Tag: flu-ification of COVID policy

Why Are We Still Flu-ifying COVID?

Four years after what was once the “novel coronavirus” was declared a pandemic, COVID remains the most dangerous infectious respiratory illness regularly circulating in the U.S. But a glance at the United States’ most prominent COVID policies can give the impression that the disease is just another seasonal flu. COVID vaccines are now reformulated annually, and recommended in the autumn for everyone over the age of six months, just like flu shots; tests and treatments for the disease are steadily being commercialized, like our armamentarium against flu. And the CDC is reportedly considering more flu-esque isolation guidance for COVID: Stay home ’til you’re feeling better and are, for at least a day, fever-free without meds.

These changes are a stark departure from the earliest days of the crisis, when public-health experts excoriated public figures—among them, former President Donald Trump—for evoking flu to minimize COVID deaths and dismiss mitigation strategies. COVID might still carry a bigger burden than flu, but COVID policies are getting more flu-ified.

Read: The flu-ification of COVID policy is almost complete

In some ways, as the population’s immunity has increased, COVID has become more flu-like, says Roby Bhattacharyya, a microbiologist and an infectious-disease physician at Massachusetts General Hospital. Every winter seems to bring a COVID peak, but the virus is now much less likely to hospitalize or kill us, and somewhat less likely to cause long-term illness. People develop symptoms sooner after infection, and, especially if they’re vaccinated, are less likely to be as sick for as long. COVID patients are no longer overwhelming hospitals; those who do develop severe COVID tend to be those made more vulnerable by age or other health issues.

Even so, COVID and the flu are nowhere near the same. SARS-CoV-2 still spikes in non-winter seasons and simmers throughout the rest of the year. In 2023, COVID hospitalized more than 900,000 Americans and killed 75,000; the worst flu season of the past decade hospitalized 200,000 fewer people and resulted in 23,000 fewer deaths. A recent CDC survey reported that more than 5 percent of American adults are currently experiencing long COVID, which cannot be fully prevented by vaccination or treatment, and for which there is no cure. Plus, scientists simply understand much less about the coronavirus than flu viruses. Its patterns of spread, its evolution, and the durability of our immunity against it all may continue to change.

And yet, the CDC and White House continue to fold COVID in with other long-standing seasonal respiratory infections. When the nation’s authorities start to match the precautions taken against COVID with those for flu, RSV, or common colds, it implies “that the risks are the same,” Saskia Popescu, an epidemiologist at the University of Maryland, told me. Some of those decisions are “not completely unreasonable,” says Costi Sifri, the director of hospital epidemiology at UVA Health, especially on a case-by-case basis. But taken together, they show how bent America has been on treating COVID as a run-of-the-mill disease—making it impossible to manage the illness whose devastation has defined the 2020s.

Each “not completely unreasonable” decision has trade-offs. Piggybacking COVID vaccines onto flu shots, for instance, is convenient: Although COVID-vaccination rates still lag those of flu, they might be even lower if no one could predict when shots might show up. But such convenience may come at the cost of protecting Americans against COVID’s year-round threat. Michael Osterholm, an epidemiologist at the University of Minnesota School of Public Health, told me that a once-a-year vaccine policy is “dead wrong … There is no damn evidence this is a seasonal virus yet.” Safeguards against infection and milder illness start to fade within months, leaving people who dose up in autumn potentially more susceptible to exposures by spring. That said, experts are still torn on the benefits of administering the same vaccine more than once a year—especially to a public that’s largely unwilling to get it. Throughout the pandemic, immunocompromised people have been able to get extra shots. And today, an advisory committee to the CDC voted to recommend that older adults once again get an additional dose of the most recently updated COVID vaccine in the coming months. Neither is a pattern that flu vaccines follow.

