the memory care unit at Harbor Crossing in White Bear Lake, Minnesota, in September 2025. Her monthly cost was more than $10,000, according to an invoice provided by the family.

One of Lynch’s daughters, Rebecca Norton, installed web cameras in her room and often saw another resident inside. “Every day I looked at it, this woman would be walking into my mom’s room, harassing her, digging through her things, using her bathroom, yelling at her,” Norton said in an interview. She informed Harbor Crossing’s administration, and the facility said it would start locking her mother’s door.

Norton emailed a Harbor Crossing administrator a list of issues with her mother’s care. “My biggest concern,” she wrote, was that her mother’s door was not consistently locked and the webcam showed the woman had again entered, rummaged through the bathroom, and taken a couple of adult diapers.

Unknown to Norton, Harbor aides had raised concerns about the other resident, who like Lynch was new to Harbor Crossing’s memory unit, according to a . Diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, severe dementia with agitation, depression, and anxiety, the woman was confused, had difficulty communicating her needs, and hit aides.

Aides repeatedly reported that the woman had “ongoing aggression, entered other residents’ apartments, invaded others’ personal space, and was difficult to redirect,” the health report said. They said medications had been ineffective and pressed for new ones. The report said one nurse told the woman’s doctor it was “only a matter of time before” she “hurts another resident.”

Captured on Camera

On the last day of September, she entered Lynch’s room and resisted leaving, the state report said. The next morning, she reappeared. Video of the incident was described in the police and state reports and reviewed by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ. It shows Lynch guided the woman out and appeared to attempt to lock the door, but the woman opened it and returned once more.

The woman declared it was her house, went into Lynch’s bathroom, used the toilet, and then returned to the room Lynch was in. Lynch can be seen repeatedly pressing the alert pendant around her neck to signal nurses for help.

The video shows the woman was almost out of her apartment door when she attempted to touch an object near the door. Lynch put her hands up to block her. The woman slapped at her hands and said, “I’m going to kill you if you don’t quit it.” She pushed Lynch, who fell, her head hitting the floor and blood seeping out.

Aides arrived 13 minutes after she had initially pressed her pendant, the state report said. Lynch suffered a brain hemorrhage and fractures to her eye socket and ribs, according to the state report. She died in the hospital five days later at age 96; the medical examiner’s office declared it a homicide.

Norton said her mother was kind and pleasant and never combative. “My mom deserved better than what they gave her,” she said.

Prosecutors declined to bring charges, according to the police report. The Harbor Crossing was responsible for neglect because it was aware the woman “exhibited violent and aggressive behaviors” and yet had failed to put in place effective interventions. Harbor Crossing has requested the state reconsider its findings.

In June, Suzanne Scheller, the attorney for Lynch’s family, filed a wrongful death lawsuit against Presbyterian Homes, which owns Harbor Crossing.

Presbyterian said in a statement: “We are deeply saddened by the loss of Ms. Lynch, and our thoughts remain with her family and all those impacted.” It declined to comment further on the incident or the lawsuit.

Preventive Tactics

Geriatricians, researchers, and resident advocates say long-term care homes should to reduce the risk of altercations, including closer supervision of residents at high risk, relocating them closer to nursing stations, separating residents with repeated conflicts, and adjusting roommate assignments or seating in shared spaces.

Each resident should have a care plan, and homes should train staff to be alert to a resident’s triggers and intervene quickly, dementia specialists say. Organized activities are essential to keep residents occupied and engaged. Antipsychotics and other psychotropic medications are often prescribed, but they can increase the risk of falls, strokes, and .

An aide can be assigned to watch a particularly challenging resident one-on-one, but many places lack enough staff for protracted, dedicated supervision. Some assisted living facilities will tell a resident’s family they must hire a personal aide, who can cost thousands of dollars extra each month. In extreme situations, facilities might send a resident to an emergency room for evaluation or to a psychiatric hospital, or .

Camille Russell, who served as Kansas’ long-term care ombudsman until 2024, said she observed nurses and aides were often “woefully undertrained” in basic elements of dementia care.

“We’ve gotten too far away from making decisions that are caring decisions,” Russell said. “There has to be a balance, and the balance has gotten too far to the profit side.”

A Debilitating Kick

Many physical altercations between residents result in a scratch or a bruise, but nonfatal scraps can leave permanent damage on deeply frail residents.

Linda Twiddy’s first weeks in a Chesapeake, Virginia, memory care unit in August 2024 were happy, her daughter, Barbara Howerin, said in a May interview. Twiddy, a former church secretary with vascular dementia, sang along with a visiting church choir, decorated pumpkins, and visited a cat cafe. The facility, The Vero at Chesapeake, charged Twiddy a one-time $6,825 move-in fee and monthly charges of $7,475, according to the lease.

Seven weeks after Twiddy started living there, a nurse called Howerin. She told her that her mother had been kicked in an altercation with another resident and was being sent to the hospital.

When Howerin arrived at the hospital, she was shocked by the extent of the injury. “It was like 10 inches long by 6 inches wide, the whole front of her shin,” she said. “The calf was just like dangling down.”

According to an internal facility incident report the family obtained, an aide heard Twiddy scream for help and raced over to see a male resident with dementia trying to hit Twiddy as she sat on the floor in “a pool of blood.” The report said, “Linda was screaming get him away from me, he pushed and kicked me.”

The man had prior episodes of aggression, according to documents Twiddy’s family obtained in a lawsuit they brought against The Vero in Chesapeake Circuit Court. At his previous facility, a progress note from 2023 stated, he was “becoming very aggressive in tone and actions to residents and staff.” He “grabbed another resident by the wrists and pushed her,” according to the note. He was sent to an emergency room for evaluation of agitation, according to a hospital report. It did not make clear whether he was discharged back to the facility or elsewhere.

Agitation Tied to Pain

The male resident’s medical records at The Vero said he was diagnosed with late-onset Alzheimer’s disease, agitation, and anxiety, according to his doctor’s deposition. He had chronic pain in his back and trouble sleeping. He could answer simple yes-or-no questions but had trouble providing more extensive answers and couldn’t communicate that he was in pain, she testified. His behavioral changes usually occurred when he had a urinary tract infection, the doctor said.

When he was agitated, aides could sometimes calm him by turning on the television so he could watch his beloved New England Patriots, one aide testified in a deposition. A former aide said she tried to avoid dealing with him altogether. “If you go up to him and he was agitated, he’d reach out to try to grab you,” she testified. “If he had that cane, he would swing that cane or he would punch at you.”

In a court filing, The Vero denied allegations by Twiddy’s family that it should have protected residents from him. The filing said The Vero complied with all standards of care and that any injuries Twiddy sustained “were caused by her own negligence” or acts of others.

In their investigation of the incident, Virginia regulators alleged The Vero had for the health, safety, and well-being of its residents. The inspection report said The Vero pledged to appropriately staff the memory care unit based on the number of residents and to ensure someone completed rounds at least every two hours during sleeping hours.

Twiddy underwent three surgeries at the hospital for her leg, including a skin graft, then spent a month in rehabilitation. “She was never able to walk again,” her son, Doug Twiddy, said in a May interview.

The family moved Linda Twiddy to a different memory care facility where the nursing station had a clear view of all the rooms. She lived there until her death earlier this year.

The lawsuit was settled on confidential terms in early June. Carlton Bennett, the family’s attorney, declined to comment. In an email, Lauren Rogers, a spokesperson for Sinceri Senior Living, which operates The Vero, said the company was pleased the legal case had been resolved but could not comment further, citing confidentiality and patient privacy.

