Residential treatment facilities are usually nondescript homes tucked into neighborhoods. The state’s lowest-intensity homes can provide people with alcohol and drug addiction leaving inpatient care a bridge to independent living. They’re the final option of four tiers of clinical housing and aim to offer residents stability amid daily stressors.

But these particular houses have been disappearing 鈥� down to 10 sites today from 14 in 2022. That was the year the state started paying providers a blanket rate for their services through Medicaid, the state-federal program for people with low incomes and disabilities. At the same time, the state increased the homes’ staffing requirements.

State health department officials lauded the 2022 change as an expansion in access to care, saying it increased the houses’ pay and matched the cost to operate. But providers warned at the time that it could backfire because the rates weren’t high enough to cover the new staffing rules.

Terri Russell, who runs John “Scott” Hannon House, a treatment home in Helena, said it has been hard to break even since, and she’s watched other sites close under financial pressure.

“It’s the hardest thing in the world to watch a person leave treatment and go back down to the homeless shelter, or go on the street,” Russell said.

The new voucher program could help fill in some of the gap, Russell said. Approved by the state in April, it pays low-intensity treatment residences to house uninsured people as they sign up for Medicaid or other health coverage. The idea is to reduce barriers to care for vulnerable patients at a key point in their recovery. But the money is capped at $35 a day, with a $1,000 limit per resident a year.

“It’s like it was somebody’s idea for a band-aid,” said Demetrius Fassas, who runs Butte Spirit Homes, which has two eight-bed facilities.

He said the payments fall well below the cost of providing care. And, because of the vouchers’ cap, the aid could run out weeks before someone knows whether they qualify for Medicaid coverage.

Low-intensity programs vary in how long patients stay; it could be a few months or more than a year. Fassas said when things go as intended, clients find stable jobs. That success can lead to residents earning too much money to qualify for Medicaid but not enough to afford the full cost of care.

Providers have said funding issues are widespread for substance use disorder programs but that shortfalls especially hit these low-intensity homes. The tension in Montana mirrors challenges elsewhere around how to fund transitional treatment so that patients don’t fall off a cliff in their recovery because care is unavailable.

As of 2022, at least 33 states were using money from Medicaid to help run residential treatment programs, . Federal rules prohibit Medicaid dollars from going to room and board at transitional homes, though states can chip in their own money. In North Dakota, for example, lawmakers set aside state funds for a voucher program that addresses treatment barriers, which include the cost of room and board.

Montana once was among the states that let providers seek help covering room and board costs for its poorer residents. The money came from federal grants the state manages for addiction treatment and prevention.

But those room and board grants stopped when Montana’s health department shifted to higher, bundled Medicaid rates in 2022. According to , reducing the block grants to the low-intensity homes allowed officials to put that money toward other “prevention priorities.”

The new rules the state added at the same time brought the residential facilities up to American Society of Addiction Medicine standards. That included having on-site clinical services, a clinical director for each home, and an employee working anytime a resident was in the home, including night shifts.

Fassas, of Butte Spirit Homes, called the rules bittersweet. They increased the quality of care. But, Fassas said, he had to hire six additional workers to comply with the rules and the company now runs at a loss if he doesn’t find additional grants.

Jon Ebelt, a spokesperson with the Montana Department of Public Health and Human Services, said the new rates, $143 a day per Medicaid resident, were developed by a state-paid contractor as part of Montana’s effort to match the cost of care.

Ebelt said administrative costs were factored into the state’s Medicaid rate, and that traditional room and board expenses typically fall into that category.

Low-intensity homes’ rates haven’t increased since they went into place in 2022.

Malcolm Horn, chief behavioral health officer for the Rimrock Foundation, said the facilities need more help in covering expenses like the mortgage, repairs to the home, or feeding residents.

The Rimrock Foundation, which is based in Billings, is one of Montana’s largest mental health providers. Horn said after the new rules were implemented, Rimrock converted one of its two low-intensity homes for women with children into high-intensity housing, which pays more. The switch displaced families in the low-intensity program.

“We couldn’t actually sustain having both those houses,” Horn said.

Montana officials for the voucher program and estimated that money would help cover initial housing for 329 people in 2024.

Terri Todd, who runs the nonprofit Gratitude in Action in Billings for people in recovery, advocated for the program during the 2023 legislative session. She said the goal had been to follow North Dakota’s model to help cover addiction care for people facing barriers. But Montana lawmakers scaled that back, which Todd attributed to concerns about cost.

Todd said that while what survived the legislature is less than what she had hoped for, the voucher program is still a start in addressing barriers to care.

State Rep. Mike Yakawich, the Republican who proposed the program, said it was initially so broad, he learned, it overlapped with some existing efforts. But he said state staffers told him the low-intensity group homes’ room and board costs were an area that could use more funding.

Yakawich said securing any money felt like a win in a funding tug-of-war. More help to stabilize the state’s mental health system is coming.

Money for the vouchers is coming out of Republican Gov. Greg Gianforte’s HEART Fund initiative, which is due to invest about $25 million a year toward behavioral health programs. Separately, state that they’re creating grants to increase Montana’s bed capacity across residential facilities, including for substance use treatment providers. That money could go toward reopening closed facilities.

But Yakawich said even that infusion of money won’t provide enough to go around.

“Everybody wants a chunk of the pie, and not everyone’s going to get it,” he said.

The voucher program is scheduled to expire in three years, Yakawich said. By then, he said, maybe he can persuade lawmakers to renew the program 鈥� with more money.

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Less-Lethal Weapons Blind, Maim and Kill. Victims Say Enough Is Enough.

We Want to Hear From You

What are you seeing at protests on your college campus? We want to hear from you. Send tips to NewsTips@kff.org.

Police were pushing into the camp after an hours-long standoff. Chan, 31, a medical tent volunteer, said protesters limped in with severe puncture wounds, but there was little hope of getting them to a hospital through the chaos outside. Chan suspects the injuries were caused by rubber bullets or other “less lethal” projectiles, which police have confirmed were fired at protesters.

“It would pierce through skin and gouge deep into people’s bodies,” she said. “All of them were profusely bleeding. In OB-GYN we don’t treat rubber bullets. 鈥� I couldn’t believe that this was allowed to be [done to] civilians 鈥� students 鈥� without protective gear.”

The UCLA protest, which gathered thousands in opposition to Israel’s ongoing bombing of Gaza, began in April and grew to a dangerous crescendo this month when counterprotesters and police clashed with the activists and their supporters.

In interviews with 素人色情片Health News, Chan and three other volunteer medics described treating protesters with bleeding wounds, head injuries, and suspected broken bones in a makeshift clinic cobbled together in tents with no electricity or running water. The medical tents were staffed day and night by a rotating team of doctors, nurses, medical students, EMTs, and volunteers with no formal medical training.

At times, the escalating violence outside the tent isolated injured protesters from access to ambulances, the medics said, so the wounded walked to a nearby hospital or were carried beyond the borders of the protest so they could be driven to the emergency room.

“I’ve never been in a setting where we’re blocked from getting higher level of care,” Chan said. “That was terrifying to me.”

Three of the medics interviewed by 素人色情片Health News said they were present when police swept the encampment May 2 and described multiple injuries that appeared to have been caused by “less lethal” projectiles.

