They Bring Medical Care To The Homeless And Build Relationships To Save Lives

Licensed practical nurse Stephanie Dotson measures Kent Beasley’s blood pressure in downtown Atlanta in September. Dotson is a member of the Mercy Care team that works to bring medical care to Atlanta residents who are homeless.
Bita Honarvar for WABE
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Herman Ware sits at a small, wobbly table inside a large van that’s been converted into a mobile health clinic. The van is parked on a trash-strewn, dead-end street in downtown Atlanta where homeless residents congregate.
Ware is here for a seasonal flu shot.
“It might sting,” he says, thinking back on past shots.
Ware grimaces slightly as the nurse injects his upper arm.
After filling out some paperwork, he climbs down the van’s steps and walks back to a nearby homeless encampment where he’s been living. The small cluster of tents sits below an interstate overpass, next to a busy rail line.
Ware hasn’t paid much attention to his medical needs lately, which is pretty common among people living on the street. For those trying to find a hot meal or a place to sleep, health care can take a backseat.
“Street medicine” programs, like the outfit giving Ware his flu shot, aim to change that. Mercy Care, a health care nonprofit in Atlanta, operates a number of clinics throughout the city that mainly treat poor residents, and also has been sending teams of doctors, nurses and other health care providers into the city’s streets since 2013. The idea is to treat homeless people where they live.
“When we’re coming out here to talk to people, we’re on their turf,” says nurse practitioner Joy Fernandez de Narayan (right) in Atlanta. She and licensed practical nurse Stephanie Dotson (left), say showing patients respect is important in every setting.
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This public health strategy can now be found in dozens of cities in the U.S. and around the world, according to the Street Medicine Institute, which works to spread the practice.
Building relationships to give care
Giving shots and conducting exams outside the walls of a health clinic comes with unique challenges.
“When we’re coming out here to talk to people, we’re on their turf,” says nurse practitioner Joy Fernandez de Narayan, who runs Mercy Care’s Street Medicine program.
A big challenge is getting patients to accept help, whether it comes in the form of a vaccination or something simpler — like a bottle of water.
“We’ll sit down next to someone, like ‘Hey, how’s the weather treating you?’ ” she says. “And then kind of work our way into, like, ‘Oh, you mentioned you had a history of high blood pressure. Do you mind if we check your blood pressure?’ “
The outreach workers spend a lot of time forging relationships with homeless clients, and it can take several encounters to gain someone’s trust and get them to accept medical care.
Dotson gives a flu shot to Sopain Lawson, who lives in a homeless encampment under a bridge in downtown Atlanta. It can take several encounters to gain someone’s trust and get them to accept medical care, the health team finds.
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Their persistent encouragement was helpful for Sopain Lawson, who caught a debilitating foot fungus while living in the encampment.
“I couldn’t walk,” Lawson says. “I had to stay off my feet. And the crew, they took good care of my foot. They got me back.”
“This is what street medicine is about — going out into these areas where people are not going to seek attention until it’s an emergency,” says Matthew Reed, who’s been doing social work with the team for two years.
“We’re trying to avoid emergencies, but we’re also trying to build relationships.”
“Go to the people”
The street medicine team uses the trust they’ve built with patients to eventually connect them to other services, such as mental health counseling or housing.
Access to those services may not be readily available for many reasons, says Dr. Stephen Hwang, who studies health care and homelessness at St. Michael’s Hospital in Toronto. Sometimes the obstacle — say, lacking enough money for a bus ticket — seems small, but is formidable.
“It may be difficult to get to a health care facility, and often there are challenges, especially in the U.S., where people don’t have health insurance,” Hwang adds.
Social worker Matthew Reed (right) talks with Lawson near her tent home in downtown Atlanta. Reed says,”This is what street medicine is about: going out into these areas where people are not going to seek attention until it’s an emergency.”
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Georgia is one of a handful of states that has not expanded Medicaid to all low-income adults, which means many of its poorest residents don’t have access to the government-sponsored health care program. But even if homeless people are able to get health coverage and make it to a hospital or clinic, they can run into other problems.
“There’s a lot of stigmatization of people who are experiencing homelessness,” Hwang says, “and so often these individuals will feel unwelcome when they do present to health care facilities.”
Street medicine programs are meant to break down those barriers, says Dr. Jim Withers. He’s medical director of the Street Medicine Institute and started making outreach visits to the homeless back in 1992, when he worked at a clinic in Pittsburgh.