“The Vero at Chesapeake is committed to providing a caring, supportive environment where resident health, safety, and well-being remain our highest priorities,” she said.

A History of Violence

After Attilio Cecchetto was fatally bludgeoned at Sunrise Post Acute, his adult children and their attorney, Jody Moore, discovered disturbing details about Sam Ato Timaloa. He had been imprisoned in 1999 after being convicted of raping an underage girl and sentenced in 2008 to 24 years in prison for attempted murder involving domestic violence, according to Riverside County court records. His public defender declined to comment.

Cecchetto’s sons, Moore, and her colleagues at Moore Hutchins Moore also learned more about the home’s owner, PACS Group, a publicly traded company with more than 300 long-term care facilities. Last year, PACS earned $191 million on revenue of $5.3 billion, according to its .

In the Cecchettos and their father’s widow filed against PACS, they accused the company’s founders, Jason Murray and Mark Hancock, of draining resources from their nursing homes to pay for the chain’s expansion and swell their personal wealth.

The two had earned more than $650 million through stock sales since taking the company public and bought two private luxury jets, according to the lawsuit and securities filings. PACS has also purchased corporate sponsorships for Utah sports teams even though it owns no nursing homes in the state, the lawsuit said.

California regulators fined Sunrise $120,000 for Cecchetto and for not taking Timaloa’s articulated dislike of noise into account when assigning rooms. Medicare issued its own $62,810 fine.

In responding to the Cecchettos’ lawsuit, PACS denied negligence for his death and alleged he “failed to exercise ordinary care on his own behalf for his own safety.” It has sued to overturn the $120,000 state fine, saying it was issued too late and that Sunrise “did what might reasonably be expected of a long-term health care facility licensee acting under similar circumstances” to comply with state rules.

The Cecchettos’ lawsuit asks for a judge to impose robust procedures PACS homes must follow for admissions, staff training, room changes, and the reporting of altercations between residents. The suit asks for a court-appointed monitor to oversee compliance. In its written statement to ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ, PACS said “important context” would come out during the process and declined further comment.

In an interview, Cecchetto’s three sons, Dino, Gino, and Marco Cecchetto, described their father’s life. He spent his childhood on a farm in Italy, growing up under Benito Mussolini. After World War II he moved to Canada, where he learned to tile and lay marble and terrazzo, a decorative flooring material made of chips of stone, glass, or other materials embedded in cement or resin. He relocated to California in the early 1960s, became naturalized, and worked as a tile journeyman and a contractor for decades.

“We don’t want this to happen to somebody again,” Gino Cecchetto said. “With the life he led, he deserved a quiet, dignified death. Instead, he ended his life in pain and fear.”

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

A Tragic, Deadly Denial

I read your article in The Washington Post about the woman whose Humana policy required prior authorization for a drug she’d been taking (Bill of the Month: “She Struggled To Get a Lifesaving Drug Even After Insurers Vowed To Help,” June 29).

My husband, Kenney, had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. On June 7, he fatally shot himself after a COPD exacerbation event.

His pulmonologist had prescribed two new nebulizer prescriptions on June 2. One was a specialty medication that would come directly from the drug company. A couple of days later, we called Walgreens to see why the other one hadn’t been filled. Turns out it required prior authorization.

Why the doctor who prescribed it needed to tell his health insurer that he really did think his patient needed it, I will never understand. The pharmacist said she would send the request to the doctor. And why she hadn’t already done that, again, I do not understand. By June 7, of course, it still wasn’t filled.

That day, a Sunday, Kenney experienced the flare-up when I was out mowing the yard. How terrifying it must have been for him to be unable to breathe and me not being there at least to hold his hand. That night he killed himself, leaving a note saying that he hated to leave me but that he couldn’t keep living like that — with the constant anxiety of not knowing when he wouldn’t be able to draw a breath.

Not long ago, a “welcome” packet came in the mail about the other nebulizer treatment — 25 days after it had been prescribed.

Admittedly, my husband’s health was not great. He did have COPD, but we still went out to eat once in a while, and he didn’t have to take his oxygen on those trips. He rarely used it just walking around the house.

He did make a serious suicide attempt six years ago (our daughter and granddaughter had died), but after seeing what it did to me and our son, he promised he’d never do it again. It was only when these exacerbation/flare-up events started this year that he indicated life was getting bad.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if he had received both medications in a timely manner, he would be here today, and we would have had many more years together. We met when we were 16 and had been together ever since. He was 78 when he died.

— Cindy Clements Blewett; Kyle, Texas

Navigating GLP-1 Coverage

Sydney Lupkin’s thoughtful article about the obstacles in obtaining weight loss drugs was interesting (Healthcare Helpline: “Trouble Getting Weight Loss Drugs Covered by Insurance? Here’s What To Know,” June 26). It would have been more helpful had it included a discussion of Medicare’s decision to cover these drugs as of July 1, 2026, and how to navigate the rocky shores of obtaining a prescription that won’t be denied.

— Sharie Hartman; Manteca, California

Beyond the Veil of Pregnancy Centers

I would like to address the article about a pregnancy resource center providing prenatal care in Sandpoint, Idaho (“Religious Anti-Abortion Center Finds Opportunity in Town Without OB-GYNs,” May 20). It is unfortunate that many still do not understand what pregnancy resource centers do, nor the high-quality care they provide. While there are some “crisis pregnancy centers” that provide limited offerings, most centers are aligned with a national organization like the National Institute of Family and Life Advocates, the Heartbeat Pregnancy Center, or Care Net. All these organizations require centers to have a medical director (a licensed healthcare practitioner) and require that the nurses who perform the ultrasounds have appropriate training. While I am not affiliated with 7B Care Clinic, I am concerned that the article may not have accurately reflected what is provided in such clinics. I offer my experiences to bring further clarity.

I work at a life-affirming women’s clinic. I am a board-certified family physician. I have delivered approximately 1,000 babies in my career. I have been performing ultrasounds for my patients for over a decade, and fought for this ability under the scrutiny of maternal-fetal medicine specialists, spending time alongside their registered diagnostic medical sonographer technicians, and having my scans reviewed by maternal-fetal medicine physicians. I have practiced medicine in three states over three decades.

Second, while I am life-affirming, I am not “anti-abortion.” I happen to believe that there are better choices, and I know that some women will still choose abortion, even after hearing all their options. I will gladly see those women for follow-up to answer questions and evaluate for complications — something that the abortion clinics in my area apparently will not do. I say this because that is what the women I see tell me. The clinic that performed the procedure or gave them the pills will not see a patient after the abortion for any follow-up. I have always willingly seen patients for any reason, whether I was working at a private clinic or hospital-owned clinic. That is no different now that I work for a life-affirming women’s clinic.

We provide a variety of services — free of charge. We are also stepping up to provide prenatal care up to 20 weeks because there is a shortage of obstetrical clinicians in our county. We encourage women to see a clinic where they can be followed throughout the entire pregnancy, if possible, and we are in no way marketing ourselves as competition. We are stepping in to fill the large gap that exists.

Just because the clinic in Sandpoint chooses to respect life does not make it a fake clinic. This clinic seeks to bring in physicians to provide prenatal care. They are bringing in OB-GYNs from Washington state, which has no restrictions on abortion. With this information taken into consideration, I ask you to reconsider any concerns about a clinic bringing board-certified OB-GYNs into an area where there is a shortage.

