West was about 20 weeks pregnant when the baby was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome, a rare and serious congenital condition where the left side of the heart is underdeveloped, Paxton's office said in a news release. 

The intended parents, identified in court documents as Nausheen Gilkar and Omar Ahmed of California, requested West undergo an abortion after they learned about the diagnosis, Paxton's office said. But West refused and traveled to Dallas County, Texas, "for protection," the office said, and to ensure that the child, identified in the news release as Gabriel, "could be near doctors experienced in treating his condition." 

Children with hypoplastic left heart syndrome typically need three surgeries, the first within two weeks of birth, according to the Cleveland Clinic. The second surgery is performed at 4 to 6 months, and the third between 18 months and 5 years old. The heart condition is rare and complex, the Cleveland Clinic says, and can cause lifelong complications. 

Gilkar and Ahmed have refused to say they will consent to the first surgery, Paxton's office said, alleging they "may attempt to transport the child out of Texas to prevent treatment from being administered." Gilkar and Ahmed have asked a California court to order West to give birth there. 

Jacqueline Ribiero, a media relations manager for the pro-life advocacy group Alliance Defending Freedom, confirmed to CBS News that West had given birth on Wednesday. Alliance Defending Freedom is managing communications for West's lawyer, identified in court documents as Lincoln Wilson Davis. 

It was not clear if Gilkar and Ahmed were present when West gave birth on Wednesday, or what medical care was provided immediately after the baby was born. An attorney for Gilkar and Ahmed did not immediately respond to a request for comment about the case.   

In the intervention, Paxton's office said Gabriel's treating physicians have determined that "surgery offers a meaningful chance of survival" for the child, and noted that he will "live with significant lifelong disabilities" after the operations.

Paxton's office said that any gestational agreement between West and the intended parents should not govern whether the child receives care after birth. Texas law protects any baby born in the state, the office said. An Alaska court previously ruled that West can make her own medical decisions. 

"The question the Court must prepare to answer is not whether a gestational agreement is enforceable," Paxton's office wrote in the court filing. "The question is whether any adult, whatever parental title he or she holds, may decline life-saving surgery for a newborn who can live, because the child will live with disabilities." 

In a separate letter to UT Southwestern and Children's Medical Center of Dallas, Paxton requested that the facilities provide care and prevent Gabriel from being taken out of state. The two hospitals did not immediately respond to a request for comment from CBS News. 

Paxton's request for a court order was granted on Wednesday, his office said in a second news release. The court order rules that lifesaving care must be provided when Gabriel is born. The court also issued a restraining order that says Ahmed and Gilkar, not West, are responsible for medical decisions within the requirements of the court order.  

According to the order, the hospital and treating physicians must inform the court and involved parties when the baby is born, as well as of any medical developments. The order also appointed a guardian ad litem to represent Gabriel, and said that if treatment is refused, the court will convene an emergency hearing to determine whether to intervene. 

"Baby Gabriel deserves a chance at life, and I will not allow anyone to unlawfully deny him medically necessary care," Paxton said in a statement Tuesday. "My office will use every tool available to protect innocent lives and ensure that every child receives the care required under Texas law."  

West, Gilkar and Ahmed have not publicly spoken about the case. The three are expected to appear in court again on Aug. 25. It's not clear if the baby's birth will lead to an earlier court date.  

Worldwide Surrogacy Specialists LLC, the agency that connected West, Gilkar and Ahmed, told CBS News in a statement that it supports the rights of both surrogate and intended parents. 

The agency said it believes the matter "should have been referred to mediation where all parties would have been urged to consider the best interests of the child who will face severe hardship upon his birth, and to reach a settlement so that upon his birth, the child would be surrounded by love, not lawyers and litigation." 

First, if you've never had the opportunity to see a solar eclipse, what you are watching is the moon passing in front of the sun. It occurs somewhere on Earth about every 18 months, but in any one particular spot on the globe they could happen hundreds of years apart.

Here's what to know about the total solar eclipse:

Where was the solar eclipse visible?

Many places along the path of totality are not inhabited, like northern Greenland. But western Iceland and northern Spain also lay in the path for a peak eclipse experience. 

In Spain, they had not experienced a total solar eclipse since 1905.

This animation from NASA shows the path of totality for the eclipse, along with the time it crosses those areas: 

Even though totality only reached a relatively narrow slice of the hemisphere, a partial solar eclipse was visible in a much wider area. About 230 million people live in areas getting 90% totality, according to population data from the Center for International Earth Science Information Network at Columbia University.

That includes most major cities in Europe, including Madrid, London and Paris.

Even some of North America got a chance to see a partial solar eclipse, though it won't be nearly as impressive as when the U.S. got to see a total eclipse in 2024. The best place to see it in the U.S.: Fairbanks, Alaska, reaching 37% totality.

Boston was in the path for 16% totality, while New York City reached about 9% totality, Toronto about 8% and Philadelphia about 7%. 

What time did the eclipse happen?

Since the eclipse crossed just the northern part of the globe, the path of totality was fairly short from start to finish, about an hour and 45 minutes.

The first glimpse of the total eclipse became visible in extreme northern Russia at 17:00 UTC, which is 1 p.m. Eastern time. It reached northeast Greenland by 1:30 p.m. ET and western Iceland by about 1:45 p.m. ET.

After crossing the northern Atlantic for 45 minutes — when it was be best visible in the U.K., with London reaching its max of 91% at 2:13 p.m. ET (7:13 p.m. local time) — totality reached northern Spain at about 2:30 p.m. ET (exactly 8:32 p.m. local time in Valencia).

The whole path was over by 2:45 p.m. ET.

For those in North America seeing a partial eclipse, it was at its maximum in Toronto at 1:40 p.m. and New York City at 1:54 p.m. local time. In Fairbanks, people could see its fullest point at 8:27 a.m. local time.

Watching the eclipse in person

If you were lucky enough to be in one of the locations where the solar eclipse reached totality, casting darkness in the middle of the afternoon, it lasted for about two minutes. 

Enthusiastic viewers came out to watch across Europe, with most seeing a partial but still dramatic view.

Wearing solar eclipse glasses is essential to protect your retinas from damage when viewing an eclipse. It's only safe to take the glasses off for the brief period of totality. 

During a partial eclipse, you have to keep those glasses on the whole time to avoid eye damage.

When is the next total solar eclipse in the U.S.?

If the total solar eclipse in Europe gets you excited for the next one in the U.S., you have some time to wait.

The next total solar eclipse over the U.S. will be in 2044, but that one will only be visible in three states: Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota. 

The next year, there will be another opportunity visible in many states as it moves from coast to coast. The eclipse will start in Northern California and move in an arc toward the east, ending in Florida, similar to one in 2017. There will be numerous U.S. cities where eclipse watchers can view the total eclipse, including Reno, Nevada; Colorado Springs; Tulsa, Oklahoma; Little Rock, Arkansas; Jackson, Mississippi; and Orlando, Florida.

There will be another in 2052 that crosses the Southeast, including Florida, Georgia and South Carolina.

To see a total eclipse in the northeastern U.S., you'll have to wait all the way until May 1, 2079.

The Chico Elementary School's parent-teacher organization shared on Facebook just after 2 p.m. that students were evacuated to Chico High School. The PTO assured parents that everyone was safe and that the situation was under control.

The organization also noted ParentSquare, a digital tool used for communication between families and schools, was down at the time, asking for patience as the school worked on communication. The PTO asked for parents to give teachers and staff enough time and space to address the situation.

Public safety officials have not yet discussed what may have caused the fire.

Wednesday afternoon's grass fire after the CBS News Texas First Alert Weather Team noted that parts of the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex and areas west were under an elevated fire threat. Winds were predicted to gust up to 30-35 mph at times. This, in combination with low levels of humidity and the high heat, increased the fire danger.

CBS News Texas will update this article as more information is provided.

ICE plans to spend between $10 million and $20 million to purchase "conductive distraction and de-escalation devices" for officers and agents by March, according to a notice published Monday by the Department of Homeland Security.

The devices are known as the G.L.O.V.E., which stands for Generated Low Output Voltage Emitter, and are manufactured by Compliant Technologies LLC of Lexington, Kentucky. They have been used in recent years by some jails and police departments.

The notice said the solicitation for a no-bid contract could be published as early as Friday.

A DHS spokesperson told CBS News in a statement: "ICE is constantly assessing the needs of our officers in the field to ensure they have the tools and equipment necessary to safely arrest and remove criminal illegal aliens from our country. Every decision is made with careful consideration and appropriately reviewed to ensure that any technology ICE utilizes is consistent with all applicable law enforcement policies and standards."

Compliant Technologies did not comment to CBS News.

Civil rights advocates — including from the American Civil Liberties Union — expressed alarm at the plan, saying ICE officers already face criticism for their use of force during President Trump's immigration crackdown.

Compliant Technologies says the devices function as a normal pair of patrol gloves until officers press a switch to activate their electrical mode. The gloves must be applied directly to someone's skin to deliver a pain stimulus that typically helps an officer gain compliance within seconds, according to the company.

"It's immediate and sharp, and it will distract you. I call it like a bee sting," John Peters, president of the Institute for the Prevention of In-Custody Deaths, who is studying how the device has been used, told The AP. "If the officer is getting any type of resistance from the person, this is certainly an effective tool."

Peters said he believed ICE's planned purchase would likely be the largest from the company to date. He said he could envision ICE officers using the gloves to help remove uncooperative subjects from cars and houses and in and out of detention facilities.

"For smaller officers or weaker officers or older officers, I think it has a great advantage" because it can produce faster takedowns and shorten confrontations, he said.

The manufacturer warns the device should not be used as punishment, against people merely exhibiting "verbal defiance or belligerence" or on high-risk populations such as children, pregnant women or elderly or disabled people.

Jenn Rolnick Borchetta, deputy project director on policing at the ACLU, told The AP the public should have no confidence that ICE officers will use the devices appropriately. She questioned why the devices would be necessary for civil immigration enforcement and noted those getting shocked might have no advance warning.

"ICE spent the last year showing this country they are too quick to use force. Now they will be able to deploy electric shocks with the slight push of a button that maybe nobody else can see them do," she said. "Introducing gloves that can so easily be used to deliver terrible pain in encounters is a recipe for harm to the public."

Supporters say the devices are generally used in specific jail and transport situations, rather than broadly to patrol on the streets. They have been used to subdue violent suspects who are refusing to get into squad cars and inmates who are harming themselves and threatening officers, according to Compliant Technologies.

Peters said he expected the devices to be misused by a small number of employees, as with other policing technologies, but he said they are unlikely to cause injuries. He said it would be important for ICE to have robust policies and training in place.

To use the device, officers must complete a course and be recertified every two years, the manufacturer says.

The planned purchases come as ICE expands its crackdown on people accused of being in the U.S. illegally, amid pressure from the White House to arrest 2,000 people per day.

ICE has drawn scrutiny for its tactics during its arrest surge — including attempted vehicle stops in Maine and Texas last month that ended with ICE agents fatally shooting two immigrants. 

In both of last month's shootings, agents were not wearing body cameras. DHS has pledged to widely deploy body-worn cameras, and said last month that all ICE arrest teams will have at least one officer equipped with a camera going forward.

Here's a look at the schedule:

Saturday, Aug. 15 on CBS Texas

• Cowboys vs. Seahawks in Seattle on CBS Texas
• Pregame show at 5 p.m.
• Kickoff at 7 p.m.
• Followed by CBS News Texas at 10 p.m. on KTVT or CBSTexas.com/live, the CBS News app and Pluto TV 
  

Saturday, Aug. 22 on CBS Texas

• Cowboys vs. Cardinals in Glendale, Ariz.
• Pregame show at 7 p.m.
• Kickoff at 9 p.m.

Wednesday, Aug. 26

• Cowboys Night at The Star
• Airs at 6 p.m. on KTXA 21 or CBSTexas.com/live, the CBS News app and Pluto TV  

Friday, Aug. 28 on CBS Texas on CBS Texas

• Cowboys vs. Saints at AT&T Stadium
• Pregame show at 6 p.m.
• Kickoff at 7 p.m.
• Followed by CBS News Texas at 10 p.m. on KTVT or CBSTexas.com/live, the CBS News app and Pluto TV    

CBS Sports Texas anchor Bill Jones and former Cowboys wide receiver Isaiah Stanback will be on the call for all three games.

CBS Texas programming changes for Dallas Cowboys preseason

The broadcasts for the three tune-up games will cause regular CBS programming to move to KTXA 21.

Saturday, Aug. 15 on KTXA 21

• 5 p.m. - CBS News Texas on KTXA 21 or CBSTexas.com/live, the CBS News app and Pluto TV
• 5:30 p.m. - CBS Evening News
• 6 p.m. - Jeopardy!
• 6:30 p.m. - Wheel of Fortune
• 7 p.m. - WNBA: Minnesota Lynx vs. Las Vegas Aces
• 9 p.m. - 48 Hours

Saturday, Aug. 22 on KTXA 21

• 7 p.m. - The Run For A Million
• 9 p.m. - 48 Hours
• Note: The CBS News Texas 10 p.m. newscast will only be available streaming on CBSTexas.com/live, the CBS News app and Pluto TV

Friday, Aug. 28 on KTXA 21

• 6 p.m. - Jeopardy!
• 6:30 p.m. - Wheel of Fortune
• 7 p.m. - NFL Preseason on CBS: Cincinnati Bengals vs. Philadelphia Eagles

In a press release shared with CBS News Texas on Tuesday, the Save Dallas City Hall Coalition announced it filed suit against the city government, Mayor Eric Johnson, the city council, City Manager Kimberly Bizor Tolbert and other city officials. CBS News Texas has asked the city for comment.

The coalition says the suit asks a judge to halt what it calls the "demolition by neglect" of City Hall.

"The City expects private citizens to maintain their properties, but refuses to take responsibility for maintaining our historic City Hall and Plaza," said coalition president Bruce Richardson. "Dallas City Hall has at least one failed generator, active parking garage leaks, and is due for roof maintenance. Instead of tackling these problems with millions in available funds, the City halted repairs, wasting money and time to explore a move. Incredibly, the City now proposes an additional $40 million in bond debt to move our 911 center to a less secure site."

"Our Coalition refuses to sit idle while city officials ignore the public and delay mandated action until the historic predesignation moratorium expires," Richardson said.

