She spoke at rallies. With other members of the advocacy organization Compassion & Choices, she visited legislators’ offices. In 2024, as the state Assembly was debating the aid in dying bill, she helped unfurl a banner in the chamber gallery that read, “Stop the Suffering.”

Her activism was becoming difficult. Netherland, who is 59 and works for a nonprofit, was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2019. “I did a full year of aggressive treatment,” she said. “Chemotherapy. A mastectomy. Radiation treatment every weekday for five weeks. Six months of two oral medications.”

She recovered and felt well until the cancer returned a few years later. Although metastatic breast cancer is incurable, drugs are keeping her disease at bay for now. Netherland feels fortunate but also fatigued, and she contends with brain fog, gastrointestinal symptoms, and joint pain.

“My energy is really limited,” she said.

As she emailed and called legislators, Netherland feared she might die before the aid in dying bill — first introduced in New York in 2016 — could become law.

‘A Breakthrough Moment’

On June 9, 2025, after the Assembly approved the bill, Netherland was in the state Senate chamber, watching the aye votes mount, and seeing it pass.  an amended version in February; it is scheduled to take effect Aug. 5.

A similar law is  in September in Illinois, which would become the (plus the District of Columbia) where medical aid in dying is legal.

“A breakthrough moment,” said Kevin Díaz, president of Compassion & Choices, which has spearheaded the long campaign for such laws. After almost 30 years — Oregon’s law, the first in the country, was enacted in 1997 — the addition of two populous states means that almost a third of Americans will live in one where medical aid in dying is legally available. “It shows that there’s broad support for this model,” Díaz said.

Polls consistently back that claim. A  last spring found that almost two-thirds of respondents didn’t consider the practice “morally wrong,” either because they thought it was acceptable or not a moral issue. Support crossed many political and religious lines: A narrow majority of Republicans and 76% of Democrats both found “physician-assisted death” (also sometimes called “physician-assisted suicide”) permissible; so did most Catholics, Jews, and nonevangelical white Protestants.

In New York,  that 54% of respondents supported aid in dying, including majorities of men and women, of all age groups, and of city, suburban, and upstate residents. A plurality of Latinos supported it; Black respondents narrowly opposed it.

Passing these laws has grown somewhat easier, said Thaddeus Pope, a bioethicist and professor at Mitchell Hamline School of Law in St. Paul, Minnesota, who tracks such policies. “You can say, ‘We have 10 years in California, 18 years in Washington, and 29 years in Oregon, and nothing bad has happened.’ It becomes more accepted.”

‘You Need A, B, and C’

Yet legalizing medical aid in dying, or MAID, has been and remains a long, contentious process. Catholic leadership and many disability organizations staunchly oppose it. (Pope Leo XIV personally  not to sign the bill.)

The American Medical Association says that “physician-assisted suicide is fundamentally incompatible with the physician’s role as healer” and poses “serious societal risks,” although a number of state medical organizations have opted to remain neutral or, as in New York, to .

The Patients’ Rights Action Fund, through a sister organization, has lawsuits pending or on appeal in California, Delaware, and Colorado, arguing that aid in dying laws discriminate against people with disabilities by steering them toward physician-assisted suicide instead of treatment.

“This is a litigation strategy we’ve developed to ultimately get to the Supreme Court,” said Matt Vallière, the group’s executive director, who declined to say whether it would sue to block the Illinois and New York laws.

Even when aid in dying laws succeed, using them can prove challenging. In every state (except Montana, where it became legal through a court decision, so there is no statute governing eligibility), aid in dying is available only to people with incurable illnesses who are expected to die within six months.

It typically involves oral and written requests to two doctors, with mandated waiting periods between requests. Patients must have the mental capacity to make the decision, which disqualifies those with dementia, and they must ingest the medication without assistance. (An amendment Hochul insisted on adds a psychologist or psychiatrist to the process.)

All but two states require patients to be residents. Oregon and Vermont scrapped their residency requirements  brought by Compassion & Choices. ( a .)

Moreover, any doctor, hospital, or healthcare system can legally decline to provide aid in dying, and religiously affiliated institutions often opt out. Those that participate can add their own requirements.

“The state can say ‘You need A, B, and C,’ and Columbia-Presbyterian can say, ‘We also want D, E, and F,’” said Pope, the Minnesota bioethicist.

Hotly Debated, Seldom Used

Perhaps these restrictions, or a lack of public awareness, help explain why, despite the headlines and fervent debates, the number of people who actually use the law is tiny in every state — usually 1% or fewer of the deaths recorded annually. The support for giving patients this kind of autonomy at the end of life remains widespread, but the desire to personally exercise it apparently is not.

Still, after studies showed that many patients seeking MAID were dying , the trend has been to loosen restrictions. California cut its 15-day waiting period to 48 hours; New Mexico allows physician assistants and advanced-practice nurses to write prescriptions along with doctors.

“Most states have now amended their laws two or three times,” Pope said. “We have liberalized.” Telehealth can also facilitate access to participating doctors.

Compassion & Choices is planning legal challenges to end residency requirements in additional states, Díaz said. It is also considering how to “make inroads in jurisdictions with a much different cultural and political environment,” he added, mentioning Florida and other Southern states.

Medical aid in dying represents a shift in power, Díaz said. “The person who has to bear the burden of the suffering should have the ability to decide when it’s enough,” he added.

Anne Gurnett Bander, 72, a retired research scientist in Carmel, New York, cared for her husband for four years as ALS — the relentlessly disabling neurological disorder also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease — rendered him bedridden and dependent on feeding and breathing tubes. “By the time he died, the only thing he could do was nod his head,” she recalled.

So being diagnosed with ALS herself last year was “my worst possible nightmare,” Gurnett Bander said. She was planning to fly to Switzerland, where the nonprofit organization Dignitas provides medical aid in dying, when she learned about the New York bill and began speaking publicly in support of it, her voice faltering as her illness advanced.

Gurnett Bander and Netherland say they’re not certain they’ll use lethal drugs to end their lives as their symptoms intensify. Not infrequently, patients complete the necessary steps, secure the prescribed medication, decide they don’t need it after all, and die of their diseases. But both women insist that the choice should be theirs.

“It can offer so much peace of mind,” Netherland said. “I thought, ‘People should have this option.’ Now, they will.”

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with .

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Jill Woodrow reached a tipping point as a caregiver when her mom began struggling to communicate information about her latest doctor appointments.

Woodrow’s mother, a uterine cancer survivor, was seeing specialists to get to the bottom of several new, concerning symptoms. “When she would try to tell us about what happened or what the conversation was, she couldn’t remember,” Woodrow said.

So Woodrow, a school therapist, started taking her mom to medical appointments. Woodrow was able to ask doctors questions and explain their answers. But it was difficult to juggle her mom’s medical care while working, raising three daughters, and coordinating with her husband’s work schedule.

“I was having to leave work early, take sick time, personal time,” she said. “All of a sudden, my best friend said to me, ‘Jill, have you ever thought about taking FMLA?’ And honestly, I never did.”

FMLA refers to leave protected by the , a federal law that guarantees employees up to 12 weeks of unpaid leave per year for their own serious health condition or to care for a parent, spouse, or child with a serious medical condition.

During eight weeks away from work, Woodrow helped with her mom’s medical care, cooked meals, and helped with housework. Her mom was later diagnosed with breast cancer and died in 2023.

“Taking FMLA really helped me focus on my family and my mom, and it was honestly the best thing that I could have ever done,” she said. “I have no regrets.”

But navigating the intricacies — logistical and emotional — of this federal policy can be challenging. Here’s what to know.

1. Read the fine print.

When FMLA was passed in 1993, it was groundbreaking, said Jocelyn Frye, president of the National Partnership for Women & Families. Before then, there were no federal protections for employees who needed to take time off for medical reasons.

Roughly 60% of workers in the U.S. , according to the Department of Labor. To be eligible, people must have worked for a company with 50 or more employees for at least a year. Within that time, employees must have worked at least 1,250 hours, which translates to working full-time for about seven months.

Keep in mind, FMLA applies only to caregiving if your child, spouse, or parent is facing a “serious medical condition,” like inpatient care or continuing treatment. If you need to take time from work to care for someone with a short-term illness or routine medical care, you will likely need to use sick leave or some other kind of paid time off. And FMLA generally does not apply to caring for in-laws, siblings, or close friends.

2. Getting paid on FMLA is possible — but far from guaranteed.

The federal law requires employers only to provide unpaid leave, which limits how many people consider FMLA. According to the Department of Labor, two-thirds of eligible employees said they wouldn’t take FMLA because they to go without pay.

However, some people can still get a paycheck while taking FMLA. now require employers to provide paid family leave programs. Alternatively, you can apply another form of paid time off, like paid vacation or sick leave, to the time you take away from work. This is called concurrent leave. Some employers require employees to apply any available leave they have during the time they’re taking FMLA, which in practice ensures that employees do not take more than the protected 12 weeks of leave within a year.