— James Heid, Vancouver, Washington

The Root of All Good

The article Claudia Boyd-Barrett wrote about how immigrant parents’ arrests are creating a mental health crisis for children was moving and brought awareness to the mental health challenges faced by them (Growing Up Scared: “Arrests of Immigrant Parents Create Mental Health Crisis for Children,” June 18). It was important to note how every story was different but focused on how much children missed and yearned for their parents to come back home. You also wrote about how it affected them by not having a parental figure in the home. That really touched me. Specifically, Jacob’s story and when he listed all the things he missed about his mom but especially being close to her.

I am currently a master’s student in social work working to become a better ally to the Hispanic immigrant community. I’ve seen how being afraid and sad over the immigration policies has affected my friends in this community. Losing a close parent and not being able to have that security with them anymore is hard to go through, and trauma affects children as they grow.

In this article, you have recognized the worth of a person, which is a core principle in social work. These children are worthy and have the right to feel taken care of and secure.

I would love to see more mental health services accessible to immigrant communities and their families. This would benefit children as they learn to cope with their feelings and how to make sense of a new world.

— Stacy Xiong, Athens, Georgia

Bagging a Bargain

Author Susan Jaffe mentioned GoodRx in the article “Thousands of Medicare Beneficiaries Thought Their Drug Plan Was Free. Then They Lost It” (July 7), but she failed to mention a much better discount drug site, Mark Cuban’s costplusdrugs.com, where a 90-day supply of 2.5 milligrams of rivaroxaban, a generic for Xarelto, is available for under $50. This could help the thousands of people who lost coverage through unpaid premiums from Wellcare Value Script obtain their medications. The problem of yearly increasing penalties for losing Part D coverage is something that has to be addressed by the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services.

Thanks to ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ for the relevant coverage.

— Jackie Button; Miami

Fleshing Out the Details

Your report identifying alpha-gal syndrome as a red meat allergy is accurate in that respect but inadequate in its breadth (“Would Hunters Take a Lyme Disease Vaccine? We Asked,” June 30). Alpha-gal is an allergic reaction to virtually all mammalian products. If you explore that, you’ll find an interesting story, as mammalian products are everywhere, including in pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, and other non-meat products. Alpha-gal is growing rapidly, and too many people, including doctors, do not realize that AGS is far worse than just a red meat allergy.

I suggest you help build understanding of the threat by describing the allergy in the future as an allergy to mammalian products. If you do not think your audience will understand that term, perhaps you can explain that it includes pork and anything derived from animals with hooves. As a former and now retired reporter, I encourage you to cover this allergy because its implications are surprising and scary.

— John Varner, Surry, Virginia

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

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

Eight days before my 33rd birthday in April, a social worker at a crisis clinic near Denver determined I was an imminent danger to myself. She placed me on an involuntary 72-hour mental health hold.

What came next wasn’t treatment, but a search for a bed. Clinic staffers called area hospitals with inpatient psychiatric units, asking if they had available beds. They didn’t. So, I was told I had to spend the night at the clinic, which is open 24/7. I settled into a recliner, trying to make myself comfortable as my mind drifted in a blank, disassociated haze. Sleep came in brief bursts.

Since the 1950s, the United States has seen a nationwide due in part to deinstitutionalization and the rise of antipsychotics. But that has created a critical shortage for those needing help. From 2011 to 2023, the number of hospitals with inpatient psychiatric units , according to a 2025 study. Another study from that year found that this country has 28.4 inpatient psychiatric beds per 100,000 people — not even half the 60-bed ratio researchers frequently refer to as the .

The shortage has created what the American Psychiatric Association : emergency rooms overwhelmed with people suffering from severe mental health illnesses, inpatient stays prematurely shortened to speed up bed turnover, and acutely ill individuals left without critical care.

“Where are these people going?” said , an assistant health policy professor at Rutgers University, who co-authored those 2025 studies. “For people who don’t receive this care, they don’t just go away. How is it affecting them? Society? Their families?”

Meanwhile, the White House shut down the part of the national suicide hotline catering to LGBTQ+ youth, President Donald Trump’s 2027 budget proposal calls for cuts to agencies , and Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. recently announced a plan to .”

A Fractured System

I was already intimately familiar with the country’s fractured mental healthcare system before I was involuntarily committed. What I had yet to experience myself, I saw through my wife: waitlists, outpatient programs stretched beyond capacity, and inpatient psychiatric care so scarce that access often depends on surviving a crisis severe enough to justify it.

She died by suicide after we had separated.

As the years passed, grief and anxiety pushed me from observer to patient.

At the crisis clinic, I woke up the following morning disoriented and groggy. In the bathroom — its door deliberately unable to latch, swinging both ways so staffers could enter in case of an emergency — I stood at the sink and watched the faucet run, trying to piece together how I had ended up here.

America’s history of treating mental illness is long and complicated.

The 19th and 20th centuries saw the removal of people with severe mental disorders from jails and — squalid facilities designed to house the poor — to state asylums that (though they ultimately became ). From the 1860s to the 1930s, the number of psychiatric hospitals increased dramatically, according to the American Psychiatric Association, and by 1955, the number of psychiatric beds in the U.S. peaked at more than half a million.

However, owing to the development of antipsychotics, the belief that psychiatric institutions were inhumane, and President John F. Kennedy’s 1963 to free thousands of Americans from a life in institutions, many state hospitals shut down. An estimated for adults and kids are left in a country where more than 14 million experience severe mental illness each year.

Two years after JFK’s legislation passed, a new policy prohibited federal Medicaid funds from covering inpatient psychiatric care in facilities . The goal was to encourage states to move patients out of large, often substandard psychiatric institutions into community-based care settings.

The consequences of these changes, however, have been far-ranging. People with severe mental illnesses are often forced to as they wait for a bed to open. The length of stay in state psychiatric hospitals , according to research by the Treatment Advocacy Center, a national organization focused on eliminating barriers to the treatment of severe mental illness. And some people with mental illness .

From 1986 to 2014, as the behavioral health crisis intensified, mental health expenditures in the U.S. rose from $32 billion to $186 billion — though the proportion of that spending allocated to inpatient care .

This period also recorded major policy shifts affecting inpatient hospitalization rates, notably the 1999 U.S. Supreme Court decision in Olmstead v. L.C. The ruling shifted care away from psychiatric facilities by mandating states to people with developmental and mental disabilities.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” said Leslie Carpenter, legislative advocacy manager at the Treatment Advocacy Center. “A lot of these bills, including the Community Mental Health Act, were really well intended and ended up with adverse consequences.”

For me, that next day at the clinic passed both painfully slowly and in a blur. A staff member I hadn’t met before told me they were still reaching out to hospitals across the region. The search for a bed continued.

‘No One Wants To Pay for Any of This Care’

Last year, members of Congress introduced two bills to change the 16-bed Medicaid funding cap at inpatient psychiatric facilities, the and the , which would increase the cap to 36 beds. Both have stalled in the House.

According to the Congressional Budget Office, a federal agency that analyzes budgetary and economic issues, eliminating the 16-bed limit would increase Medicaid expenditures from 2024 to 2033.

“No one wants to pay for any of this care that people need,” said Colorado state Sen. , a Democrat who has witnessed limitations to Colorado’s mental healthcare system firsthand because her son has schizoaffective disorder.

In lieu of federal action, states are stepping up to bridge the gaps.

Colorado, 15 other states, and Washington, D.C., now operate under waivers allowing Medicaid to fund inpatient facilities for mental health treatment, according to KFF data. Seven additional states have waivers pending. One 2025 study found that these waivers may be tied to fewer hospitalizations, emergency department visits, and incarcerations .

Yet even local efforts to improve mental healthcare face resistance. In California, Colorado, Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, and New York, locals have pushed back against proposed psychiatric facilities for minors, claiming such facilities will worsen safety and lower property values. Behavioral health advocates have disputed these claims and argued they are rooted in stigma.