The lawsuit comes two months after the city council voted to explore options on relocating city hall to an office tower downtown. Proponents of the change say that City Hall has outgrown its current building, which is in need of extensive repairs and modernization; One estimate puts the repair bill over $1 billion. Relocating would also help a central business district that is experiencing high vacancy rates in office towers. The prime piece of land that City Hall sits on could then be sold and redeveloped to better suit the city's needs.

Opponents of relocating City Hall have argued that the building was designed by renowned modernist architect I. M. Pei, who also designed the Meyerson Symphony Center in Dallas. They also argue that the cost estimates to repair the building are exaggerated and the effort will take less time and money than an estimate of $1.1 billion over two decades, including five years the site would need to be vacant. 

What led to the lawsuit being filed?

According to the lawsuit, City Manager Tolbert and Chief of Real Estate John Johnson are accused of "abusing city property" by failing to maintain core life-safety infrastructure of the building, that city officials have breached their fiduciary duty, and that the city failed to complete a historic landmark designation more than 17 months after the Landmark Commission's unanimous vote in March 2025 to initiate the designation. The coalition's suit claims that Watson has not completed the required historical significance report, which could allow a two-year moratorium on potentially tearing down the building to expire in March 2027.

The coalition also alleges the city government failed to initiate mandatory inspections after it filed a formal request on July 22. The coalition also claimed Marcus Watson, the city's Historic Preservation Officer, acknowledged the July 22 request in August but "simply referred future communications to the City Attorney's Office, and by all appearances has failed to schedule the legally-mandated owner meeting, inspections, or report timetables."

What does the coalition want from the court?

The coalition is asking the district court to issue orders that would compel city leaders to make the necessary repairs to stabilize Dallas City Hall and to properly maintain its emergency generators, which were identified as part of the core life-safety infrastructure of the building.

The coalition is also seeking a court order to extend the legal prohibition on tearing down the building by the exact number of months it said Watson has delayed in compiling the historic designation report. The coalition said it wants this to ensure the clock can't run out on the building's legal protections.

Why does the coalition want to save Dallas City Hall?

Dallas City Hall, completed in 1978, was designed by renowned architect I.M. Pei, who, the coalition notes in its lawsuit, designed other famous buildings. His works include the Louvre Pyramid in Paris, France; the Bank of China Tower in Hong Kong; the National Gallery of Art's East Building in Washington; and the John F. Kennedy Library in Boston.

Specifically, the coalition says Dallas City Hall is an example of Modernist and Brutalist architecture. The building is noted for its inverted trapezoidal shape, something the coalition says is unprecedented among other city halls in the United States. The building was also created in the years following the 1963 assassination of John F. Kennedy in Dallas, which the group says represents how the city moved forward to reshape its national image in the wake of the tragedy.

The coalition also notes the building has had impacts beyond its role as part of Dallas' civic function. The building was used in the original "RoboCop" movies, in the 1980 television movie "The Lathe of Heaven", and it further inspired the shape and appearance of the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library building, located just across the street from Dallas City Hall.

Do city leaders want to preserve Dallas City Hall?

While residents, business leaders, and former officials recently shared hours of testimony both in favor and against preserving the building, the city council voted in June 2026 against a plan to repair it. The vote was 9-6 against the repair plan.

"It is overwhelmingly clear that relocation will be not only a far more prudent use of taxpayer dollars but will also be a better long-term solution for our government, City employees, and all Dallasites," Mayor Eric Johnson said in a statement at the time.

Former city leaders, including former council member Jaynie Schultz, questioned the timing of the vote. Business leaders argued that redeveloping the site was the best path forward for Dallas. Former mayors Ron Kirk and Tom Leppert urged the council to focus on downtown expansion rather than restoring the building.

A district judge issued a temporary restraining order blocking any vote tied to relocating City Hall operations, ruling that the city failed to provide proper public notice.

What you'll notice Wednesday and through the rest of the workweek is an uptick in the wind, gusting up to 30-35 mph at times. This, in combination with low levels of humidity and the high heat, will increase the fire danger.  

The fire danger will peak on Thursday and reach extreme levels. Please do not do any outdoor burning and practice your fire safety tips, like disposing of cigarettes properly and immediately reporting any smoke or fire that you see. 

Looking ahead to the weekend, more triple-digit heat is on the way, and it will continue well into next week.

Authorities say Hector Vicente Paguada Paguada, 38, is accused of capital murder in the shooting deaths of 55-year-old Juana Medina Rodriguez and 23-year-old Nayeli Bolanos Medina.

Irving police said the murder happened in front of the 5-year-old son of one of the victims.

The investigation uncovered that Paguada Paguada fled the United States after the murders with the help of at least four people, who are facing charges.

Authorities said Paguada Paguada has ties to Honduras and is believed to be there. He's also known to use various aliases, including Hector Antonio Matute, Hector Paguada Pagoada, Alejandro De Jesus Muniz Cruz, and Hector Martinez.

"We believe someone knows where he is," Irving Police Chief Derick Miller said during a press conference Wednesday.

And that's why his department and the FBI are hoping someone will come forward. 

"We are at a point where we need the public's assistance," said FBI Dallas Special Agent in Charge R. Joseph Rothrock.

What happened the night of the murders in Irving

According to Irving Police, at about 9 p.m. on Jan. 19, officers responded to a shooting in the 2000 block of W. Irving Boulevard, where they found the victims, Medina Rodriguez and Bolanos Medina.

Police said Medina Rodriguez died at the scene, and Bolanos Medina was taken to a hospital where she later died.

The suspect, identified at the time as Hector Matute, fled the scene before officers arrived.

Investigators determined that Matute, aka Paguada Paguada, knew the two victims, but the motive for the shooting is still unclear.

Multiple people arrested for helping suspect escape

• On Jan. 24, an arrest warrant was issued for Paguada Paguada after he was charged with capital murder, police said.
• On Jan. 25, Nicolle Martinez Tome, 34, and Yudi Mabel Paguada Ruiz, 30, were both arrested for tampering with or fabricating physical evidence. 
• On Feb. 20, Yeferi Josue Aguilera Hernandez, 32, was arrested and charged with hindering apprehension of a known felon.
• On Feb. 29, a federal arrest warrant was issued for Paguada Paguada in the Northern District of Texas after he was charged with Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution.

Renewed call for justice

As authorities have continued to search for Paguada Paguada over the past two years, Irving Police said it's commitment to the victims' families to pursue justice has never wavered.

"We will not stop pursuing Hector Paguada Paguada until he is found and held accountable," Miller said. "We urge anyone with information about his whereabouts to come forward. One tip could make all the difference in bringing justice to these families."

Rothrock shared he knows people may be scared because Paguada Paguada is a violent criminal, however, he believes that shouldn't "outweigh the need to bring justice to these victims."

If you have any information leading to the location of Paguada Paguada, call the FBI at 1-800-CALL-FBI (1-800-225-5324). Tips can also be submitted at tips.fbi.gov. 

CEO Kevin McGurn told investors on Monday that the company has signed up "more than 10" customers for its Truth API, or Application Programming Interface, data feed, which he said was mostly from high-frequency securities trading firms seeking an edge by potentially seeing the president's posts milliseconds before they reach the broader Truth Social audience. 

Contracts for the new service generally range from $60,000 to $100,000 a month, McGurn said. The Truth API includes access to the social media network's top accounts, not just Mr. Trump's, the company has said.

Rolling access to the Truth API feed could give traders and investors a small but meaningful head start in making investment calls based on Mr. Trump's posts, such as announcements on tariffs and foreign policy. That could raise ethical concerns, financial experts said.

McGurn also said Trump Media is in "active conversations" with large cloud computing firms, artificial intelligence companies and news organizations about signing up for Truth API. Eventually, the company also plans to market the data feed to ordinary investors, he said.

"We're encouraged by the early demand for Truth API, and we look forward to rolling out the product to other sectors, including retail investors," McGurn said in a call with Wall Street analysts to discuss the company's most recent financial results.

Lawsuit over Truth API

The Truth API service has sparked controversy, with media organizations filing a lawsuit against Mr. Trump on Wednesday. The Intercept and the nonprofit Freedom of the Press Foundation. The suit alleges that selling Truth API subscriptions is "extraordinary, corrupt and unconstitutional." 

"There is no legitimate interest, let alone a significant one, in permitting President Trump to profit from selling government information," the groups' lawsuit claims.

The suit, filed in the U.S. District Court in Manhattan, alleges Truth API violates the First and Fifth Amendments.

"Trump is trying to enrich himself by privatizing government information that he has no right to sell," Ben Muessig, editor-in-chief of The Intercept, claimed in an Intercept article about the lawsuit. "We won't let it stand."

In a response to the lawsuit, Trump Media said that Mr. Trump's statements are widely available. The White House didn't immediately respond to a request for comment about the litigation.

"Information from President Trump is disseminated by countless platforms and news outlets, many of which offer subscription APIs," a spokesman for Trump Media told CBS News. "One of those channels is Truth Social, which was founded as an uncancellable haven for free speech after the President was unjustly deplatformed. Now, left-wing activists are trying to wrongfully weaponize the courts to censor him again and harm our shareholders."

Searching for direction

Trump Media & Technology Group, which has never turned a profit since its founding in 2021, has struggled to settle on a business strategy capable of delivering reliable revenue growth. Advertising revenue on the Truth Social platform — President Trump's primary social media bullhorn — fell in the second quarter, according to an Aug. 10 regulatory filing, although the company didn't provide financial details. 

To jump-start growth, Trump Media has expanded into a range of new ventures, branching into financial products such as ETFs with patriotic investment themes and buying billions in cryptocurrencies to refashion itself into a crypto treasury firm. Trump Media is also merging with fusion energy company TAE Technologies, which McGurn on Monday said will provide Trump Media with "a rare chance to play a key role in securing America's energy independence."

On Monday, the company's second-quarter revenue rose 89% to $1.67 million, but its losses ballooned 10-fold to $238 million due to the plunging value of its crypto holdings, according to Trump Media's latest earnings report. 

The Truth API, announced in July, could boost revenue by selling what may be the company's most valuable asset: immediate, automated access to Mr. Trump's public statements. Truth Social continues to publish Mr. Trump's posts, and those of other top users, so that they are available to everyone at the same time. 

But the API delivers the information directly to customers' computers, potentially allowing them to detect the posts before a human user might notice them on their feed. 

Trump Media shares — which trade under the ticker DJT, the same as the president's initials — slipped almost 6% on Tuesday. The stock has lost about 49% of its value over the past year, while the S&P 500 has gained 21%.

Ethical concerns

The Truth Social API service is drawing scrutiny from ethics experts and Democratic lawmakers over whether investors should be able to pay a company partly owned by the president for faster access to his public statements.

Sen. Mark Warner, a Democrat from Virginia, has introduced a bill that would ban social media companies from selling special access to government employees' accounts that share market-moving information. 

Mr. Trump frequently turns to Truth Social for major announcements, including the introduction of new tariffs and progress in diplomatic talks with Iran and other nations. The president has also been a driver of the market's best and worst five days since his return to office, CNBC reported in May, citing research from Fundstrat.

Fundstrat, which didn't respond to requests for comment, found that the S&P 500's biggest single-day jump last year came on April 9, 2025, when the president announced he would pause his tariffs, sending the index soaring 9%. 

On Monday's investor call, McGurn defended the Truth Social API service by noting that it only provides access to public posts, albeit "milliseconds" faster. "Our customers will get published in publicly available posts fractionally faster," he said. He called the ethical criticisms "misguided."

But "milliseconds make a difference" for high-frequency traders, Richard Painter, a corporate and securities law professor at the University of Minnesota who served as the chief ethics lawyer under President George W. Bush, told CBS News. 

High-frequency trading firms could face particular legal risk because their automated systems can execute trades in fractions of a second, Painter pointed out. Although Mr. Trump's posts are publicly available when the API sends them to customers, Painter said that the source of government information, as well as customers who paid for access, is legally required to wait to trade on that info until the data has had time to be reflected in market prices, or else risk violating insider-trading laws.

Trump Media dismissed such concerns.

"Critics continue to mischaracterize Truth API either out of ideological opposition to free markets or a failure to grasp the distinction between public and nonpublic information," a Trump Media spokesperson told CBS News.

Mr. Trump's stake

Mr. Trump owns 41% of the media company's shares, worth about $1 billion, according to data from financial services firm FactSet. While he doesn't have a management role in the firm, he stands to profit from Trump Media through his shares. 

"The structure gives the president a personal financial interest in the market impact of his own official statements," Jessica Tillipman, associate dean for government procurement law studies at The George Washington University Law School, told CBS News. 

She added: "I have made similar arguments about members of Congress and why they should not be permitted to profit from trading on information they receive in office. Unlike the congressional context, this involves a company the president beneficially owns selling access to information he creates in his official capacity."

A broader law is needed to keep government officials from profiting from insider information, leaks and other disclosures, Painter said, comparing the situation to the creation of Regulation Fair Disclosure, or Reg FD, in 2000 in response to public companies selectively disclosing material information to some investors and Wall Street firms. Reg FD requires public companies to disclose market-moving information publicly. 

In the meantime, Trump Media & Technology Group plans to expand Truth API to more customers, even though it has generated only a "modest amount of revenue" so far, McGurn said on Monday. He added, "We believe this can grow into a meaningful, durable contributor."

A federal law enacted to prevent diseased and dirty food from reaching Americans' plates requires the FDA to carry out nearly 20 times that many foreign inspections each year. But the FDA hasn't come close to meeting the congressional mandate — or even 10% of it — in the 10 years it has been in place, spanning administrations led by both political parties. 

FDA officials have described the requirement as unrealistic, but have never asked Congress to revise it. A lower foreign inspection target the agency deemed necessary to safeguard foreign imports is still nearly five times higher than the number of inspections conducted last year. 

Congress, meanwhile, has not increased the agency's food safety budget to outpace or keep up with inflation, and widespread layoffs during the first year of President Trump's second term squeezed resources further.  

The rate of inspections has gotten markedly worse amid those reductions, with foreign food safety inspections falling by 29% from 2024. Outside of the COVID-19 pandemic, last year's inspection count was the lowest since 2011. Early numbers for 2026 show that the agency is on track to inspect a similar number this year.

"FDA inspections really are the first line of defense for mitigating outbreaks. If FDA isn't routinely going out to food facilities, it's just completely blind," said Meridith Seife, the lead author on a Health and Human Services Inspector General report on FDA inspections of U.S. facilities. "It's unable to ensure that those facilities are complying with the laws, with regulations, and that the food that they handle is safe."