So why use FMLA instead of just taking PTO or stringing together sick days? Under the federal requirements, FMLA protects an employee’s job and healthcare, which is not the case for other kinds of leave.

3. Communicating clearly about leave with your employer is key.

In a 2018 survey conducted by the Department of Labor, one-third of FMLA-eligible employees shared that they avoided taking leave because they feared losing their job or being treated differently at work, or because they considered their work too important.

Woodrow had to navigate her own hesitation. “I have a lot of students on my caseload, and I felt so guilty about leaving them,” she said.

But FMLA advocate Frye said employees should remember that FMLA exists to help them “take the time that they need to support their families — and not feel like they have to pretend like that’s not a natural part of life. Because it is.”

Frye suggests employees be proactive when approaching their manager about planning a leave. “I’d say, ‘I want to work with you to make this work for everybody,’” she said. In that conversation, employees could also offer to support their manager or other co-workers when those colleagues face a caregiving need in the future. Doing so could help shift a workplace culture to be more accepting of caregiving realities and FMLA leave over time, Frye added.

People and Policy

The has had no major updates since it was passed in 1993, although there have been modifications to the leave options available to military service members and their families. A from the Pew Research Center found that 69% of Americans support the federal government requiring employers to provide paid family leave for caregiving for an aging family member.

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On the Road To Find Out

Your article “Efforts To Understand the Nation’s Drugged Driving Problem Stall Under Trump” (May 19) missed the mark.

There is a real lack of data on drug-impaired driving across the country, but it’s not due to federal policy. The fact is, science has not yet found a simple, accurate way to measure if someone is too high to drive. And many local police departments just lack the resources to test drivers for drugs.

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration under the Trump administration has prioritized countering drug-impaired driving. The agency continues to be a leading funder of drug-impairment research. To address state and local enforcement shortfalls, NHTSA provides ongoing funding, training, and resources. Unlike the previous administration, we’ve vigorously engaged with law enforcement to encourage road stops to combat drug-impaired driving. And, while some employees voluntarily left the agency last year, NHTSA has ensured that staff resources remain focused on this priority.

— Jonathan Morrison, administrator of the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration; Washington, D.C.

Shining Light on Suicide Rates and Poverty

I am a professor of risk and policy analysis at Indiana University who recently read Aneri Pattani’s piece entitled “Low Wages, Empty Plates, Heavy Toll: Rethinking Suicide Prevention” (May 12). I found it gracefully written and emotionally moving in its use of real-world stories. But I think the scientific foundations of your piece are, at best, murky. Please let me explain why.

There is no question that when we compare households of different income levels, the suicide rate is much higher in low-income households than in higher-income households. It is tempting to conclude that people living in a low-income household may be inclined to die by suicide because they lack sufficient resources to access life’s necessities. This is what I take to be the premise of your piece, linking suicide prevention to the minimum wage law and policy around the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.

Scientifically, the cross-sectional household comparison does not establish a causal relationship between poverty and risk of suicide. The obvious reason is that there are many other possible explanations for the association: higher rates of mental illness in low-income households, higher rates of substance misuse in low-income households, lower levels of educational attainment in low-income households, and so forth. Poverty itself may be a causal factor, but these other variables matter and may be much more important than poverty per se.

If poverty is a powerful cause of suicide, we should be able to discern changes in the rate of suicide during periods when the rate of poverty changes substantially. Take the period 2010 to 2019, when the U.S. poverty rate declined steadily and substantially (the period of recovery from the financial crisis and the Great Recession of 2007-09). In 2019 (the last year before the covid-19 pandemic), the overall poverty rate, 10.5% — and the elevated rates among Blacks and Hispanics — were the lowest recorded since federal poverty statistics began in 1960 (when it was about 22%). Yet the decade from 2010 to 2019 saw a surge in the nation’s suicide rate. In fact, if you take the longer period of 2000 to 2022, you find steadily rising rates of suicide in the United States, yet virtually no change in overall poverty rates.

Such temporal comparisons do not prove that poverty does not cause suicide. What they show is that poverty is not a highly potent cause of suicide. My guess is that poverty per se is a relatively minor cause of suicide, but even a minor causal role does not suggest that an increase in SNAP or Temporary Assistance for Needy Families benefits would reduce suicide.

One final point is about the large means-tested safety net in the United States. You are on firm ground in raising questions about what the Trump administration is doing to the safety net. But your readers need to appreciate that U.S. taxpayers are supporting a $1 trillion-a-year suite of anti-poverty programs, excluding Social Security and Medicare. The largest of those programs are Medicaid, coupled with the Children’s Health Insurance Program, and SNAP. But there are also the Affordable Care Act premium subsidies, the state block grants for TANF, childcare, job training, the Department of Housing and Urban Development’s rental vouchers, Pell Grants, federal student loans, and more. The means-tested safety net is much larger than the defense spending and growing rapidly as a share of the federal budget.

My view is that these programs are largely worthwhile, but not because they have played a powerful role in preventing suicide. A few budget numbers on the size of the safety net would have strengthened your piece and signaled to readers that you appreciate our country’s major investment in safety net programs.

Obviously, your piece stimulated me, which is a good thing.

— John D. Graham; Bloomington, Indiana

Single-Payer vs. All-Payer

I’m curious why Xavier Becerra — or any of the other California gubernatorial candidates, for that matter — aren’t talking about an “all-payer” model, similar to what was in place in Maryland (“In California Governor Race, Single-Payer Is a Litmus Test. There’s Still No Way To Pay for It,” May 8). There are many reasons a single-payer model wouldn’t work in one state, only one of which is the difficulties in figuring out reimbursement for people who travel out of state and receive healthcare while traveling. The all-payer model, which is being replaced by the AHEAD (Achieving Healthcare Efficiency through Accountable Design) model from the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services, is something worth considering in California. With the sheer size of the population, having unified billing, coding, and metrics across all payers could save millions in administrative costs.

We need to start with ideas that are feasible and then work our way toward something bigger. Let’s at least have a conversation about something that is possible to do.

— Kathryn Peisert; San Rafael, California

Bolstering the Home Care Workforce

This is another instance of money not being used wisely. In the article “Kids Keep Getting Stuck in Hospitals, Even After Being Cleared for Discharge” (May 18), pediatrician Elaine Lin noted a shortage of home care aides. In some states, private businesses provide home care services. Due to a profit incentive, these businesses often pay home care aides low wages.

This is one of the factors driving worker shortages. Why not try transferring a portion of the money now spent on high-cost hospital stays to better-trained and better-paid home care aides? Of course, each state has its own laws, regulations, and funding sources to navigate. However, it seems the willpower to collaborate is a necessary piece to solve this problem.

Some children could benefit from receiving care in a group home setting or at home with family members. If money can be better spent, let’s start with creating a system to increase the pay of better-trained and better-paid home care aides — a system that should increase the quality of services at reduced costs.

— Russell Anthony; Nashville, Tennessee

Essential Help While We Age

Your recent article “The Help That Many Older Americans Need Most” (April 27) captures something the healthcare system has been slow to accept: What happens to older Americans’ health is determined less by what happens in the clinic than by what happens at home, in the neighborhood, and at the kitchen table.

The evidence is stark. Nearly older adults live in poverty, and persistent food insecurity. These challenges reinforce one another in a devastating cycle: Loneliness worsens food insecurity, food insecurity accelerates functional decline, and functional decline deepens isolation.

Community health workers are doing essential work to interrupt these cycles. But too much of that work remains invisible. Providers refer patients to community resources with no way of knowing whether anyone followed up. Community organizations serve people without a consistent way to report back. The result is a system that means well but cannot learn from itself, and older adults, especially those in rural areas, are left to navigate the challenges alone.

Technology can change that. Leaders nationwide are turning to closed-loop referral networks that enable community health workers and clinical providers to connect individuals with food assistance, transportation, housing support, behavioral health services, and other essential resources. Importantly, technology helps them track whether those services are actually received.

Beyond the initial referral, these networks monitor improvements in specific health metrics, like A1c levels and hospital readmissions. By identifying unmet needs early and coordinating timely support, they help prevent health crises and alleviate

Both Oregon and Missouri offer strong examples of what this looks like at scale. In Oregon, statewide closed-loop referral technology, available across all 36 counties, served . It also delivered $29 million in health-related social needs (HRSN) benefits to 15,000 Medicaid clients under Medicaid’s 1115 waiver last year alone.

In Missouri, the has seen its participating hospitals and clinics achieve a 19.6% increase in individuals with controlled blood pressure and an 18% increase in behavioral health follow-up after visits to the emergency department.