That psychiatric facility in Colorado was . The state has nearly 20 inpatient beds per 100,000 people, , according to 2022 data across all 50 states plus Washington, D.C., collected by the Treatment Advocacy Center. Wyoming ranked first with 47.3 beds per 100,000 residents, although, as the least populous state, it has only 275 total inpatient beds compared with California’s 5,703. Minnesota ranked last, with only 4.3 inpatient beds per 100,000 residents.

While increasing the number of inpatient psychiatric beds is vital, mental health advocates are also calling for , such as peer support specialists and clubhouses, where people with serious mental illnesses can learn life skills and find community.

When it came time for me to use our mental health safety net, I was among the fortunate ones: At noon the day after my hold began, a bed opened at a hospital in Denver — a rare stroke of luck in a system in which many people wait days or weeks for the care they need. An ambulance transferred me to the hospital at 3 p.m., marking 21 hours into my 72-hour hold.

Two days later, on my last day at the psychiatric hospital, I stood outside the nurse’s station awaiting discharge papers.

A man I had not seen before looked at me and asked, “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you being admitted?”

“Yeah,” he responded. “This is my third time being hospitalized in a year.”

I shook his hand. “Good luck,” I said, and I walked out the door.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

We’re expecting our first baby boy in end of August. And when I think about what it’s going to feel like to take care of my wife and my new son and my mom, it’s a bit overwhelming.

If you are taking care of a child and you have a parent over 65, you’re among millions across the U.S. in the same life stage.

Nearly a quarter of all American adults — and half of all adults in their 40s — fall into this “sandwich generation” category, . And being in the middle of that sandwich can feel … intense.

“I have kind of prided myself on being self-sufficient. And in this season of life, that’s almost been laughable,” said Jason McAnally, a Nashville father of two who helps care for his aging dad.

HealthQ hosts Cara Anthony of ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and Blake Farmer of Nashville Public Radio, both in the sandwich generation themselves, are your approachable guides to an unapproachable healthcare system. In this one-hour special about navigating health and caregiving, they tap researchers, physicians, experts, and their own personal experience to explore:

• Identity: When to start calling yourself a caregiver, and why it matters.
• FMLA: How to start a conversation with your boss about taking federally protected leave from work.
• Kids and mental health: How to know it’s time to take an anxious child to therapy.
• Early-onset cancer: What you need to know about spotting diseases that are on the rise among people under 50.

The HealthQ team acknowledges the messiness, the humor, and the beauty of this season of life. Come on the journey with us.

Can’t see the audio player? Visit kffhealthnews.org to listen.

This installment is part of HealthQ’s reporting on caregiving among the sandwich generation. For more, check out the series archive.

HealthQ is a health series from reporters Cara Anthony and Blake Farmer, approachable guides to an unapproachable healthcare system. It’s a collaboration between Nashville Public Radio and ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

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

QUINCY, Calif. — When Taletha Washburn and the staff at Plumas Charter School first heard that California wanted to help schools treat more kids struggling with mental health, it felt like a well-timed remedy for a rural community where families struggle to find care.

Getting the program funding up and running, however, has proved difficult.

Employees spent two years “spinning our wheels,” attending state-led webinars, filling out countless forms, and researching electronic health record systems to prepare, said Washburn, the school’s executive director. When they reached out for assistance, she said, they waited months for a state response.

The school received its first reimbursement check in April. Washburn said the school has been reimbursed $8,000 and has at least $12,000 in outstanding claims. For a program Washburn had thought could be a game changer in her small rural town, it’s been a disappointing bust.

Plumas Charter is among roughly 1,000 public schools, community colleges, and universities that participate in Gov. Gavin Newsom’s first-in-the-nation initiative requiring that health insurance companies reimburse them for on-campus behavioral healthcare. California schools have been adding counselors, therapists, and psychiatrists to provide services where young people spend most of their time, making mental health treatment more accessible to kids whose families might have spent months waiting to see private therapists.

Five years after the program’s launch, Washburn and other California school officials say they have encountered a rollout fraught with inadequate guidance from the state, an incomplete billing infrastructure, a lack of standardized forms, and persistent delays signing up and getting paid. More than half of California’s school systems and colleges don’t participate in the billing program. Of those that do, fewer than one-fifth as of June 1, according to the latest state data.

The program hasn’t come close to bringing in the half-billion dollars in promised revenue to cover the salaries of thousands of counselors, therapists, and wellness coaches, many of whom school districts hired with a deluge of federal covid pandemic funding. As a result, schools across California have issued amid local budget cuts.

“One of the things that makes people hate government is when we make a promise and then we struggle to keep that promise because we can’t get the administrative part of it up and running,” said state lawmaker Dawn Addis, a former special education teacher and Democrat who has criticized the program’s slow implementation.

Newsom’s office declined to make the governor available for an interview for this article. At a May press conference to release his final state budget proposal, the Democratic governor pointed to the “unprecedented” initiative, saying “no other state in the nation has done more.”

“We have a lot more work to do to deal with the crisis of our time,” Newsom said. “Making investments in wellness, not just physical health, but mental health for our kids, is a good investment.”

He did not answer when asked whether he considered the program a success.

Tom Insel, the former head of the National Institute of Mental Health, who has advised Newsom, said the rocky rollout, in many ways, reflects the groundbreaking nature of what California is trying to do. Still, given the level of investment so far, he too had expected clearer evidence of dramatic improvement.

“What we struggle with in California is: We spend the money, but we don’t always see the outcomes. It’s sobering to realize, especially as an advocate, that you could actually get the programs, get the money, get everything that you want from the policy side, but the execution just isn’t there.”

A First-in-the-Nation Plan?

In 2021, 1 in 10 high school students nationwide said they’d attempted suicide, by then the second-leading cause of death for young people ages 10 to 24.

In response, Newsom announced a “Master Plan for Kids’ Mental Health,” promising an overhaul of California’s behavioral health system that he said would be transformative. National mental health experts said Newsom’s initiative was the most ambitious attempt of any state to tackle a youth mental health crisis that had metastasized during the pandemic.

The state funneled $730 million in one-time funding into workforce efforts, such as campaigns to recruit mental health workers and programs to repay student loans. An additional $220 million has gone to facilitate partnerships between local governments and school officials, and $381 million was distributed in grants to schools and community groups for facilities or services, according to an analysis of program funding by ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ.

The state has spent roughly $532 million to date on digital apps designed to connect families with counseling and provide a consultation service for primary care physicians handling behavioral health issues outside their expertise, while an additional $232 million has gone toward state operations and program evaluations.

And the state has added 1,855 school counselors since 2021, according to statistics from the American School Counselor Association, which in recent years has integrated mental health into professional standards. That’s well below the 10,000 Newsom had pledged by the end of this year as part of his initiative.

The of Newsom’s Children and Youth Behavioral Health Initiative focused on schools and was designed to increase behavioral health services on campus — at no cost to families. Schools would be able to bill health insurers, who would be required to reimburse them.

Some $1.3 billion — nearly a third of the total investment — has gone toward setting up campus wellness centers, new billing infrastructure, and beefing up school-based mental health support in other ways.

Filing claims became an administrative nightmare for schools unfamiliar with the complex world of medical billing.

In February 2025, when the Fresno County Office of Education launched its medical billing, it felt “like building the plane while flying it,” Trina Frazier, assistant superintendent of student services, told lawmakers in a public hearing a couple of months later. The delays were so acute that lawmakers last year authorized $20 million in grants to Fresno and 170 other school systems so they wouldn’t have to lay off newly hired mental health staffers while waiting for reimbursements.