Read: Fall’s vaccine routine didn’t have to be this hard

Dropping the current COVID-isolation guideline—which has, since the end of 2021, recommended that people cloister for five days—may likewise be dangerous. Many Americans have long abandoned this isolation timeline, but given how new COVID is to both humanity and science, symptoms alone don’t yet seem enough to determine when mingling is safe, Popescu said. (The dangers are even tougher to gauge for infected people who never develop fevers or other symptoms at all.) Researchers don’t currently have a clear picture of how long people can transmit the virus once they get sick, Sifri told me. For most respiratory illnesses, fevers show up relatively early in infection, which is generally when people pose the most transmission risk, says Aubree Gordon, an epidemiologist at the University of Michigan. But although SARS-CoV-2 adheres to this same rough timeline, infected people can shed the virus after their symptoms begin to resolve and are “definitely shedding longer than what you would usually see for flu,” Gordon told me. (Asked about the specifics and precise timing of the update, a CDC spokesperson told me that there were “no updates to COVID guidelines to announce at this time,” and did not respond to questions about how flu precedents had influenced new recommendations.)

At the very least, Emily Landon, an infectious-disease physician at the University of Chicago, told me, recommendations for all respiratory illnesses should tell freshly de-isolated people to mask for several days when they’re around others indoors; she would support some change to isolation recommendations with this caveat. But if the CDC aligns the policy fully with its flu policy, it might not mention masking at all.

Read: No one really knows how much COVID is silently spreading … again

Several experts told me symptom-based isolation might also remove remaining incentives to test for the coronavirus: There’s little point if the guidelines for all respiratory illnesses are essentially the same. To be fair, Americans have already been testing less frequently—in some cases, to avoid COVID-specific requirements to stay away from work or school. And Osterholm and Gordon told me that, at this point in the pandemic, they agree that keeping people at home for five days isn’t sustainable—especially without paid sick leave, and particularly not for health-care workers, who are in short supply during the height of respiratory-virus season.

But the less people test, the less they’ll be diagnosed—and the less they’ll benefit from antivirals such as Paxlovid, which work best when administered early. Sifri worries that this pattern could yield another parallel to flu, for which many providers hesitate to prescribe Tamiflu, debating its effectiveness. Paxlovid use is already shaky; both antivirals may end up chronically underutilized.

Flu-ification also threatens to further stigmatize long COVID. Other respiratory infections, including flu, have been documented triggering long-term illness, but potentially at lower rates, and to different degrees than SARS-CoV-2 currently does. Folding this new virus in with the rest could make long COVID seem all the more negligible. What’s more, fewer tests and fewer COVID diagnoses could make it much harder to connect any chronic symptoms to this coronavirus, keeping patients out of long-COVID clinics—or reinforcing a false portrait of the condition’s rarity.

The U.S. does continue to treat COVID differently from flu in a few ways. Certain COVID products remain more available; some precautions in health-care settings remain stricter. But these differences, too, will likely continue to fade, even as COVID’s burden persists. Tests, vaccines, and treatments are slowly commercializing; as demand for them drops, supply may too. And several experts told me that they wouldn’t be surprised if hospitals, too, soon flu-ify their COVID policies even more, for instance by allowing recently infected employees to return to work once they’re fever-free.

Early in the pandemic, public-health experts hoped that COVID’s tragedies would prompt a rethinking of all respiratory illnesses. The pandemic showed what mitigations could do: During the first year of the crisis, isolation, masking, distancing, and shutdowns brought flu transmission to a near halt, and may have driven an entire lineage of the virus to extinction—something “that never, in my wildest dreams, did I ever think would be possible,” Landon told me.

Most of those measures weren’t sustainable. But America’s leaders blew right past a middle ground. The U.S. could have built and maintained systems in which everyone had free access to treatments, tests, and vaccines for a longer list of pathogens; it might have invested in widespread ventilation improvements, or enacted universal sick leave. American homes might have been stocked with tests for a multitude of infectious microbes, and masks to wear when people started to cough. Vaccine requirements in health-care settings and schools might have expanded. Instead, “we seem to be in a more 2019-like place than a future where we’re preventing giving each other colds as much as we could,” Bhattacharyya told me.

Read: Next winter, what if we test for even more viruses?