About a third of FDA inspections of foreign firms for foodborne hazards over the last decade found violations, inspection data show. Inspectors have previously found toilet paper and human feces in growing fields in Mexico and observed air conditioning units dripping onto crawfish in China. Around 2% of the time inspectors visited firms over the last 10 years, they found violations significant enough to prompt enforcement action.

Before the cyclosporiasis outbreak, the FDA last inspected its potential source, Taylor Farms de Mexico, seven years ago, records show. The FDA's last visit before that was six years prior — to respond to another cyclosporiasis outbreak in 2013. The 2019 inspection found no violations, while the 2013 post-outbreak review found the facility was recycling wash water for salad mix, but couldn't conclusively pinpoint the source of the outbreak. 

The FDA is "actively working to expand staffing at foreign posts," according to Emily Hilliard, senior press secretary for HHS. Public health experts say the inspection count is only one input in the whole system, and that food companies bear primary responsibility for day-to-day safety. But they also said the count still matters as an outside check regulators alone can provide.

"Suggesting that FDA's ability to protect the food supply can be measured by a single inspection statistic ignores the agency's comprehensive oversight system, which prioritizes resources based on risk and deploys personnel where they have the greatest public health impact," Hilliard wrote in a statement to CBS News. 

The FDA inspects producers of fruits and vegetables, dairy, processed foods and most seafood, while the U.S. Department of Agriculture is responsible for inspections of meat and poultry producers. 

About 47,000 foreign manufacturers accounted for 90% of non-meat food shipments into the U.S. last year, a CBS News analysis of import data found. The FDA has inspected 4.5% of them since 2023. 

The FDA employs a risk-based model to determine where to send inspectors, based on how much and how often a company sends food into the U.S. and its prior inspection and import refusal record. In addition to inspections, the FDA also uses an algorithm to assign scores to imports for screening at ports of entry, and can block any imports without examining them if they deem a shipper problematic. Federal law also puts the burden on U.S. companies importing food to ensure their suppliers follow safety standards.

An "unrealistic" target

Since 2011, federal inspectors have visited an average of about 1,300 foreign factories and farms annually (in non-pandemic years) to check for hazards that could lead to foodborne illness, federal data shows. 

The FDA, state and local agencies conducted more than 10,000 inspections annually inside the U.S. in recent years, according to the HHS Inspector General.   

The Food Safety Modernization Act, or FSMA, set a rising annual target for foreign inspections, capping it at 19,200 in 2016. The FDA told a federal watchdog as early as 2015 that the number was unworkable, so it directed the FDA to propose an adjusted target to Congress. The agency later conducted an internal analysis pegging the needed number of inspections at 4,700, about three to five times what the FDA has managed in recent years. But the agency never brought the number to Congress.

After the Government Accountability Office urged the FDA to revisit the target again last January, the agency created a workgroup to redo the analysis. 

"The GAO was right in its January report when it said that the agency is handicapped by underfunding and understaffing. It's even more so now," said Sen. Richard Blumenthal, a Democrat of Connecticut, who requested the more recent watchdog inquiry. "There's clearly a need for more resources, better management, more commitment. Some of it can be legislated, but it also has to come from the administration."

At an average of $38,700 per foreign inspection, according to the FDA's estimates, meeting the existing Congressional mandate would cost about $743 million a year — more than 10% of the FDA's entire budget.

In its budget request for the upcoming year, the FDA asked for an additional $9 million to increase foreign inspector capacity. The agency also proposed requiring foreign food firms to pay a fee to register to import to the U.S., which would add an estimated $71 million in funds.

Staffing challenges

The FDA had 432 inspectors in 2024, and its hiring rate has not outpaced losses, according to the GAO report. Congress directed the hiring of 5,000 inspectors under FSMA, but the agency says it has never had the budget to increase staffing that much. 

"Retaining inspectors has been a challenge at the FDA for more than a decade due to the difficulty of the job," wrote Sen. John Hoeven, a Republican of North Dakota, chair of the Senate appropriations subcommittee that drafts funding legislation for the FDA, in a written statement. 

Last year's mass government layoffs spared inspectors but slashed support staff, leaving front-line inspectors to book their own flights and translators. 

With just a fraction of its inspectors — 20 in 2024 — dedicated to foreign providers, the agency often pulls from domestic inspector ranks. It sends inspectors overseas for weeks to combine multiple stops in one trip. The FDA has also worked out agreements with Canada, New Zealand and Australia to accept their food systems and inspection results as equivalent to the U.S.

The required 19,200 inspections "was an impossible number for them to meet," said Stephen Ostroff, former FDA deputy commissioner for foods and veterinary medicine. "They have worked very hard to try to come up with alternatives to doing those foreign inspections." 

Beyond inspections

With inspections happening infrequently, "the day-to-day operations and management of food safety is really on the company rather than on the regulatory agency," said Dr. Don Schaffner, chair of Rutgers University's Department of Food Science. 

Economic incentives reinforce that self-monitoring: sales of prepackaged lettuce dropped nearly 20% in July amid the cyclosporiasis outbreak, Reuters reported. Taylor Farms says it invests $200 million annually in food safety protocols and independent audits, including regular monitoring of water quality and worker hygiene.  

"The food industry is very good in terms of food safety overall if you think of how much food we eat," said Dr. Kali Kniel, chair of microbial food safety at the University of Delaware.

Still, inspections remain "a critical food safety and consumer protection activity," said Sandra Eskin, CEO of the nonprofit Stop Foodborne Illness. 

"We're not in the field. We're not in the processing plant. So, we can't see what goes on," she said. "We bring a food item into our house, we can't tell if it's contaminated."

About the data

CBS News analyzed inspections and import data from FDA's Data Dashboard. The analysis was limited to inspections of firms outside of the U.S. that were inspected under the "Foodborne Biological Hazards" program. To determine how many foreign manufacturers imported 90% of food into the U.S. last year, CBS News counted foreign-based manufacturers who delivered the most shipments of human food into the U.S., grouping together deliveries of multiple products on the same day by the same company as a single shipment. Meat and poultry were excluded, as they are under the purview of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, not the FDA.

The USDA's Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS) announced Friday that Corte Argentino – a company based in Aventura, Florida – recalled nearly 30,000 pounds of raw beef products produced in May that have use or freeze-by dates between Sept. 15, 2026, and Sept. 20, 2026.

The FSIS said the products were imported without the benefit of import reinspection into the United States. The service said the issue was discovered during routine inspection activities.

Five products, all of which are boneless beef products in cardboard boxes of various weights and carry the "FrigorIfico Gorina SAIC" brand, are impacted:

• "Top Sirloin Butt" ("Cuadril Sin Tapa")
• "Eye Round" ("Peceto")
• "Topside Cap Off" ("Nalga AD S/Tapa")
• "Flat" ("Carnaza Cuadrada")
• "Knuckle" ("Bola de Lomo")

The FSIS said the products subject to the recall bear Argentine establishment number "EST. N° OF. 2025" and shipping mark "26644-AA". While it's not known which stores may have sold the beef, the service said the products were distributed to distributors and retailers in both states.

While no illnesses or injuries have been reported as a result of eating the beef, the FSIS urges anyone with concerns to contact a healthcare provider. The service also said anyone who still has the beef should either throw it away or return it to the place of purchase.

Anyone with questions about the recall can email Corte Argentino at info@corteargentinoinc.com.

Recall comes after U.S. ranchers' opposition

The recall of the Corte Argentino beef comes nearly a year after President Donald Trump announced a plan to import more meat from Argentina as part of a deal signed with his counterpart, Argentine President Javier Milei, as part of a plan to cut record beef prices.

However, that plan was met with heated opposition from U.S. ranchers and skepticism from experts who said it likely wouldn't lead to lower prices at grocery stores.

The National Cattlemen's Beef Association, along with the Ranchers-Cattlemen Action Legal Fund United Stockgrowers of America and other farming groups — who are normally some of the president's biggest supporters — all criticized Trump's plan because of what it could do to American ranchers and feedlot operators. And agricultural economists say Argentine beef accounts for such a small slice of beef imports — only about 2% — that even doubling that wouldn't change prices much.  

Several factors have sent beef prices soaring, starting with continued strong demand combined with the smallest U.S. herd size since 1961. In part, that small herd is due to years of drought and low cattle prices. Further, Kansas State University agricultural economist Glynn Tonsor said Argentina can't produce enough beef to offset those other losses of imports.

"We're always going to have uncertainty in the world. But the more uncertain something is, the less likely most are to put money on the line," Tonsor said.

CBS News Texas was back again to kick the school year off right with "Don't Be Tardy to the School Bus Party: Vol. 4"! We're bringing you live back-to-school shenanigans from 5 a.m. until 7 a.m. on Tuesday, while also getting a closer look at how Dallas ISD leaders have geared up for the 2026-27 school year.

Each stop gave parents a chance to hear from school district leaders while offering students a fun kickoff to the school year. The party started in Dallas, with the crew reaching a big finish at Thomas Jefferson High School!

Check out the highlights as the morning team hopped on board and lived it up on the way to campus!

JPS Health Network has filed a "catastrophe notice" with the Texas Attorney General as the health system works through a network disruption.

JPS, Tarrant County's public hospital and health system, said its main hospital, clinics and other care locations remain open, with physicians, nurses and staff using "established downtime procedures" to continue providing care while systems remain unavailable.

Under Texas law, a public entity can submit a catastrophe notice if it is "significantly impacted by a catastrophe such that the catastrophe causes the inability of a governmental body to comply with the requirements" of the Public Information Act. 

In response to questions from CBS News Texas, a JPS spokesperson said the catastrophe notice is only related to "the temporary interruption of our ability to process public information requests during the network downtime."

The term "catastrophe," which may sound concerning on its face, does not mean that JPS is experiencing any issues beyond the narrow legal definition.

"This administrative filing applies specifically to timelines under the Texas Public Information Act and does not indicate a change in patient care operations," the spokesperson said.

On its website, the health network said that some services may take longer than usual as employees rely on manual processes, including in pharmacies and other patient-care areas. Patients whose appointments require adjustments are being contacted directly by their care teams. JPS said patients can reach its call centers with questions about appointments, medications and other services.

Meanwhile, Fort Worth Fire told CBS News Texas it has been diverting EMS from JPS Health since 7 p.m. Thursday night.

Technology teams continue working around the clock to assess the network and support ongoing operations, JPS said. 

She had two small kids, the COVID-19 pandemic was raging, and she and her husband were in the middle of renovating a farmhouse they had recently purchased. It made sense stress would spike her blood pressure. Her doctor recommended some minor lifestyle changes, but didn't seem alarmed. 

Other symptoms escalated slowly. Williams' feet became so swollen she had to buy larger shoes. She was fatigued, but more and more frequent bathroom visits kept her from sleeping. Her blood pressure kept rising. Her ankles started swelling, then her legs. Finally, her doctor referred her to a nephrologist, or kidney specialist. 

That visit, in June 2023, didn't go well, Williams said. The physician assistant she saw did not show interest in the medical records she had printed out and brought, she said. The PA advised her to work to lower her blood pressure, but showed no interest in understanding why it was so high, Williams said. She was told to return in six months. 

"I got to my car, and I was just depressed. Something was wrong. I didn't feel taken seriously," Williams said. "I didn't really feel like I had six months to wait." 

"Please help me"  

In July 2023, Williams referred herself to the Cleveland Clinic, where her father-in-law had once undergone a kidney transplant. She sent over her medical documentation, along with a "kind of impassioned letter about 'Please help me, something's wrong.'" Several weeks later, she was scheduled for two full days of appointments. 

After a barrage of exams, Williams and her husband made the two-hour drive home. As they pulled into their driveway, her phone rang. The nephrologist she had seen was alarmed by her blood work, and wanted to biopsy her bone marrow and kidney. 

"That was kind of scary, right?" Williams said. "So we gathered up a few things and turned around and went back." 

Williams had both biopsies done over the next 24 hours. She also answered hundreds of questions meant to help doctors eliminate possible diagnoses. After recovering from the biopsies, she returned home. 

Tests showed abnormalities in her urine and bone marrow, leading to a diagnosis of multiple myeloma, a form of blood cancer than can cause kidney problems. For nearly six months, she underwent chemotherapy and immunotherapy. Still, Williams' symptoms persisted. 

"It really got me thinking: If we are treating the underlying cause and she's not improving, then what else are we looking at and what else are we missing?" said Dr. Jagmeet Dhingra, a nephrologist at the Cleveland Clinic. "It didn't sit right that she wasn't showing the response we wanted to see. So we kept looking." 

What is IC‑MPGN?  

Another round of biopsies showed Williams' bone marrow was healthy, but complex immune deposits were building up in her kidneys. After ruling out all other possibilities, Dhingra finally diagnosed Williams with IC‑MPGN, a kidney disease related to the immune system.

The disease is "one of the rarest" kidney conditions, said Dr. Carla Nester, a nephrologist, researcher and professor at the University of Iowa. Nester, who was not involved in Williams' care, estimated that only about one to four people per million are diagnosed with IC-MPGN.

In most cases, IC-MPGN has no known cause, Nester said. Patients most often notice symptoms like swelling and fatigue, as Williams did. Most people don't get diagnosed until they have "quite a significant burden of symptoms," she said. 

At the time of Williams' diagnosis, there was no specific treatment for IC-MPGN available. Nester said that until 2025, standard treatment included steroids, immunosuppressants and even chemotherapy. They helped some symptoms, but didn't slow the progression of the disease, Nester said. Patients were told they had about 10 years between diagnosis with IC-MPGN and end-stage kidney disease. Even a kidney transplant only delayed the inevitable, because the underlying condition wasn't being treated. 

"We were not fixing the problem. It was a horrible prognosis, frankly," Nester said. 

Finding "freedom" in a clinical trial  

Williams felt trapped. Dhingra was prescribing multiple medications, but they either made no difference or left her feeling unwell. 

"For quite a while, I was just in a kind of fog," Williams recalled. "Knowing there wasn't a lot of options, it just felt like I had to make it work." 

Then she received a surprising call in November 2024. Dhingra had learned about pegcetacoplan, a medication still in clinical trials, that was showing potential as a real treatment for IC-MPGN. Williams was nervous, but agreed to join the trial. She was enrolled in February 2025. Things took a turn immediately. 

"Right away, we saw change. I was back to my feisty self. I felt like I had freedom back," Williams said. 

Six months later, it became the first medication to be approved by the FDA for the treatment of IC-MPGN. The injectable medication is sold under the brand name Empaveli and is a "game-changer for patients," Dhingra said. 