Anaheim Elementary School District in Orange County, which state officials called a “champion” of the program, has recouped more than $1.1 million since its 23 campuses began billing student insurance in February 2025, said program specialist Shirley Diaz.

Still, that accounts for less than 30% of the behavioral health services the district has provided to students over that time. It’s not just the complexity of medical billing that has hampered the claims process. Parents have also been reluctant to provide health insurance information in the largely Latino district, where residents have been fearful of immigration raids carried out by the Trump administration.

To help administer claims across California, the state signed a $65 million contract with Carelon Behavioral Health, a service , one of the nation’s largest health insurers. But schools have struggled to get claims cleared, and many have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to troubleshoot and bill claims.

As of June 1, the Boston-based administrator has approved about 232,100 claims totaling more than $11.3 million to 186 school districts and educational agencies, according to the Department of Health Care Services.

That’s a small fraction of the thousands of entities the state had hoped would participate and far from the $500 million a year state officials told schools the program could eventually provide for school-based mental health services.

“We probably were given the impression that this was going to happen more quickly and now there’s this reality of a kind of slow growth,” said Amy Blackshaw, behavioral health project director for the California School-Based Health Alliance.

Carelon contract manager Christina Kim declined to comment to ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and referred questions to the state. Autumn Boylan, deputy director of the Office of Strategic Partnerships at DHCS, said staff members incorporated early feedback from school districts and extended claim deadlines, loosened onboarding requirements, and hosted webinars and office hours. But changes of this magnitude, she said, take time.

“We’re trying to help the school districts increase their scale,” Boylan told lawmakers at a May 4 hearing. “It’s not a problem of claims being submitted and not paid. It’s a problem of claims not yet being submitted for payment.”

Boylan noted the volume of reimbursements has increased exponentially since the first claims were filed in November 2024.

Meanwhile, children and youths continue to struggle and have trouble accessing care. In 2024, nearly ages 12-17, for example, reported delaying or skipping mental healthcare because they couldn’t get an appointment, while 1 in 4 teens said they did so because of cost, up from roughly 6.5% the previous year, according to data from the California Health Interview Survey.

The share of young adults 18-24 who reported ever seriously considering suicide has stabilized but remains higher than pre-pandemic, according to the annual survey, conducted by the UCLA Center for Health Policy Research.

And while the suicide rate among Californians ages 12-25 has dropped from its high in 2021, this mirrors national trends, and state rates for female and Black youths increased from 2023 to 2024. “We have to have high expectations that when we invest in the magnitude of billions as this program did, we would have results to show,” said Assembly member David Alvarez, a Democrat in San Diego.

Other states have taken note of California’s implementation difficulties, some adopting a few strategies rather than the dozens California chose to roll out at once, said Sharon Hoover, formerly the co-director of the National Center for School Mental Health at the University of Maryland. Illinois, for instance, has focused on universal mental health screenings for schoolchildren while Colorado has expanded coverage of some behavioral health services for youths who lack a formal diagnosis.

“It’s always hard to be first, and someone has to be brave enough and hopeful enough to take that leap,” Hoover said.

Launching its reimbursement program before billing infrastructure was in place, Hoover said, created momentum but also posed challenges to school districts and providers. Still, she added, Newsom’s focus on prevention and early intervention became one of the biggest national policy shifts in years.

“We’re going to look back on this thinking it was one of the most progressive actions in the history of public systems,” said Alex Briscoe, a principal at the nonprofit Public Works Alliance who has pushed for system reform in kids’ mental health. “We spent a significant amount of money preparing for it. I just don’t think we did that very well or strategically.”

Rural Schools Struggle Most

Students at Plumas Charter School had endured a relentless wave of trauma by fall 2021. Wildfires, covid shutdowns, and, weeks into the school year, a car accident that killed a classmate and left two others severely injured. Teachers saw signs of depression, anxiety, and frequent outbursts among their K-12 students. Nine kids that year reported considering suicide, an all-time high.

So, the school hired a full-time therapist and wellness coach with temporary federal funds.

Senior Will Coelho wasn’t there for any of it, but by the time he arrived in the remote California logging town of Quincy a year later, he’d been through plenty of his own loss.

Days before the pandemic lockdowns, a friend had died in a . Isolated at home, Coelho struggled to process his grief, he said. That year, his stepfather became increasingly violent and, after a bitter, years-long custody fight, Coelho left the Central Valley to move in with his dad in the remote town in Northern California, just weeks before starting high school.

One day, he found himself chatting with a faculty adviser, the new kid half-joking about therapy. At her suggestion, Coelho started seeing the school therapist weekly, on campus and free of charge.

“It has had a large impact on the way I process emotions and my outlook on life,” he said.

Behind the scenes, school officials struggled with how they would continue to cover the therapist’s salary.

Twice, the state rejected the school’s application to the state’s landmark billing program, telling school officials they hadn’t met all the requirements, such as having sufficient systems to bill private insurers and collect student insurance information.

When school staffers flagged difficulties filing claims online, Washburn added, state officials suggested they submit paper claims instead.

The experience has soured Washburn and her staff on the program, which she said doesn’t work for small rural districts like hers where the human resources director is also the office business manager, and the faculty member who manages discipline also teaches PE.

DHCS spokesperson Tony Cava said that many charter schools are small and wouldn’t be expected to participate. While charter schools make up about half of eligible entities, Cava said, they serve only 12% of California’s students.

Lawmakers who represent small, rural districts have argued the program should be able to serve all kids. Early this year, Addis proposed legislation that would give intensive technical help to school officials who need it.

Even if it passes, it may be too late to help Plumas Charter. Washburn is unsure her school will reap enough revenue to pay for their therapist. “In theory, this should be a good program,” Washburn said. “We’re too small, and our funds are too limited to just keep waiting.”

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

Her earliest memory is of standing on the passenger seat of her dad’s car as a toddler, wearing a peach-colored blouse, while he drove from their Kentucky home to Florida to pick up drugs. On a stop for a burger, she met Ronald McDonald.

“I grew up with the impression that that’s how you paid your bills,” Madden said. “That’s how your kids got things.”

By 16, she was addicted to pain pills. By 30, methamphetamine. She lost custody of two children and gave up two more for adoption at birth. She served time in the county jail and state prison.

Pregnant again at 40, Madden resolved to stop using. It was then that she learned of The Hub in Whitesburg, a town of 1,575 residents, her hometown.

Over the past two years, the state of Kentucky has sent hundreds of thousands of opioid settlement dollars to the rural eastern region of the state to help minimize the ramifications of drug misuse. The Hub, a program that oversees a network of community centers offering a range of services from recovery peer support to canned food to sterile syringes, is part of that effort.

In April, Kentucky Attorney General Russell Coleman announced $320,000 would be awarded to the Kentucky River District Health Department’s . There are now Hubs in four rural eastern Kentucky counties — Knott, Lee, Letcher, and Owsley, all of which are among the nation’s — addressing substance use disorders, housing, hunger, employment, and other challenges. The program also operates The Hub on Wheels, which provides services throughout the district.

In 2025, The Hub received $545,000 from the same source, facilitating expansion from two to five counties. (The fifth Hub will be in Perry County.) The new $320,000 is a two-year grant to develop a program to help women who’ve been incarcerated reintegrate into society.

Both grants are from Kentucky’s approximately $1 billion share of the $57.8 billion for state and local governments from the to resolve litigation for their role in fueling the opioid overdose crisis.