“Health care likes people to come to it on its terms,” Withers says, while the central tenet of street medicine is, “Go to the people.”
Clinic patient Lawson (center) and nurse practitioner Fernandez de Narayan (right) share a hug outside the Mercy Care van, after the September check-in. “We’re trying to avoid emergencies, but we’re also trying to build relationships,” says social worker Reed (left).
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Help, with respect
Mercy Care in Atlanta spends about $900,000 a year on its street medicine program. In 2018, that sum paid for direct treatment for some 300 people, many of whom got services multiple times. Having clinics on the street can help relieve the care burden of nearby hospitals, which Withers says don’t have a great track record when it comes to treating the homeless.
“We’re not dealing with them well,” Withers admits, speaking on behalf of American health care in general. In traditional health settings, homeless patients do worse compared to other patients, he says. “They stay in the hospital longer. They have more complications.”
Those extra days and clinical complications mean additional costs for hospitals. One recent estimate cited in a legislative report on homelessness suggested that more than $60 million in medical costs for Atlanta’s homeless population were passed on to taxpayers.
Mercy Care says its program makes homeless people less likely to show up in local emergency rooms and healthier when they do — which saves money.
It’s past sundown when the street medicine team rolls up to their final stop: outside a church in Atlanta where homeless people often gather. A handful of people have settled down for the night on the sidewalk. Among them is Johnny Dunson, a frequent patient of the street medicine program.
Dunson says the Mercy Care staffers have a compassionate style that makes it easy to talk to them and ask for help.
“You gotta let someone know how you’re feeling,” Dunson says. “Understand me? Sometimes it can be like behavior, mental health. It’s not just me. It’s a lot of people that need some kind of assistance to do what you’re supposed to be doing, and they do a wonderful job.”
Along with the medical assistance, the staff at Mercy Care give every patient big doses of respect and dignity. When you’re living on the street, it can be hard to find either.
This story is part of NPR’s reporting partnership with WABE and Kaiser Health News.
Jake Burton Carpenter, The Godfather Of Snowboarding, Dies At 65
The man known as “The Godfather of Snowboarding” died Wednesday at the age of 65. Jake Burton Carpenter brought the sport to the masses, through the company he founded.
AILSA CHANG, HOST:
The man called the soul of snowboarding has died. Jake Burton Carpenter was the founder of the iconic Burton Snowboards company. And as Vermont Public Radio’s Liam Elder-Connors reports, he helped open up the ski slopes to a whole new crowd.
LIAM ELDER-CONNORS, BYLINE: Fischer Van Golden is working at a ski and snowboarding shop in South Burlington. The store is buzzing as customers look through the dozens of brightly colored snowboards leaning against the wall. Van Golden says the store is close to the main Burton headquarters, which means it sells a good amount of the company’s gear. He reaches over and takes a board down.
FISCHER VAN GOLDEN: So the Burton Custom is probably one of the most iconic snowboards in the whole sport. It’s the one board they always continue to have in their line.
ELDER-CONNORS: Van Golden says he’s been working in the snowboard industry for a while, and Burton products have been a big part of his life. Even as a kid, he used to eagerly wait each year for the new catalog of Burton products.
VAN GOLDEN: And then just, like, obsessing over all the different products that were in it and, like, memorizing everything.
ELDER-CONNORS: Burton Snowboards was founded by Jake Burton Carpenter in 1977. According to the company, Carpenter worked as a bartender by night. And during the day, he built snowboards in his Vermont barn and tested them on nearby hills. Carpenter didn’t invent the snowboard. A similar device, called the Snurfer – think snow surfer – was invented about 10 years before Carpenter started his company. But Van Golden says Carpenter revolutionized the design of snowboards.
VAN GOLDEN: He sort of pioneered the sport itself and came up with the idea of strapping your feet actually to the board rather than just, like, surfing on top of the board with no binding. He created, you know, bindings that attach you to the board so you can actually, like, carve and control the board much better.
ELDER-CONNORS: While Carpenter is widely credited with popularizing the sport, it wasn’t his first thought when he started the company. In a 2016 StoryCorps interview, Carpenter said at first he thought of the company as a get-rich-quick scheme.
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING)
JAKE BURTON CARPENTER: It became much more than that because I didn’t get rich quick.
ELDER-CONNORS: Carpenter says his focus soon turned to nurturing the sport. In the early days of the company, many ski resorts didn’t even allow snowboarders on the mountains.