The Rural Health Transformation Program offers a concrete opportunity to build on this model. Policymakers should seize the opportunity to invest in infrastructure that makes social care coordination real: not just referrals sent, but services confirmed, outcomes tracked, and communities strengthened.

For an older adult in rural America, the difference between knowing where to turn and not knowing can be the difference between staying home and ending up in the emergency room. That’s the gap these systems can close.

— Halima Ahmadi-Montecalvo, vice president of research and evaluation for Unite Us; Washington, D.C.

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She was in “reasonably good health,” and the risks of the procedure — bleeding, reaction to anesthesia, perforation of her colon — were fairly low. But she was 85. And she would need to briefly discontinue the blood thinners she took because of the cardiac stents keeping her arteries open; doing so could increase the risks.

Had Itzkowitz and his patient faced this decision five years ago, he might have scheduled the screening “without even thinking about it,” he said. But recent research has shown again that the benefits of a repeat colonoscopy .

Now, he said, “I’m saying to myself, ‘What are we accomplishing here?’”

He’s not the only doctor — or patient — having second thoughts. The risks and benefits of common screenings, procedures, and drugs add up differently at advanced ages, and research continues to point out fresh examples of some that may become unnecessary.

Recently, investigators have taken on questions about common skin lesions that probably don’t need to be removed, a widely used thyroid medication that many older patients can safely discontinue, and colonoscopies that reduce colon cancer mortality so slightly that the risks may outweigh the benefits.

Ugly but Probably Harmless

The reddened or rough patches on the skin are called, in doctor-speak, actinic keratoses. Because they result from long-term sun exposure, they usually appear on faces, scalps, forearms, and the backs of hands.

Such lesions appear most commonly on older patients. One large study of traditional Medicare beneficiaries found that over a five-year period, with an actinic keratosis. Then what?

“The vast majority of the time, they’re removed,” said Allison Billi, a dermatologist at the University of Michigan and an author of on the topic in JAMA Internal Medicine. That typically involves cryosurgery (freezing with liquid nitrogen), topical creams, or laser therapy.

The rationale: The patches could become cancerous. But “for the average patient with no history of skin cancer, there is less than a 1-in-1,000 chance of it progressing to skin cancer,” Billi said, citing . The lesions are far more likely to disappear on their own.

“The treatment may be more burdensome than the condition itself,” she added. Removal “is actually extremely painful, both during and after.” It can cause swelling, irritation, and lasting discoloration.

Besides, an actinic keratosis , or new ones will emerge. “This is a chronic condition,” Billi said.

She has proposed active surveillance, instead: Primary care doctors could observe the lesions annually for warning signs like bleeding, pain, or rapid growth, which might warrant removal. But “in many cases, it’s not necessary,” she said. “We don’t always need to do everything we can do.”

She does recommend using sunscreen, however.

Questionable Treatment

Patients take levothyroxine, one of the world’s most frequently prescribed drugs, when their thyroid glands can’t produce sufficient thyroid hormone.

With this condition, called hypothyroidism, “people gain weight. They have less energy. Their hair and skin are dry,” explained Jacobijn Gussekloo, a primary care doctor and researcher at Leiden University Medical Center in the Netherlands. “Everything slows down.”

Doctors also increasingly prescribe it for a borderline condition called subclinical hypothyroidism, which usually causes no symptoms but can progress to hypothyroidism.

Most patients take the drug for life — but do they have to? Gussekloo’s team has found that in many older adults with subclinical hypothyroidism, on their own.

The researchers have also reported that among older people with the condition, and “no apparent benefit.”

Like any drug, it can also cause harm. It may interact with other medications that older patients typically take. Moreover, “it requires frequent lab tests and follow-ups, more visits and expense,” said Maria Papaleontiou, an endocrinologist at the University of Michigan and an author of in JAMA accompanying the latest Dutch study.

“In high doses, it can cause hyperthyroidism, which can lead to cardiac arrhythmias and bone loss,” she added. Patients taking it also have to adjust their diets and meal schedules.

To determine whether some patients could stop taking levothyroxine, the Dutch researchers devised a protocol that gradually reduced doses over 30 weeks, with ongoing lab testing and consultations with doctors.

After a year, a quarter of the 370 participants, all over 60, while maintaining healthy thyroid function. Most had been on lower doses to begin with.

Patients shouldn’t stop levothyroxine on their own, Papaleontiou cautioned. Discontinuation requires tapering off gradually, with testing and monitoring. Some patients will always need the drug.

But it appears that “a select group of adults over 60 may not require this treatment lifelong,” Papaleontiou said.

A Screening With Risks

The question of when older patients can safely stop screening for colon cancer has prompted years of debate. The influential U.S. Preventive Services Task Force gives the screening a lukewarm , calling the benefit “small.”

Yet almost 60% of older patients who have had previous colonoscopies and face limited life expectancies (less than five years) are advised to undergo another screening, found.

As a gastroenterologist at the University of California-San Diego, Samir Gupta regularly encounters this issue with older patients. “I know they really have a low risk of colon cancer, and I’m putting them through more risk,” he said.

The risk of complications following a colonoscopy rise with age. One study found that nearly 7% of patients over 75 had within a month of the procedure.

Is it worth it? Gupta is the lead author of of almost 92,000 Veterans Affairs patients over 75 who had previous colonoscopies. In about 28%, the procedure had found an adenoma, a type of polyp that can become cancerous. Though only a small fraction do, gastroenterologists generally remove them.

The researchers found that after 10 years, veterans with a previous adenoma were more likely to develop colon cancer than those without one, though the rate was extremely low in both groups.

But just 0.5% — yes, one-half of 1% — of those with a previous adenoma died of colon cancer, compared with 0.4% of those without one. “A tiny difference,” Gupta said.

Both groups were dwarfed by the number of veterans — almost half — who died within the decade of other causes.

“Even if the procedure goes well, you’ll either find nothing or you’ll find something that’s not going to have real impact on your longevity,” said Itzkowitz, an author of published alongside the study.

Yet he has found that many patients who have had polyps removed want to continue colonoscopies.

It is hard to shift established medical norms. can meet with opposition from both patients and health care professionals.

Many older women past the point of documented benefit, and older men often beyond the recommended age.

Colonoscopies are less pleasant, so perhaps older patients will be glad to forgo them. “Even with polyps, the chance of dying from colon cancer is so low compared to everything else that can get you,” Itzkowitz said.

So he told his 85-year-old patient that she could skip another colonoscopy. She seemed pleased.

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with .

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The drugs, such as Wegovy and Zepbound, are effective but can be expensive without insurance coverage. They’re available in injection or pill form. Even with discounts, current cash prices typically range from $149 to $699 per month.

About half of GLP-1 users say these drugs were difficult for them to afford, according to . A quarter said they were “very difficult” to afford.

But the new Medicare benefit comes with caveats, particularly around clinical guidelines and what happens when the short-term program ends.

What Is This Program?

The initiative, announced by the , is a short-term pilot program known as the Medicare GLP-1 Bridge. It will run from July 1, 2026, through Dec. 31, 2027. It’s meant to “bridge” the gap before a longer-term program that might — or might not — begin in 2028.

The pilot program will offer coverage for the following GLP-1 medications approved for weight loss: the pill and injectable formulations of Wegovy, the KwikPen formulation of Zepbound, and the Foundayo pill.

Who Can Participate?

To get access to these weight loss medications, you must be enrolled in a Medicare Part D plan, which covers prescription drugs. After that, eligibility is based mainly on body weight and health status. People will qualify if they have a of 27 or higher and have a condition such as heart disease or prediabetes, among others. People with BMIs of 35 or higher automatically qualify. About are clinically obese, with a BMI of 30 or higher, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

How the Program Works (It’s a Bit Unusual)

This is not your typical Medicare benefit. Even though Part D enrollment is required, the Bridge program itself works differently.

Instead of going through your regular Part D plan, you will need prior authorization. Your doctor will send the prescription to a central system run by CMS contractor Humana, using a system already in place for another Medicare drug program. Doctors don’t need to be enrolled as Medicare providers to write a prescription or submit a prior authorization request under this program. Once they get approval, patients will pay the flat $50 copayment at the pharmacy when they pick up the prescription.

What Are the Benefits?

The cost savings could make these drugs accessible to patients who simply couldn’t afford them before. Even with discounts, the prices can be daunting without insurance coverage. TrumpRx, a new government website, provides links to direct-to-consumer prescription drug discounts for patients not using their health insurance. On that site, Wegovy injectables range in price from $199 for a lower dosage for the first two months to $399 for a higher dosage. The KwikPen formulation of Zepbound costs up to $699 per month. At the highest dosages, the daily Wegovy pill costs up to $299 while Foundayo tops out at $349.

Most people who use these drugs will need a higher dose to maintain weight loss. The Bridge program is unique in that it offers a predictable $50 copayment that does not go up as dosages increase.