Madden believes investment in harm reduction services is money well spent. She’s witnessed them work in her own life. She’s found solid footing for recovery at The Hub.

But the Trump administration is cutting federal funding for such efforts, disputing their benefits. A told programs across the country that they could no longer expect federal funding. The order stipulated that discretionary grants issued by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration should not be spent on “so-called ‘harm reduction’” efforts, claiming they “only facilitate illegal drug use and its attendant harm.”

Advocates for these services in this rural region, which cast its ballots for President Donald Trump in all three elections, beg to differ.

Meeting Folks Where They Live

Whitesburg — home to a lively cultural scene, including — is a town residents are fiercely proud to call home. The Hub is housed in a storefront on Main Street, neighboring City Hall, Hazard Coffee Company, Cut-Away Barber & Beauty Shop, and the fire station. Like the other Hubs, it provides a range of services targeted to the needs of the community.

The inaugural Hub, launched in 2022 in Beattyville, the Lee County seat, two hours northwest of Whitesburg, offers breakfast and lunch, a food pantry, a clothing closet, a laundry room, and a computer lab. Also: , a medication that can quickly reverse an opioid overdose; drug test strips; hepatitis C treatment; sterile syringes; and wound care.

The program’s motto is “Meeting you where you are but not leaving you there!” It’s founded on the principles of . Harm reduction services are designed to minimize the effects of drug use, keep people safe, and treat them with respect, until they might be ready to enter recovery. The support includes housing, food, healthcare, and overdose prevention tools.

JoAnn Fraley is Kentucky River’s harm reduction program coordinator and its Hub initiative director. “In order for anybody to sustain recovery, they have to have financial stability, they have to have transportation, and they have to have a home,” she said. “We try to fill those gaps.”

While critics suggest that exchanging clean syringes for used ones abets drug use, research published in the Journal of Substance Use and Addiction Treatment indicates that people who participate in syringe services programs are more likely than those who don’t to or stop using drugs altogether, and that they are more likely to enter and remain in treatment. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, syringe services programs also by about half.

In 2025, Kentucky River’s Hub model was named one of 19 award winners by the National Association of County and City Health Officials.

“What jazzes me about it is it’s a community approach to harm reduction,” said Lauren Carr, who advises the Kentucky Association of Counties on how best to utilize opioid settlement funds. “Whether that’s feeding a hungry stomach, or putting clothes on somebody’s back, or giving them clean [syringes], you’re meeting that person’s needs.”

“It can be that lifeline,” Carr said.

Paying Back for Good

Becky Todd, who leads the Beattyville Hub’s team, is a community health worker and peer support specialist. In April 2024, she was released from jail, having served multiple sentences on drug-related charges. She walked 3 miles from jail to The Hub with nowhere else to go. She’s working toward her bachelor’s degree in social work at Eastern Kentucky University.

“I could not have done it without this place,” Todd said. “It’s my saving grace.”

Amber McDaniel recalls the first time she entered The Hub, after more than a decade of addiction, having lost her home, her kids, and her family’s support. “I didn’t know where to turn, didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I mean, I was about to lose my mind.” She’s now a Hub staff member .

Hannah Stamper was placed in foster care and began using meth at 14. She was drawn to dealing drugs because “I loved for people to need me.” She’s now on staff as a member of , a program that trains AmeriCorps members to work in the recovery field. “People today need me in a good way, and I love that.”

Fraley has witnessed a transition in Lee County. A half-dozen years ago, conversations in public meetings about addiction and homelessness were strained “because nobody wanted to talk about it or acknowledge it.”

The community sees The Hub’s impact, she said, “and now they’re, like, ‘Whoa. We love you.’”

Scott Lockard, the district’s public health director, said a combination of data and anecdotal observations substantiates the initiative’s success, including an increase in the number of people entering treatment and a decline in reported communicable diseases.

“I’ve been in public health for 36 years, and it’s one of the most effective interventions I’ve seen,” Lockard said.

The Kentucky River team worked to educate the community about the potential outcomes of the Hub model, and Fraley said there was little resistance, just concern that the money be well spent. She said the planning has always included people who have lived with addiction.

“Their voice needs to be at every table,” she said.

Lockard agrees. To ensure the community is investing this money wisely, he said, “we’ll talk to those people who are experiencing the problem, find out what they think would help them best, and then look for those evidence-based interventions.”

Jannie Gatlin and Mandy Parker, who both are in recovery, attended a recent crafting class at the Whitesburg Hub. Gatlin, who started taking fentanyl in Colorado after her first son died at 2 months old of a digestive disorder, comes almost every day with her toddler, Hunter.

Parker was prescribed opioids for pain from a kidney disorder. When those pills became less available, she turned to street drugs. “That’s just the nature of the beast,” she said.

She believes The Hub is helping break the stigma of substance use disorder in her community. When people see “real change happening,” she said, there’s a ripple effect. “It makes a difference.”

She appreciates that The Hub is here on Main Street — right, she firmly believes, where it should be.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

“OK, cool,” his mother, J, remembered saying. (J asked to be identified by only her first initial, and Bug by his nickname, because the family fears harassment.)

“‘What do you need to be supported?’” she recalled asking next. “He asked to get healthcare.” 

This was the kind of moment J had been anticipating since the family had moved earlier that year from Texas to Massachusetts, for its more liberal and inclusive politics. She felt confident they could find the right medical experts. But she hadn’t realized that access to gender-affirming treatment could disappear even when their state’s laws and leaders supported it.

Individual hospitals all over the U.S., in red and blue states, have responded to President Donald Trump’s attacks on transgender healthcare by deciding to withdraw care on their own. At least did so in the first months of the Trump administration as it threatened to pull back federal funding or initiate fraud or wrongful-claim investigations, and such services have continued to drop off since.

Bug and his younger sister were born in Austin, Texas, but J and her husband became worried after the state outlawed abortion; dismantled diversity, equity, and inclusion programs; and limited medical and civil rights for queer and transgender people. The parents worried the support services they needed for the siblings, both of whom have autism, might be affected, too.

“I had a fear of being like the frog in the boiling water and not realizing what was happening until it was too late,” J said. “I needed to get the kids out of Texas.”

So when Bug came out as trans, J was relieved they’d landed in a state that not only has a to who offer but also is requiring commercial insurance, which Bug’s family has, to cover it.

After Bug’s gender announcement, J’s queries led her to the largest hospital system in the region, Springfield, Massachusetts-based , where they began the months-long process of getting set up to start hormone therapy.

Bug, an artistic 14-year-old who loves horses, cats, and making short films with friends, was too old for , but he was excited about the prospect of starting on testosterone. That would cause his voice to deepen, facial hair to grow, and muscles to get bigger.

“Every part of it sounds fun,” he said.

But this past February, two weeks before Bug was scheduled to start testosterone, Baystate announced it would no longer provide gender-affirming medications to minors, offering only counseling. A letter to patients’ families did not explain why.

Baystate spokesperson Heather Duggan sent a statement that said the decision to end treatment for minors reflected the fact that Baystate could lose “hundreds of millions of dollars in government reimbursement” as a result of the Trump administration’s plans. “Nearly 70 percent of Baystate Health’s patients rely on Medicaid and Medicare for coverage,” it said.

All Bug knew was that the care he’d eagerly awaited was about to vanish.

“I felt frustrated that they would do that,” Bug said.

“I bet there’s tons and tons of kids who are like: ‘OK, I’m going for trans-affirming healthcare. Yay!’” he said. “And then, like, tons and tons of kids were disappointed and sad and frustrated.”

J said it felt as if the floor had fallen out from under them. “Maybe this is naive, but I didn’t think that would happen in Massachusetts,” she said.

