Community Hospital Closures: Raise Your Voice

In my Ohio county, two of our three hospitals have closed since 2025. Here’s what happens when first responders are stretched beyond their limits. In June, 2025, I may have lost a good friend because of delay of care after he was stung by paper wasps in his backyard. He made it into the house where his wife gave him an EpiPen injection, called 911, and gave him two Benadryl tabs. When she went for a glass of water, he lost consciousness.

Minutes passed. She called 911 again and asked where they were. “Oh, we patched that over to the next township,” she was told. “Both of our squads are out on other runs.” His wife is a small woman and did not know CPR. His breathing slowed, his color became dusky, and then he quit breathing. More time passed. When the squad finally arrived, they assessed, quickly put him on the floor, intubated, started a line, CPR, AED, all of that. He was in pulseless electrical activity and never regained consciousness.

They transported him to the now closest hospital, which was nearly 16 miles away. His wife called me when they were en route and said, “I think he’s already dead.” We were informed after the initial ED assessment he was not responding and that neurological damage was likely to have taken a toll. Two days later, other systems were failing and he was removed from life supports.

If our hospitals had still been open, it’s doubtful both EMS squads would have been so spread out at the same time. Most squads in the county were/are traveling nearly double miles for each run, and one remaining ED is now overwhelmed. All delays can mean the difference between life and death.

The crucial role of two local hospitals.

This is Trumbull County and we’re an Appalachian community with limited transportation, substantial poverty, and a rising population of elders who depend on care close to home. For decades, our community relied on two of the three anchor hospitals: Hillside Hospital, a rehabilitation center known for returning more than 70% of its patients home; and Trumbull Memorial Hospital, a regional trauma center with a busy ED. Both Hillside and Trumbull were originally part of community hospital systems that are established, maintained, and piloted by local citizenry.

In 2017, both hospitals were purchased by Steward Health Care as part of a national expansion. Over time, services like maternity wards were eliminated, staffing reduced/redesigned, and maintenance floundered. In May 2024, Steward filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. By early autumn, both Hillside and Trumbull Memorial had closed, which cut access to care and approximately 1000 jobs.

An institution with deep roots in the community.

In many cases, employees had worked in these institutions for decades. High school graduates were hired, trained as ancillary staff, and promoted over time to other departments—assignments requiring a desire to learn and build on all that experience and knowledge they’d gained inside the hospital. We worked as a team, knowing good patient care was the beating heart of our institution.

The founders of our hospital knew they would need nurses, and our school of nursing was part of that 1906 plan when two nursing students were enrolled. I am a proud graduate of Trumbull Memorial Hospital School of Nursing. I’m now retired, but it’s obvious that our health care system has hit an iceberg. The closures that displaced all those workers—nurses, aides, therapists, and ancillary staff who had tirelessly cared for our community for decades—are shameful. These people are real; they had lifetimes of clinical skill, local knowledge, and were trusted completely. Many have had to settle for unfulfilling jobs, move away, or leave the profession. A brief reopening attempt by Insight Health in October 2025 lasted less than a month because the state shut it down over safety and staffing concerns.

While the mean age of our county is around 44, about 64% of the population falls between 30 and 84 years of age. As in other deindustrialized communities, jobs are not readily available and wherever work leads, young people must follow. Chronic illness is often the chair of old age, limited income its porch, and unreliable transportation its leaky roof. When local hospitals close, care becomes out of reach. The routine tests and follow-ups are missed. Small health problems, over time, get much worse, and emergencies take longer to treat. Families are forced to travel many miles or simply go without care.  Many elders are caregivers for their spouse with little or no help for activities of daily living, transportation, spiritual, and medical needs. Extended family may be far away or nonexistent and hiring home health aides is too costly for their limited incomes.

In 1988, my father entered Hillside half-paralyzed after a stroke. He had a tube in every orifice. Eight weeks later, he was able to walk short distances with a leg brace and oxygen. He returned to Florida with a caregiver and lived 11 more years. That is the kind of care we lost when Hillside closed.

I know the story of our community is not unique. It’s a mirror of what’s happening across our country: rural communities are losing hospitals, and the nurses who know these patients best are bearing witness to the consequences.

Collecting stories of hospital closures.

I am working with Dr. Geraldine Gorman to co-edit a collection of firsthand accounts of hospital closures and their aftermath. We want our turn at the podium. That’s the ink driving this collection. If you are a nurse who has experienced this, we invite you to share your story. These stories are essential to understanding what’s at stake—and to helping shape what comes next. Here’s more information about the project and how to submit:

Community Hospital Closures & Other Systemic Losses: New poems (submit 3) or prose (2000-word limit). All viewpoints encouraged. Deadline: January 2027. Send to: Jeanne Bryner, PO Box 111, Newton Falls, OH 44444, or by email to Geraldine Gorman: ggorman@uic.edu

Jeanne Bryner, RN, BA, CEN (rtd). The author’s family was part of Appalachia’s outmigration. A retired board-certified emergency nurse, she’s a graduate of Trumbull Memorial Hospital’s School of Nursing and Kent State University’s Honors College. Her recent book, In Velvet: New & Selected Poems, Bottom Dog Press, received second place in the 2025 American Journal of Nursing Book of the Year Award for Creative Works. She lives near an Ohio dairy farm with her husband, David.