Less lethal projectiles 鈥� including beanbags filled with metal pellets, sponge-tipped rounds, and projectiles commonly known as rubber bullets 鈥� are used by police to subdue suspects or disperse crowds or protests. Police drew widespread condemnation for using the weapons against Black Lives Matter demonstrations that swept the country after the killing of George Floyd in 2020. Although the name of these weapons downplays their danger, less lethal projectiles can travel upward of 200 mph and have a documented potential to injure, maim, or kill.

The medics’ interviews directly contradict an account from the Los Angeles Police Department. After police cleared the encampment, LAPD Chief Dominic Choi on the social platform X that there were “no serious injuries to officers or protestors” as police moved in and made more than 200 arrests.

In response to questions from 素人色情片Health News, both the LAPD and California Highway Patrol said in emailed statements that they would investigate how their officers responded to the protest. The LAPD statement said the agency was conducting a review of how it responded, which would lead to a “detailed report.”

The Highway Patrol statement said officers warned the encampment that “non-lethal rounds” may be used if protesters did not disperse, and after some became an “immediate threat” by “launching objects and weapons,” some officers used “kinetic specialty rounds to protect themselves, other officers, and members of the public.” One officer received minor injuries, according to the statement.

Video footage that circulated online after the protest appeared to show a Highway Patrol officer firing less lethal projectiles at protesters with a shotgun.

“The use of force and any incident involving the use of a weapon by CHP personnel is a serious matter, and the CHP will conduct a fair and impartial investigation to ensure that actions were consistent with policy and the law,” the Highway Patrol said in its statement.

The UCLA Police Department, which was also involved with the protest response, did not respond to requests for comment.

Jack Fukushima, 28, a UCLA medical student and volunteer medic, said he witnessed a police officer shoot at least two protesters with less lethal projectiles, including a man who collapsed after being hit “square in the chest.” Fukushima said he and other medics escorted the stunned man to the medical tent then returned to the front lines to look for more injured.

“It did really feel like a war,” Fukushima said. “To be met with such police brutality was so disheartening.”

Back on the front line, police had breached the borders of the encampment and begun to scrum with protesters, Fukushima said. He said he saw the same officer who had fired earlier shoot another protester in the neck.

The protester dropped to the ground. Fukushima assumed the worst and rushed to his side.

“I find him, and I’m like, 鈥楬ey, are you OK?’” Fukushima said. “To the point of courage of these undergrads, he’s like, 鈥榊eah, it’s not my first time.’ And then just jumps right back in.”

Sonia Raghuram, 27, another medical student stationed in the tent, said that during the police sweep she tended to a protester with an open puncture wound on their back, another with a quarter-sized contusion in the center of their chest, and a third with a “gushing” cut over their right eye and possible broken rib. Raghuram said patients told her the wounds were caused by police projectiles, which she said matched the severity of their injuries.

The patients made it clear the police officers were closing in on the medical tent, Raghuram said, but she stayed put.

“We will never leave a patient,” she said, describing the mantra in the medical tent. “I don’t care if we get arrested. If I’m taking care of a patient, that’s the thing that comes first.”

The UCLA protest is one of many that have been held on college campuses across the country as students opposed to Israel’s ongoing war in Gaza demand universities support a ceasefire or divest from companies tied to Israel. Police have used force to remove protesters at Columbia University, Emory University, and the universities of Arizona, Utah, and South Florida, among others.

At UCLA, student protesters set up a tent encampment on April 25 in a grassy plaza outside the campus’s Royce Hall theater, , according to the Los Angeles Times. Days later, a “violent mob” of counterprotesters “attacked the camp,” the Times reported, attempting to tear down barricades along its borders and throwing fireworks at the tents inside.

The following night, police issued an unlawful assembly order, then swept the encampment in the early hours of May 2, clearing tents and arresting hundreds by dawn.

Police have been widely criticized for not intervening as the clash between protesters and counterprotesters dragged on for hours. The University of California system announced it has to investigate the violence and “resolve unanswered questions about UCLA’s planning and protocols, as well as the mutual aid response.”

Charlotte Austin, 34, a surgery resident, said that as counterprotesters were attacking she also saw about 10 private campus security officers stand by, “hands in their pockets,” as students were bashed and bloodied.

Austin said she treated patients with cuts to the face and possible skull fractures. The medical tent sent at least 20 people to the hospital that evening, she said.

“Any medical professional would describe these as serious injuries,” Austin said. “There were people who required hospitalization 鈥� not just a visit to the emergency room 鈥� but actual hospitalization.”

Police Tactics 鈥楲awful but Awful’

UCLA protesters are far from the first to be injured by less lethal projectiles.

In recent years, police across the U.S. have repeatedly fired these weapons at protesters, with virtually no overarching standards governing their use or safety. Cities have spent millions to settle lawsuits from the injured. Some of the wounded have never been the same.

During the nationwide protests following the police killing of George Floyd in 2020, at least 60 protesters sustained serious injuries 鈥� including blinding and a broken jaw 鈥� from being shot with these projectiles, sometimes in apparent violations of police department policies, according to a by 素人色情片Health News and USA Today.

In 2004, in Boston, a college student celebrating a Red Sox victory was killed by a projectile filled with pepper-based irritant when it tore through her eye and into her brain.

“They’re called less lethal for a reason,” said Jim Bueermann, a former police chief of Redlands, California, who now leads the Future Policing Institute. “They can kill you.”

Bueermann, who reviewed video footage of the police response at UCLA at the request of 素人色情片Health News, said the footage shows California Highway Patrol officers firing beanbag rounds from a shotgun. Bueermann said the footage did not provide enough context to determine if the projectiles were being used “reasonably,” which is a standard established by federal courts, or being fired “indiscriminately,” which was outlawed by a California law in 2021.

“There is a saying in policing 鈥� 鈥榣awful but awful’ 鈥� meaning that it was reasonable under the legal standards but it looks terrible,” Bueermann said. “And I think a cop racking multiple rounds into a shotgun, firing into protesters, doesn’t look very good.”

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“We lose loved ones all the time, but he was taken in a horrific way,” his mother, Janee Robinson, said from the family’s Inland Empire home, about 80 miles southeast of Los Angeles. “I would never want nobody to go through what I’m going through.”

The day her son died, Robinson, who teaches phys ed, kept her elementary school students inside, and she had hoped her children’s teachers would do the same.

The Riverside County Coroner’s Bureau ruled that Yahushua died on Aug. 29 of a heart defect, with heat and physical exertion as contributing factors. His death at Canyon Lake Middle School came on the second day of an excessive heat warning, when people were and limit their time outdoors.

Yahushua’s family is supporting in California that would require the state Department of Education to create guidelines that govern physical activity at public schools during extreme weather, including setting threshold temperatures for when it’s too hot or too cold for students to exercise or play sports outside. If the measure becomes law, the guidelines will have to be in place by Jan. 1, 2026.

Many states have adopted protocols to protect student athletes from extreme heat during practices. But the California bill is broader and would require educators to consider all students throughout the school day and in any extreme weather, whether they’re doing jumping jacks in fourth period or playing tag during recess. It’s unclear if the bill will clear a critical committee vote scheduled for May 16.

“Yahushua’s story, it’s very touching. It’s very moving. I think it could have been prevented had we had the right safeguards in place,” said state Sen. Melissa Hurtado (D-Bakersfield), one of the bill’s authors. “Climate change is impacting everyone, but it’s especially impacting vulnerable communities, especially our children.”