"We were suddenly able to stop using all that other crazy stuff we were doing. We were suddenly able to put patients in remission on targeted therapy, and ... stop using the other things that weren't working well anyway," said Nester, who noted the medication is FDA-approved for adults and children over the age of 12. 

After over a year on the medication, Williams is doing significantly better, Dhingra said. She still sees him every other month for monitoring, but those visits will become more spaced out if her condition stays stable, Dhingra said. Day-to-day life is much more normal: Her swelling is gone and she is on far less medication.  

"I don't have that paranoia over me anymore about what I eat, and getting enough sleep," Williams said. "It's kind of been a game changer. I just feel back to myself again." 

There was a lot going on at any given moment, and some lapses in focus seemed understandable. Even some new stiffness in her gait just seemed like her body reminding her she had recently turned 46. Then, during one family movie night in November 2020, her husband noticed her arm was shaking. 

"Like any doctor might do, I turned to Google. I said 'Why do I have a one-sided resting arm tremor?'" Whittingham recalled. "And it was one article about Parkinson's after another." 

At first, Whittingham was in disbelief. She thought she was too young for Parkinson's disease. But everything she read pointed to the same diagnosis. The next day, she consulted a neurologist at the Cleveland Clinic regional hospital she worked at. 

"He confirmed the diagnosis in the middle of my workday, which was not ideal, but I guess there's never a good time to find out you have a life-changing disease," Whittingham said. "It was really kind of one of those gut punches where, you know, your whole world just stops. Everything you imagined for your future gets brushed aside." 

Parkinson's disease and exercise 

Parkinson's disease is a progressive illness that affects the nervous system. Symptoms may start small, like with Whittingham's tremors, but will eventually escalate, according to the Mayo Clinic. In the months after her diagnosis, Whittingham couldn't stop thinking about worst-case scenarios. She feared a steep decline in quality of life and struggled with anxiety and depression. 

Then she learned about a study examining the effects of cycling on the progression of Parkinson's. As a former runner whose activity had been limited by her earlier symptoms, she was eager to enroll. 

"It ended up being a lifeline," Whittingham said. "The more I started riding the bike, the better I felt. I felt like I was coming back to life." 

The study was run by Dr. Jay Alberts, who noticed that some data showed patterns of activity in the brains of Parkinson's patients after exercise looked similar to the activity seen after a person takes medication to manage Parkinson's symptoms. His research, some of the first on how aerobic exercise may alter disease trajectory, showed that if patients maintained a cycling rate of 75 rotations per minute or more for 30 to 40 minutes at least three times a week, the disease progression could be slowed.

Alberts called it an "exercise prescription for Parkinson's disease." 

"If you think about this disease, this is a disease that robs individuals of control," Alberts said. Most treatment options are up to a neurologist. But the self-directed element of the "exercise prescription" helps give "some control back to the patient," Alberts said.

Dr. Ben Walter, Whittingham's neurologist at the Cleveland Clinic, said it's not entirely clear why exercise slows Parkinson's progression, but said that the reason is "probably multifactorial." Keeping the body strong and flexible can certainly help counteract the stiffness and slowness caused by Parkinson's, he said. The exercise can also strengthen brain health, he said. 

For Whittingham, participating in the study was the first step in a new journey. A few months into the study, her husband signed up for a half triathlon — an event that involved running, biking and swimming. She began to join him in the pool. As she trained, she started to wonder if she could also compete in the race. She didn't tell anyone when she signed up. When she competed, she beat her husband. From there, her ambitions kept growing. In 2023, she raced in the Ironman World Championship. 

"I never, ever thought that would be something that I would be able to accomplish," Whittingham said. "To cross the finish line and hear my name being called — 'Sara Whittingham, you're an Ironman' — three years after my diagnosis was just unreal." 

"Set the most outrageous goal"  

Whittingham joined another study looking at exercise and Parkinson's patients in 2025. The ongoing research examines what happens when people with Parkinson's exercise in a community environment, instead of alone at home.

"Once you're there, our energy kind of feeds off each other. It's so fun to see people who maybe have never been on an exercise bike, now two months into the study, they've got their cycling shoes and they're gung-ho, ready to get cycling," Whittingham said. "Seeing how the community inspires each other has been really powerful for me." 

Outside the trial, Whittingham still races, and even took part in a qualifying event for the U.S. Paralympic Team in 2024.

When not racing, Whittingham has embraced a "new mission" as a Parkinson's advocate. She recently spoke at a policy forum hosted by Michael J. Fox, and was appointed to an advisory council for the National Institutes of Health's National Plan to End Parkinson's. She is working on a book about her experience, and said she hopes sharing her story can inspire others. 

"The brain is such a miraculous, adaptable organ, that it will find a way," Whittingham said. "You don't need to finish an Ironman, but set the most outrageous goal you can think of. Whether or not you achieve that goal isn't the point. Taking small steps will make you stronger and give you a purpose." 

Still, when she noticed some strange bowel movements and a small amount of blood in her stool in September 2025, she thought nothing of it. Work was busy, and when she was at home, she was raising her 7-year-old grandson and cheering on the sidelines of his baseball games. She also had just started changing her diet to incorporate more fiber, so she thought that was to blame. 

After a few months of mild discomfort and the occasional "little spot" of blood, Tucker realized that something wasn't right. She underwent a colonoscopy. The doctor who performed the procedure said it looked like she had cancer, but warned that it was too early to tell. A week later, pathology results confirmed her fears: She had Stage II rectal cancer. 

"I was terrified. I couldn't believe it," Tucker, 41, said. "Your mind goes to the worst possible scenario. I was crying. I immediately called my mother-in-law. My husband was there, my grandson was there. And I tried to be strong, because I didn't want my loved ones to be scared. But it's a hard thing to be strong during." 

"As aggressive as we can be" 

Tucker quickly began treatment with Dr. Bradley Scott Colton, a gastrointestinal oncologist at Texas Oncology. He started by sampling her tumor to study its DNA and see if it had any mutations. The test showed that Tucker would require chemotherapy and surgery, and possibly radiation. Learning she would need such intense treatment was "a little bit overwhelming," Tucker said. 

When Tucker spoke to CBS News, she was about a third of the way through her chemotherapy treatment. She receives the medication every two weeks. When the cycle is complete, Colton will do another round of tests to determine the next steps for her treatment. 

"It'll depend how she does, how well she tolerates (the chemotherapy), how well her labs do. We are definitely trying to be as aggressive as we can be," Colton said, noting that Tucker is a "dream patient" who has responded well to the medication so far. 

Tucker said that most days, the chemotherapy is "not as bad as (she) had anticipated." Her biggest priority has been keeping things normal for her grandson.  

"I feel like it's important to have normalcy," Tucker said. "I told my husband: I don't care if I don't feel good, I don't care if I'm tired. I'm going to make it to everything." 

Symptoms and warning signs

Colton said that he has seen patients miss the symptoms of colorectal cancer "far too often." Many patients, especially younger ones, "brush off" the warning signs, he said. He said that any lasting, unexplained bowel changes should be checked out quickly. 

"If you have bad food and you get some food poisoning and you get diarrhea or some weird bowels for a week, that's OK. You don't have to worry about that. If those symptoms aren't temporary, after a week or a couple weeks, see a GI doctor," Colton said. Even if it's not a sign of colorectal cancer, it could be a symptom of another gastrointestinal condition that needs treatment, he said. 

Dr. Megan Turley, a colon and rectal surgeon at Texas Oncology who was not involved in Tucker's care, said that any blood in the stool should always be taken seriously.  

"Rectal bleeding is not normal. Is it always cancer? No. But is it normal? Also no," Turley told CBS News. Other warning signs can include lower abdominal pain, unexplained weight loss and changes in stool color or consistency.

Dr. Arif Kamal, chief patient officer at the American Cancer Society, told CBS News in March that oncologists are seeing a year-over-year increase in both colorectal cancer diagnoses and deaths in people aged 20 to 49. Colorectal cancer has become the leading cancer-related cause of death for people under 50, said Kamal. 

There is no clear reason for the increase, Kamal said, but experts have speculated that diet and lifestyle factors, family history and obesity may all be part of the puzzle. 

Fighting stigma

Tucker said that she hopes sharing her cancer experience can help reduce the stigma she feels exists around colorectal cancer. It wasn't until she was diagnosed with the disease that her aunt revealed multiple relatives had had colorectal cancer during their lives. While her family was open about other cancer diagnoses, she had never heard these stories.  

"Maybe I would have been more cautious of any of the symptoms I had if I knew," Tucker said. "It's almost like it's the 'dirty' cancer. And I don't think anybody should be ashamed of having cancer." 

Tucker said she has made efforts to be open about her own diagnosis. She also hopes a wave of celebrity stories, including the deaths of "Dawson's Creek" actor James Van Der Beek and "Schitt's Creek" star Catherine O'Hara, will continue to draw attention to the disease and its symptoms. 

But most importantly, she is looking forward to finishing treatment and hopefully living a cancer-free life. 

"I'm excited to get all this done and to have this in the past," Tucker said. "I know I will never fully have it in the back of my mind, but I'm excited to get to that point."

Her mother, Lisa, was determined to find out what was wrong. Over the years, Lucia amassed a long list of diagnoses, including epilepsy, lupus, fibromyalgia, ADHD and dyslexia. But no label fully aligned with her symptoms, and no therapies or treatments seemed to help.

"Her stack of medical records was getting bigger and bigger," said Lisa. "I thought, 'There's no way this one child has all of these labels and issues. There has to be something underlying.'"

"No one listened to me"

Lucia's condition upended her life from an early age. After she failed to thrive at multiple schools, Lisa, a former Montessori teacher, began homeschooling her in third grade. In addition to teaching Lucia a standard curriculum, she came up with out-of-the-box solutions, like teaching her to knit to develop fine motor skills and taking her horseback riding to improve her balance.

The efforts expanded outside the classroom. Lucia's siblings liked to climb over a wall in the backyard to play in the woods around their home. Lisa propped up a ladder that Lucia could climb, and made the other kids use it too.

Despite her family's support, the circumstances took a toll on Lucia. She experienced fainting spells that sometimes led to concussions and injuries, and occasionally had anemia. She became pessimistic about appointments and proposed therapies, and while she loved her family, she was most likely to spend time with her dog.

"No one listened to me. I didn't see doctors as a good thing. I saw them as something I went to occasionally that didn't do anything," Lucia said. "I told my mom that my dog did more for me ... than any of the doctors I spent time going to."  

Identifying a rare condition

In 2025, Lisa and Lucia visited Dr. Todd Arthur at Cincinnati Children's Hospital Medical Center. The neurologist "spent a ton of time listening," Lisa recalled. As the mother and daughter recounted "pages and pages of labels and random diagnoses," he started researching, Lisa said.

"I'd never seen a doctor take that much interest," Lucia said. Arthur offered "a lot of referrals," Lucia said, including one to the Cleveland Clinic's Undiagnosed Disease Clinic. Dr. Adnan Alsadah, the founder and director of the clinic, said the office aims to help the "many patients in the United States and globally who spend many, many years reaching a diagnosis and going from specialist to another, hospital to another."

"On average, it's more than 10 years until the diagnosis" for patients with ultra-rare conditions, Alsadah said. The clinic aims "to solve this diagnostic odyssey by utilizing the newest technologies," including whole genome sequencing, which allows doctors to study the entirety of a person's DNA sequence.

Lucia and Lisa spent a day undergoing a screening questionnaire at the clinic. Then Lucia provided a genetic sample, which was sent to a specialized laboratory to be analyzed for genetic variants. Four weeks later, the Adarves received a call: The clinic had a diagnosis.

"I knew something was different"

The test had found a mutation on Lucia's PPP2R5D gene, meaning she had an incredibly rare condition called called PPP2R5D-associated neurodevelopmental disorder, better known as Jordan syndrome. There have been less than 500 confirmed cases of the condition worldwide, Alsadah said.

Jordan syndrome is a neurodevelopmental disorder. Dr. Wendy Chung, a pediatric medical geneticist and researcher, said people with Jordan syndrome may have a large head or identifiable facial features. The condition affects children's development, and may cause difficulties with movement, speech, reading or writing. Some children, like Lucia, need modified instruction. Others never learn skills at all, Chung said. The disorder can also be associated with seizures, autism and ADHD. As patients age, they may experience parkinsonisms, or movement problems similar to those caused by Parkinson's disease, Chung said.

Lisa said she was relieved to receive the diagnosis.

"It finally felt like, wow, these things were real. I wasn't being overprotective. I knew something was different," she said. 

Lucia met the news with more mixed emotions.

"I felt really happy about it for a month or two," she said. "Then I started to feel slightly annoyed, because it frustrated me that it took 18 years to get an answer." 

"A clear plan for moving forward"

Having a diagnosis has helped create "a clear plan for moving forward," Alsadah said. Medications have reduced Lucia's seizures, and a multidisciplinary team from the Cleveland Clinic put together a management plan for her other symptoms.

Lucia has also connected with advocacy groups that push for research into Jordan syndrome and potential treatments for it, and support groups with members who can relate to her experience. Lisa said that her daughter has also started to behave more like her bubbly, childhood self.

"She knows what she has, so she can kind of stand up and advocate for herself," Lisa said. "She's getting back to who she was. She's helping others, she's making friends."

Lucia said she has mostly been relieved to stop spending so much time seeing doctors. She is working toward a degree in criminal behavioral psychology. She is one of a handful of Jordan syndrome patients who can function relatively independently, which she attributes to her mother's efforts.

"I was extremely lucky to get my mom," Lucia said. "She's one of the best people I know. She worries way too much, and she is the best person to have during this."

At 62 years old, he felt like he was in good shape: He didn't smoke or drink, he ate well and walked over 10,000 steps a day in his job transporting patients around AdventHealth DeLand Hospital. 

When Bell started to feel some mild pain in his chest while driving home from work the day before Thanksgiving last year, he decided to go back and get checked out in the emergency room. Tests showed he had a blockage in his "widowmaker" artery and calcification around his heart, putting him at risk for a cardiac event. Doctors scheduled a procedure to place a stent in the artery. 

Bell spent Thanksgiving in the hospital and received the stent the next day. But shortly after the procedure was completed, he was struck with severe pain. 

"I went into a fetal position, and I could not straighten back up," Bell said. "I could remember people saying 'Tommy, you need to straighten back up so we can fix this.'" 