Baystate is among the providers still choosing not to offer puberty blockers and hormones as the issue wends its way through the courts. This spring, in , a federal judge concluded that it was unlawful for the Department of Health and Human Services to threaten federal funding for providers that offered gender-affirming care to minors. In June, another federal judge cleared 16 states, including Massachusetts, with another lawsuit against the administration over its push to criminalize gender-affirming care.

The American Academy of Pediatrics declined an interview request but said in a that young patients and their families should make decisions about gender-affirming care with their doctors, “delivered with compassion, and offered without political interference.”

One mother of a former Baystate patient said that before her child came out as a transgender girl, she had been severely depressed, battling suicidal thoughts. (The mother asked that only her first initial, L, be used, because the family also fears harassment.)

After Baystate doctors prescribed puberty blockers and estrogen, her daughter’s mood and grades rose markedly, L said. So when she received the letter announcing Baystate was ending the medical treatment, she was furious. L said she and other parents filed civil rights complaints with the Massachusetts attorney general.

The attorney general’s office did not respond to a request for comment.

“There’s a sense of, ‘How could you?’” L said. “And there’s also the awareness of the impact just pulling care could have on a youth — from a physical health perspective but also from a mental health perspective.”

L and J both found alternatives for their children. L asked the family’s primary care doctor to take over hormone prescriptions. Bug’s family was referred to in Northampton, Massachusetts, that said it has taken on about 50 of Baystate’s former patients.

“Transhealth has been staffing ourselves up for a while now in anticipation of the fact that this may be happening across the state,” said.

Erwin said Transhealth can weather the funding threats because the clinic gets large private donations and is not as dependent on Medicaid and Medicare as most hospitals. But Erwin said that doesn’t entirely reassure the broader LGBTQ+ community, including transgender adults.

“When you see something like that go down, people get scared that it’s ultimately going to happen to everyone,” Erwin said.

In May, Colorado’s Supreme Court in that state to resume medical treatments for transgender youths, while in Texas compelled a children’s hospital there to do the opposite — start the nation’s first “detransition clinic.” The Trump administration has continued to pressure providers, including by of transgender minors.

After Bug’s false start at Baystate, he was able to start taking testosterone at the new clinic in the spring.

His mother, J, said that the treatment is going smoothly and that Bug has learned how to give himself the injections. But J is nervous that the federal government will find other ways to stop his treatment again. She sometimes second-guesses the family’s move from Texas to Massachusetts, wondering whether they should have gone to Canada instead.

This article is from a partnership that includes , , and ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

Can’t see the audio player? Visit kffhealthnews.org to listen.

Being a family caregiver is hard work. On June 17, ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ Midwest correspondent Cara Anthony joined WAMU’s Health Hub to discuss her experience with parenting while also caring for aging parents. Listen in as she shares tips for other members of the “sandwich generation.”

Are you juggling the responsibilities of raising children and having aging parents?

Navigating that role can come with new responsibilities, stressors, and unexpected expenses, but claiming the caregiver identity can help. Researchers have found that people who identify as caregivers are more likely to use support services and feel a sense of community with others.

³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ correspondent Cara Anthony joined WAMU’s Health Hub on June 17 to share her experiences as a parent with aging parents.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .

His aunt sat at the dining table, sobbing. His father, who’d walked him to the bus stop that morning and promised to take him to dinner when he got back, wasn’t there.

Saúl Zermeño, a 45-year-old single dad, had gone to a routine check-in appointment at an Immigration and Customs Enforcement office that morning, a requirement he’d complied with for years. The father had deferred action that allowed him to stay and work in the U.S., according to his attorney. But that day, Oct. 3, officers deported him to Mexico, where he hadn’t lived since he was 9 years old. Zermeño had been Damian’s sole caregiver since he was a baby because his mother chose not to be involved in the boy’s life, the family said.

Suddenly, Damian, who was born in the U.S., found himself separated from his father by thousands of miles and a heavily guarded border. The previously cheerful 10th grader, who doesn’t have a driver’s license and can make a few basic dishes but isn’t used to cooking for himself, faced navigating his teenage years alone, his dad’s presence reduced to a two-dimensional image on his phone.

“I thought it wasn’t true,” Damian said. “I just went to my room. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t even want to eat.”

Damian is among an estimated , most of them U.S. citizens, separated from a parent by the Trump administration’s deportation policies. Their mothers and fathers have been deported or locked for months inside detention centers, often from where their families live. These children are separated, , from the adults they depend on. Parents have been arrested while , , and at immigration check-ins with their children present. Most people detained have . (Being in the U.S. without authorization is typically a civil offense). With their parents gone, kids’ lives are plunged into fear and uncertainty.

As a result, a generation of children from immigrant families are exhibiting mental health problems that could .

Parents, therapists, and others who work with immigrant families said they’ve already encountered preschoolers with speech delays, elementary school children who talk of suicide, and teenagers too anxious to leave the house. Research has shown repeatedly that separating children from their parents . The stress of losing a primary caregiver creates havoc in a child’s brain and body, increasing their risk for mental and physical health problems, including depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder, a weakened immune system, and developmental delays.

“You can just see it in their faces; it’s almost like the light has been dimmed in their eyes,” said the Rev. Tanya Lopez, a pastor at Downey Memorial Christian Church who regularly visits immigrant families as part of a made up of Los Angeles-area religious leaders.

The health risks from this stress response are long-term. People who experience parental separation and other traumatic events as children are heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and other chronic conditions as adults.

In a statement, the Department of Homeland Security said ICE does not separate families, and that parents are asked if they want to be removed from the country with their children or to designate a safe person for them to stay with in the U.S.

However, by the Women’s Refugee Commission and Physicians for Human Rights found that many parents aren’t given that choice, and that ICE often doesn’t ask detainees if they have children or take steps to ensure that children left behind are safe. Saúl Zermeño said ICE officers didn’t ask about his son or check on Damian’s well-being when he was deported.

For days after his father’s deportation, Damian didn’t want to leave his room, eat, or go to school. He stopped talking to his friends. He stopped playing his favorite video game, Fears To Fathom. When he returned to school a week later, the teenager would cry in class or walk out overwhelmed with sadness. Even his favorite subject — English — lost its appeal.

Damian and his father were inseparable; family members joked that they never saw one without the other. Zermeño took Damian, who has attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, autism, and other health conditions, to his medical appointments. He cooked for him and combed his hair. He loved to take Damian to his favorite Thai restaurant or to get boba drinks after school. As much as they joked around and played pranks on each other, Zermeño also taught Damian the importance of work by bringing him along to construction jobs and to find supplies at Home Depot.

Damian used to get annoyed with his father’s motivational chats about responsibility. Now they’re one of the things he misses most.

“I thank my dad every day for teaching me to be strong before he left,” Damian said.

Elsewhere in Los Angeles, Jacob, a shy 9-year-old with cropped, curly hair, skinny limbs, and a serious expression, was missing his mom. On a Saturday in May, he clung tightly to his father’s hand as they walked among homeless people, street peddlers, and the stench of urine that hangs in the air outside the building where they live in a cramped apartment. He hoped his mom would soon be released from immigration detention so that he could hug her again.

“If my mom was here, I’d be happy,” he said. “Right now, I’m not.”

Jacob is in some ways a typical 9-year-old. He likes playing Roblox and Street Fighter. He dreams of becoming a police officer and of owning a guard dog, “because you can train them and they defend you.”