Last year marked the planet’s warmest on record, and extreme weather is becoming more frequent and severe, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Even though most heat deaths and illnesses are preventable, about every year, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Young children are especially susceptible to heat illness because their bodies have more trouble regulating temperature, and they rely on adults to protect them from overheating. A person can go from feeling dizzy or experiencing a headache to passing out, having a seizure, or going into a coma, said , a physician and the division chief of general pediatrics at Loma Linda University Health.

“It can be a really dangerous thing,” Vercio said of heat illness. “It is something that we should take seriously and figure out what we can do to avoid that.”

It’s unclear how many children have died at school from heat exposure. Eric Robinson, 15, had been sitting in his sports medicine class learning about heatstroke when his sister arrived at his high school unexpectedly the day their brother died.

“They said, 鈥極K, go home, Eric. Go home early.’ I walked to the car and my sister’s crying. I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “I can’t believe that my little brother’s gone. That I won’t be able to see him again. And he’d always bugged me, and I would say, 鈥楲eave me alone.’”

That morning, Eric had done Yahushua’s hair and loaned him his hat and chain necklace to wear to school.

As temperatures climbed into the 90s that morning, a physical education teacher instructed Yahushua to run on the blacktop. His friends told the family that the sixth grader had repeatedly asked the teacher for water but was denied, his parents said.

The school district has refused to release video footage to the family showing the moment Yahushua collapsed on the blacktop. He died later that day at the hospital.

Melissa Valdez, a Lake Elsinore Unified School District spokesperson, did not respond to calls seeking comment.

Schoolyards can reach on hot days, with asphalt sizzling up to 145 degrees, according to findings by researchers at the UCLA Luskin Center for Innovation. Some school districts, such as and , have hot weather plans or guidelines that call for limiting physical activity and providing water to kids. But there are no statewide standards that K-12 schools must implement to protect students from heat illness.

Under the bill, the California Department of Education must set temperature thresholds requiring schools to modify students’ physical activities during extreme weather, such as heat waves, wildfires, excessive rain, and flooding. Schools would also be required to come up with plans for alternative indoor activities, and staff must be trained to recognize and respond to weather-related distress.

California has had heat rules on the books for outdoor workers since 2005, but it was a latecomer to , according to the at the University of Connecticut, which is named after a Minnesota Vikings football player who died from heatstroke in 2001. By comparison, Florida, where Gov. Ron DeSantis, a Republican, this spring preventing cities and counties from creating their own heat protections for outdoor workers, has the best protections for student athletes, according to the institute.

Douglas Casa, a professor of kinesiology and the chief executive officer of the institute, said state regulations can establish consistency about how to respond to heat distress and save lives.

“The problem is that each high school doesn’t have a cardiologist and doesn’t have a thermal physiologist and doesn’t have a sickling expert,” Casa said of the medical specialties for heat illness.

In 2022, California released an that recommended state agencies “explore implementation of indoor and outdoor heat exposure rules for schools,” but neither the administration of Gov. Gavin Newsom, a Democrat, nor lawmakers have adopted standards.

Lawmakers last year failed to pass legislation that would have required schools to implement a heat plan and replace hot surfaces, such as cement and rubber, with lower-heat surfaces, such as grass and cool pavement. , which drew opposition from school administrators, stalled in committee, in part over cost concerns.

Naj Alikhan, a spokesperson for the Association of California School Administrators, said the new bill takes a different approach and would not require structural and physical changes to schools. The association has not taken a position on the measure, and no other organization has registered opposition.

The Robinson family said children’s lives ought to outweigh any costs that might come with preparing schools to deal with the growing threat of extreme weather. Yahushua鈥榮 death, they say, could save others.

“I really miss him. I cry every day,” said Yahushua’s father, Eric Robinson. “There’s no one day that go by that I don’t cry about my boy.”

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She had delighted in watching her dad, John Schapers, blow out the candles on his 90th birthday cake that February at the West Lawrence Care Center in the New York City borough. Then the home went into lockdown.

Soon her father was dead. The former union painter spiked a fever and was transferred to a hospital, where he tested positive for covid, his daughter said, and after two weeks on a ventilator, he died in May 2020.

But when Trever Schapers sued the nursing home for negligence and wrongful death in 2022, a judge dismissed the case, citing a New York state law hastily passed early in the pandemic. It granted immunity to medical providers for “harm or damages” from an “act or omission” in treating or arranging care for covid. She is appealing the decision.

“I feel that families are being ignored by judges and courts not recognizing that something needs to be done and changed,” said Schapers, 48, who works in the medical field. “There needs to be accountability.”

The nursing home did not return calls seeking comment. In a court filing, the home argued that Schapers offered no evidence that the home was “grossly negligent” in treating her father.

More than four years after covid first raged through many U.S. nursing homes, hundreds of lawsuits blaming patient deaths on negligent care have been tossed out or languished in the courts amid contentious legal battles.

Even some nursing homes that were shut down by health officials for violating safety standards have claimed immunity against such suits, court records show. And some families that allege homes kept them in the dark about the health of their loved ones, even denying there were cases of covid in the building, have had their cases dismissed.

Schapers alleged in a complaint to state health officials that the nursing home failed to advise her that it had admitted covid-positive patients from a nearby hospital in March 2020. In early April, she received a call telling her the facility had some covid-positive residents.

“The call I received was very alarming, and they refused to answer any of my questions,” she said.

About two weeks later, a social worker called to say that her father had a fever, but the staff did not test him to confirm covid, according to Schapers’ complaint.

The industry says federal health officials and lawmakers in most states granted medical providers broad protection from lawsuits for good faith actions during the health emergency. Rachel Reeves, a senior vice president with the American Health Care Association, an industry trade group, called covid “an unprecedented public health crisis brought on by a vicious virus that uniquely targeted our population.”

In scores of lawsuits, however, family members allege that nursing homes failed to secure enough protective gear or tests for staffers or residents, haphazardly mixed covid-positive patients with other residents, failed to follow strict infection control protocols, and brazenly misled frightened families about the severity of covid outbreaks among patients and staff.

“They trusted these facilities to take care of loved ones, and that trust was betrayed,” said Florida attorney Lindsey Gale, who has represented several families suing over covid-related deaths.

“The grieving process people had to go through was horrible,” Gale said.

A Deadly Toll

素人色情片Health News found that more than 1,100 covid-related lawsuits, most alleging wrongful death or other negligent care, were filed against nursing homes from March 2020 through March of this year.

While there’s no full accounting of the outcomes, court filings show that judges have dismissed some suits outright, citing state or federal immunity provisions, while other cases have been settled under confidential terms. And many cases have stalled due to lengthy and costly arguments and appeals to hash out limits, if any, of immunity protection.

In their defense, nursing homes initially cited the federal , which Congress passed in December 2005. The law grants liability protection from claims for deaths or injuries tied to vaccines or “medical countermeasures” taken to prevent or treat a disease during national emergencies.

The PREP Act steps in once the secretary of Health and Human Services declares a “,” which happened with covid on . The on May 11, 2023.

The law carved out an exception for “willful misconduct,” but proving it occurred can be daunting for families 鈥� even when nursing homes have long histories of violating safety standards, including infection controls.

Governors of at least 38 states issued covid executive orders, or their legislatures passed laws, granting medical providers at least , according to one consumer group’s tally. Just how much legal protection was intended is at the crux of the skirmishes.

Nursing homes answered many negligence lawsuits by getting them removed from state courts into the federal judicial system and asking for dismissal under the PREP Act.