That means a return to a world in which tens of thousands of Americans die each year of flu and RSV, as they did in the 2010s. With COVID here to stay, every winter for the foreseeable future will layer on yet another respiratory virus—and a particularly deadly, disabling, and transmissible one at that. The math is simple: “The risk has overall increased for everyone,” Landon said. That straightforward addition could have inspired us to expand our capacity for preserving health and life. Instead, our tolerance for suffering seems to be the only thing that’s grown.

Katherine J. Wu

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February 28, 2024
Fall’s Vaccine Routine Didn’t Have to Be This Hard

In an ideal version of this coming winter, the United States would fully revamp its approach to respiratory disease. Pre-pandemic, fall was just a time for flu shots, if that. Now, hundreds of millions of Americans have at their fingertips vaccines that can combat three cold-weather threats at once: flu, COVID, and, for a subset of us, respiratory syncytial virus. If everyone signed up to get the shots they qualified for, “it would be huge,” says Ofer Levy, the director of the Precision Vaccines Program at Boston Children’s Hospital. Hospital emergency rooms and intensive-care units wouldn’t fill; most cases of airway illness would truly, actually feel like “just” a common cold. “We would save tens of thousands of lives in the United States alone,” Levy told me.

The logic of the plan is simple: Few public-health priorities are more pressing than getting three lifesaving vaccines to those who need them most, ahead of winter’s viral spikes. The logistics, however, are not as clear-cut. The best way to get vaccines into as many people as possible is to make getting shots “very, very easy,” says Chelsea Shover, an epidemiologist at UCLA. But that’s just not what we’ve set up this fall lineup of shots to do.

Read: The flu-ification of COVID policy is almost complete

Convenience isn’t the only issue keeping shots out of arms. But move past fear, distrust, or misinformation, solve for barriers such as insurance coverage, and getting a vaccine in the United States still means figuring out when shots are available and which you qualify for, finding and booking appointments, carving out the time to go. For adults, especially, who don’t routinely visit their doctor for wellness checkups, and whose workplaces don’t require vaccines to the extent that schools do, vaccination has become an onerous exercise in opt-ins.

Bundling this year’s flu, COVID, and RSV vaccines into a single visit could, in theory, help ease the way to becoming a double or triple shotter. “Any time we can cut down on the number of visits for a patient to take care of them, we know that’s a big boost,” says Tochi Iroku-Malize, the president of the American Academy of Family Physicians. But the easiest iteration of that strategy, a three-in-one shot, similar to the MMR and DTaP vaccines of childhood, doesn’t yet exist (though some are in trials). Even the shorter-term solution—giving up to three injections at once—is hitting stumbling blocks. Pharmacies started receiving flu vaccines earlier this summer and are already giving them out to anyone over the age of six months. RSV vaccines, too, have hit shelves, and have been approved for people over the age of 60 and those 32 to 36 weeks pregnant; so far, however, they are being offered only to the first group. And although nearly all Americans are expected to be eligible for autumn’s updated COVID vaccines, those shots aren’t slated to make an appearance until mid-September or so, according to Kevin Griffis, a CDC spokesperson.

Timing two or three shots together isn’t a perfect plan. Get them all too early, and some people’s protections against infection might fade before the season gets into full swing; get all of them too late, and a virus might beat the vaccine to the punch. Respiratory viruses don’t coordinate their seasons: Right now, for instance, COVID cases are on a sharp rise, but flu and RSV ones are not. Some data on the new RSV vaccines also suggests that co-administering them with other shots might trigger slightly worse side effects, or mildly curb the number of antibodies that the injections raise. Still, Levy argues that those theoretical downsides are outweighed by known benefits. “If someone is at clinic in the fall, they should get all the vaccines they’re eligible for,” he told me. Getting a slightly less effective, slightly more ornery shot a few months early is better than never getting a shot at all.

