Thinking about taking a stab at IV therapy? Ask some questions first
The services have been on a growth spurt since the COVID-19 pandemic, offering drips that promise to boost energy, gird immune systems or relieve joint pain. This is done from bags of intravenous fluids normally seen hanging next to hospital beds.
Customers must be willing to fork over as much as couple hundred dollars for each session — in some cases for a mixture of vitamins and supplements that would be considerably cheaper in pill form.
Proponents say this approach helps customers hydrate faster and absorb more of a vitamin or supplement than they would by swallowing pills.
But Dr. Sam Torbati, co-chair of emergency medicine at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, says the therapy mostly helps people create 'expensive urine,' with the body clearing what it doesn't use.
How many IV clinics are there?
They're hard to count, partly because some businesses just provide IV therapy while others offer it as part of a medical spa.
The practice grew popular during COVID-19, when access to doctors became limited and people grew more concerned about their immune system health, according to the American IV Association, an industry group.
Regulators in Ohio are following the trend closely in their state, which now has around 200 clinics. These businesses were largely unheard of there before the pandemic, said Cameron McNamee, a spokesman for the Ohio Board of Pharmacy.
What should customers know about IV therapy clinics?
Doctors say there are some good questions to pose before any treatment starts.
Customers should ask the person starting the IV how long they have been doing their job and what sort of training they have, said Torbati.
They also should know what's in the IV drip. For instance, 'Wonder Juice' treatment offered by the Restore Hyper Wellness franchise combines six vitamins and supplements that are available, in oral form, on the pharmacy store shelves.
Knowing all the ingredients comes in handy if someone has an allergic reaction.
Also ask where the company gets its drugs, if any are used. The answer should be a licensed pharmaceutical wholesaler, according to McNamee.
Otherwise, the drug could be counterfeit or substandard. Ohio regulators have suspended the licenses of businesses that purchased drugs on Facebook.
Customers also should make sure the clinic is in decent shape when they visit.
'If the office isn't clean, then the IV room's probably not clean either,' McNamee said.
Why are regulators concerned?
They don't like that a nurse or a paramedic often helps a customer decide on an IV therapy and then delivers the treatment. Rules can vary, but many state regulators say a doctor, physician assistant or nurse practitioner should be involved.
The clinics often run on standing orders, which are issued by a doctor with the idea that they give the nurse or paramedic permission to treat patients according to certain protocols.
Hospital emergency rooms regularly operate on the same kind of orders, according to Dr. Chris Seitz, an emergency physician and chairman of the American IV Association's scientific advisory board.
'Many nurses saw patients before I ever could get to them in the emergency department and initiated care like IV fluids,' he said.
Is there too much patient involvement?
Regulators also worry about the role customers play in picking their own treatments.
'A patient cannot enter a doctor's office or hospital and demand an IV any more than a patient can direct his or her own appendectomy,' Kentucky officials said in a March statement.
But Seitz says there should be a partnership between any care provider and the patient, with the provider helping the patient make the right decision.
'Patients have a requirement and a need to be the CEO of their own health,' he said.
Patient choice feeds another worry: the mixing of ingredients for specific treatments, a practice known as compounding.
South Carolina regulators said in a 2023 statement that this should result from a valid care provider order, 'not from a patient-driven menu akin to a fast-food restaurant.'
However, proponents say the addition of vitamins or drugs to an IV treatment should not be confused with mixing prescription drugs in a lab.
'It's just pretty simple low-hanging fruit in terms of clinical complexity,' said Jeff Cohen, a co-founder of the American IV Association.
What's the big picture?
IV therapy clinics do provide some care. They can help cancer patients or pregnant women stay hydrated. Some treatments offer relief from migraine pain.
But many drips require the creation of a sterile, soluble vitamin or supplement that is safe to put into someone's veins. That's more expensive to make than a vitamin that may cost a few cents a pill, Torbati noted.
Customers will need to determine whether the added expense is worth it.
'Usually within eight hours, all that expensive therapy (is) peed out,' he said.
___
The Associated Press Health and Science Department receives support from the Howard Hughes Medical Institute's Science and Educational Media Group. The AP is solely responsible for all content.