For the most part, that didn’t work because federal judges declined to hear the cases. Some judges ruled that the PREP Act was not intended to shield medical providers from negligence caused by inaction, such as failing to protect patients from the coronavirus. These rulings and appeals sent cases back to state courts, often after long delays that left families in legal limbo.

“These delays have been devastating,” said Jeffrey Guzman, a New York City attorney who represents Schapers and other families. He said the industry has fought “tooth and nail” trying to “fight these people getting their day in court.”

Empire State Epicenter

New York, where covid hit early and hard, is ground zero for court battles over nursing home immunity.

Relatives of residents have filed more than 750 negligence or wrongful death cases in New York counties since the start of the pandemic, according to court data 素人色情片Health News compiled using the judicial reporting service Courthouse News Service. No other area comes close. Chicago’s Cook County, a jurisdiction where private lawyers for years have aggressively sued nursing homes alleging poor infection control, recorded 121 covid-related cases.

Plaintiffs in hundreds of New York cases argue that nursing homes knew early in 2020 that covid would pose a deadly threat but largely failed to gird for its impact. Many suits cite inspection reports detailing chronic violations of infection control standards in the years preceding the pandemic, court records show. Responses to this strategy vary.

“Different judges take different views,” said Joseph Ciaccio, a New York lawyer who has filed hundreds of such cases. “It’s been very mixed.”

Lawyers for nursing homes counter that most lawsuits rely on vague allegations of wrongdoing and “boilerplate” claims that, even if true, don’t demonstrate the kind of gross negligence that would override an immunity claim.

New York lawmakers added another wrinkle by repealing the immunity statute in April 2021 after Attorney General Letitia James could give nursing homes a free pass to make “financially motivated decisions” to cut costs and put patients at risk.

So far, appeals courts have ruled lawmakers didn’t specify that the repeal should be made retroactive, thus stymying many negligence cases.

“So these cases are all wasting the courts’ time and preventing cases that aren’t barred by immunity statutes from being resolved sooner and clogging up the court system that was already backlogged from COVID,” said attorney Anna Borea, who represents nursing homes.

Troubled Homes Deflect Suits

Some nursing homes that paid hefty fines or were ordered by health officials to shut down at least temporarily because of their inadequate response to covid have claimed immunity against suits, court records show.

Among them is Andover Subacute and Rehabilitation nursing home in New Jersey, which made when authorities found 17 bodies stacked in a makeshift morgue in April 2020.

Federal health officials $220,235 after issuing a critical 36-page report on covid violations and other deficiencies, and the state halted admissions in February 2022.

Yet the home has won court pauses in at least three negligence lawsuits as it appeals lower court rulings denying immunity under the federal PREP Act, court records show. The operators of the home could not be reached for comment. In court filings, they denied any wrongdoing.

In Oregon, at Healthcare at Foster Creek, calling the Portland nursing home “a serious danger to the public health and safety.” The May 2020 order cited the home’s “consistent inability to adhere to basic infection control standards.”

Bonnie Richardson, a Portland lawyer, sued the facility on behalf of the family of Judith Jones, 75, who had dementia and died in April 2020. Jones’ was among dozens of covid-related deaths at that home.

“It was a very hard-fought battle,” said Richardson, who has since settled the case under confidential terms. Although the nursing home claimed immunity, her clients “wanted to know what happened and to understand why.” The owners of the nursing home provided no comment.

No Covid Here

Many families believe nursing homes misled them about covid’s relentless spread. They often had to settle for to connect with their loved ones.

Relatives of five patients who died in 2020 at the Sapphire Center for Rehabilitation and Nursing in the Flushing neighborhood in Queens filed lawsuits accusing the home’s operators of keeping them in the dark.

When they phoned to check on elderly parents, they either couldn’t get through or were told there was “no COVID-19 in the building,” according to one court affidavit.

One woman grew alarmed after visiting in February 2020 and seeing nurses wearing masks “below their noses or under their chin,” according to a court affidavit.

The woman was shocked when the home relayed that her mother had died in April 2020 from unknown causes, perhaps “from depression and not eating,” according to her affidavit.

A short time later, that dozens of Sapphire Center residents had died from the virus 鈥� her 85-year-old mother among them, she argued in a lawsuit.

The nursing home denied liability and won dismissal of all five lawsuits after citing the New York immunity law. Several families are appealing. The nursing home’s administrator declined to comment.

Broadening Immunity

Nursing home operators also have cited immunity to foil negligence lawsuits based on falls or other allegations of substandard care, such as bedsores, with little obvious connection to the pandemic, court records show.

The family of Marilyn Kearney, an 89-year-old with a “history of dementia and falls,” sued the Watrous Nursing Center in Madison, Connecticut, for negligence. Days after she was admitted in June 2020, she fell in her room, fracturing her right hip and requiring surgery, according to court filings.

She died at a local hospital on Sept. 16, 2020, from sepsis attributed to dehydration and malnutrition, according to the suit.

Her family argued that the 45-bed nursing home failed to assess her risk of falling and develop a plan to prevent that. But Watrous fired back by citing an April 2020 declaration by Connecticut Gov. Ned Lamont, a Democrat, granting health care professionals or facilities immunity from “any injury or death alleged to have been sustained because of the individual’s or health care facility’s acts or omissions undertaken in good faith while providing health care services in support of the state’s COVID-19 response.”

Watrous denied liability and, in a motion to dismiss the case, cited Lamont’s executive order and affidavits that argued the home did its best in the throes of a “public health crisis, the likes of which had never been seen before.” The operators of the nursing home, which closed in July 2021 because of covid, did not respond to a request for comment. The case is pending.

Attorney Wendi Kowarik, who represents Kearney’s family, said courts are wrestling with how much protection to afford nursing homes.

“We’re just beginning to get some guidelines,” she said.

One pending Connecticut case alleges that an 88-year-old man died in October 2020 after experiencing multiple falls, sustaining bedsores, and dropping more than 30 pounds in the two months he lived at a nursing home, court records state. The nursing home denied liability and contends it is entitled to immunity.

So do the owners of a Connecticut facility that cared for a 75-year-old woman with obesity who required a lift to get out of bed. She fell on April 26, 2020, smashing several teeth and fracturing bones. She later died from her injuries, according to the suit, which is pending.

“I think it is really repugnant that providers are arguing that they should not be held accountable for falls, pressure sores, and other outcomes of gross neglect,” said Richard Mollot, executive director of the Long Term Care Community Coalition, which advocates for patients.

“The government did not declare open season on nursing home residents when it implemented COVID policies,” he said.

Protecting the Vulnerable

Since early 2020, U.S. nursing homes have residents’ deaths, according to Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services data. That’s about 1 in 7 of all recorded U.S. covid deaths.

As it battles covid lawsuits, the nursing home industry says it is “struggling to recover due to ongoing labor shortages, inflation, and chronic government underfunding,” according to Reeves, the trade association executive.

She said the American Health Care Association has advocated for “reasonable, limited liability protections that defend staff and providers for their good faith efforts” during the pandemic.

“Caregivers were doing everything they could,” Reeves said, “often with limited resources and ever-changing information, in an effort to protect and care for residents.”

But patients’ advocates remain wary of policies that might bar the courthouse door against grieving families.

“I don’t think we want to continue to enact laws that reward nursing homes for bad care,” said Sam Brooks, of the Coalition for the Protection of Residents of Long-Term Care Facilities, a patient advocacy group.

“We need to keep that in mind if, God forbid, we have another pandemic,” Brooks said.