All of that supposes that people understand that they are eligible for these shots. But already, family-medicine physicians such as Iroku-Malize, who practices in Long Island, have been fielding queries about the RSV vaccines from confused patients. Some new parents, for instance, have gotten the impression that the RSV vaccines are designed to be administered to infants, which isn’t quite right: Babies are the target of protection for the shots for pregnant people, but only because they temporarily inherit antibodies—not because they can get the injections themselves. Regulators also haven’t yet nailed down how often older adults might need the shot, though the current thinking is that the vaccine’s protection will last at least a couple of years. “It’s very hard to tell people, ‘I don’t know,’” says Jacinda Abdul-Mutakabbir, an infectious-disease pharmacist at UC San Diego.

Other parts of the RSV-shot messaging are peppered with even more unknowns. The CDC has yet to release its final recommendation for pregnant people; for people over 60, the agency’s language has been “noncommittal,” says Rupali Limaye, a behavioral scientist at Johns Hopkins University. Unlike past guidelines that have straightforwardly recommended flu shots or most doses of the COVID-19 vaccine, RSV guidance says that eligible people may protect themselves against the virus—and are urged to first consult a health-care provider, which not all people have. The wishy-washiness is partly about safety: A few rare but serious medical events cropped up during the RSV vaccines’ clinical trials, including abnormal heartbeats and neurological complications. None of the experts I spoke with had qualms about recommending the shots anyway. Even so, some private health-insurance companies have seized on the CDC’s watered-down recommendation—and the fact that the agency hasn’t yet included RSV in its annual vaccine schedule for adults—as an excuse to not cover the shot, leaving some patients paying $300-plus out of pocket.

For any of these shots, viral reputation matters too. Despite hospitalizing tens of thousands of Americans each year, especially at age extremes—numbers that, in some years, nearly rival those linked to flu—RSV is a lesser-known winter disease. People tend to take it less seriously, if it’s on their radar at all, Abdul-Mutakabbir told me. Which bodes poorly for future RSV-shot uptake. Annual flu shots have been recommended for 13 years for every American over the age of six months for 13 years. And still, just half the eligible population gets them in any given year. People tend to dismiss shots as subpar interventions against a disease that they don’t much fear, Limaye told me. With COVID, too, “people think it’s gotten mild,” she said. Only 28 percent of American adults are currently up to date on their COVID vaccine. And although older people have historically been more vigilant about nabbing shots, even vaccines against shingles—a notoriously painful disease—have reached just over a third of people who are 60-plus.

Read: America’s flu-shot problem is also its COVID-shot problem

To establish fall as an immunity-seeking season, shots would need to become an annual habit, ideally one easy to form. Mandates and financial incentives do prod people toward vaccines, but smaller nudges can persuade people to take initiative on their own. Some strategies may be as simple as semantic tweaks. Studies on HPV and flu vaccines suggest that telling patients they are “due” for a shot is better than offering it as an optional choice, says Gretchen Chapman, a behavioral scientist at Carnegie Mellon University. Other research suggests that carefully worded text-message reminders can evoke ownership—noting that a shot is “waiting for you,” or that the time has come to “claim your dose.” Noel Brewer, a behavioral scientist at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, also thinks that vaccine deliverers could take inspiration from dentists who gently dog their patients with phone calls and postcards.

Other interventions could be aimed at streamlining delivery. Government funding could make shots more available in rural regions, ensure access for those who lack insurance, and help local health departments offer shots in churches and hair salons, or even bring them door to door. More schools and workplaces, too, might try boosting uptake among students and employees. And although most shots are already given within the health-care system, there’s sludge to clear from that pipeline too. Better universal recordkeeping could help track people’s vaccination status through their lifetime. Kimberly Martin, a behavioral scientist at Yale, is researching ways to revamp medical training to help health-care providers earn their patients’ trust—especially among populations that remain marginalized by systemic racism. “The single biggest impact on vaccine uptake,” Brewer told me, “is a health-care provider recommendation.”

An ideal vision of a fall in the future, then, would be turning vaccines into a default form of prevention—a more typical part of this country’s wellness workflow, says Saad Omer, the dean of the Peter O’Donnell Jr. School of Public Health, at UT Southwestern. After getting their vital signs checked, patients could have their vaccination status reviewed. “And then, if they’re eligible, you vaccinate them,” Omer told me. It’s a routine that pediatricians already have down pat. If adult health care follows suit, regular immunization is a habit we may never have to outgrow.