What Are the Downsides?

Like many pilot programs, there are trade-offs. The $50 copay will not count toward the Part D deductible, nor does it count toward the $2,100 annual out-of-pocket cap on prescription drug costs. The pilot program will also end in December 2027. Most that many people who stop using the GLP-1 drugs regain weight they lost while taking them.

Still Obstacles for Those With Low Incomes

If you receive the low-income subsidy, also known as the Medicare program, you cannot use that assistance for the drugs covered by the GLP-1 Bridge program. For beneficiaries accustomed to paying a $5 or $10 copay for their pharmaceuticals, a $50 copay could still be a big financial barrier.

“Fifty dollars a month sounds like a great deal compared to paying the discounted prices through TrumpRx and these other direct-to-consumer options, but it’s a lot of money for somebody who’s living on a $750-a-month Social Security check,” said Juliette Cubanski, deputy director of the Program on Medicare Policy at Â鶹ŮÓÅ, a health information nonprofit that includes Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News.

The $50 Copay Is Only for Weight Loss

If you’re already taking one of these medications for a qualifying condition such as Type 2 diabetes, cardiovascular disease risk reduction, or sleep apnea, you’ll continue to get it through your regular Part D plan. That means you’ll pay your plan’s price, which may be higher than the $50 Bridge copay, meaning the same drug could cost different amounts depending on the reason it is prescribed.

If you’re already on a GLP-1 for weight loss, you may qualify for the Bridge program. Your prescriber will need to attest that you met the clinical criteria when you first started the medication. For example, if you started a GLP-1 in September 2024 with a BMI of 37 but in July 2026 you’ve lost weight and now have a BMI of 34, the prescriber should attest in the prior authorization request that you met the BMI criteria of 35 or over when the GLP-1 therapy started.

What Happens After 2027?

The Trump administration had proposed a two-step approach to expand coverage of GLP-1s for obesity in Medicare. The Bridge program was initially planned to last six months — after that, the idea was to launch a longer-term program that would shift the cost of the drugs from the government to insurers. A found the long-term program would have cost insurance companies billions of dollars in the first year. Not enough insurers signed on for the voluntary plan by the April deadline, so CMS instead announced it would extend the Bridge program to 18 months, with a new end date of December 2027.

The move will give insurance companies more data on how many people with Medicare get GLP-1 drugs during the Bridge program and more time to negotiate with the Trump administration.

But extending the Bridge program will be “really expensive” for Medicare, Cubanski said, because the program heavily subsidizes the cost of the drugs.

“There’s no sense right now of the cost of the Bridge model, but it is likely to be billions of dollars a year in additional spending for Medicare,” Cubanski said.

The cost to Medicare will depend largely on how many people use the Bridge program. CMS has not provided any projections publicly, but a estimated that in 2020 close to 14 million Medicare beneficiaries were overweight or obese.

“This will just cost additional money, and we don’t know how much, because they haven’t disclosed it,” Cubanski said.

Are you on Medicare and interested in getting a GLP-1 for weight loss? Is a $50 copay manageable? Click here to contact Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News’ reporting team.

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The patient lived alone, and “really struggles with social isolation,” Guzman said. After a serious fall and subsequent surgery, the woman was using a wheelchair. She confided that she would like to attend services at a church down the road but had no way to get there and did not want to seem “a bother.”

“We called the pastor to see if there was someone who could pick her up” on Sundays, Guzman said. And there was.

The next day, Guzman visited a woman with heart failure who required constant oxygen. She lives in “less than ideal housing,” with no kitchen and only a plug-in heater for warmth.

“We were trying to figure out if she qualifies for HUD housing or assisted living,” Guzman said, referring to the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. “We spent a lot of time talking about the options and came up with a game plan.”

Wednesday’s schedule included a 20-mile drive to Hood River to see an 81-year-old woman whose partner of nearly 40 years was contending with a serious cancer. Guzman, who speaks to her in Spanish, found her distraught at the possibility of losing him.

Guzman had arranged for the woman to begin seeing a therapist to help her through the crisis — no minor achievement. But on this visit, “I just handed her tissues and tried to give words of comfort,” she said. “Honestly, sometimes just sitting and listening” is the best response.

A community healthcare worker, the , is a “trusted member” of a local community or someone who has “an unusually close understanding” of it, enabling the worker to serve as intermediary between patients and the healthcare system.

These workers have been on the job since the 1960s, particularly in rural and low-income areas. Today, their numbers are growing. The Bureau of Labor Statistics , which the National Association of Community Health Workers says is probably an underestimate.

That partly reflects the difficulty of counting workers who go by a variety of names — community health educators, outreach specialists, promotores de salud — and operate under different state regulations, sometimes with no licensure or certification required.

What they have in common is that “they talk like the people they work with,” said Sam Cotton, who directs the curriculum for several such programs at the University of Louisville in Kentucky.

With shortages of healthcare professionals and an aging population, “there’s a lot of momentum for this,” she said.

In Oregon, for example, five rural clinics employ community health workers, who become state-certified after completing 90 hours of online training, through a program called Connected Care for Older Adults. A sixth clinic employing a community health worker operates in neighboring Washington.

Their frail patients are struggling. “They can’t drive, so they can’t get to a grocery store and shop,” said Elizabeth Eckstrom, chief of geriatrics at Oregon Health & Science University, who helped oversee the program’s start in 2022. “They’re not taking their medications, either for cognitive reasons or because they can’t get to a pharmacy.”

Few have completed an advance directive, specifying the care they want — or don’t want — if they suffer a health crisis.

Connected Care’s community health workers tackle many of those not-exactly-medical problems — from installing wheelchair ramps to helping patients apply for food and housing benefits. They are allotted 90 days to work with each patient, usually during home visits.

They help coordinate follow-up appointments. They administer cognitive and mental health screenings and watch for the use of too many medications, entering their observations into the patients’ electronic health records.

“It’s like being the eyes and ears for the doctors, to see what’s happening outside the 20 minutes they get to spend with patients,” said Guzman, whose work has ranged from ordering a bath mat to reporting suspected financial abuse.

In a  (average age: 77), a subsample found substantial decreases in emergency department visits and hospitalizations among those served by community health workers.

More extensive research, not yet published, supports that finding, Eckstrom said.

“ED visits cost thousands, and hospitalizations are tens of thousands,” she pointed out. The cost per patient for the 90-day program is $1,500. Its workers earn $25 an hour, a fairly typical wage, and receive full employee benefits.

Manali Patel, an oncologist at Stanford University, found for older patients with advanced cancer in a clinical trial at the Department of Veterans Affairs’ Palo Alto Health Care System.

“Lots of people were passing away” in the intensive care unit, she recalled. “If we’d asked, they probably would have wanted to be at home.” Oncologists, she added, are “notoriously bad at engaging in and documenting those conversations.”

But when a lay health worker made regular phone calls to help patients understand their options, discuss their preferences with their care team, and file advance directives, the results — published in JAMA Oncology in 2018 — were “very dramatic,” Patel said.

More than 90% of the participating veterans had their goals documented in their records compared with fewer than 20% of the control group. The lay worker’s patients had significantly fewer emergency room visits and hospitalizations and were more likely to enroll in hospice care.

Patel and her co-authors have gone on to document the benefits of lay health workers, the term they used, in undertaking other tasks in other settings.

In oncology clinics in Arizona and California, for instance, two bilingual lay health workers to cancer patients over age 75 to assess symptoms like pain, nausea, breathlessness, and depression.

Alerting healthcare teams to these patients’ problems substantially reduced their emergency department use and hospitalizations, and the cost savings averaged $12,000 a patient.

“This low-tech, human-administered intervention reaped huge dividends,” said an  in JAMA.

“Community health workers should be part of every healthcare team,” Eckstrom said. “They support the patient in ways the medical system just can’t, no matter how hard we try.”

One obstacle to expanding their use, however, is unstable funding.

In 2024, Medicare began covering some community health worker services, but not all. (The costs of driving 30 miles to remote homes, for example, are not reimbursed.) Medicaid coverage is piecemeal, reimbursing for some services in some states and not others.

“A lot of community health worker roles rely on short-term grants,” said Neena Schultz, a director of the National Association of Community Health Workers. “Sustainability is something we talk about every day.”

The organization and other supporters are pressing for more state and federal funding. The new federal , which is distributing $10 billion a year, will include funding for community health worker programs, but cuts to state Medicaid budgets could more than offset those gains.

The grants funding Connected Care for Older Adults continue, though. Guzman, employed by the nonprofit clinic One Community Health, keeps making her rounds.

One recent victory: A newly widowed patient in his 60s, struggling financially without his wife’s income, lost his housing and was sleeping in his truck. Through another patient, Guzman learned of an unused recreational vehicle whose owner was willing to donate it.