Bill Hammond, a senior fellow at the Empire Center for Public Policy, a nonpartisan New York think tank, said policymakers should focus on better strategies to protect patients from infectious outbreaks, rather than leaving it up to the courts to sort out liability years later.

“There is no serious effort to have that conversation,” Hammond said. “I think that’s crazy.”

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素人色情片Health News senior correspondent Jordan Rau discussed how most nursing homes don’t have enough personnel to meet new federal staffing rules on Apple News’ “Apple News Today” on April 26.

• Read Rau’s “Biden Administration Sets Higher Staffing Mandates. Most Nursing Homes Don’t Meet Them.”

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

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This story can be republished for free (details).

Sarai Holguín, de 71 años y originaria de México, ha aceptado la bala alojada cerca de su rodilla como su “compa”, es decir, una amiga cercana.

A Mireya Nelson, de 15, la alcanzó una bala que atravesó su mandíbula y le rompió el hombro, donde quedaron fragmentos. Por ahora vivirá con ellos, mientras los médicos monitorean los niveles de plomo en su sangre por al menos dos años.

A casi tres meses del tiroteo en el desfile del Super Bowl de los Kansas City Chiefs, que dejó al menos 24 personas heridas, recuperarse de esas heridas es algo profundamente personal e incluye una sorprendente área gris de la medicina: si las balas deberían o no extraerse.

El protocolo médico no ofrece una respuesta clara. Una encuesta de 2016 entre cirujanos reveló que de los encuestados trabajaban en instalaciones médicas que tenían normas sobre la extracción de balas.

Los médicos en Estados Unidos a menudo dejan las balas enterradas profundamente en el cuerpo de una persona, al menos al principio, para no causar más trauma.

Pero a medida que la violencia armada surge como una epidemia de salud pública, si esa práctica es la mejor.

Algunos de los heridos, como James Lemons, quedan en una situación precaria. “Si hay una manera de sacarla y se saca de forma segura, sáquenla fuera de la persona”, dijo Lemons. “Hagan que esa persona se sienta más segura consigo misma. Y que no tengas que estar caminando con ese recuerdo dentro de tí”.

Lemons, Holguín y Nelson están sobrellevando las cosas de manera muy diferente.

El dolor se convirtió en un problema

Tres días después de que los Chiefs ganaran el Super Bowl, Lemons condujo las 37 millas desde Harrisonville, Missouri, hasta el centro de Kansas City para celebrar la victoria. Lemons, quien trabaja en un depósito, llevaba a su hija de 5 años, Kensley, en sus hombros cuando sintió una bala entrar en la parte posterior de su muslo derecho.

Los disparos se desataron en un área abarrotada de fans, , después de una “confrontación verbal” entre dos grupos. Los detectives encontraron “múltiples cartuchos de bala calibre 9 mm y .40” en el lugar. Lemons dijo que entendió inmediatamente lo que estaba sucediendo.

“Conozco mi ciudad. No estamos lanzando fuegos artificiales”, dijo.

Mientras se tiraban al听 suelo, Lemons protegió el rostro de Kensley para que no golpeara sobre el cemento. Su primer pensamiento fue llevar a su familia 鈥攕u esposa, Brandie; su hija de 17 años, Kallie; y su hijo de 10 años, Jaxson鈥� a un lugar seguro.

“Me dispararon. Pero no te preocupes”, recordó Lemons que le dijo a Brandie. “Tenemos que irnos”.

Llevó a Kensley en sus hombros mientras la familia caminaba una milla hasta su auto. Al principio su pierna sangraba a través de sus pantalones, pero después paró, dijo. Ardía de dolor. Brandie insistió en llevarlo al hospital, pero el tráfico estaba estancado, así que encendió las luces de emergencia y condujo en la dirección opuesta.

Lemons recordó que ella dijo: “’Te estoy llevando al hospital. Estoy cansada de que la gente se interponga en mi camino'”. “Nunca había visto a mi esposa así. La miré y pensé, 鈥榚sto es algo sexy'”.

Contó que le sonrió a su esposa y aplaudió, a lo que ella respondió: “驴Por qué estás sonriendo? Acaban de dispararte”. Se mantuvo en silenciosa admiración hasta que los detuvo un sheriff, que llamó a una ambulancia, recordó Lemons.

Lo llevaron a la sala de emergencias de University Health, que ese día , incluidos ocho con heridas de bala. Las placas mostraron que la bala apenas había esquivado una arteria, dijo Lemons.

Los médicos limpiaron la herida, pusieron su pierna en un aparato ortopédico y le dijeron que regresara en una semana. La bala todavía estaba en su pierna.

“Me sentí un poco desconcertado, pero pensé, 鈥楨stá bien, lo que sea, saldré de aquí'”, recordó Lemons.

Cuando regresó, los médicos le quitaron el aparato ortopédico pero le explicaron que a menudo dejan balas y fragmentos en el cuerpo, a menos que se vuelvan demasiado dolorosos.

“Entiendo, pero no me gusta eso”, dijo Lemons. “驴Por qué no la sacarías si pudieras?”

Leslie Carto, vocera de University Health, dijo que el hospital no puede comentar sobre la atención de pacientes debido a las leyes federales de privacidad.

Los cirujanos generalmente extraen las balas cuando las encuentran durante la cirugía o cuando están en lugares peligrosos, como en el canal espinal, o a punto de dañar un órgano, explicó , cirujano pediátrico del Connecticut Children’s.

Campbell también preside el Comité de Prevención y Control de Lesiones del Comité de Trauma del Colegio Americano de Cirujanos, que trabaja en la prevención de lesiones por armas de fuego.

, cirujano entrenado en trauma y fundador de la 听en St. Louis, dijo que los orígenes de la atención del trauma también ayudan a explicar por qué las balas generalmente no se extraen.

“La atención del trauma es medicina de guerra”, dijo Punch. “Está preparada para estar lista en cualquier momento, todos los días, para salvar una vida. No está equipada para cuidar la curación que se necesita después”.

En la encuesta a los cirujanos, las razones más comunes dadas para extraer una bala fueron el dolor, una bala palpable alojada cerca de la piel o una infección. Mucho menos comunes fueron la intoxicación por plomo y las preocupaciones de salud mental como el trastorno de estrés postraumático y la ansiedad.

Los cirujanos dijeron que lo que querían los pacientes también impactaba en sus decisiones.

Lemons quería que le quitaran la bala. El dolor en su pierna se irradiaba desde su muslo, lo que le dificultaba moverse durante más de una hora o dos. Era imposible trabajar en el depósito.

“Tengo que levantar 100 libras cada noche”, recordó Lemons que le dijo a sus médicos. “Tengo que levantar a mi hijo. No puedo trabajar así”.

Ha perdido sus ingresos y su seguro de salud. Otro racha de mala suerte: el dueño de la casa que alquilaban decidió venderla poco después del desfile, y tuvieron que encontrar un nuevo lugar para vivir.

La casa actual es más pequeña, pero era importante mantener a los niños en el mismo distrito escolar con sus amigos, dijo Lemons en una entrevista en el dormitorio rosa de Kensley, el lugar más tranquilo para hablar.

Han pedido dinero prestado y recaudaron para ayudar con el depósito y las reparaciones del automóvil, pero el tiroteo del desfile ha dejado a la familia en un profundo pozo financiero.

Sin seguro, Lemons temía no poder pagar para que le extrajeran la bala. Luego se enteró que su cirugía sería pagada por donaciones. Programó una cita en un hospital al norte de la ciudad, donde un cirujano tomó medidas en su radiografía y le explicó el procedimiento.