But he also endured a harrowing journey, even before being separated from his mom in January. Jacob’s family fled their home country of Colombia in 2024 because members of a paramilitary group threatened to kill them, his father, Andreis, said. During their journey to the United States, Jacob saw dead bodies while trekking through the jungle, was kidnapped and robbed at gunpoint with his parents, witnessed a rape, and had to sell candy and beg for money, his dad said. ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ is not using the father’s or son’s real name because the family fears it would jeopardize their asylum cases.

After the family arrived in Los Angeles, Jacob suffered from nightmares and an intense fear of being alone. He started to recover once he began attending school and got connected to therapy through the school district, his dad said. For a short while, the family felt they had found peace.

Then, immigration officers detained Jacob’s mother at a check-in appointment while he and Andreis sat in the waiting room. The mother has a pending asylum application and no criminal record, Andreis said. The father said he and his son broke down when officers informed them of his wife’s detention, handing them a bag with her wallet and cellphone. They returned home without her, leaving Jacob inconsolable.

“He was terrified,” the father said, fighting back tears, his voice growing quiet as he recounted that moment. “He was crying with rage.”

After that, Jacob didn’t want to eat or go to school. When he went to school at his dad’s insistence, his teacher called home to ask why he was crying in class. Jacob couldn’t sleep. He acted out. He blamed his dad.

“When will my mom come back?” he asked his dad. “Why do they have my mom? I miss my mom.”

At the same time, Andreis said, he was going through his own crisis, trying in vain to console his son while wrestling with grief, worry, and desperation over what happened to his wife. He stopped his work as a laborer for two weeks to take care of Jacob, but that created financial stress and meant he sometimes couldn’t afford to fund his wife’s commissary account so she could buy better food and make phone calls. Jacob lived for those phone calls.

Jacob listed all the things he missed about his mom, including her cooking (rice with meat, corn cakes with egg), visiting the park together, and her taking him to get his hair cut, treating him to McDonald’s on the weekend, and bringing him to church. Most of all, he missed being close to her.

“I would lie down with her, and I’d watch videos with her,” he said. “My mom would hug me and I’d hug her.”

Sometimes he sprayed her perfume on himself so he could smell her.

After almost five months at the Adelanto ICE Processing Center, Jacob’s mother was released based on a habeas corpus petition in May. The family is still living in fear of detention or deportation. The father worries he too could be detained, and what that would mean for Jacob. Andreis is currently appealing a removal order for the two of them.

A published by the Brookings Institution estimates that over 200,000 children — including 145,000 U.S. citizen children — have likely had at least one parent detained since President Donald Trump returned to office. About a third of those children are under age 6. The number of children with detained parents is expected to grow as the federal government pours over $200 billion into immigration enforcement, including funding from the GOP’s and a appropriation Trump signed this month.

More than 4.6 million U.S. citizen children live with a parent at risk of deportation, according to the report.

Families Broken

Noemi, a Guatemalan mother and asylum seeker, stood in the parking lot at an ICE office north of Los Angeles, her three children wailing and clinging to her, glass from the family’s car scattered at their feet.

Moments earlier, immigration agents had smashed a window and forced her partner out of the car while he waited for Noemi and the kids to finish a check-in appointment. While they were inside, officers tried to separate Noemi from the couple’s children, ages 9, 7, and 1, but gave up after the kids started screaming, Noemi said. Meanwhile, her partner, a Mexican national who’s lived in the U.S. for almost 20 years, was sent to the ICE detention center in Adelanto.

“It was something tragic, something inexplicable that happened that day,” said Noemi, who asked to withhold her full name because she fears government retaliation for sharing her story. “It’s something that marks you for your whole life. My family was broken.”

Located in the Mojave Desert, the privately run Adelanto ICE Processing Center is the immigration detention center closest to Los Angeles and in the U.S. It held a daily average of as of April, and a facility next door called the Desert View Annex held an additional 426.

Since her partner’s detention in December, Noemi said, their children haven’t been the same.

Her 7-year-old daughter, till then usually happy and smiling, became depressed and refused to eat. Her once-high grades plummeted, and she forgot the names of letters and numbers in both English and Spanish. She and her 9-year-old brother struggled to sleep and asked constantly about their dad, wondering if he was taken because they’d done something wrong.

“Why is this happening to us?” they asked her. “We’re good. We’re studying.”

Noemi’s youngest daughter went back to crawling for three months, even though she’d already learned to walk before her father was taken. The little girl would cry out in her sleep, “Pa! Pa!”

Sofia Mendoza, a therapist who works with immigrant families at a community clinic in Los Angeles County, said separated children can experience a form of grief. It’s hard for them to come to terms with their parent’s absence because the parent is still alive, but not with them. This can disrupt the child’s bond with that parent and their ability to form trusting relationships in the future, she said.

Many children also become extremely anxious, angry, and fearful, Mendoza said. Young children often complain of physical symptoms such as stomachaches, develop separation anxiety, and regress to earlier behaviors like bed-wetting. Older children may have panic attacks, nightmares, and difficulty focusing, Mendoza said. Caregiver loss is also associated with and substance use in children.

Norma Gómez, a project manager for the Mixteco Indigena Community Organizing Project in Oxnard, said after immigration raids shook the community last summer, her 9-year-old daughter refused to go to school for a week and was afraid to leave her mom and dad, even though they’re legal U.S. residents. She’d seen other kids at school crying because family members had been detained. Gómez showed her daughter their U.S. residency documents to reassure her. The child asked to make copies for her classmates, hoping they would protect them too.

‘Time To Be an Adult’

Back in East Los Angeles, Damian is living with one of his aunts and struggling to adapt to not having his father around. He said his grades have dropped because he can’t focus in school. He no longer wants to do things he used to enjoy with his dad, such as going out to eat.

“Fun is over,” he said. “It’s time to be an adult right now.”

Being without his father has forced Damian to become more independent, he and his aunt Claudia Zermeño said. Before, his dad did almost everything for him. Now, Damian does his own laundry, helps with housework, and styles his own hair. He’s protective of his aunts, who are both devastated by their brother’s absence; he hugs them frequently and tells jokes to try to cheer them up. He doesn’t want to upset them more by showing his own sadness.

Damian receives therapy both in and outside of school. He said he’s learned breathing exercises that have helped, but he still feels sad and worried a lot of the time. Sometimes he feels angry.

“I try my hardest to think, to stay focused,” he said. “But with everything that’s going on, I can’t keep the facade of ‘everything’s normal’ when I feel heartbroken.”

Saúl Zermeño, now living in Guadalajara, said he’s worried about his son’s health. Damian has a genetic condition called , which causes tumors to grow on nerve tissue in his body, including one in his head that, if not checked regularly by a doctor and monitored by his family, could interfere with his brain. He also suffers from epilepsy and was born with only one kidney, which means he tires easily and doesn’t play sports. Saúl is afraid his son won’t get the care he needs without him there. As Damian’s legal guardian, Claudia Zermeño is doing everything she can for him, but she has two children of her own and is also caring for her mother, who has neurological problems from a stroke.

Damian talks with his dad as often as he can. He hopes to visit his father in Mexico, but he doesn’t have a passport and, as a minor under 16, there are more requirements to get one without his dad present. Saúl is working with an attorney to get permission to legally return to the U.S., but the process is complicated and uncertain.

So, for now, Damian’s hanging on to hope that his dad will be allowed to return and is trying to become the man he believes he should be. He’s making plans to get his driver’s license when he turns 16 this month. He’s given up his goal of going to college and instead wants to get a job right after high school to help his aunts and send money to his dad.

He still cries, but only when he’s alone in his room.

This article first appeared on ³Ô¹Ï²»´òìÈ and is republished here under a .