This story by Markian Hawryluk appeared on Kaiser Health News on July 27, 2021
Dr. P.J. Parmar says his patients often like that they can drop in anytime and be seen on a first-come, first-served basis, much like an urgent care clinic, and similar to the way things worked in their native countries.
Because he takes only Medicaid, he knows how to bill the program and doesn’t have to hire billing specialists to deal with 10 insurance companies.
It’s also more cost-efficient for the health system. Many of his patients would otherwise go to the emergency room, sometimes avoiding care altogether until their problems get much worse and more expensive to fix.
“Really none of our innovations are new or unique; we just put them together in a unique way to help low-income folks, while making money,” Parmar said. “And then, instead of taking that money home, I put it back into the refugee community.”
Mango House leases out space to nine stores and six restaurants, all owned and run by refugees. When Dr. P.J. Parmar needs an interpreter for a patient from any of a dozen languages spoken in the building, he often grabs one of his tenants to help, an unorthodox practice.
The son of Indian immigrants, Parmar, 46, was born in Canada but grew up in Chicago and moved to Colorado after college in 1999, where he did his medical training at the University of Colorado School of Medicine. He opened Mango House 10 years ago, buying a building and renting out space to refugees to cover the cost. Two years ago, he expanded into a vacant J.C. Penney building across the street.
“There’s a good three-, four-year dip in the red here, intentionally, as we move from there to here,” Parmar said. “But that red is going to go away soon.”
The COVID pandemic has helped shore up his finances, as federal incentives and payment increases boosted revenue and allowed him to pay down his debt faster.
Parmar must navigate a host of obstacles while working to overcome financial and language barriers. A Muslim Somali woman needs dental care but is uncomfortable seeing a male dentist. A Nepalese woman needs a prescription refill, but she lives in Denver and so has been assigned by Medicaid to the safety-net hospital, Denver Health. Parmar won’t get paid but sees her anyway. Another patient brings paperwork showing he’s being sued by a local health system for a year-old emergency room bill he has no way to pay. A Nepalese man with psoriasis doesn’t want creams or ointments; good medicine, he believes, comes through a needle.
“A lot of this is, basically, geriatrics,” Parmar said. “You have to add 20 years to get their age in refugee years.”
When one patient turns away momentarily, Parmar discreetly throws away her bottle of meloxicam, a strong anti-inflammatory he said she shouldn’t be taking because of her kidney problems. He began stocking over-the-counter medications after realizing his patients got overwhelmed amid 200 varieties of cough and cold medicines at the drugstore. Some couldn’t find what he told them to get, even after he printed flyers showing pictures of the products.
Parmar’s creative solutions, however, often rub many in health care the wrong way. Some balk at his use of family members or others as informal interpreters. Best practices call for the use of trained interpreters who understand medicine and patient privacy rules. But billing for interpretation isn’t possible, so hospitals and clinics must pay interpreters themselves. And that’s beyond the capabilities of most refugee clinics, unless they’re affiliated with a larger health system that can absorb those costs.
“It’s a good thing to have the standards, but it’s another thing altogether to implement them,” said Dr. Pat Walker, an expert on refugee health at the University of Minnesota.
When Mango House began providing COVID vaccines, residents of more affluent areas of town started showing up. Parmar tried to limit vaccinations only to those patients living in the immediate area, checking ZIP codes on their IDs. The state stepped in to say he could neither require IDs nor turn away any patients, regardless of his refugee-focused mission.
During a recent lull at the clinic, Parmar took stock of that day’s inventory of patients. Six were assigned to Denver Health, one patient’s Medicaid coverage had expired, and two had high-deductible commercial plans. Chances are he wouldn’t get paid for seeing any of them. Of the 25 patients he had seen that day, 14 had Medicaid coverage that Parmar could bill.
“We see the rest of them anyway,” he said.