“Necesito que estés involucrado tanto como yo voy a estar involucrado”, recordó que le dijeron, “porque 鈥攁divina qué鈥� esta no es mi pierna”.

La cirugía está programada para este mes.

“Nos hicimos amigas”

Sarai Holguín no es gran fanática de los Chiefs, pero aceptó ir al rally en Union Station para mostrarle a su amiga el mejor lugar para ver a los jugadores en el escenario.

Era un día inusualmente cálido, y estaban paradas cerca de una entrada donde había muchos policías. Había papás con bebés en cochecitos, los niños jugaban al fútbol americano y Holguín se sentía segura.

Un poco antes de las 2 pm, escuchó lo que pensó que eran fuegos artificiales. La gente comenzó a correr lejos del escenario. Se dio vuelta, tratando de encontrar a su amiga, pero se sintió mareada. No se dio cuenta que le habían disparado. Tres personas rápidamente la ayudaron a tirarse al suelo, y un extraño se quitó la camisa e hizo un torniquete en su pierna izquierda.

Holguín, originaria de Puebla, México, ciudadana estadounidense desde 2018, nunca había visto tanto caos, tantos paramédicos trabajando bajo tanta presión. Fueron “héroes anónimos”, dijo.

Los vio atendiendo a Lisa López-Galván, una conocida DJ de 43 años y dos hijos. López-Galván murió en el lugar, y fue la única víctima mortal. A Holguín la llevaron a University Health, a unos cinco minutos de Union Station.

Allí, la operaron, pero dejaron la bala en su pierna. Holguín se despertó en medio de más caos. Había perdido su bolso y su teléfono celular, así que no pudo llamar a César, su esposo. La internaron en el hospital bajo un alias, una práctica común en los centros médicos para comenzar a atender al paciente de inmediato.

Su esposo e hija no la encontraron hasta cerca de las 10 pm, unas ocho horas después de que le dispararan.

“Ha sido un gran trauma para mí”, dijo Holguín a través de un intérprete. “Estaba herida y en el hospital sin haber hecho nada malo. [El rally] era un momento para jugar, relajarse, estar juntos”.

Holguín estuvo una semana internada, e inmediatamente tuvo dos cirugías ambulatorias más para eliminar el tejido muerto alrededor de la herida. Usó un dispositivo especial durante varias semanas y tuvo citas médicas cada dos días.

Campbell, el cirujano de trauma, dijo que esos dispositivos, llamados “de cierre asistido por vacío” son comunes cuando las balas dañan tejidos que no se pueden reconstruir fácilmente en la cirugía. (Ayudan a acelerar el proceso de cierre de la herida)

“No son solo las lesiones físicas”, dijo Campbell. “Muchas veces son las lesiones emocionales, psicológicas, que muchos de estos pacientes también experimentan”.

La bala sigue cerca de la rodilla de Holguín.

“La tendré por el resto de mi vida”, dijo, agregando que ella y la bala se han convertido en “compas”, amigas cercanas. “Nos hicimos amigas para que ella no me haga ningún otro daño”, dijo Holguín sonriendo.

Punch, de la Bullet Related Injury Clinic en St. Louis, dijo que algunas personas como Holguín pueden tener la fortaleza mental para vivir con una bala en el cuerpo.

“Si puedes crear una historia sobre lo que significa que esa bala esté en tu cuerpo, eso te da poder; te empodera”, dijo Punch.

La vida de Holguín cambió en un instante: está usando un andador para moverse. Su pie, dijo, actúa “como si hubiera tenido un derrame cerebral”, se queda colgando y es difícil mover los dedos de los pies.

La consecuencia más frustrante es que no puede viajar para ver a su padre de 102 años, que está en México. Lo ve en video a través de su teléfono, pero eso no ofrece mucho consuelo, dijo, y pensar en él la hace llorar.

En el hospital le dijeron que sus facturas médicas serían cubiertas, pero luego muchas de ellas llegaron por correo. Intentó obtener ayuda para las víctimas del estado de Missouri, pero le costo entender todos los formularios que tenía porque estaban en inglés.

Solo alquilar el dispositivo de cierre asistido por vacío costaba $800 al mes.

Finalmente escuchó que el Consulado de México en Kansas City podía ayudar, y el cónsul la remitió a la Oficina del Fiscal del condado de Jackson, donde se registró como víctima oficial. Ahora todas sus facturas están siendo pagadas, dijo.

Holguín no buscará tratamiento de salud mental, ya que cree que uno debe aprender a vivir con una situación determinada o se convertirá en una carga. “He procesado este nuevo capítulo en mi vida”, dijo Holguín. “Nunca me he rendido y seguiré adelante con la ayuda de Dios”.

“Vi sangre en mis manos”

Mireya Nelson llegó tarde al desfile. Su madre, Erika, le dijo que se fuera temprano, por el tráfico y el millón de personas que se esperaba en el centro de Kansas City, pero ella y sus amigos adolescentes ignoraron el consejo. Los Nelson viven en Belton, Missouri, aproximadamente a media hora al sur de la ciudad.

Mireya quería sostener el trofeo del Super Bowl. Cuando ella y sus tres amigos llegaron, el desfile que había pasado por el centro ya había terminado y había comenzado el rally en Union Station. Estaban atrapados entre la multitud y se aburrieron rápido, dijo Mireya.

Mireya y una de sus amigas intentaron llamar al conductor de su grupo para irse, pero no tenían señal en el celular, por la gran multitud.

En medio del caos de personas y ruido, Mireya de repente se desplomó.

“Vi sangre en mis manos. Así que supe que me habían disparado. Sí, y simplemente me arrastré hacia un árbol”, dijo Mireya. “En realidad, al principio no sabía dónde me habían disparado. Solo ví sangre en mis manos”.

La bala rozó la barbilla de Mireya, atravesó su mandíbula, le rompió el hombro y salió por su brazo. Quedaron fragmentos de bala en su hombro. Los médicos decidieron dejarlos porque la joven ya había sufrido mucho daño.

Por ahora, la madre de Mireya apoya esa decisión, señalando que eran solo “fragmentos”. “Creo que si no la van a dañar el resto de su vida”, dijo Erika, “no quiero que siga volviendo al hospital y teniendo cirugías. Eso es más trauma para ella y más tiempo de recuperación, más terapia física y cosas así”.

Punch dijo que los fragmentos de bala, especialmente los que son solo superficiales, a menudo se abren paso como astillas, aunque a los pacientes no siempre se les dice eso. Además, agregó, las lesiones causadas por las balas se extienden más allá de aquellos con tejido dañado a las personas a su alrededor, como Erika. Pidió un enfoque holístico para recuperarse de todo el trauma.

“Cuando las personas permanecen en su trauma, ese trauma puede cambiarlas para toda la vida”, dijo Punch.

Mireya será sometida a en su sangre durante al menos los próximos dos años. Ahora sus niveles están bien, dijeron los médicos a la familia, pero si empeoran, necesitará cirugía para remover los fragmentos, dijo su madre.

Campbell, el cirujano pediátrico, dijo que el plomo es particularmente preocupante para los niños pequeños, cuyos cerebros en desarrollo los hacen especialmente vulnerables a sus . Incluso 鈥�3.5 microgramos por decilitro鈥� es suficiente para informar a las autoridades de salud estatales, según los Centros para el Control y Prevención de Enfermedades (CDC).