Tests showed Bell had had a heart attack. Doctors quickly placed another stent, and Bell's condition stabilized. He was discharged on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. The next morning, he started to feel something like heartburn. His wife rushed him back to the hospital. From there, he only remembers flashes. 

"I got in the car, and then I don't remember the trip there. Then I remember pulling into the valet area. They came out with a wheelchair," Bell said. "I remember somebody saying 'I want to see the EKG,' and then I heard someone say 'Send him straight to the cath lab.'" 

"When I finally came around, I was in the ICU again, and I was told I had two more heart attacks," Bell continued. "That's three heart attacks in four days. ... I was thinking, 'What have I done to myself?'"

Treating a rare complication  

Dr. Janak Bhavsar, an interventional cardiologist at AdventHealth DeLand, said that a blood clot that formed after Bell's first surgery led to the heart attacks. It's a complication that affects between 0.5 and 1% of people who have stents placed, he said. Bell also had a large blockage, which can increase the risk of complications.  

"When there's a lot of calcium around the artery, it limits how much the stents can expand to improve blood flow," Bhavsar said. "That can cause some slowing of the blood flow and make it more prone to a blood clot forming in the stent." 

Bhavsar and his team performed an intracoronary lithotripsy, when a specialized balloon is inserted into the blocked artery. The balloon emits electrical shocks that help break up the calcium and allow the stent to open wider. Bell also received a second stent and was put on blood thinners to reduce the risk of another clot forming. 

Bell was still in pain for a few hours after waking up, Bhavsar said. Luckily, he wasn't having another heart attack — it was a side effect of everything he had been through. For the next four days, he was closely monitored in the hospital. Friends, coworkers and other familiar faces were constantly present, Bell said. He said he was stunned by the outpouring of support from those who he usually only saw in passing. 

"The amount of love that was poured out and that was expressed on my behalf was so overwhelming," Bell said. "I couldn't believe that people cared about me like that. I had everybody from administration come to my room and just pray over me. Our chaplains, our staff, the heart doctors, the nurses, everybody, all the way down to housekeeping and transport. Everybody stopped in to see me. They actually had to slow it down a bit, so I could recover." 

"I could not believe this had happened to me"  

Bell spent two weeks recovering at home before returning to work. Being back in the same hospital where he'd fought for his life was jarring, he said, but friendly faces in the hallway helped soothe him. He also sat down with the rehabilitation team at AdventHealth DeLand to see what changes he could make to avoid future heart problems. 

"They said my cardio is fantastic," because of his work responsibilities, Bell said. "Now, it was time to get on with the dietary team and figure out how to change my diet." 

Bell had eaten a lot of fast food in his 20s and 30s. While he started eating more homemade meals after that, he didn't think about things like salt and cholesterol. He made changes after starting working at DeLand, but those earlier choices "added up over time," Bell said. Most arterial buildup can't be removed with lifestyle changes, according to Harvard Medical School.  

Now, Bell's diet focuses on leaner meats and tasty salads. He swaps recipes with other heart attack survivors, and always packs healthy snacks to tide him over between meals. Bell will also continue having regular follow-up appointments with Bhavsar. 

"I could not believe that this had happened to me. I thought I ate right, I took care of myself fairly decent, and I never thought it would happen to me ... I didn't really think I had to change anything, but we did change it," Bell said. "I can change my future in the way I eat." 

The treatment was unpleasant, but through it all, she focused on a future goal: welcoming a second child. Lellio dreamed of giving her firstborn daughter, then 2, a sibling. Lellio and her husband froze embryos before she began chemotherapy. She also underwent a double mastectomy. Once she finished treatment and was declared cancer-free in September 2019, the couple started IVF. 

Everything seemed to be falling into place. Then the headaches and dizziness started. 

Lellio, now 30, told her oncologist about it. A CT scan didn't show anything abnormal. Lellio tried not to worry, thinking the pain might be a side effect of IVF medications. But the headaches intensified, and eventually became "incapacitating." In the summer of 2020, Lellio scheduled a telehealth appointment. The doctor she spoke to recommended she go to the emergency room. There, she received an MRI — and devastating news. 

"They came back into the room where I was, and said 'We found a very large brain tumor ... and there's no cure, sorry,'" Lellio recalled. "And just left us. That's how I found out I had terminal cancer. It was awful." 

"I just accepted that I was dying" 

Lellio's initial disease had recurred as Stage IV breast cancer that had spread to her brain. Only about 1 in 3 patients with Stage IV breast cancer survive more than five years, according to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. It is considered incurable. 

Lellio underwent a craniotomy with the hopes it would remove the tumor, but the disease quickly grew back larger than before. Running out of options, Lellio's original oncologist recommended the Cleveland Clinic. Lellio transferred her care there and began receiving radiation. The treatment was difficult, causing seizures and leaving her unable to walk, and Lellio found herself depressed and believing the worst.

"I just accepted that I was dying and I wasn't going to get to see my daughter grow up, I wasn't going to ever get to have the second baby I'd always dreamed of, and that was it. That I could only hope for a couple of good years before I inevitably died," Lellio said.  

One day, she shared those thoughts with a friend during a phone call. Her husband overheard. 

"He said, 'You know, Maralee, it really makes me sad when you tell people and when you accept that you only have a couple of years left, because I think that you could survive this. We've seen stories of other people doing it. We know that it can happen, that there are unicorns out there, and I think that could be you,'" Lellio recalled. "It sounds so not special. I don't know the word for it. It was like somebody flipped a light switch on in my brain. So it was at that point I decided, 'I have to at least try.'" 

A cutting-edge treatment   

Lellio's Cleveland Clinic oncologist retired in spring 2021, and her care was transferred to Dr. Halle Moore. Lellio was sure to bring her optimistic attitude to their first meeting in July 2021.  

"As soon as I met Dr. Moore, I told her 'I understand that this is a very bad diagnosis, but I believe I'm going to live.' And she just said 'OK,'" Lellio said. She also shared her desire to have another child. Moore "supported me, no argument," Lellio said. 

Scans showed the radiation had shrunk Lellios brain tumor down "to almost nothing." Now, it was a matter of making sure the cancer didn't metastasize again. 

Moore put Lellio on a medication called a PARP inhibitor, a cutting-edge treatment for people whose cancer has genetic mutations. The treatment essentially keeps cancer cells from being able to repair themselves and grow. Lellio's cancer was BRCA-1 positive, which Moore said PARP inhibitors respond particularly well to. 

Lellio remained on the inhibitor for two years. During that time, she remained "free of any evidence of active cancer," Moore said. One day, Lellio asked Moore if she could safely go off the treatment and try to get pregnant. Moore agreed. Lellio would have to undergo counseling and wait one year, but she was thrilled to have something to look forward to.  

"I was ready to move on and see if I could be cancer-free and have a baby," Lellio said. 

"Messy, and stressful, and perfect"  

After waiting one year, Lellio and her husband began trying to have another child. She became pregnant without IVF, and in July 2024, the couple welcomed their second daughter. Since then, life has been "messy, and stressful, and perfect," Lellio said. 

"I absolutely love it," Lellio said. "I am so grateful. It just feels like gushing. I hold her when we're going to bed at night, and I just thank God. I thank everything. I'm so beyond grateful to have my two beautiful girls."  

Lellio continues to see Moore for frequent scans. She is also scheduled to receive a hysterectomy in the near future to limit the chance of another cancer occurring. Moore said the case is an example that "cancer doesn't always read the textbooks," and that a person with a "dire prognosis" can end up "doing extraordinarily well," especially as innovative treatments are developed.  

In addition to spending time with her family, Lellio is back to work as a teacher. For Mother's Day. Lellio said she will celebrate "that I was able to do all of this, because it just seemed impossible." 

"It just feels like nothing could be more perfect," Lellio said. "I think I'm more grateful for life and all the little stresses and the little things now than I ever would have been if I hadn't had to fight for my life back." 

As the weeks passed, his symptoms escalated. When his tiredness turned into a 105 degree fever and body aches, his parents took him to a local emergency room. He was diagnosed with pneumonia. Antibiotics helped, but soon his symptoms returned. He spent the next few months repeating the same cycle. In November, he was hospitalized with pneumonia. Steroids and antibiotics couldn't keep the illness at bay. 

Finally, doctors recommended he see a specialist. Rider was hopeful he might get some answers. 

"What they were doing beforehand wasn't cutting it ... but I wasn't too worried," Rider said. "I was being told that it was pneumonia, that it was just reoccurring constantly, and there might be a little bit of a blockage or something else that might be going on." 

Rider underwent a bronchoscopy, an exploratory procedure where a camera is inserted down the throat to study a person's lungs and airways. It was meant to be a routine, 15-minute process. Then doctors spotted a mass. The bronchoscopy turned into a two-hour procedure so his care team could remove part of the mass and send it out for testing. 

A few weeks later, his doctors had a diagnosis: a rare form of cancer called mucoepidermoid carcinoma on his lung. 

"My first thought was obviously if I was going to die or not," Rider said. "It was the first thing that popped in my head." 

An eight-hour surgery and rough recovery 

Mucoepidermoid carcinoma is a kind of cancer that usually affects the salivary glands. The tumors caused by the cancer grow slowly. Surgery is usually the first line of treatment. 

Rider was referred to a number of facilities, including the Mass General Brigham Cancer Institute. Rider was won over by the surgical team, the relatively short drive from his Vermont home and the promised recovery time of just six to eight weeks, shorter than the 10-to-12-week period other facilities had suggested.  

"That might not be much time for somebody else, but when it comes to sport seasons and stuff like that ... that two, three, four-week period is pretty big," Rider said. 

Dr. Danielle Cameron, the surgical director for pediatric oncology at Mass General Brigham Cancer Institute, developed a plan to remove the entire tumor in a nearly eight-hour surgery. Rider would need a left upper lobectomy, where part of his left lung would be removed. Rider was nervous about how that might impact his athletics, but he said that Cameron and the rest of his surgical team were so confident in the plan that he "didn't have too much to worry about."

On May 19, Rider was taken into surgery. The procedure went smoothly. Cameron was able to remove the entire tumor, meaning Rider's cancer could be considered cured. For Rider, the more difficult part was recovery. 

"It was rough. A lot of pain. They were constantly getting me up and moving so I could try to re-expand my lungs and get used to not having that upper left lobe," Rider said. "It started off very slow. It was painful. It was hard, but the more and more I did it, and the more help I got from staff there, the easier and easier it got." 

"A perfect outcome"  

After a week, Rider could walk around the recovery floor easily. He was discharged from the hospital to continue recovering at home in Vermont. After a few months, he was cleared to resume athletic activities. Rider said he missed most of his baseball season after the surgery, but he was "just thankful" he would be able to return to sports for his senior year. He played soccer that fall, just months after the operation. 

Now, Rider, 19, is applying to colleges and working as a referee. He still plays ice hockey. On an average day, he'll practice for a few hours, then spend time in the gym. He will continue to undergo long-term surveillance and annual scans to ensure the cancer doesn't return, Cameron said. 

"He's had a perfect outcome. You couldn't ask for a more athletically accomplished patient after a lobectomy," Cameron said. 

Rider said he has adjusted to playing sports with part of his lung missing. It's also made him more appreciative of the little things in life. 

"Things aren't too different from what they were before. I can feel the lack of capacity that I used to have, but I've made do with what I've got," Rider said. "Those basic things that we take for granted every day — I started to understand the importance of them and how lucky we are." 

The 13-year-old from Long Island, New York, had been born with ureterovesical junction obstruction, a rare congenital disease, where a blockage between the ureter and bladder causes urine to back up into the kidney. The condition can cause pain, infections and fevers. 

Rita Manolis said her son struggled with "a lot of infections, a lot of hospital visits, lots of surgeries" over the years. His symptoms led to limits on his diet and physical activity. As he grew, he often missed school and couldn't see his friends often. But still, the level of fatigue he reached in February 2025 was unusual. 

"He didn't have the energy to do things normal kids would do, like getting up to go to school," Rita Manolis said. "Staying in school all day would be a mission for him. He'd come home just completely drained." 

Elias' doctors recommended a kidney transplant. But there are far more people in need than there are organs available, according to the American Kidney Fund. 

Rita Manolis was told her son might need to wait up to two years for an organ. She and her husband wanted to avoid the delay, and started their own donor search. They shared Elias' story on social media, worked with outreach organizations and spoke to local media. It felt like a race against time, Rita Manolis said. 

"You could tell that he was just slowly deteriorating," Rita Manolis recalled. 

"Drawn to try to help them"

Tim Fitzpatrick, a 44-year-old dad of two who is also from Long Island, learned about Elias' case — and it resonated with him. His older son has an immune disease called eosinophilic esophagitis, where white blood cells gather in the esophagus and cause issues with swallowing and breathing. 

Fitzpatrick had recently become interested in registering as a living kidney donor, and his wife showed him a local news story about Elias.

"The more I read about his story and looked at what they've gone through, I related," Fitzpatrick said. "Being a medical parent, having this hopeless feeling of you want your son to be healthy, and you can't, you physically can't, do anything. I just felt drawn to try to help them."

Testing at an area hospital confirmed that Fitzpatrick was a match for Elias. Finding out he could actually make a difference for the Manolis family "was a relief," Fitzpatrick said. 

Having a living donor wouldn't just shorten the time Elias might spend waiting for an organ. It would also increase his chances of a better outcome, said NYU Langone nephrologist Dr. Laura Malaga-Dieguez, who was part of Elias' care team. Kidneys from living donors also last longer than those from deceased donors, Malaga-Dieguez said. Since Elias received the kidney at a young age, he will likely need future transplants. The longer the organ lasts, the less frequent those transplants will need to be, she said.    

"It was just a happy feeling to finally give that family an answer and give them the hope they've been waiting for for 13 years," Fitzpatrick said. 

"A light at the end of the tunnel"  

Elias said he was "super happy" and "really excited" to be told there was a donor. His mother remembered "mixed emotions" of excitement and stress.  

"We weren't expecting it," Rita Manolis said. "But when you do get the call, it's life-changing. You know that there's a light at the end of the tunnel." 

Things moved quickly after the donation was confirmed. The Manolis family decided to do the procedure at NYU Langone. It felt even more like kismet for Fitzpatrick: His son had been receiving treatment at NYU Langone's Hassenfeld Children's Hospital for his entire life. 

The surgeries took place on March 23. First, Fitzpatrick underwent a minimally invasive operation to remove his kidney through a small incision. Then it was taken to Elias' operating room and placed alongside his existing kidneys in a four-hour procedure. Everything went smoothly, surgeons Dr. Bruce Gelb and Dr. Jonathan Berger said.  