Katherine J. Wu

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August 30, 2023
The COVID Emergency Is Ending. Is Vaccine Outreach Over Too?

Stephen B. Thomas, the director of the Center for Health Equity at the University of Maryland, considers himself an eternal optimist. When he reflects on the devastating pandemic that has been raging for the past three years, he chooses to focus less on what the world has lost and more on what it has gained: potent antiviral drugs, powerful vaccines, and, most important, unprecedented collaborations among clinicians, academics, and community leaders that helped get those lifesaving resources to many of the people who needed them most. But when Thomas, whose efforts during the pandemic helped transform more than 1,000 Black barbershops and salons into COVID-vaccine clinics, looks ahead to the next few months, he worries that momentum will start to fizzle out—or, even worse, that it will go into reverse.

This week, the Biden administration announced that it would allow the public-health-emergency declaration over COVID-19 to expire in May—a transition that’s expected to put shots, treatments, tests, and other types of care more out of reach of millions of Americans, especially those who are uninsured. The move has been a long time coming, but for community leaders such as Thomas, whose vaccine-outreach project, Shots at the Shop, has depended on emergency funds and White House support, the transition could mean the imperilment of a local infrastructure that he and his colleagues have been building for years. It shouldn’t have been inevitable, he told me, that community vaccination efforts would end up on the chopping block. “A silver lining of the pandemic was the realization that hyperlocal strategies work,” he said. “Now we’re seeing the erosion of that.”

I called Thomas this week to discuss how the emergency declaration allowed his team to mobilize resources for outreach efforts—and what may happen in the coming months as the nation attempts to pivot back to normalcy.

Our conversation has been edited for clarity and length.

Katherine J. Wu: Tell me about the genesis of Shots at the Shop.

Stephen B. Thomas: We started our work with barbershops and beauty salons in 2014. It’s called HAIR: Health Advocates In-Reach and Research. Our focus was on colorectal-cancer screening. We brought medical professionals—gastroenterologists and others—into the shop, recognizing that Black people in particular were dying from colon cancer at rates that were just unacceptable but were potentially preventable with early diagnosis and appropriate screening.

Now, if I can talk to you about colonoscopy, I could probably talk to you about anything. In 2019, we held a national health conference for barbers and stylists. They all came from around the country to talk about different areas of health and chronic disease: prostate cancer, breast cancer, others. We brought them all together to talk about how we can address health disparities and get more agency and visibility to this new frontline workforce.

When the pandemic hit, all the plans that came out of the national conference were on hold. But we continued our efforts in the barbershops. We started a Zoom town hall. And we started seeing misinformation and disinformation about the pandemic being disseminated in our shops, and there were no countermeasures.

We got picked up on the national media, and then we got the endorsement of the White House. And that’s when we launched Shots at the Shop. We had 1,000 shops signed up in I’d say less than 90 days.

Wu: Why do you think Shots at the Shop was so successful? What was the network doing differently from other vaccine-outreach efforts that spoke directly to Black and brown communities?

Thomas: If you came to any of our clinics, it didn’t feel like you were coming into a clinic or a hospital. It felt like you were coming to a family reunion. We had a DJ spinning music. We had catered food. We had a festive environment. Some people showed up hesitant, and some of them left hesitant but fascinated. We didn’t have to change their worldview. But we treated them with dignity and respect. We weren’t telling them they’re stupid and don’t understand science.

And the model worked. It worked so well that even the health professionals were extremely pleased, because now all they had to do was show up with the vaccine, and the arms were ready for needles.

Read: The flu-ification of COVID policy is almost complete

The barbers and stylists saw themselves as doing health-related things anyway. They had always seen themselves as doing more than just cutting hair. No self-respecting Black barber is going to say, “We’ll get you in and out in 10 minutes.” It doesn’t matter how much hair you have: You’re gonna be in there for half a day.

Wu: How big of a difference do you think your network’s outreach efforts made in narrowing the racial gaps in COVID vaccination?