Mireya habla sobre adolescentes lindos, pero todavía usa pijamas de Cookie Monster. Parece confundida por los tiroteos, por toda la atención en casa, en la escuela, de los periodistas. Cuando le preguntaron cómo se siente sobre los fragmentos en su brazo, dijo: “Realmente no me importan”.

Después de su estadía en el hospital, Mireya tomó antibióticos durante 10 días porque los médicos temían que hubieran bacterias en la herida. Ha tenido terapia física, pero es doloroso hacer los ejercicios. Tiene una cicatriz en la barbilla. “Una muesca”, dijo, que es “irregular”.

“Dijeron que tuvo suerte porque si no hubiera girado la cabeza de cierta manera, podría haber muerto”, dijo Erika.

Mireya enfrenta una evaluación psiquiátrica y sesiones de terapia, aunque no le gusta hablar de sus sentimientos.

Hasta ahora, el seguro de Erika está pagando las facturas médicas, aunque espera obtener algo de ayuda del fondo , que recaudó casi $1.9 millones, o de una organización de fe llamada .

Erika no quiere limosnas. Tiene un trabajo en atención médica y acaba de tener un ascenso.

La bala ha cambiado la vida de la familia de muchas maneras. Ahora forma parte de sus charlas. Hablan sobre cómo desearían saber qué tipo de munición era, o cómo se veía.

“Como si quisiera quedarme con la bala que atravesó mi brazo”, dijo Mireya. “Quiero saber qué tipo de bala era”. Eso provocó un suspiro de su mamá, quien dijo que su hija había visto demasiados episodios de “Forensic Files”.

Erika se culpa por la herida, porque no pudo proteger a su hija en el desfile.

“Me duele mucho porque me siento mal, porque ella me suplicó que dejara el trabajo y no fui allí porque cuando tienes un puesto nuevo, no puedes simplemente irte del trabajo”, dijo Erika. “Porque yo hubiera recibido la bala. Porque haría cualquier cosa. Es lo que hace una mamá”.

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James Lemons, 39, wants the bullet removed from his thigh so he can go back to work.

Sarai Holguin, a 71-year-old woman originally from Mexico, has accepted the bullet lodged near her knee as her “compa” 鈥� a close friend.

They Were Injured at the Super Bowl Parade. A Month Later, They Feel Forgotten.

In the first of our series “The Injured,” a Kansas family remembers Valentine’s Day as the beginning of panic attacks, life-altering trauma, and waking to nightmares of gunfire. Thrown into the spotlight by the shootings, they wonder how they will recover.

Mireya Nelson, 15, was hit by a bullet that went through her jaw and broke her shoulder, where fragments remain. She’ll live with them for now, while doctors monitor lead levels in her blood for at least two years.

Nearly three months after the Kansas City Chiefs Super Bowl parade shooting left at least 24 people injured, recovery from those wounds is intensely personal and includes a surprising gray area in medicine: whether the bullets should be removed.

Medical protocol offers no clear answer. A 2016 survey of surgeons found that of respondents worked at medical facilities that had policies on bullet removal. Doctors in the U.S. often leave bullets buried deep in a person’s body, at least at first, so as not to cause further trauma.

But as gun violence has emerged as a public health epidemic, if that practice is best. Some of the wounded, like James Lemons, are left in a precarious place.

“If there’s a way to get it out, and it’s safely taken out, get it out of the person,” Lemons said. “Make that person feel more secure about themselves. And you’re not walking around with that memory in you.”

Lemons, Holguin, and Nelson are coping in very different ways.

Pain Became a Problem

Three days after the Chiefs won the Super Bowl, Lemons drove the 37 miles from Harrisonville, Missouri, to downtown Kansas City to celebrate the victory. The warehouse worker was carrying his 5-year-old daughter, Kensley, on his shoulders when he felt a bullet enter the back of his right thigh.

Gunfire erupted in the area packed with revelers, , after a “verbal confrontation” between two groups. Detectives found “multiple 9mm and .40 caliber spent shell casings” at the scene. Lemons said he understood immediately what was happening.

“I know my city. We’re not shooting off fireworks,” he said.

Lemons shielded Kensley’s face as they fell to the ground so she wouldn’t hit the concrete. His first thought was getting his family 鈥� also including his wife, Brandie; 17-year-old daughter, Kallie; and 10-year-old son, Jaxson 鈥� to safety.

“I’m hit. But don’t worry about it,” Lemons recalled telling Brandie. “We gotta go.”

He carried Kensley on his shoulders as the family walked a mile to their car. His leg bled through his pants at first then stopped, he said. It burned with pain. Brandie insisted on driving him to the hospital but traffic was at a standstill so she put on her hazard lights and drove on the wrong side of the road.

“She’s like: 鈥業’m getting you to a hospital. I’m tired of people being in my way,’” Lemons recalled. “I’ve never seen my wife like that. I’m looking at her like, 鈥楾hat’s kinda sexy.’”

Lemons clapped and smiled at his wife, he said, to which she replied, “What are you smiling for? You just got shot.” He stayed in quiet admiration until they were stopped by a sheriff, who summoned an ambulance, Lemons said.

He was taken to the emergency room at University Health, which from the rally, including eight with gunshot wounds. Imaging showed the bullet barely missed an artery, Lemons said. Doctors cleansed the wound, put his leg in a brace, and told him to come back in a week. The bullet was still in his leg.

“I was a little baffled by it, but I was like, 鈥極K, whatever, I’ll get out of here,’” Lemons recalled.

When he returned, doctors removed the brace but explained they often leave bullets and fragments in the body 鈥� unless they grow too painful.

“I get it, but I don’t like that,” Lemons said. “Why wouldn’t you take it out if you could?”

University Health spokesperson Leslie Carto said the hospital can’t comment on individual patient care because of federal privacy laws.

Surgeons typically do remove bullets when they encounter them during surgery or they are in dangerous locations, like in the spinal canal or risking damage to an organ, said , a pediatric surgeon at Connecticut Children’s.

Campbell also chairs the Injury Prevention and Control Committee of the American College of Surgeons’ Committee on Trauma, which works on firearm injury prevention.

, a trauma surgeon by training and the founder of the in St. Louis, said the origins of trauma care also help explain why bullets are so often left.

“Trauma care is war medicine,” Punch said. “It is set to be ready at any moment and any time, every day, to save a life. It is not equipped to take care of the healing that needs to come after.”

In the survey of surgeons, the most common reasons given for removing a bullet were pain, a palpable bullet lodged near the skin, or an infection. Far less common were lead poisoning and mental health concerns such as post-traumatic stress disorder and anxiety.

What patients wanted also affected their decisions, the surgeons said.

Lemons wanted the bullet out. The pain it caused in his leg radiated up from his thigh, making it difficult to move for more than an hour or two. Working his warehouse job was impossible.

“I gotta lift 100 pounds every night,” Lemons recalled telling his doctors. “I gotta lift my child. I can’t work like this.”

He has lost his income and his health insurance. Another stroke of bad luck: The family’s landlord sold their rental home soon after the parade, and they had to find a new place to live. This house is smaller, but it was important to keep the kids in the same school district with their friends, Lemons said in an interview in Kensley’s pink bedroom, the quietest spot to talk.

They’ve borrowed money and raised to help with the deposit and car repairs, but the parade shooting has left the family in a deep financial hole.