Because of the minimally invasive procedure, Fitzpatrick was discharged the day after his surgery. Before he left, he visited Elias' hospital room. It was the first time the two had met. Fitzpatrick's wife Stephanie brought cookies, while Elias handed Fitzpatrick a letter thanking him for his donation. 

It was an emotional moment, both families said. 

"I don't think there was a dry eye in the room," said Rita Manolis.

"Part of our family" 

Elias was discharged from the hospital five days later, and is now recovering well, Berger said. He will take immunosuppression medication for the rest of his life, and is currently in isolation to protect his new organ. But he should be able to live a "totally normal life" soon, Berger said. 

"Elias is going to go back to school. He's going to play sports if he wants. He's going to be able to hang out with his friends, he's going to be able to eat junk food," said Berger. "He's going to be able to do all the things that you'd want a 13-year-old to do." 

Rita Manolis said that for the first time, her son has normal kidney function. Elias said that this summer, he is looking forward to riding his bike and eating his favorite food: "A big, juicy red steak." 

The Manolises and the Fitzpatricks might just enjoy that steak together. The two families discovered that they live just minutes from each other, and have stayed in touch. The Fitzpatrick children are close in age to Elias. Manolis and Stephanie Fitzpatrick talk regularly. The families are now making plans for a backyard barbecue.

"Tim is a part of (Elias), with him everywhere he goes," Stephanie Fitzpatrick said. "It's really special to see that connection there, and to see that this relationship exists, and that we will, in a sense, have another family. They're part of our family." 

Gould was worried, but her pregnancy was easy. She loved being pregnant. Her baby moved around all the time. There had been some swelling in the final stages of her pregnancy, but her doctors weren't concerned. When she finally went into labor, she wasn't worried about giving birth at all — she was just excited to meet her son.

"You think you're in the home stretch. You're good, you're healthy, he's healthy. All you have to do is get the baby here," Gould, 33, said. She went into labor on Nov. 1, 2024. 

Her labor was long — it took 36 hours for her to be ready to push. At that point, "everything kind of felt wrong," she said. Her vitals looked good, and an epidural was controlling her pain, but Gould was suddenly gripped by "a sense of dread."

"I was telling myself not to freak out, and then right behind the doctor, as she walked by, I saw, like, a black shadow. It's hard to explain, but if you looked in the corner of the room, it was almost like black shadows enveloping that corner," Gould said. "And then I looked over to where the nurses were, and it started to happen over there too. When the doctor came back over to my bedside, I grabbed her, and I grabbed a nurse, and I said, 'Something's wrong. I think I'm about to die.'"

An emergency surgery and dayslong coma

Right after Gould spoke, her son's heart rate dropped off. Gould was rushed to an operating room and sedated for an emergency C-section. Her son was delivered within minutes. Then doctors realized Gould's heart was failing.

Cardiologist Dr. Amer Sayed was called in. He found Gould's ejection fraction, the measure of how well the heart can pump blood, was just 13%. Normal ejection fraction function is between 55% and 70%, Sayed told CBS News.

There were only two options: Place a device called an Impella pump that would give her heart time to rest and see if that helped, or put Gould on the list for a heart transplant. Sayed decided to try the pump, and placed it through her femoral artery. Gould spent the next two days in a coma in the intensive care unit, on a ventilator. Slowly, her body began to recover.

When Gould awoke, she was thrilled to see her husband and newborn son. She had no idea what had happened.

"I thought maybe I hemorrhaged during the C-section or something. Nobody really explained that I was in the cardiac ICU until those doctors came in," Gould said. "For them to explain to me that my heart had failed was really, really weird." 

What is peripartum cardiomyopathy?

Gould had experienced peripartum cardiomyopathy, a rare condition that occurs when the heart spontaneously weakens in late-stage pregnancy or shortly after giving birth, according to Dr. Adam Small, the associate medical director of NYU Langone's Adult Congenital Heart Disease Program in New York and a member of the hospital's cardio-obstetrics program. The condition occurs in about 1 of every 5,000 pregnancies, Small said.

It's hard to predict who will be affected by the condition, Small said. Socioeconomic factors, higher maternal age and previous pregnancies can put a person at more risk. "You don't really know when it's going to happen, which is kind of what's so scary about it," Small said.

Small said patients may experience warning signs like shortness of breath. Gould's feeling of dread could have been caused by fluid in her lungs or plummeting blood pressure, he said.

Not all peripartum cardiomyopathy cases require a C-section delivery, Small said. It's only necessary when doctors think a pregnant patient's heart would be put under too much stress during a traditional vaginal delivery. Patients who experience peripartum cardiomyopathy need to be stabilized, and then their heart needs to be given time to rest and recover, Small said. The Impella pump allowed that for Gould. 

A "pretty miraculous" recovery

Gould was in the ICU for nine days. Coming home was "really hard," she said. Not only did she have to recover from major surgery, she and her husband were juggling a newborn. At first, she didn't want to know more about what had happened to her. But soon, she started asking her family and reading her medical files.

"This was the most traumatic night of a lot of people's lives. It's been hard," Gould said. "Learning about it, it doesn't feel like it happened to me."

Gould's ejection fraction measurements are now back to normal levels. She continues to take medication and will regularly see a cardiologist for the rest of her life. However, she likely will not have another baby. Small said that even in cases where a person fully recovers from peripartum cardiomyopathy, future pregnancies are considered high-risk.

"The fact that I went from where I was to where I am now is pretty miraculous," Gould said.

Through it all, being a mom "has been a dream," Gould said. Her baby is now a happy, healthy 1-year-old who has started sleeping through the night and taking swimming lessons. She recently shared her story at a medical conference in Phoenix and was proud to bring her son onstage with her. She has also been invited to Impella's Boston headquarters and is planning a family trip to Montana's Glacier National Park.

"I get this chance to be his mom and be a wife and to still be here and do things. It's just the little things, like going on bike rides this summer now that he's big enough to sit in the bike carrier," Gould said. "Every day feels like a gift. I know that's silly, people say it a lot, but every morning kind of feels like Christmas."

But when DeGeorge opened his eyes, his son wasn't there. The "crushing weight" remained.

"That was like, 'Oh my God, something's up here,'" the 49-year-old DeGeorge said.

He wasn't sure what could be wrong. He was healthy and active. He did jiujitsu and coached his kids' sports. He was on his feet all day at work as an officer with the Special Operations Division for New Jersey Transit, the state's public transportation provider. He had no family history of heart disease. To be safe, he drove himself to the emergency room at Atlantic Health Morristown Medical Center, where doctors "ran a whole battery of tests." For days, he had no answers.

"I was terrified. You don't know what they're going to find, what's going on," DeGeorge said. 

Then a cardiologist realized that something was wrong with DeGeorge's aortic valve. The aortic valve controls blood flow. Typically, it has three flaps that open and close with every heartbeat. DeGeorge had just two, a condition called bicuspid aortic valve. It develops in the womb and can cause issues with blood flow or put the aorta at risk for tearing.

Dr. Benjamin van Boxtel, the surgical director at the hospital's Atlantic Aortic Center, said that most bicuspid aortic valve patients don't start to feel symptoms for decades. They may notice some shortness of breath or fatigue. Crushing pressure like what DeGeorge was experiencing is a major warning sign.

"When someone comes in and they have chest tightness and chest pressure, that's an end-stage symptom," van Boxtel said.

"Musical chairs of the heart"

DeGeorge would need major open-heart surgery. There are several options available to treat a bicuspid aortic valve, van Boxtel said. Most commonly, patients receive an aortic valve replacement, where the damaged bicuspid valve is replaced with either a mechanical valve or a bioprosthetic valve made from cow tissue.

The mechanical valve would require DeGeorge, then 48, to make "massive lifestyle changes," including taking blood thinners for the rest of his life and giving up contact sports, van Boxtel said. As for the bovine valve, van Boxtel said he "didn't see it lasting more than 15 years," meaning DeGeorge would likely need another open-heart surgery.

There was a third option: a complicated surgery called a Ross procedure. In this surgery, a patient's pulmonary valve is harvested from their heart. The pulmonary valve has less wear and tear on it than the aortic valve, so it is usually in better health. Over time, it can heal itself and accommodate new levels of activity, making it a good substitute for the aortic valve.

The bicuspid aortic valve is then removed and replaced with the patient's pulmonary valve. Finally, a cadaver pulmonary valve replaces the original pulmonary valve.

The procedure is like "musical chairs of the heart" and "is crazy even to heart surgeons," van Boxtel said. But he wanted to let DeGeorge "feel like a healthy 40-year-old guy again."

DeGeorge was intimidated but decided the Ross procedure was his best option. He could live normally and wouldn't need further open-heart operations. If anything ever went wrong with the replacement pulmonary valve, it could be treated through the groin with a catheter in a less invasive procedure.

A complex but successful surgery

A week and a half later, DeGeorge, his wife and his cousin arrived at the hospital. DeGeorge was nervous about the upcoming procedure, but said he was happy to be able to fix the defective valve and move on with his life. 

"I'd be lying if I told you I slept much the night before," he added.

The procedure took about six hours, van Boxtel said. DeGeorge had some antibodies in his blood that meant the surgical team had to carefully monitor medications, temperature changes and other variables during the procedure. Even with the extra precautions, everything went smoothly, van Boxtel said.

"Sometimes you've got to know when to go quickly and when to slow down, and we were really able to thread that needle with Paul," van Boxtel said.

"This story could be very different"

Just hours after the operation was complete, DeGeorge was able to sit up in bed. He had little pain. Within a few days, he was up and walking. Van Boxtel said this isn't unusual, since Ross procedures are typically performed on younger patients who can recover more easily.

Eighteen months after his operation, DeGeorge said he is feeling better than ever. He was recently honored at a New York Jets game, and is back on full duty at work. He has resumed coaching and jiujitsu. Most importantly, he is able to keep up with his kids. 

"I feel fantastic now," DeGeorge said. "I couldn't feel better."

DeGeorge will have follow-up care for the rest of his life. For the first year after a Ross procedure, patients need to carefully monitor their blood pressure as the pulmonary valve adjusts. DeGeorge will also see a cardiologist regularly and have routine scans to monitor his heart. Otherwise, things will be relatively calm for the father of two.

"I'm happy being back to work. I'm happy to feel good, I'm happy to be with my kids," DeGeorge said. "I was very fortunate. This story could be very different. I couldn't be happier to be where I am now."

Two years passed, and Laird began to believe the worst was behind him. He returned to work and treasured time with his young daughter. Then his wife CarleyAnn Laird raised a concern at a routine follow-up appointment in December 2024. 

"They had already checked out everything and said 'Everything looks good to go.' And she said, 'No, he's been sleeping a lot lately, he's been tired a lot.' She told him that she wanted him to do a full body scan on me," said Laird, who lives in South Carolina. 

He was surprised by the suggestion. He felt fine. But a scan showed that Laird's cancer had returned — and spread. There were 13 tumors in his lungs. One was the size of a golf ball. His doctor said Laird would likely have only about two years to live, even with treatment.

"So much went through my head," Laird said. "I just thought: I'm 30 years old. I've got a wife. I've got a 5-year-old little girl. There was the shock of it." 

Joining a clinical trial with "nothing to lose"

Laird was diagnosed with microsatellite stable colorectal cancer, which is typically treated with chemotherapy and radiation. Laird had never wanted to undergo chemo. Dr. Michael James Overman, an oncologist and researcher at the University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center who was not involved in Laird's care, said chemotherapy can control disease for at least six months for about 80 to 90% of microsatellite stable colorectal cancer patients. 

Still, hearing that it was recommended was disheartening for Laird. He worried about the side effects and his quality of life, especially since his disease was considered terminal. CarleyAnn, a pharmacy technician, began looking for other options.  

"I stayed up days and just stared at his scans," CarleyAnn said. "This was strictly me not wanting to lose my husband and having to tell my 5-year-old." 

She applied to several clinical trials on her husband's behalf, including one at Duke University where gastrointestinal oncologist Dr. Nicholas DeVito was studying the effects of immunotherapy on microsatellite stable colorectal cancer. Typically, immunotherapy has been used to treat this kind of cancer after multiple forms of chemotherapy have failed, DeVito said. A previous clinical trial showed that when it was used as a "fourth or fifth line of defense," there were "nice responses in about a quarter of patients," DeVito said. The study showed that the immunotherapy controlled the disease — meaning tumors either shrank or stayed the same size — in 70% of patients.

Devito's trial tests what happens when immunotherapy is used first, without chemotherapy. Delaying chemo can be risky, DeVito said, so patients whose disease may interfere with organ function are not eligible. 

Laird said the potential benefits outweighed his concerns. 

"I don't like to say you have nothing to lose, but that's kind of the only way to put it," Laird said. "When you get a diagnosis like that, why not try something that you don't know anything about?" 

"A miracle from God" 

Laird became one of 15 patients enrolled in the trial in February last year. Patients receive an immunotherapy infusion every two weeks, DeVito said. Scans are taken every six to eight weeks to monitor their disease. If a patient starts to show signs of disease progression, they start chemotherapy. 

Scans showed Laird's tumors "melting away," DeVito said. He went from 13 tumors to three. The largest is just 0.6 millimeters — significantly smaller than the golfball-sized tumor that his doctor had first detected. 

"It's a miracle. It's really a miracle from God," said Laird. "Looking at where it started and where it is now, it's just unbelievable." 

Laird had some side effects, including rashes, headaches, nausea and dizziness during the early days of the treatment, but they abated in late spring 2025. Overman said that like chemotherapy, immunotherapy can have some toxicity. Since then, it has been "smooth sailing," CarleyAnn said, with her husband only occasionally experiencing some stomach troubles. 

Laird had one of the strongest responses early on, DeVito said. The full results of the trial will be published in April. 

"In a nutshell, this was a diagnosis that would probably have shortened his life to five years or less, at best," DeVito said. "And now we're thinking 'Well, is he cured? How long does this remission last? Is it permanent? How does this cancer stay away?' We're really drifting into uncharted territory." 

A "first in history"  

While Laird may be a "first in history," DeVito said he hopes to identify more patients who can have the same success. That may help researchers identify which patient populations should get immunotherapy as a first-line treatment. Further research may also look like at combining the immunotherapy with other treatments. 