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Chicago Tribune
6 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Column: Caring for the homeless a stressful job that needs all our attention
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On the way to Rush Copley Medical Center in Aurora – yes, he drove himself, not a good thing – Jackson became more alarmed when, at a red light, he gave himself a quick stroke screening test – he placed both arms out in front and noticed the right arm drift downward. 'That's when I finally realized,' Jackson told me, 'I'm really glad I'm going' to the hospital. Fortunately, testing, which included a CT scan and MRI, ruled out that Jackson had suffered a stroke. And after two days 'of getting poked and prodded' at the hospital, he was sent home with baby aspirin and an appointment with his primary doctor, who advised that counseling would help him figure out ways to deal with the anxiety that brought on this stress-induced episode. The problem is, Jackson takes his job to heart. As he was lying in the hospital dealing with his own health problems, the Hesed House leader posted a compelling Facebook plea that paints a bleak picture of what is happening to the population he's dedicated his career to serving. Declaring that 'I've learned the hard way' how dangerous stress is, he put the focus on record-high homeless numbers, including among families. He pointed to shelters being full across the country, and how funding is running out for offsite hotels for families, which have seen numbers double in a year. He pointed to how the crisis in affordable housing continues to be 'ignored or pushed aside,' and how budgets are eliminating funding for critical social services, which are the safety nets that, among other things, provide desperately needed mental and behavioral health services. Jackson, who himself was on his own at age 18 and couch surfing, deals with these issues both internally and externally each and every day. Which, no doubt, landed him in the hospital. Still, his concern remained on those far more at risk. 'This stress is nothing compared to what people experiencing homelessness or on the brink of losing their homes are going through,' Jackson pointed out in his Facebook post. 'With shelters full, where do I sleep tonight? Where will my next meal come from? Do I pay my sky-high electric bill or let it go to collections so I can put gas in my car this week?' How, he asked, 'do I break it to the kids' all they can take when we leave our home must fit in a duffel bag? 'The need has outpaced the capacity for years and it is getting worse by the minute,' Jackson wrote, a statement that is reflected in a recent report by the Kane County Continuum of Care that highlighted 'urgent housing needs' in our communities. Key findings from this group of nearly 30 local agencies collaborating to tackle the problem noted over 1,700 people experienced homelessness in the county in 2024, with seniors, those with disabilities and families dealing with domestic violence facing significant barriers. And the report declared 'an urgent need for more permanent supportive housing, expanded emergency shelter capacity, increased access to mental and behavioral health services for those experiencing homelessness and workforce development.' Homelessness, of course, is not a new issue here or anywhere else in the country. But what's different now, Jackson told me after he was back at work following his health scare, is that the 'level' and 'the complexity' of the need 'has grown exponentially.' And what's not grown, he quickly added, is 'the public level of education and empathy toward the problem.' 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And so, as good as Jackson is at verbalizing the problem, this panic attack that landed him in the hospital means he needs to figure out a better way to internalize all he sees, all he deals with. On his Facebook post from a hospital bed and in this conversation with me back at work on Friday, he wants people to know he's OK. But rather than send good wishes or lasagna, his wish is that you contact your elected officials and ask what they are doing to resolve the affordable housing crisis. He asks that you support (donate, volunteer) local shelters and social service groups, which are 'drowning with the overwhelming need' that is out there right now. And he asks that you recognize and reinforce the humanity in the people experiencing homelessness. 'I am worrying about them,' he said of the residents of Hesed House. 'But they are worrying about their survival.'


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7 hours ago
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School struggle to solve chronic absenteeism problem since pandemic
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Boston Globe
10 hours ago
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‘Is it the dying kind?'
Still, O must have sensed something was wrong. Usually calm and even-keeled, O started having sudden bursts of frenzy. His teacher, aware of my diagnosis, wasn't surprised to hear about his new behavior at home. She gently suggested that honesty — framed in a way he could understand — might help ease his anxiety. Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up Maybe the teacher was right, but how the hell do I do that? O loves Band-Aids — maybe I could start there. He was thrilled when I showed him the ones from my chemo shots and IVs — even more so when I brought a few special ones home just for him. On the days I was pumped so full of steroids I thought I might molt, we turned the jittery energy into epic Nerf baseball games in the living room. Now that I had begun letting him into the story, O's anxious edge faded, and he settled back into himself. That gave me the courage — if you can call it that — to finally say the dreaded c-word. I slipped it into the middle of a game of Sorry! like it was just another move. I'm not sure exactly how I said it. I was nervous — the only time I'd ever felt that way talking to O — and the words came out awkwardly. I do remember that what I said didn't seem to register. 'Cancer' meant nothing to him. Mine was his first. I wondered how much of my circumstances he was absorbing. Life, at least for him, seemed to have returned to normal. Then, one night while I was tucking him in, O, who was a master at avoiding uncomfortable conversations, surprised me by asking, 'Why do you go to so many doctors now?' We talked about how, even though I looked and felt mostly fine, my body couldn't fight off bugs as well as his and that I needed a lot of doctor visits to help me get better. I asked what he thought about wearing a mask at school, especially during sick season. My shy, COVID-era kiddo — who already had used a mask as a shield — started wearing one again without hesitation. That only made me feel worse. O rarely mentioned my illness, but then one day, he told my wife about the special breakfast he was planning to make me when I was 'all done with chemo.' She softly clarified that I might never be off chemo, even if the doses get lower. 'Why?' O asked. 'To keep the cancer levels down.' 'Papa has cancer?' 'Yes, of course. You knew that.' For a moment, he said nothing. Then his face brightened with a smile feigning revelation. 'Oh yeah.' 'Do you remember what it's called?' 'Muh-muh something.' 'Multiple myeloma.' A long pause. 'Is it the dying kind of cancer?' Somewhere along the way, O had learned that cancer could mean dying. We had never talked about that part. Another longer pause. My wife, not knowing how to respond, said, 'Well, the medicine Papa's getting is working really well.' 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Aren't kids supposed to be resilient? Yes, he now wore a mask to school, and we couldn't go on our beloved weekend subway adventures anymore. And I could no longer be his sick buddy when he was having tough nights. But he adjusted so quickly — maybe he just thought this was normal now that he was 6. Recently, O revealed that he'd been concocting a grand imaginary scheme to trap his mom. It started with a birdcage and escalated into locking her at the top of a tall tower with no door and no stairs. Then he decided he'd give her medicine to 'make her a little sick' and might need to build a coffin in case something went wrong. 'I am not sure I like this game,' my wife said. O, who'd presented his plan with good humor and without a hint of malice, said, 'I already made a plan in my calendar.' Maybe I should hold off on reading more Brothers Grimm to him, but I suspect it's his way of working through some complex feelings. On my next designated steroid day, I started writing a new book for O based on his wild scheme. If he could go into an imaginary world to control sickness and death, so could I. Through this circus of Nerf baseball and Band-Aids and tales of whales and birdcages, I had been so focused on how I would tell O that I had lost sight of what I was actually trying to say. I wrote this piece to try and figure it out. If this were an after-school special, I'd probably realize that all I really wanted to tell him was that I love him and I just had to find the right way to do it. Or that I had more to learn from him than he did from me. That is not where this landed, though. I finally know what I've been trying to say all along, but how the hell do I tell him I'm sorry?