Without insurance, Lemons worried he couldn’t afford to have the bullet removed. Then he learned his surgery would be paid for by donations. He set up an appointment at a hospital north of the city, where a surgeon took measurements on his X-ray and explained the procedure.

“I need you to be involved as much as I’m going to be involved,” he remembered being told, “because 鈥� guess what 鈥� this ain’t my leg.”

The surgery is scheduled for this month.

鈥榃e Became Friends’

Sarai Holguin isn’t much of a Chiefs fan, but she agreed to go to the rally at Union Station to show her friend the best spot to see the players on stage. It was an unseasonably warm day, and they were standing near an entrance where lots of police were stationed. Parents had babies in strollers, kids were playing football, and she felt safe.

A little before 2 p.m., Holguin heard what she thought were fireworks. People started running away from the stage. She turned to leave, trying to find her friend, but felt dizzy. She didn’t know she’d been shot. Three people quickly came to her aid and helped her to the ground, and a stranger took off his shirt and made a tourniquet to put on her left leg.

Holguin, a native of Puebla, Mexico, who became a U.S. citizen in 2018, had never seen so much chaos, so many paramedics working under such pressure. They were “anonymous heroes,” she said.

She saw them working on Lisa Lopez-Galvan, a well-known DJ and 43-year-old mother of two. Lopez-Galvan died at the scene, and was the sole fatality at the parade. Holguin was rushed to University Health, about five minutes from Union Station.

There doctors performed surgery, leaving the bullet in her leg. Holguin awoke to more chaos. She had lost her purse, along with her cellphone, so she couldn’t call her husband, Cesar. She had been admitted to the hospital under an alias 鈥� a common practice at medical centers to begin immediate care.

Her husband and daughter didn’t find her until about 10 p.m. 鈥� roughly eight hours after she’d been shot.

“It has been a huge trauma for me,” Holguin said through an interpreter. “I was injured and at the hospital without doing anything wrong. [The rally] was a moment to play, to relax, to be together.”

Holguin was hospitalized for a week, and two more outpatient surgeries quickly followed, mostly to remove dead tissue around the wound. She wore a wound VAC, or vacuum-assisted closure device, for several weeks and had medical appointments every other day.

Campbell, the trauma surgeon, said wound VACs are common when bullets damage tissue that isn’t easily reconstructed in surgery.

“It’s not just the physical injuries,” Campbell said. “Many times it’s the emotional, psychological injuries, which many of these patients take away as well.”

The bullet remains near Holguin’s knee.

“I’m going to have it for the rest of my life,” she said, saying she and the bullet became “compas,” close friends.

“We became friends so that she doesn’t do any bad to me anymore,” Holguin said with a smile.

Punch, of the Bullet Related Injury Clinic in St. Louis, said some people like Holguin are able to find a way to psychically live with bullets that remain.

“If you’re able to make a story around what that means for that bullet to be in your body, that gives you power; that gives you agency and choice,” Punch said.

Holguin’s life changed in an instant: She’s using a walker to get around. Her foot, she said, acts “like it had a stroke” 鈥� it dangles, and it’s difficult to move her toes.

The most frustrating consequence is that she cannot travel to see her 102-year-old father, still in Mexico. She has a live camera feed on her phone to see him, but that doesn’t offer much comfort, she said, and thinking about him brings tears.

She was told at the hospital that her medical bills would be taken care of, but then lots of them came in the mail. She tried to get victim assistance from the state of Missouri, but all the forms she had were in English, which made them difficult to comprehend. Renting the wound VAC alone cost $800 a month.

Finally she heard that the Mexican Consulate in Kansas City could help, and the consul pointed her to the Jackson County Prosecutor’s Office, with which she registered as an official victim. Now all of her bills are being paid, she said.

Holguin isn’t going to seek mental health treatment, as she believes one must learn to live with a given situation or it will become a burden.

“I have processed this new chapter in my life,” Holguin said. “I have never given up and I will move on with God’s help.”

鈥業 Saw Blood on My Hands’

Mireya Nelson was late to the parade. Her mother, Erika, told her she should leave early, given traffic and the million people expected to crowd into downtown Kansas City, but she and her teenage friends ignored that advice. The Nelsons live in Belton, Missouri, about a half hour south of the city.

Mireya wanted to hold the Super Bowl trophy. When she and her three friends arrived, the parade that had moved through downtown was over and the rally at Union Station had begun. They were stuck in the large crowd and quickly grew bored, Mireya said.

Getting ready to leave, Mireya and one of her friends were trying to call the driver of their group, but they couldn’t get cell service in the large crowd.

Amid the chaos of people and noise, Mireya suddenly fell.

“I saw blood on my hands. So then I knew I got shot. Yeah, and I just crawled to a tree,” Mireya said. “I actually didn’t know where I got shot at, at first. I just saw blood on my hands.”

The bullet grazed Mireya’s chin, shot through her jaw, broke her shoulder, and left through her arm. Bullet fragments remain in her shoulder. Doctors decided to leave them because Mireya had already suffered so much damage.

Mireya’s mother supports that decision, for now, noting they were just “fragments.”

“I think if it’s not going to harm her the rest of her life,” Erika said, “I don’t want her to keep going back in the hospital and getting surgery. That’s more trauma to her and more recovery time, more physical therapy and stuff like that.”

Bullet fragments, particularly ones only skin-deep, often push their way out like splinters, according to Punch, although patients aren’t always told about that. Moreover, Punch said, injuries caused by bullets extend beyond those with damaged tissue to the people around them, like Erika. He called for a holistic approach to recover from all the trauma.

“When people stay in their trauma, that trauma can change them for a lifetime,” Punch said.

Mireya will be tested for for at least the next two years. Her levels are fine now, doctors told the family, but if they get worse she will need surgery to remove the fragments, her mother said.

Campbell, the pediatric surgeon, said lead is particularly concerning for young children, whose developing brains make them especially vulnerable to . of lead 鈥� 3.5 micrograms per deciliter 鈥� is enough to report to state health officials, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Mireya talks about cute teenage boys’ being “fine” but also still wears Cookie Monster pajamas. She appears confused by the shootings, by all the attention at home, at school, from reporters. Asked how she feels about the fragments in her arm, she said, “I don’t really care for them.”

Mireya was on antibiotics for 10 days after her hospital stay because doctors feared there was bacteria in the wound. She has had physical therapy, but it’s painful to do the exercises. She has a scar on her chin. “A dent,” she said, that’s “bumpy.”

“They said she was lucky because if she wouldn’t have turned her head in a certain way, she could be gone,” Erika said.

Mireya faces a psychiatric evaluation and therapy appointments, though she doesn’t like to talk about her feelings.

So far, Erika’s insurance is paying the medical bills, though she hopes to get some help from the United Way’s , which raised nearly $1.9 million, or a faith-based organization called .

Erika doesn’t want a handout. She has a job in health care and just got a promotion.

The bullet has changed the family’s life in big ways. It is part of their conversation now. They talk about how they wish they knew what kind of ammunition it was, or what it looked like.

“Like, I wanted to keep the bullet that went through my arm,” Mireya said. “I want to know what kind of bullet it was.” That brought a sigh from her mom, who said her daughter had watched too many episodes of “Forensic Files.”

Erika beats herself up about the wound, because she couldn’t protect her daughter at the parade.

“It hits me hard because I feel bad because she begged me to get off work and I didn’t go there because when you have a new position, you can’t just take off work,” Erika said. “Because I would have took the bullet. Because I would do anything. It’s mom mode.”

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