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING)
BURTON CARPENTER: After a couple of years, it became much more important to me that I was right about the decision that there was a sport there. And I focused not about my own material needs or accomplishments or whatever; I just thought about the sport.
ELDER-CONNORS: Now, thanks in part to Carpenter’s work, when you go to the slopes, you can’t miss the groups of kids on snowboards who fly off big jumps, trying to land complicated tricks.
In a company-wide email this morning, Burton told its employees that Carpenter, the, quote, “soul of snowboarding,” died Wednesday night from complications due to cancer. And they urged their employees to honor Carpenter by going snowboarding.
For NPR News, I’m Liam Elder-Connors in Colchester, Vt.
Copyright © 2019 NPR. All rights reserved. Visit our website terms of use and permissions pages at www.npr.org for further information.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.
The Great Cranberry Crash Of 1959
How did the cranberry go from a seasonal, Thanksgiving favorite to an all-year round, ubiquitous supermarket staple?
ARI SHAPIRO, HOST:
This time next week, many of us will sit down to a plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and cranberries. Sixty years ago, cranberries were missing from the Thanksgiving table. There was a scare over potentially cancerous cranberries. All sales stopped. The cranberry business nearly died. Stacey Vanek Smith and Adrian Ma from our daily economics podcast The Indicator From Planet Money have this report on the great cranberry crash of 1959.
STACEY VANEK SMITH, BYLINE: It was early November 1959 when Arthur Flemming got some distressing news. He was the secretary of Health, Education and Welfare under President Eisenhower, and he had just learned that samples of cranberries collected in Oregon and Washington contained traces of an herbicide called amino triazole.
ROBERT COX: Amino triazole was known to cause thyroid cancer in rats.
VANEK SMITH: This is Robert Cox, author of the book “Massachusetts Cranberry Culture.”
COX: Carcinogens had been banned for agricultural use the previous year – 1958. And so he said, we have a problem.
ADRIAN MA, BYLINE: The problem was Thanksgiving was less than three weeks away. And on top of turkey, millions of Americans would soon be eating cranberry sauce.
VANEK SMITH: So on November 9 almost exactly 60 years ago, Flemming issued a statement, warning the public of the contamination and the potential cancer risk. Within hours, grocery stores around the country pulled cranberry products from their shelves. As news about the contaminated cranberries swept the nation, the market for them basically ground to a halt.
JOHN DECAS: We had 40 trailer loads of cranberries canceled within one hour after that announcement.
VANEK SMITH: John Decas is co-owner of Decas Cranberry Products in Carver, Mass. At the time of the cranberry scare, he was in his mid-20s and had just started working in the family business.
MA: John says the rest of that year, they did not sell a single berry.
VANEK SMITH: Later, lab tests only found traces of amino triazole in about 1- or 2% of the fruit they inspected. And Congress would pay the growers about $8.5 million to compensate them for lost sales. Still, the damage was pretty much done.
MA: Part of what made the cranberry scare so hard on producers like John was the timing – just days before Thanksgiving. And back then, Thanksgiving was the cranberry industry.
VANEK SMITH: The cranberry industry had to figure out how to get people to eat cranberries not just on Thanksgiving.
MA: In the early 1960s, Ocean Spray had this idea. They thought, if we want people to consume more cranberries, we need to think beyond sauce. And so cranberries went from being a once-a-year fruit to something you could have in any season. Cranberries are now a global commodity. Last year, the U.S. exported almost half a billion dollars’ worth of cranberry products, and U.S. farmers produced almost 9 million barrels.
VANEK SMITH: After the scare of 1959, the cranberry industry came out on top.
MA: That is until last summer.
VANEK SMITH: Trade war.
MA: Trade war – what else? As part of its retaliation, China imposed a 25% tariff on dried cranberries. And soon, sales to China fell by nearly half. On top of that, cranberry growers are now facing a massive surplus. For years, the fruit’s popularity drove increased production in the U.S., Canada and Chile. And now there is a global glut of cranberries.
VANEK SMITH: So the industry is taking a page from the cranberry crisis playbook back from 1959. Companies are doubling down and trying to find a new hit product. The next cranberry juice cocktail or the next dried cranberry.
MA: Adrian Ma.
VANEK SMITH: Stacey Vanek Smith, NPR News.
(SOUNDBITE OF BLUE STATES SONG, “YOUR GIRL”)
Copyright © 2019 NPR. All rights reserved. Visit our website terms of use and permissions pages at www.npr.org for further information.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.