The widower now lives comfortably in a mobile home park.

When you’re in a patient’s home, “there’s a sense of ease,” Guzman said. “They feel safer talking about things. They don’t feel rushed. You develop a relationship, and they feel they have someone to advocate for them.”

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with .

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More than 80 of his customers who were enrolled in the same Medicare supplemental plan from the insurer Chubb got hit last August with a 45% increase.

“In my 49 years of doing biz as a broker, I’ve never seen a premium increase be effective immediately on everyone, instead of on their policy anniversary,” said Jaggi, whose brokerage scrambled to find more affordable options for clients. The policies pick up deductibles and other costs not covered in traditional Medicare, and without one there is no upper limit on how much a consumer might owe each year.

While 45% was an unusually big jump, Jaggi and other brokers say double-digit premium increases for Medicare supplemental, or Medigap, policies are becoming the norm.

A Chubb spokesperson did not respond to requests for comment on the increase.

More than 12 million people — of those in traditional Medicare — buy a Medigap policy. Others rely on some sort of retiree employer coverage or a different backup. About 13% of people in traditional Medicare don’t have supplemental coverage, according to Â鶹ŮÓÅ, meaning they could be vulnerable to large costs if they have a serious illness.

In the supplemental market, following big increases last year, rates appear to be rising again. In early 2026 filings with state insurance commissioners from Aetna, Blue Cross Blue Shield, Cigna, Humana, Mutual of Omaha, and UnitedHealthcare, rate increases for Plan G policies — the most commonly purchased supplement type — ranged from just in the first quarter, according to Nebraska-based consulting firm Telos Actuarial.

“While this is a small dataset across a select number of states, it’s an indication that carriers are looking to correct their premium rates in light of upward pressure on their claims experience,” said Brett Mushett, a consulting actuary with Telos.

Climbing Numbers

Premium rates vary based on the type of coverage chosen, where a beneficiary lives, and their age. For Plan G coverage, beneficiaries paid an in 2023, according to Â鶹ŮÓÅ. That amount has likely risen since.

“In some states, like Ohio, Medicare supplements for years would have a 3% to 5% year-over-year increase. Now it’s 10% to 15%,” said Amanda Brewton, owner of Medicare Answers Now, a marketing organization whose clients are sales agents.

In Alaska, Premera Blue Cross raised the premiums on its Plan G policies by nearly 12% for this year, according to rate sheets provided to Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News by insurance agent Patricia Mack, who said another insurer raised rates by nearly 13%.

For example, a 65-year-old woman who last year would have been charged $172 a month for a Plan G policy would now face a monthly rate of $192, said Mack, who owns Alaska Insurance Benefits in Wasilla.

Premera spokesperson Courtney Wallace said in an email that Medicare makes changes to deductible and copayment rates each year, which affects supplemental plans that cover those increasing amounts.

Wallace also noted that the insurer saw higher medical service use among its members, “which further drove claims costs and ultimately impacted premiums.”

Agents and policy experts blame a range of factors for rising premiums: an increase in the use of medical services by beneficiaries; the aging of the population; increases in labor and medical costs; rules in some states governing Medigap plans; and people’s enrolling in — or getting out of — private Medicare Advantage plans.

“Five years ago, it was exceedingly uncommon to have a carrier with a rate increase of more than 10%. Now it’s very uncommon to see a rate increase below 10%, and it’s not uncommon to see it over 20%,” said Chalen Jackson, vice president for government affairs at Integrity, a Dallas-based company that sells life and health insurance.

Jaggi, who co-owns Jaggi Petry Insurance & Investments in Forsyth, Illinois, along with his daughter, said he eventually found other options for many of those 80-plus clients with the large increase, which came from an insurer that had previously been the lowest-cost option. But it wasn’t easy — and continuing increases are expected.

“These are unbelievable increases,” said Jaggi, who said he is seeing premium hikes exceeding 15% this year across a range of insurers.

Policy experts have outlined possible solutions, including for Congress to cap out-of-pocket costs for Medicare beneficiaries or subsidize the purchase of Medigap coverage.

“Traditional Medicare is the only federal health insurance program without an out-of-pocket cap,” Sen. Ron Wyden (D-Ore.) wrote in an email, adding that the program “needs to be updated and strengthened to protect the Medicare guarantee for American seniors.”

But making changes to Medicare that require congressional approval is unlikely in the current legislative environment, especially because adding an out-of-pocket cap would add costs to the federal budget.

How This Plays Out

People generally qualify for Medicare when they turn 65. Beneficiaries after they initially enroll in the traditional fee-for-service program to purchase a Medigap plan at standard rates without having to answer health-related questions.

Strict rules then kick in around when beneficiaries can enroll in or switch Medigap coverage and options become much more limited, with each one generally involving trade-offs or tough choices.

have what’s known as a “birthday rule,” which requires insurers once a year to allow people enrolled in a Medigap plan to change to different supplemental coverage — usually around their birthdays — without being medically underwritten. Those rules can help consumers, including those with health conditions, to switch.

An additional — Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine, and New York — require insurers to offer at least one Medigap policy to all applicants either year-round or during an annual enrollment period, depending on the state. Changes are allowed no matter the person’s health.

Another option for those facing high Medigap costs is to leave traditional Medicare and enroll in a private-sector Medicare Advantage plan, which have out-of-pocket caps. But joining one means beneficiaries must generally rely on a set of in-network doctors and hospitals. And if they change their mind and want to go back to traditional Medicare, they have only a 12-month window in which to purchase a Medigap plan without passing health questions. After that, it can be more difficult.

“A lot of people don’t know that if they are in Medicare Advantage for a year, they can get turned down by a Medigap plan or charged really high premiums because of a preexisting condition, which for many people effectively traps them in MA plans,” said , a research associate at the liberal Center for American Progress and co-author of a on the issue.

There are some exceptions. For example, if a Medicare Advantage plan withdraws from a market or leaves the Medicare program, its enrollees can qualify for a supplemental plan without being asked health questions or charged more for having preexisting conditions.

For this year alone, about 2.6 million people when their insurer pulled out of their markets, according to Â鶹ŮÓÅ, and more than a million lost coverage for 2025. Many switched to other MA plans, but “somewhere around 440,000 of those people did go to a Medicare supplement policy,” sometimes because there was no other MA plan in their area, said George Dippel, president of Deft Research, a Minneapolis-based market research organization focused on insurance for older people. Deft is part of Integrity, the Dallas company.

Some Medicare experts note that anytime insurers enroll people whose health status they can’t consider — whether because of birthday rules or because their Medicare Advantage plan left the market and thus qualified them for an exemption from medical underwriting — it potentially exposes them to more health care utilization and higher costs, making them more likely to increase premiums across the board to offset the possible financial hit.

Another option mentioned by brokers for people looking to lower their costs is to consider one of the two types of Medigap plans that come with a deductible, which is currently just under $3,000 for a year. Those plans charge far lower monthly premiums than Medigap plans that pick up a much larger portion of annual amounts people must pay toward their Medicare services.

Still, “a lot of people are not comfortable with a $3,000 deductible,” Mack said.

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The lawsuit, settled on confidential terms last year, blamed not only the managers of City Creek Post-Acute and Assisted Living but also the building’s owner, a real estate investment trust, or REIT.

In the year Darby died, City Creek paid CareTrust REIT more than $1 million in rent, while the Sacramento, California, nursing home ran a deficit, court records show.

Federal tax rules ban REITs from running health care facilities, but CareTrust was not an absentee landlord either, according to internal records filed in the case. It chose the nursing home’s management company and required through the lease that the home keep at least 80% of beds occupied. CareTrust granularly tracked how well the home kept to its financial plan, down to the money spent monthly on nurses and food, the records said. And the documents showed that the real estate company kept tabs on government safety inspection findings and Medicare quality ratings.

Both CareTrust and the nursing home operator denied liability for Darby’s death. CareTrust officials said in court papers that it is not involved in day-to-day nursing home decisions or patient care, and that it monitors facilities to ensure nothing jeopardizes rent payments. In a written statement, CareTrust Corporate Counsel Joseph Layne told Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News: “We are the property owners, not the operators.”

Landlords With Influence

Over the past decade, real estate investment trusts have bought thousands of buildings that house nursing homes, hospitals, assisted living facilities, and medical offices. A Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News examination of court filings and corporate records shows that these landlords have more influence than the health care facilities publicly acknowledge.

The documents reveal REITs often select the management who oversee the operations and leave them in place even when they are aware of threadbare staffing, floundering governance, repeated safety violations, or other problems that hamper quality of care. A California jury in March awarded $92 million in punitive damages against a former REIT over the death of a 100-year-old resident with dementia who froze to death outside her assisted living facility.

“The REITs are in charge,” said Laraclay Parker, one of the lawyers who represent Darby’s daughter.