Thomas: Attribution is always difficult, and success has many mothers. So I will say this to you: I have no doubt that we made a huge difference. With a disease like COVID, you can’t afford to have any pocket unprotected, and we were vaccinating people who would otherwise have never been vaccinated. We were dealing with people at the “hell no” wall.

We were also vaccinating people who were homeless. They were treated with dignity and respect. At some of our shops, we did a coat drive and a shoe drive. And we had dentists providing us with oral-health supplies: toothbrush, floss, paste, and other things. It made a huge difference. When you meet people where they are, you’ve got to meet all their needs.

Wu: How big of a difference did the emergency declaration, and the freeing-up of resources, tools, and funds, make for your team’s outreach efforts?

Thomas: Even with all the work I’ve been doing in the barber shop since 2014, the pandemic got us our first grant from the state. Money flowed. We had resources to go beyond the typical mechanisms. I was able to secure thousands of KN95 masks and distribute them to shops. Same thing with rapid tests. We even sent them Corsi-Rosenthal boxes, a DIY filtration system to clean up indoor air.

Without the emergency declaration, we would still be in the desert screaming for help. The emergency declaration made it possible to get resources through nontraditional channels, and we were doing things that the other systems—the hospital system, the local health department—couldn’t do. We extended their reach to populations that have historically been underserved and distrustful.

Wu: The public-health-emergency declaration hasn’t yet expired. What signs of trouble are you seeing right now?

Thomas: The bridge between the barbershops and the clinical side has been shut down in almost all places, including here in Maryland. I go to the shop and they say to me, “Dr. T, when are we going to have the boosters here?” Then I call my clinical partners, who deliver the shots. Some won’t even answer my phone calls. And when they do, they say, “Oh, we don’t do pop-ups anymore. We don’t do community-outreach clinics anymore, because the grant money’s gone. The staff we hired during the pandemic, they use the pandemic funding—they’re gone.” But people are here; they want the booster. And my clinical partners say, “Send them down to a pharmacy.” Nobody wants to go to a pharmacy.

Read: The COVID strategy America hasn’t really tried

You can’t see me, so you can’t see the smoke still coming out of my ears. But it hurts. We got them to trust. If you abandon the community now, it will simply reinforce the idea that they don’t matter.

Wu: What is the response to this from the communities you’re talking to?

Thomas: It’s “I told you so, they didn’t care about us. I told you, they would leave us with all these other underlying conditions.” You know, it shouldn’t take a pandemic to build trust. But if we lose it now, it will be very, very difficult to build back.

We built a bridge. It worked. Why would you dismantle it? Because that’s exactly what’s happening right now. The very infrastructure we created to close the racial gaps in vaccine acceptance is being dismantled. It’s totally unacceptable.

Wu: The emergency declaration was always going to end at some point. Did it have to play out like this?

Thomas: I don’t think so. If you talk to the hospital administrators, they’ll tell you the emergency declaration and the money allowed them to add outreach. And when the money went away, they went back to business as usual. Even though the outreach proved you could actually do a better job. And the misinformation and the disinformation campaign hasn’t stopped. Why would you go back to what doesn’t work?

Wu: What is your team planning for the short and long term, with limited resources?

Thomas: As long as Shots at the Shop can connect clinical partners to access vaccines, we will definitely keep that going.

Nobody wants to go back to normal. So many of our barbers and stylists feel like they’re on their own. I’m doing my best to supply them with KN95 masks and rapid tests. We have kept the conversation going on our every-other-week Zoom town hall. We just launched a podcast. We put out some of our stories in the form of a graphic novel, The Barbershop Storybook. And we’re trying to launch a national association for barbers and stylists, called Barbers and Stylists United for Health.

The pandemic resulted in a mobilization of innovation, a recognition of the intelligence at the community level, the recognition that you need to culturally tailor your strategy. We need to keep those relationships intact. Because this is not the last time we’re going to see a pandemic even in our lifetime. I’m doing my best to knock on doors to continue to put our proposals out there. Hopefully, people will realize that reaching Black and Hispanic communities is worth sustaining.

Katherine J. Wu

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February 2, 2023