Overman said the trial is novel, but that there is still a long way to go before early immunotherapy can be considered a standard of care treatment for microsatellite stable colorectal cancer. Future research should investigate if there are patients with certain biomarkers may respond better to immunotherapy than others, he said. Experts may also continue to refine patient selection in future trails. Primary tumors tend to be more immune responsive and may react to immunotherapy better, Overman said, as opposed to someone whose cancer has metastasized. Still, it may provide an option for patients who don't want chemotherapy. 

"This here is proof of concept. You can do it front line, and there's definitely some activity," Overman said. "We don't have a lot of non-chemo approaches. That's the real novel aspect here." 

Laird is not cancer-free, but his disease is no longer terminal. He continues to visit Duke every two weeks for an infusion infusion. CarleyAnn said family and their church parish have offered essential support. Laird said the experience has encouraged him to treasure every moment. 

"It really just taught me to try to live life," Laird said. "There's no sense sitting around being lazy. If the good Lord wakes you up every day and you got breath in your lungs, just go do something." 

As the weeks passed, the Pilates instructor's symptoms worsened. Weiss could no longer walk her dog. She was exhausted all the time. Worst of all, she could barely breathe.

Finally, she saw her primary care provider in March 2024. A test suggested she might have an aggressive form of cancer called diffuse large B-cell lymphoma. Blood tests and a biopsy confirmed the diagnosis. 

"It was a bit of a shock," Weiss said. "It was very much an out-of-body experience." 

Weiss was familiar with the disease from coaching work she had done with the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society earlier in her career. She knew the road ahead would be arduous.

When Weiss started chemotherapy, things seemed to be going well. Her only side effect was fatigue. But one month after she finished chemotherapy, she began to have some neurologic issues, said Dr. Charles Farber, a hematologist-oncologist at Atlantic Health Morristown Medical Center. Imaging showed the lymphoma had recurred — and it was in her brain. 

Weiss' prognosis was "dismal," Farber said — but there was a chance a personalized immunotherapy treatment could save her. Weiss said the news was "hard to handle," but she again put her faith in her care team. 

"I'm a bit naive," Weiss told CBS News. "When I'm told something's going to work, I believe it." 

Trying personalized immunotherapy

Large diffuse B-cell lymphoma is a form of blood cancer, and the most common subgroup of lymphomas, said Dr. Lorenzo Falchi, a lymphoma specialist at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. There are about 25,000 cases each year in the United States. The disease tends to grow quickly and be difficult to diagnose, Falchi said.  

When a patient is treated with chemotherapy, it's like using "mostly indiscriminate poison" that doctors "hope kills more of the tumor cells" than healthy cells, Farber said. When cancer recurs shortly after chemotherapy, "giving more poisons" isn't usually the answer, he said.

That's where biological therapies like CAR-T come in. CAR-T is a form of immunotherapy that has been around for about a decade, according to Dr. Mohamad Cherry, the medical director of hematology at Atlantic Health. A person's T-cells, a part of the immune system, are removed and genetically engineered to recognize and attack certain cancer cells, Cherry explained. The cells are then infused back into the body, "like a blood transfusion," Cherry said. 

Falchi said the infusion takes just 20 to 30 minutes. CAR-T can have some side effects, including neurotoxicity, Farber said, so patients are typically hospitalized for a week or two after the infusion.

In addition to lymphoma, CAR-T is most often used for leukemia and myeloma. Farber and Cherry said they are beginning to use it to treat autoimmune diseases, while other research is looking at its use for different types of cancer. Cherry said the potential applications are "endless." 

Weiss underwent the process in January 2025. Watching the engineered cells re-enter her body, she thought of a classic video game.

"One of the nurses on the floor drew pictures of Pac-Man on the white board across from my bed, because that's what I felt like my cells were going to do," Weiss said. "They were going to come into my body and Pac-Man themselves all the way around, and eat up all my cancer cells, and I'd be fine." 

"Life is better than it was before"  

Weiss responded well to the CAR-T. She had no side effects. When nurses asked her questions to confirm her neurological status, she always had the correct answers. She took walks around the hospital floor to keep her energy up. When she was released from the hospital, she easily transitioned back to daily life, taking her dog for walks in a park near her New Jersey home. 

"I was very lucky, in a lot of ways," Weiss said. 

Weiss was closely monitored by Farber and Cherry for a year after completing CAR-T. Now, Weiss is "in complete remission" and has no evidence of disease, Cherry said. She will continue to undergo scans every four to six months to make sure her cancer has not returned, Farber said. If the lymphoma does not come back within three years, it likely never will, Farber said. 

Weiss said her life has returned to normal over the past few months. She is happy to be active again and working two part-time jobs she loves. At an art therapy group, she and other cancer survivors talk about their journeys. She and her husband are hoping to travel to Ireland soon for a trip they delayed due to her diagnosis. 

Most importantly, Weiss said, the experience has given her a new perspective on life. 

"Life is better than it was before in a lot of ways," Weiss said. "Your priorities change. Before, I would work and I would not do things because I needed to work, I was scheduled, I needed to do (something else). Now, if my family needs me, I don't work. I will be where my family is at any given moment. I don't have time to spend with people that I really don't want to spend time with. I'm honest enough with myself to say 'No.' It's been good. It's been a great year." 

Then, in June 2024, Operacz noticed symptoms of what she thought was a urinary tract infection as she attended an old friend's college graduation in Milwaukee. She took an over-the-counter medication and tried to ignore the annoyance in her otherwise stellar weekend.

A week later, she was still having symptoms. Prescribed antibiotics didn't help. Operacz began to feel pain in her side and run a fever. She became so fatigued that she couldn't work. For two weeks, she was "pretty much bedridden," she said.

A CT scan showed no kidney stones or appendicitis. One night, Operacz "broke down crying" on the phone with her older sister Sara. 

"I was like, 'I'm not OK. Something's not right,'" Operacz said.

Her sister immediately came and picked up Operacz from her sorority house. The next day, Operacz saw a urinary gynecologist. The doctor noticed the lymph nodes in Operacz's groin were swollen and sent her to the emergency room. 

"I finally got in to see a doctor, do an ultrasound, pee in a cup for like the 100th time," Operacz said. "Then they did a pelvic exam. They were like, your lymph nodes are swollen. It could be from a pelvic infection, or it could be lymphoma. They just kind of threw that out there casually."

Operacz knew lymphoma was a kind of cancer, but wasn't too concerned. She thought, as a healthy 21-year-old, that wasn't "in (her) deck of cards." But her symptoms kept getting worse. Her fever got higher and higher, and her heart became unstable. After a week in the hospital, Operacz underwent a biopsy. 

Before the anesthesia had even worn off, doctors had a diagnosis: Stage IV lymphoma.

"I watched my sister disappear in front of me" 

Operacz was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoma, a form of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. The disease affects about 15% of non-Hodgkin patients, said Dr. Eric Jacobsen, an oncologist and the clinical director of the adult lymphoma program at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Her specific cancer was ALK+ anaplastic large cell lymphoma, which is more likely to affect younger patients. 

The diagnosis gave doctors some answers. Operacz was stabilized and eventually released from the hospital. Things seemed manageable, Sara Operacz said. But two days later, Operacz was in so much pain she couldn't move. Her lymph nodes "felt like they exploded everywhere." Her family called an ambulance. Doctors began administering chemotherapy as soon as she arrived at the hospital. 

Operacz was treated and discharged again, but infections, migraines and other ailments kept bringing her back. She said her life felt like it had been "put on pause." She "couldn't stay out" of the hospital. In one incident, Sara Operacz had to call an ambulance after her younger sister "collapsed right there in my apartment." 

After a few weeks, new scans showed the cancer had spread to her central nervous system and brain. Her area hospital could no longer treat her. She was transferred to the Cleveland Clinic on July 12, 2024. Operacz said she was barely lucid during her time there. Treatments kept failing, and her odds of survival kept falling. 

"I watched my sister disappear in front of me. Emma went from this vibrant 21-year-old to someone who was 80 pounds, skin and bone. I had to help her bathe. I had to be there for things no sibling should have to do," Sara Operacz said. "Hope kept shrinking. At one point, I was planning her funeral. I helped her sign a will. I was very certain I was going to lose my sister." 

An experimental treatment and bone marrow transplant  

Dr. Deepa Jagadeesh, Operacz's oncologist, had one last suggestion. Small studies had shown a lung cancer medication called alectinib could help pediatric patients with the same cancer Operacz had. Unlike most medicines, it could cross the blood-brain barrier, making it more effective for treating the brain and central nervous system. Jagadeesh received permission from Operacz's health insurance to prescribe the medication and began administering it on August 20, 2024. 

Operacz's condition quickly improved, Jagadeesh said. She was able to recover at an Airbnb her parents had rented in Cleveland. By September, she was in remission. But her medical journey wasn't over yet: Jagadeesh wanted to perform a bone marrow transplant.

The chemotherapy that precludes the treatment can eradicate "any microscopic areas of lymphoma" that remain, and the stem cells in the donated bone marrow can "essentially attack the lymphoma the way it would attack a virus or bacteria," Jacobsen explained. It can help a patient who is in remission stay healthy. 

Sara Operacz was a match to donate. She said she had "no hesitation" about the process. 

"I'm the oldest sibling, and being the only match felt like this was meant to be — like it was my responsibility. There was zero doubt in my mind. Not a single moment of fear or regret," Operacz said. "I would do it again in a heartbeat. I would do it a 100 times over if it meant saving her." 

The transplant was conducted on Nov. 8, 2024, one day after Operacz's 22nd birthday. Afterwards, Operacz spent another 70 days in Cleveland. She had to stay in isolation as her immune system recovered.

"I was far away from all my friends; I had nothing to do. I was over being with my mom and dad. It was winter. It was just a dark time," Operacz said. "It was like 'Alright, everything's over now. I beat the cancer. I did the transplant. What's next? How am I supposed to start rebuilding my life?'" 

"Building a new Emma" 

Operacz took online classes while recovering. After her isolation ended, she was able to take some short road trips. Slowly, she began to feel more like herself. She traveled with friends and moved to Ohio with Sara. In December 2025, she graduated at last. 

"I was able to say 'goodbye' to college Emma. I was able to actually build a new me, and it felt like a fresh start," Operacz said.

Operacz will continue to receive regular follow-up care. Jagadeesh said that two years after a bone marrow transplant, a patient's risk of relapse goes down. After five years, patients are considered cured. 

Operacz isn't waiting around for that milestone. In January, she started a graduate program in social work. She said her goal is to work with cancer patients.

"I felt like I could resonate with it and helping people would be like my way of giving back, because of all the help I received throughout my treatment," Operacz said. "I realized that, yeah, I miss the old me, but I can't hold on to that. I just gotta focus on building a new Emma."

His doctor said he might have allergies or exercise-induced asthma. Corbitt wasn't aware of any allergies, so that "didn't really make sense," he said. Inhalers didn't help. Not knowing what was wrong became frustrating. 

"I don't know how to describe it, but until you are struggling for every breath you draw, you don't know what that feels like," Corbitt said. "It was just a constant struggle to draw a deep breath."  

Corbitt began using supplemental oxygen. Eventually, he needed it full-time. That prompted him to retire from the sheriff's department after 44 years on the force. Soon, day-to-day life became difficult. He came up with elaborate ways to ensure he could golf without losing his breath, and pulled his tank behind him as he walked his West Virginia property. Soon, climbing just a short flight of stairs left him needing rest.

Finally, Corbitt made an appointment with a pulmonologist. 

After just a few seconds of listening to his chest, the pulmonologist diagnosed Corbitt with a condition called pulmonary fibrosis. That worried him enough. Then he was told the condition could only be treated with a double lung transplant. 

"It was unsettling," Corbitt, now 63, said. "But I've never been a curl up in a fetal position and cry kind of guy. So when the doc said I needed a double lung transplant, I said, 'If that's where we're going, let's head that way.'" 

What is pulmonary fibrosis? 

Pulmonary fibrosis is a progressive disease where lung tissue becomes damaged and scarred. The more scarring occurs, the harder it is for a patient to breathe. Corbitt's pulmonary fibrosis was idiopathic, which means it has no known cause. Dr. Rachel Powers, a pulmonologist at Cleveland Clinic who treated Corbitt, said that IPF is a "very difficult diagnosis to get." 

"Some of the symptoms of it can be somewhat insidious, in that people just notice they're short of breath or they can't do quite as much, and in a lot of people, it coincides with this age range of later 50s to early 60s. That sometimes is accounted for as 'I'm just getting older,'" Powers said. "You can kind of go through a Rolodex of seeing different physicians." 

As Corbitt learned more about IPF, he realized he had likely been coping with it for years. 

"There were times where I thought I was just, you know, out of shape or whatever, when I would have to do physical exertion — chase somebody, run somewhere. I thought I was just getting out of shape," Corbitt said. "Looking back on it now, that's probably not what it was." 

"I have always known that death was a possibility"   

Patients who are diagnosed in the early stages of pulmonary fibrosis are treated with medications meant to slow the progression of the disease, said Dr. Aman Pande, a Cleveland Clinic pulmonologist who was not involved in Corbitt's care. In later stages of the disease, the only option is a lung transplant. 

Corbitt was sent to the Cleveland Clinic to start the screening process. He had his initial intake appointment with Powers in September 2024. In May 2025, he was put on the transplant list. Because of his condition, he was placed high on the list, Powers said. 

Luckily, new lungs came in "fairly quickly," Powers said. After just a few weeks of waiting, Corbitt got the call that the Cleveland Clinic had organs for him. He and his family hurried to the hospital. The operation would be major, but Corbitt found himself at peace. 

"Being a police officer for 44 years, I have always known that death was a possibility for me," Corbitt said. "Going into surgery, I realized it was a possibility, but I didn't feel like that was where we were. It wasn't a huge concern for me. I realized it was possible, but I wasn't really worried about that part of it."  

Powers said Corbitt's surgery went "wonderfully." The smooth procedure was followed by a "really good recovery," she said. Corbitt said he started weaning off the oxygen four days after his operation. 

"I remember one evening, I was laying in the hospital bed, and I drew a deep, deep breath," Corbitt said. "It may have been the first one for a year. But just a deep breath. And I thought 'Wow, that feels weird.'" 

"You can't hold me down" 

Corbitt was released from the hospital three weeks after the operation, which Powers said is standard for double lung transplant patients. He then went to an inpatient rehabilitation facility to regain his strength. After another few weeks, he was back home and feeling better than he had in years. 

Corbitt will see Powers regularly for pulmonary function testing, X-ray imaging and other tests to ensure his health is stable and his new lungs are healthy. Lung transplant patients see their doctors often in the year after the surgery, when the risk of organ rejection is the highest, Powers said. 