Absence of Oversight

Despite their ubiquity, REITs remain invisible to state and federal health regulators. Hospitals and nursing homes are not required to disclose rent payments or landlord identities in the annual reports they submit to Medicare.

Under President Donald Trump, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services a Biden-era requirement that nursing homes . Catherine Howden, a CMS spokesperson, said in a statement that the agency does not regulate facilities based on their tax status or corporate form and instead focuses on the quality of the care they provide.

REITs now of the nation’s senior housing, which includes assisted living, memory care, and independent living, according to an industry analysis. REITs also hold investments in nursing homes. Publicly traded REITs that focus on health care are now worth nearly a quarter of a trillion dollars, according to Nareit, an industry association.

While one research study found REIT investments were associated with , another concluded that after being bought by REITs, nursing homes frequently with less skilled nurses and aides. A concluded that health inspection results were worse after REIT investment.

Researchers also found that investor-owned hospital chains that sold buildings to REITs were or go bankrupt, with Steward Health Care. Often, private equity investors kept the sale proceeds as profits while the hospitals were burdened with new rent costs. “There were no improvements in clinical outcomes,” said Thomas Tsai, an associate professor at the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health.

REITs are required to distribute most of their income and don’t have to pay the 21% federal corporate income tax on it. There is a catch: A REIT that “directly or indirectly operates or manages” a health care facility for five years. Typically, a REIT leases the property to another company that runs the nursing home or assisted living facility and maintains its tax break. Nareit said health care REITs distributed more than $7 billion in dividends in 2024.

Michael Stroyeck, head of health care analysis at Green Street, a real estate research company, said “there’s definitely a symbiotic relationship” between REITs and facility managers because they have the same goals. He said he has seen REITs replace operators that are having difficulties or go bankrupt.

John Kane, a senior vice president at the American Health Care Association and the National Center for Assisted Living, an industry group that represents nursing homes, said in a statement: “Given government funding often falls short, REITs have been valuable partners in helping to invest in long term care without influencing daily operations.”

Low Staffing at a Chain

Strawberry Fields REIT, which like CareTrust trades on the New York Stock Exchange, owns or controls the buildings of 131 nursing home facilities. The nursing home operations inside 66 of those facilities are owned by Moishe Gubin, Strawberry Fields’ chief executive, and Michael Blisko, one of its directors, according to Strawberry Fields’ for last year.

Gubin and Blisko also jointly own , which manages their nursing homes; Blisko is Infinity’s CEO. On average, Infinity-affiliated nursing homes provided an hour and a quarter less nursing care per resident per day than the national average of four hours, a Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News analysis of federal records found.

Infinity and several of its nursing homes have recently settled 30 death and injury lawsuits in Cook County, Illinois, totaling more than $4 million, said Margaret Battersby Black, a Chicago lawyer. A jury last year awarded $12 million in a lawsuit brought against Infinity and one of its Chicago nursing homes over the 2023 death of Shirley Adams. A retired candy factory worker, Adams died after developing infected bedsores at Lakeview Rehabilitation and Nursing Center, according to the lawsuit.

“She had wounds that no one could explain,” one of her adult children, Leslie Adams, testified at trial. Medicare its lowest quality rating, one star out of five.

Paul Connery, a lawyer for Adams’ family, said they are still trying to collect on the judgment against the nursing home and management company, which now totals $17 million with interest and attorney fees.

“If I get caught speeding and I went to court, they issue me a ticket and I’ve got a fine to pay,” Adams said in an interview. “How are they able to still continue to move on with business like nothing has happened?”

In a phone interview and an email, Gubin said Strawberry Fields, Infinity, and the nursing homes are all legally distinct and that he has not played an active role in Infinity in more than a decade. He said nursing homes get sued all the time but that the verdict against Lakeview is so large that it will force the home to declare bankruptcy or shut down.

“The whole thing is unfortunate,” Gubin said by phone. “For 15 years they were a perfectly good guardian” and “a well-run building,” he said. “You wouldn’t think it was fair to be judged on your worst day.”

Blisko and an Infinity lawyer did not respond to requests for comment.

Strawberry Fields, which owns 10 assisted living facilities and two long-term care hospitals in addition to the nursing homes, earned net income last year of from $155 million in rent, a 21% profit margin, securities filings show. Gubin said those weren’t excessive returns.

A $110 Million Verdict

Traditionally, REIT leases make the operating companies responsible for paying property taxes, insurance premiums, and maintenance costs. In 2008, Congress gave health care REITs a new option to make money: On top of collecting rents, they could set up subsidiaries and take profits directly from health care businesses. They still must have independent management overseeing care decisions. Many REITs have embraced the role even though the subsidiaries must pay corporate taxes and risk losing money if the businesses do poorly.

Colony Capital was a REIT that through layers of shell corporations owned both the building and the operation of Greenhaven Estates, a Sacramento assisted living and memory care facility. In 2018 Greenhaven paid Colony $1.4 million in rent, nearly a third of its $4.5 million in revenue that year, according to financial records filed in court.

Greenhaven also was on the verge of losing its license, according to a revocation notice filed in November 2018 by the California Department of Social Services. Greenhaven had racked up years of health violations, including from letting untrained workers administer medications, lacking enough employees to care for people with dementia, and neglecting a resident who smeared feces over his body, bed, floor, and bathroom, the notice said.

In February 2019, a few weeks after celebrating her 100th birthday, Mildred Hernandez, a resident with Alzheimer’s, wandered out of Greenhaven in the middle of the night. Her assisted living wing had no exit door alarms even though it housed several residents with dementia, court records showed. Berta Lepe, one of Greenhaven’s caregivers, found Hernandez under a bush, wearing only a shirt and underwear. The temperature was in the 30s.

“She was talking, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying,” Lepe testified at trial over a lawsuit from Hernandez’s family. Hernandez died of hypothermia a few hours later, according to her death certificate.

Frontier Management, the company that Colony had hired to manage Greenhaven, denied liability and settled the lawsuit on undisclosed terms.

Since the lawsuit, Colony has changed its name to DigitalBridge, which no longer owns Greenhaven and gave up its REIT status. At trial earlier this year, DigitalBridge said resident care was the responsibility of Frontier and that Colony “encouraged” Frontier to address problems. Richard Welch, a former Colony executive, testified that replacing management is disruptive. “I viewed it as a last resort,” he said.

In March, a jury awarded Hernandez’s family $110 million: $10 million in compensatory damages, $92 million in punitive damages against DigitalBridge, and $8 million in punitive damages against Formation Capital, an asset management company.

“REIT money is very detached from knowing about or caring about patient or resident outcomes, because it’s not in their business model,” Ed Dudensing, a lawyer for the family, said in an interview. “Their allegiance is to their investors.”

DigitalBridge has asked the judge to delay finalizing the judgment while its legal challenges to the lawsuit and the verdict are evaluated. A DigitalBridge attorney and a corporate spokesperson did not respond to requests for comment, a Formation attorney declined comment, and a Frontier attorney and a spokesperson did not respond to a request for comment.

‘Wet From Head to Toe’

When CareTrust bought City Creek Post-Acute and Assisted Living in 2019, the Sacramento nursing home where Pearlene Darby lived had a one-star Medicare rating and was losing money. CareTrust leased the building to a management company called Kalesta Healthcare Group based on the business plan Kalesta submitted.

While CareTrust was not the operator, it held periodic phone calls with Kalesta, which provided “a full update of what’s happening at the facility,” including changes in leadership, financial progress, and health inspection survey results, according to deposition testimony by Ryan Williams, a Kalesta co-founder.

According to a state inspection report, in 2020, the year Darby died, City Creek left a resident in soiled linens “wet from head to toe lying in bed” for more than eight hours. During a different visit, a health inspector cited the home after watching a nurse put a dirty diaper back onto a resident after caring for a wound. “It was just a small stool and it is far from where the wound is,” the nurse told the inspector, according to the report.

James Callister, CareTrust’s chief investment officer, said in his deposition that CareTrust officials “review results of regulatory surveys provided to us by the tenant. We review the five-star rating.” He said, “We evaluate results of care, but we do not evaluate types of care given or how or when, no.”

Darby had been living in City Creek since 2011 after a stroke left her in a wheelchair. She needed help getting in and out of bed. From September through November 2020, Darby lost 30 pounds, her family’s lawsuit alleged. During those months, employees dropped her three times as one worker rather than the required two operated the mechanical lift, the lawsuit said.

The suit alleged City Creek failed to reposition her every two hours in bed or her wheelchair, which is the clinical standard for people at risk of bedsores, and to promptly order devices to protect her skin.

