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It was her second time lying numb in a hospital bed in North Bergen, New Jersey, with blood streaming down her legs and fear creeping into her heart.At that moment, Timoria McQueen Saba thought to herself, "there's no way in the world that I'm the only woman who had this happen," she said.In 2010, after giving birth vaginally to her oldest daughter, Gigi, one late afternoon in April, postpartum hemorrhage or excessive bleeding -- the leading cause of maternal death worldwide -- nearly killed her.Then, about a year later, she started bleeding profusely in the small bathroom of a frozen yogurt shop. The blood was from a miscarriage, which left her feeling helpless in that hospital bed. She didn't know she was pregnant."I was all the way back to where I was the year before, and I realized ... I hadn't healed from the near-fatal traumatic experience the year before," said Saba, now the 39-year-old mother of two girls.The former celebrity makeup artist, who saw clients such as novelists Candace Bushnell and Kyra Davis, decided to become a maternal health advocate, speaking on behalf of the 830 women who die from pregnancy- or childbirth-related complications every day around the world. That's about 303,000 a year.Each year in the United States, about 700 to 1,200 women die from pregnancy or childbirth complications, and black women like Saba are about three to four times more likely to die of pregnancy or delivery complications than white women.The quick-witted, savvy Saba said the data shocked her."It really took me a while to digest it," she said -- she survived something that many others around the world haven't."What was different about me? Why didn't I die? What were the reasons for that?" she asked. "I felt like I have a duty to tell this story, to represent my race in a way that not many people can, because I lived through it."  1875

It has been 11 years since the federal minimum wage has increased, and Congress is weighing if now is the time to give minimum wage employees a raise.One economist cautions that now might not be the best time.“The big problem then is if you fundamentally raise the cost of their labor by raising the federal minimum wage in states where that will have an impact, then you’re further increasing the businesses’ cost,” said Ryan Bourne, economist from the Kato Institute. “Which is likely to make more businesses fail and actually result in fewer jobs being available for low-wage workers.”According to the Cato Institute, 29 states and the District of Columbia have minimum wages that are above the federal minimum of .25.“This seems to be a particularly bad time to raise the cost of hiring people by having a higher hourly wage rate,” Bourne said. “It might deter some of the adjustment we need to live with this virus.”But fellow economist Ben Zipperer of the Economic Policy Institute disagrees with Bourne’s assessment.“That kind of concern has always been raised when we’re talking about the minimum wage, and it doesn’t seem to actually play out in reality,” Zipperer said.Zipperer argues that raising the minimum wage could boost economic activity. He added that a minimum wage hike, while not a panacea, would put the economy in the right direction.“Giving people more money to have more money to spend, that’s probably one of the most effective policies to have during a kind of depression,” he said. 1519

In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223

In the South, football is king. Which makes Westlake High School, home of multiple championships and the alma mater of a former NFL MVP, royalty.Now, this powerhouse program in the Atlanta area is facing an invisible opponent: COVID-19.“It’s completely changed the way we operate,” said Lions head coach Bobby May.May is following the Georgia High School Association’s ever-changing game plan. Which will hopefully get his team on the field and playing underneath the lights come fall.“Before they workout, we take their temperatures,” May said of his student athletes. “Right now, we are limited to groups of 20, including coaches.”Those coaches are required to wear masks and those groups of players are split up by positions -- and won’t interact in the weight room or on the field.“At least the quarterbacks and receivers can be together,” said Lions receiver Leo Blackburn. Blackburn has earned a scholarship to play football at nearby Georgia Institute of Technology next year.Before playing on Saturday afternoons, however, he wants to end his high school career with the guys he grew up with on Friday nights.“This football program is like a family,” he said. “It’s more than just football.”Millions of high school students play football across the country. Each state has its own set of guidelines when it comes to playing and practicing during this pandemic.Blackburn’s mother is a nurse fighting COVID-19 on the frontlines. So, he knows all about coronavirus concerns while watching from sidelines.“She has to take risks and then come home to her family just to make money,” he said. “Just wear your mask so we can put our helmets on.”That decision isn’t up to staff or students. At anytime, any state could call an audible and decide to keep fans out of the stands or even end the season.“We just hoping we have a season, period,” Blackburn said. “We really don’t care about fans, we’re just trying to bring this state championship home.”While playing in an empty stadium doesn’t bother Blackburn, a canceled season could cost communities something much more than just a game.“Without football in the South,” May said. “I think we would be in a world of hurt.” 2180

It's not very often that Michael Phelps gets knocked off the record board. But a 10-year-old swimming phenom with a superhero name has done just that.His name is Clark Kent Apuada. And of course, they call him "Superman."Over the weekend, Clark, who swims for the Monterey County Aquatic Team, competed at the Far West International Championship in California, where he won the 100-meter butterfly in 1:09:38.That's more than a second better than the 100-meter butterfly record that Phelps set at the championship in 1995.It had gone unbroken, while Phelps went on to win 28 Olympic medals. 598