In the months since the operation, Corbitt has focused on regaining his strength. In December, he welcomed his seventh grandchild. He's thinking about picking up a part-time job at the sheriff's department, and is excited to return to his favorite hobby. 

"When it warms back up, I'm back on the golf course," Corbitt said. "You can't hold me down." 

In September 2021, Valle began waking up with painful headaches that would become debilitating throughout the day. Valle was convinced it was migraines. Her doctor thought something might be wrong with her sinuses. 

One day three weeks later, the pain Valle was experiencing became so bad she couldn't sit up or stop vomiting. When her boyfriend came home from work, they went to the hospital. A scan showed blood in her brain. Doctors performed an exploratory craniotomy, where a part of the skull is removed to examine the brain. 

"I don't know that I was with it enough to really know what was going on, which is probably a good thing, because if I had taken the time to process that they were cutting a piece of my skull to go into my brain, I don't know that I would have felt great about that," Valle, then 37, said. 

The surgery found a brain tumor that was removed in a second craniotomy, and testing showed it was glioblastoma.

Most glioblastomas cannot be fully removed with surgery. Even in cases like Valle's where the tumor is completely removed, patients receive chemotherapy and radiation to attack any remaining cancer cells. Only about 10% percent of glioblastoma patients live more than five years after diagnosis, according to the University of Texas' MD Anderson Cancer Center.

Treating glioblastoma is complicated by the blood-brain barrier, a protective layer of cells that prevents most medications from entering the brain, preventing many side effects but making it harder to treat the brain itself. 

Participating in trial was "no-brainer," Valle says

Valle was given the option of enrolling in a clinical trial that was studying the effects of briefly opening that barrier. Saying yes was easy, she said.

"It was a no-brainer. This could save my life," Valle said. 

Dr. Graeme Woodworth, the study's lead researcher and the chief of neurosurgery at the University of Maryland Medical Center, posited that a focused ultrasound could safely open the blood-brain barrier and allow systemically administered chemotherapy to be more effective. 

Sound waves from the ultrasound had been shown to interact with circulating microbubbles, standard imaging contrast agents used in tests like echocardiograms. The sound waves activate the bubbles, causing them to expand and oscillate, leading to "teasing apart" the brain blood vessels, Woodworth said. For up to a few hours, molecules like chemotherapy drugs are able to pass through the blood-brain barrier, he said.

Valle was one of 34 participants in the trial. Each underwent between three and six focused ultrasound treatments over six months. They also underwent frequent MRIs to ensure their cancers had not recurred and that the focused ultrasound was not causing any problems. The treatment involved wearing a large device around the head. 

Trial data shows "survival advantage"

Woodworth said the study data showed "early evidence" the method worked. 

"During the study, we did not have a way to directly track the drug in the body," Woodworth said. "So we could not assess if we were getting more drug into the tumor region. It wasn't until we had the follow-up data, months and months later, that we saw up to 40% of the patients in the study were still alive at a time we expected most would have succumbed to progressive brain cancer." 

Woodworth and his multi-institutional team established a contemporary matched control group to see how glioblastoma patients that did not undergo focused ultrasound compared to those in his study. The control group was much larger than the study group, he said. The data showed a "survival advantage" for patients who took the oral chemotherapy and had the focused ultrasound, as opposed to those who just had adjuvant chemotherapy. The comparison showed the monthly treatment is safe and may "improve survival and tumor control," he said. 

"Important step in the right direction"  

Dr. Patrick Wen, a neuro-oncologist at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute who was not involved in the trial, called Woodworth's research "an important step in the right direction" and an "encouraging signal." He said he hopes further studies look at different chemotherapy medications and use randomized control groups, instead of matched groups, to create more rigorous data. 

Woodworth said ongoing studies are seeking to confirm and expand his research. 

The University of Maryland is not currently offering the focused ultrasound treatment for patients with glioblastoma, as the treatment method and device are under review with the FDA. 

A spokesperson said the hospital is running a clinical trial looking at using the technique to treat brain metastases in patients with a certain type of lung cancer. 

The study also sparked a new direction of research. Blood tests conducted before and after the patients underwent the focused ultrasound showed different results, Woodworth said, raising the possibility that non-invasive tests called liquid biopsies could be used to monitor the progression of brain cancers. 

Woodworth and a multi-institutional team conducted a second clinical trial that is awaiting review from the FDA. He said he hopes the research will eventually lead to the development of an accessible device to open the blood-brain barrier for patients with brain disorders.

"If we are able to get this device into clinics, it really opens the door for doctors, pharmaceutical companies and biotech companies to work together," Woodworth said. "With an FDA-approved device that can safely and repeatedly open the blood-brain barrier, we can now start thinking about effective combination therapies for GBM patients in new, exciting ways." 

An outlier living "life to the fullest" 

Valle said she had no side effects from participating in the trial. Four years after her diagnosis with glioblastoma, she has no evidence of disease. It's a rare positive outcome for a disease that kills most patients within 18 months.  

"I am truly an outlier," Valle, now 41, said. 

Valle said she feels like she is back to her old self. She is planning a ski trip to Europe and focusing on living in the moment. She only needs MRIs twice a year. Otherwise, she tries to stay positive and think about the future, not statistics.  

"I don't think about the cancer. It doesn't serve me to live life worrying about if it returns," Valle said. "I've always been a 'Live life to the fullest' person. Why change that now?" 

At first, the trip went smoothly. King only felt "a little bit of pregnancy discomfort." Then came the "burning, spasming pain" in her shoulder on their final night. It felt like a fist between her shoulder blades and down her spine, King said. She vomited for two hours before going to a local hospital, terrified and "screaming" in pain.

"I remember pleading with the tech, 'Please, please tell me if my baby is still alive,'" King said. "I was fairly early in my pregnancy. I hadn't felt her kick yet. I knew something was wrong, but not the extent of what had happened. Did my body go into survival mode? Did she not get enough oxygen? I didn't know." 

Doctors found that King had experienced a spontaneous coronary artery dissection — a sudden cardiac event caused by a tear in an artery. The next day, King was medically evacuated to Atrium Health Wake Forest Baptist Hospital in North Carolina. 

The situation was critical. King's heart was failing. The average heart pumps out between 55% and 60% of its volume with every heartbeat, according to Dr. Bartlomiej Imielski, a cardiothoracic surgeon who was one of the lead doctors on King's case. King's heart was only pumping out about 25% of its volume. Her pregnancy was putting even more strain on her body. Doctors recommended she terminate her pregnancy — something King couldn't consider.

"I had a sense of peace. I knew, in my heart of hearts, without the shadow of a doubt, that I was going to survive this. I realized I couldn't live with myself knowing I had voluntarily terminated my daughter's life. I would always feel selfish. I would always wonder," King said. "I put three years of, literally, blood, sweat and tears into this. ... But of course, then came a very hard question: What do we do?"

"Constantly weighing risks and benefits"  

Multiple teams worked on King's case to develop a path forward that everyone was comfortable with, Imielski said. 

For as long as possible, they would support King and her baby with medication. When those no longer worked, they would use a device called the Impella 5.5 to help her heart pump blood. The medical team hoped to get King's pregnancy to at least 24 weeks, when fetuses are generally considered viable outside the womb. 

The Impella 5.5 had previously only been used in pregnancy-related cases about half a dozen times, Imielski said. All of those cases had been mothers who were either about to deliver or in the postpartum period. It had never been used to help a patient from the non-viable stage of pregnancy get to the point where a baby could be successfully delivered. 

"You felt the consequences. You had a mother's life on your shoulder, a baby's life on your shoulder, and you were doing something that you could very easily get criticized for, because there was no 'This is how we do it,'" Imielski said. "It was very clear we were kind of creating the path here. ... We were constantly weighing risks and benefits." 

"You've done everything you can"  

King had weekly check-ins through the holiday season. On New Year's Eve, King began experiencing chest pain, swelling and shortness of breath, and went back to the hospital. Tests showed her heart needed the support of the pump, so she was taken into surgery. There were over 20 medical professionals gathered in the operating room, Imielski said. 

Just minutes into the procedure, King's blood pressure dropped. Her baby began to show signs of distress.

"Maternal-fetal medicine and the neonatologist basically said 'The fetus is not doing well. You have 10 minutes to do this, or we're going to have to do a crash C-section,'" Imielski said. Doctors wound up briefly putting King on life support to safely complete the procedure. 

King spent the next 13 days in the ICU as the Impella 5.5 kept her heart functioning. On January 13, she was told that tests were showing worrying fetal activity. If King or her baby became unstable, the maternal-fetal medicine team was worried one or both of them might not survive an emergency delivery. With King 27 and a half weeks into her pregnancy, the neonatal specialists felt the baby had a 95% chance of survival without deficits, Imielski said.

"They said 'You've done everything you can for this baby,'" King said. "So I agreed." 

"Perfect in every way"  

King's C-section took place in another crowded operating room, with her medical team prepared for every outcome. Her daughter, named Persephone, was born weighing just two pounds, four ounces. She was small enough to fit in her father's hand, but she was doing well and breathing on her own. 

"Knowing that I had gotten her there, that I was going to get to meet her, I was going to get to raise her, that we got there, was profound. There were no words to describe what that felt like," King said. "She was perfect in every way." 

Three days later, King's heart pump was removed. Five days after that, she was released from the hospital. Persephone spent three months in the NICU and was released in March. King had six stents implanted in May, completed a cardiac rehabilitation program in November and continues to have regular check-ups. Persephone is now a happy, healthy 1-year-old, King said. 

"It's been everything to me to get to be a mom to her," King said. "She is so sweet. She's just absolutely wonderful." 

King said she hopes her experience will change care for others. Imielski said the procedure likely won't be standard care any time soon, but that King's case "opens up a frontier for research and investigation." 

"We've proven that if a family, if a mother chooses to go against recommendations, we could consider a plan B," Imielski said. "It's still something that is in its infancy, that needs to be done more, that needs to be researched more, but I'm excited that we have a plan B." 

Everything was well — until their car hit a patch of black ice. 

"We were spinning. My husband obviously lost control, and he hit another car head-on," Boyd recalled. Everything else was a blur. 

Boyd's daughter had a broken arm. Her husband and the other driver were fine. Boyd had broken bones in her neck and ribs, a collapsed lung, and severe injuries to her intestines. She had six surgeries in five days.

But the damage to her intestines — caused by a too-tight seatbelt — kept getting worse, Boyd said. 

"They were trying to save my intestines, and every time they would go back in, they were just dying from no blood flow," Boyd said. "I was told that most people have 35 feet of small intestine. I was left with about 35 inches." 

"Just going through the motions"

Boyd was discharged from the hospital after a month. She was diagnosed with short bowel syndrome and had an ileostomy bag attached to her side to collect waste. Her remaining intestines couldn't process the nutrients from food, so she needed 12 hours of IV nutrition a day. She said her daughter was afraid of the tubes, wires and medical machines that now filled their home. Boyd was always weak and dehydrated, and never wanted to leave the house. 

"If I went out to eat somewhere, I'd be in the bathroom immediately, or I'd have to go to the bathroom five times at a restaurant, so it was just embarrassing," Boyd said. "I felt like everyone was enjoying their life and I was just going through the motions." 

Boyd, who had previously worked in healthcare, regularly met with doctors to see if her quality of life could be improved. No one had answers. Finally, she followed up on an unlikely lead. During her hospitalization, a surgeon had told Boyd's sister she should contact the Cleveland Clinic. 

Boyd self-referred herself to the hospital system in November 2024. She met with general surgeon Dr. Masato Fujiki and after an evaluation, he suggested something she'd never heard of before: An intestinal transplant. 

"I started crying. I think he thought I was sad, but I was really happy," Boyd said. "Everyone had told me that was going to be my life." 

A rare, risky transplant 

Intestinal transplants are a rare procedure, said Dr. Adam Griesemer, a transplant surgeon at NYU Langone. Only about 100 are done in the U.S. every year, compared to the 25,000 kidney transplants done annually, said Fujiki, the director of Cleveland Clinic's Intestinal Transplant Program. 

Intestinal transplants have the worst outcomes of any type of transplant, Griesemer said, so there is a "high threshold" for doctors to consider them. They are generally only recommended for children born with intestinal defects and people who will be dependent on IV nutrition for the rest of their lives, like Boyd, he said. 

Intestinal transplant patients "really struggle with rejection and infections," Griesemer said. Intestines harbor bacteria inside them, so during cases of organ rejection, the barrier preventing the bacteria from entering the bloodstream breaks down. Fujiki said rejection rates have been improving over the past decade, estimating that it has decreased from 40% of cases to about 8%. Medication can help reduce infections, he said. 

Only about 50% of patients survive more than five years after receiving the transplant, Griesemer said. In comparison, kidney transplants have a 98% five-year survival rate. 

"Prepared for the worst"  

Boyd began the process of getting listed for an intestinal transplant in November. In July 2025, 16 months after the car crash, Boyd received the transplant at the Cleveland Clinic. The day of the operation was filled with emotion, she said. 

"I was excited. I was nervous. I was sad about leaving my daughter, and I felt for the donor's family," Boyd said. "But really, I was prepared for the worst." 

The operation took about 12 hours, Fujiki said. Everything went smoothly. But it was just the first step in a long process: Boyd spent the next three weeks recovering in the hospital, followed by three months of outpatient recovery in Cleveland so she could stay near her care team for close monitoring. 

Boyd had no complications in her recovery, Fujiki said. Her ostomy bag was removed. She no longer needed IV nutrition. The weekend before Thanksgiving, she returned to Oklahoma.

"It was amazing to be able to come home," Boyd said. 

A festive return home 

Boyd arrived home just in time for beloved holiday traditions. After missing other milestones, like her daughter's first day of school and Halloween, Boyd was relieved to be a part of the celebrations. 

"My daughter is six now, but my husband carries her to the Christmas tree every morning to get her presents. I don't know how much longer she's going to let him do that," Boyd said. "I was like, 'This year might be the last time, and I'll miss it.' But I didn't." 

Boyd remains on a regimen of anti-rejection medications and will continue to receive follow-up care at the Cleveland Clinic. Otherwise, normalcy reigns, and it feels like the last of the trauma from the crash has been repaired, she said.

"It's nice to take my daughter to school, pick her up, not have to worry about anything, to take her and to be able to go out to eat. I couldn't drink Coke before. I couldn't do normal things for like, a year and a half," Boyd said. "It's so much. Everyone is just a little bit more at peace."