In November, the nursing home sent Darby to the hospital. A blood test found bacteria had entered her bloodstream from her feces’ touching open skin wounds, according to the lawsuit. The hospital diagnosed her with sepsis. A surgeon said she needed an operation to redirect fecal waste from her intestines but concluded she wasn’t medically stable enough for surgery, the suit said.

Darby began receiving comfort care measures and was sent back to City Creek. She died two weeks later. In court filings, CareTrust and Kalesta denied the allegations.

In a phone interview, Williams, the Kalesta co-founder, said Darby’s death occurred during the most challenging point of the covid pandemic, when California rules required any nurses testing positive for the virus to be sent home and nurses were quitting out of fear for their health. “It was the most herculean of professional efforts to secure enough staff,” he said.

While expressing sympathy for Darby and her family, he said it was “unconscionable” that personal injury lawyers sued nursing homes over care failures during “the worst of times.”

In court, CareTrust petitioned Judge Richard Miadich to dismiss it from the lawsuit before trial. “This case does not concern a property condition,” CareTrust’s lawyers wrote. “CareTrust is simply a landlord.” But the judge ruled last year a jury should decide whether CareTrust “exercised actual control over City Creek.”

The case was settled out of court a few months later. All parties declined to reveal the settlement terms.

A 67% Profit

As recently as November 2023 — four years after its acquisition — City Creek earned one star from Medicare. It was cited for failing to have the minimum nursing home staffing required by California law during five of 24 randomly selected days in 2022, according to an inspection report. Williams said in the interview that Kalesta had increased spending on nursing over the course of its ownership, including boosting wages, but that it takes a year or two to turn around a troubled nursing home. He said the home’s star rating in 2023 was dragged down by its poor inspection history from before Kalesta took over.

City Creek’s rating has climbed in the past two years, and it now has the top overall rating of five, according to Medicare. Medicare rates City Creek’s current staffing levels as average. That’s better than most nursing homes in more than 200 buildings CareTrust bought before 2025, according to a Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News analysis of federal data. On average, CareTrust nursing homes provided a half hour less nursing care per resident per day than the national average of four hours.

In its statement to Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News, CareTrust’s counsel Layne said the REIT worked to “identify quality operators as tenants,” and that the homes the REIT rents out have more nurses and aides than the minimum required for nursing homes by their state governments. “The operators are licensed by state regulators and retain sole responsibility for operations,” the statement said.

CareTrust, which now owns more than 500 senior housing and nursing home buildings, reported net income last year of $320 million from in rents and other revenue — a 67% profit margin. By comparison, HCA Healthcare, one of the nation’s largest for-profit hospital and health care chains, for last year.

Lesley Ann Clement, one of Darby’s lawyers, said cases like hers show the nursing home industry is wrong to complain it lacks financial resources for more staffing.

“There’s plenty of money,” Clement said. “They’re just not spending it on patient care.”

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Other drivers stopped, broke the car window, and pulled him to safety. A passing volunteer firefighter performed CPR until an ambulance arrived to take Masterson to UPMC Mercy hospital.

He spent 18 days in the medical intensive care unit there, 14 of them on a ventilator. He developed delirium, a common ICU condition, and needed antipsychotic drugs. Despite a feeding tube, he lost weight. “We honestly weren’t confident that he would pull through,” said Ron Dedes, his brother-in-law.

But he did. Masterson was discharged Feb. 1 and returned home with near-constant family support. Working diligently with several kinds of therapists, he has regained his ability to walk, despite lingering weakness, and to manage his personal care. His once-garbled speech has markedly improved. He can make himself a sandwich.

Now, “our biggest concern is his memory,” Dedes said. Masterson, who so recently handled complex legal matters, forgets conversations and events that happened a few hours earlier, said Patti Dedes, his sister. He can’t yet operate a microwave or place a phone call.

In an interview, he described himself, accurately, as “much, much better than I was” — but misstated his age. Screening tests after his discharge indicated cognitive impairment and depression.

Among critical-care doctors, prolonged symptoms like his are known as “post-intensive care syndrome,” or PICS. The fallout can be physical or psychological, as well as cognitive, and can persist for months or years.

More than are admitted to intensive care across about 5,000 American hospitals, and research shows that . Older age increases the odds.

Patients and families are often startled by these continuing difficulties. “The belief is that they’ll be discharged from the hospital and in two or three weeks, they’ll be back to normal,” said Brad Butcher, who was Masterson’s doctor and in the medical journal JAMA. “That doesn’t comport with reality.”

In fact, with greater ICU use and improved treatments — the Society of Critical Care Medicine estimates that their stays — the population likely to encounter the syndrome is growing.

“Everyone is grateful that the patient has survived,” said Lauren Ferrante, a pulmonary critical-care doctor and researcher at the Yale School of Medicine. “But that’s just the start of a long road to recovery.” In a study of patients 70 and older that she co-authored, within six months after discharge only about half had .

Intensive care patients face a . PICS symptoms — weakness, pain, neuropathy (tingling in arms and legs), and malnutrition — to , primarily anxiety and depression. like Masterson’s are commonplace, including problems with memory, attention and concentration, and language.

“For many people, surviving a critical illness is a life-altering experience,” Butcher said. Patients in intensive care after emergency or elective surgery also of new physical, mental, and cognitive problems a year later.

The same aggressive treatments that save lives contribute to the syndrome. Intensive care patients “have some sort of dramatic organ failure that requires immediate attention” and constant monitoring, explained Carla Sevin, a pulmonary critical-care doctor who directs the ICU Recovery Center at Vanderbilt University Medical Center.

That could mean a breathing tube attached to a ventilator, which in turn often requires sedating drugs. Sedation “can precipitate delirium, and delirium is the key factor in cognitive symptoms,” Butcher said.

It doesn’t help that constant beeps and alarms from monitors and round-the-clock bright lighting disrupt sleep, and that restrictive family visiting hours deprive patients of reassuring faces and voices.

Gregory Matthews, a retired accountant in St. Petersburg, Florida, spent nearly a month in an ICU after a lung transplant in 2014. He still vividly remembers his hallucinations, including mice running across the wall and someone trying to frame him for drug running.

“One day, I thought a doctor was an assassin — I could see the rifle,” said Matthews, now 80. “So I jumped out of bed,” he said, and yanked out his IVs. The staff put his arms in restraints for days.

But immobilization exacts its own toll as patients quickly lose muscle mass and strength. “Our bodies were not meant to lie in bed all day,” Ferrante said.

Psychologically, “PTSD is pretty common, similar to what’s seen in combat veterans or sexual assault survivors,” Sevin said, referring to post-traumatic stress disorder. Families can suffer anxiety and depression along with the patients.

Alarmed by such discoveries, doctors and administrators at about 35 U.S. hospitals have established , where teams of doctors, nurses, pharmacists, therapists (physical, occupational, cognitive, speech), and social workers screen for a host of conditions and help guide patients through them.

Vanderbilt’s clinic saw its first patient in 2012. The Critical Illness Recovery Center at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, which Butcher founded in 2018, works with about 100 patients a year, including Masterson. Yale opened its clinic in 2022.

They rely on six practices recommended by the Society of Critical Care Medicine that are shown to . The measures call for changes such as using lighter sedation, getting patients up and moving earlier, testing their breathing daily to wean them from ventilators sooner, and removing restrictions on family visiting.

Clinics often offer support groups for patients and families. There’s evidence that keeping an ICU diary, in which patients and caregivers record their experiences, and engaging in exercise and physical rehabilitation after discharge.

Also on the clinics’ agenda: discussions of what other options patients might prefer if they face another critical illness, as many do. Would they agree to undergo intensive care and risk its aftereffects again? Or choose palliative care, which emphasizes comfort rather than cure? Some post-ICU patients remain permanently impaired.

Butcher, although he said that the use of the new practices needed to expand dramatically, sounded optimistic about the future of critical care. “We’re going to find better diagnostic tools, better preventive strategies, and better therapies,” he said.

For now, though, the ICU experience remains disorienting and sometimes traumatic. When Butcher asked 117 patients in his post-ICU clinic those next-time questions, many wanted to place limits on further medical interventions.

About a third would want to lower the level of aggressive care. Of those, about a quarter would want “do not resuscitate” and “do not intubate” orders, and almost 7% said they never wanted to return to an ICU.

Masterson is working hard to further his recovery. “I haven’t been out and about much,” he said. “I’ve been kind of homebound.” He hopes to get strong enough to resume running — he used to log 3 to 4 miles several times a week.

The future for patients contending with post-ICU syndrome often depends on their physical, mental, and cognitive health before their admission. Masterson’s previous fitness and cognitively demanding work bode well for his further progress, Butcher said.

His family remains alternatively hopeful and worried. “Down the road, what’s it going to be like?” Dedes, his brother-in-law, wondered. “We just take it day by day.”

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with .

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OAKLAND, Calif. — Rosa María Carranza leaned forward to hold a 3-year-old’s back as the girl climbed a rock in the forested hills of northeast Oakland.

Dressed in hiking gear and beaded necklaces, Carranza, 67, maneuvered between trees and children on a sunny morning in December. “Hold on to that branch,” she said in Spanish. “You can do it, my love!”

Carranza, a child development professional who grew up swinging through trees and swimming in rivers in El Salvador, said she feels at home in the forest at the outdoor preschool she co-founded. She has worked with children and teens as a caregiver and educator for more than three decades, long enough to know when to lean in and when to step back to let her students find their own footing.

When she transitioned to working part-time last year, Carranza counted on getting Medicare and Social Security checks — benefits given to American workers and lawfully present immigrants when they retire, work history and age or disability requirements. She’s contributed tens of thousands of dollars into Medicare and Social Security over 24 years, according to her Social Security Administration earnings record, reviewed by El Tímpano and Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News. But Carranza and an estimated immigrants will soon be cut out of Medicare.

The GOP’s One Big Beautiful Bill Act, signed last July by President Donald Trump, barred certain categories of lawfully present immigrants — including temporary protected status holders, refugees, asylum-seekers, survivors of domestic violence, trafficking victims, and people with work visas — from Medicare.

Those already in the program, like Carranza, will be disenrolled by Jan. 4 — a move by Republican lawmakers to rein in Medicare spending, as they and Trump have argued that taxpayer dollars should not be used to pay for the health care of immigrants in the U.S. without authorization.

“The Democrats want Illegal Aliens, many of them VIOLENT CRIMINALS, to receive FREE Healthcare,” Trump two months after he signed the bill into law. “We cannot let this happen!”

However, the categories of immigrants now losing coverage do have legal status. Neither the White House nor the Department of Health and Human Services responded to a question about whether it was fair to disenroll legal residents from Medicare.

Immigrants without legal status were already ineligible for Medicare or most other federally funded public benefits.

Carranza is worried that she could also lose legal permission to live in the United States if the Trump administration ends temporary protected status for Salvadorans, as it sought to do during .

If that happened, Carranza would lose legal residency, risking time in an immigration detention center or deportation.

“This is like a horror movie, a complete nightmare,” Carranza said. “This is not how I imagined getting old.”

‘Under Constant Attack’

Carranza left El Salvador in 1991 during a brutal civil war, leaving behind three young children, to earn money to send home to her family. She overstayed her visa until 2001, when she qualified for temporary protected status, after two earthquakes struck El Salvador, and displacing 1.3 million.

Temporary protected status, or TPS, was passed by Congress and signed into law by Republican President George H.W. Bush in 1990.

It allows people such as Carranza, from select nations undergoing armed conflict, civil war, and climate disasters, to live and work in the United States if being in their home country poses a risk.

Carranza missed her youngest daughter’s graduation from kindergarten and first medal-winning performance in track. She worked overnight shifts babysitting newborns and later substitute-taught in public schools in the San Francisco Bay Area to pay for her children’s schooling in El Salvador, and for her own classes at City College of San Francisco, where she earned a degree in child development.

And she cared for dozens of 3-, 4-, and 5-year-olds who gazed in awe as they uncovered little treasures buried in the redwood forest of the Oakland park where she co-founded Escuelita del Bosque, a Spanish immersion preschool that teaches children outdoors.

The trade-off was supposed to be a peaceful retirement. But Congress narrowed Medicare eligibility to citizens, lawful permanent residents, Cuban and Haitian nationals, and people covered under the Compacts of Free Association, agreements between the United States and Pacific island nations.

The move followed Trump’s efforts to bar some lawfully present immigrants from Medicaid, marketplace insurance subsidies, and social support services, such as food assistance, housing subsidies, and medical visits in federally funded health centers. Altogether, 1.4 million lawfully present immigrants were projected to lose health insurance, according to Â鶹ŮÓÅ, a health information nonprofit that includes Â鶹ŮÓÅ Health News.

A spokesperson for House Speaker Mike Johnson, Taylor Haulsee, did not respond to requests for comment.

Michael Cannon, director of health policy studies at the Cato Institute, a libertarian think tank, said Republicans wanted to enact tax cuts and eliminate health insurance for immigrants because it wouldn’t upset their base.

“They don’t want to turn the United States into a welfare magnet,” he said. “And they resent the government for making them pay for a welfare state.”

While data on lawfully present immigrants is not available, immigrants without legal status and $25.7 billion into Social Security in 2022, according to the Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy. The Congressional Budget Office estimated that the Medicare restrictions alone would reduce federal spending by 2034.

Health experts say eliminating coverage for immigrants with legal status .

“This is actually the first time that Congress has taken away Medicare from any group,” said Drishti Pillai, director of immigrant health policy at Â鶹ŮÓÅ. “This change is impacting immigrants who have lawful presence in the U.S., and many of whom have already worked and paid into the system for decades.”

As older adults like Carranza lose their Medicare coverage, clinicians anticipate that they will delay their care, leading to an increase in severely ill patients, especially in hospital emergency rooms.

Seniors can become sick suddenly and quickly, and they are more vulnerable to cardiovascular diseases such as heart disease and high blood pressure, especially if they put off routine care, said Theresa Cheng, an emergency physician at Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital and assistant clinical professor of emergency medicine at the University of California-San Francisco.

“It’s quite easy for them to fall off the cliff,” Cheng said.

Carranza hikes and considers herself healthy, but she acknowledges that she is aging and starting to struggle to keep up with the kids in the forest.

Late last year she was diagnosed with high blood pressure, and in January she woke up with a tight chest and went to urgent care because it had spiked to dangerous levels. A few weeks later, she tripped on a curb while walking and fell to the ground. She woke up the next day with a swollen foot. A doctor at the local hospital told her she had arthritis.

These were scary moments, she said, but she was grateful to have to pay only $10 for the urgent care visit and $5 to see her primary care doctor. However, that will change when she loses Medicare by early next year.

The stress of knowing she will lose health insurance coverage, and potentially her legal status, all while masked federal agents are detaining immigrants like her across the country, has taken a toll on her mental health, she said. She is searching for a therapist and acupuncture services to treat her insomnia and anxiety — and the feeling that she is “under constant attack.”

Nowhere To Turn

In California, home to the largest number of , Carranza could have enrolled in state-sponsored insurance, but this year the state for adults 19 and older who are a TPS holder, in the U.S. without authorization, or an asylum-seeker. Other states with Democratic governors such as have also scaled back their health programs for immigrants amid budget pressures.

In January, California Gov. Gavin Newsom proposed a state budget that would not backfill federal health care cuts to about 200,000 lawfully present immigrants, noting the $1.1 billion annual price tag and state budget shortfalls.

“Given these fiscal pressures, the administration cannot backfill for this change in federal policy,” California Department of Finance spokesperson H.D. Palmer said.

But some Democratic lawmakers and consumer advocates say the state should step in. State Assembly member Mia Bonta, who chairs the Assembly’s health committee, said she is working on a legislative budget solution to bring immigrants who will lose health coverage, including older adults, into Medi-Cal, the state’s version of Medicaid.

The East Bay Democrat is especially concerned for people like Carranza, “who have lived here for decades and contributed into this economy, who have given into our cultural fabric and into our communities and who built families and lives and who are now wanting to be able to retire with dignity and live with dignity and have the health care that they need.”

A Sign of the Future

Last April, Carranza got a glimpse of what losing her health coverage and retirement benefits could look like, after the Social Security Administration sent her a letter informing her that she no longer qualified for retirement benefits because she was not lawfully present in the U.S. — even though she was. Then Medicare stopped payments to her health plan, which disenrolled her as a result.

As a TPS holder with a work permit, she knew a mistake had been made. Yet, without her check, Carranza didn’t have money to pay her rent for a month. She worked off her rent by babysitting her landlords’ children. Last May, the office of U.S. Rep. Lateefah Simon, an Oakland Democrat, helped Carranza recover her retirement benefits, but it took months for her to get her health insurance back.

The experience left her reeling.

“It’s like getting slapped on the face after more than 30 years working for the system here,” Carranza said. “And in return, this is what we have now.”

She lies awake at night imagining the future: here, where she’s spent half her life, without health insurance and possibly Social Security benefits; or in El Salvador, where two of her three children remain. Her daughter, a green-card holder who lives in Texas, hopes to become a citizen so she can petition for permanent residency for Carranza, but the process can take years. Then there’s the possibility she fears most: indefinite detention or deportation.

On a recent morning in her basement studio in Oakland, Carranza pulled a box from the back of her closet. In it was a thick stack of identification cards that included old driver’s licenses, her Social Security card, and dozens of work IDs issued by the federal government.

“My life is in that box,” she said.

This article was produced in collaboration with , a civic media organization serving and covering the Bay Area’s Latino and Mayan immigrant communities.

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