The mountains of western North Carolina have been known to flood: The area is bursting with creeks and rivers and enjoys an abundance of rain. There are occasionally wildfires. But the ravages of the climate crisis’s worst impacts — including increasingly powerful hurricanes — felt like a problem for another place. Asheville sits almost 250 miles from the nearest coastline.

After Hurricane Helene roared across the state, causing historic flooding, downing trees, snapping power lines, decimating water infrastructure, and leading to the deaths of at least 72 people in Buncombe County alone, communities are still shaking off the shock of a storm they never thought could touch these mountains.

“People relocate to Asheville not just because it’s beautiful, but because it isn’t prone to natural disasters,” said Katie Gebely, an artist in Asheville. “But that sense of safety is gone.”

I live in Beech, a historic community in Weaverville, North Carolina, at the eastern end of a two-lane road called Reems Creek, which is named after the waterway running parallel to it. The town of Weaverville, just north of Asheville, is five miles down the road.

Helene’s destruction created a major problem for people dependent on insulin, power wheelchairs, oxygen CPAP machines for sleep apnea, or home dialysis equipment. Without electricity, their health is at risk.

To get to Weaverville from Beech in the days immediately after the storm, cars had to thump over dozens of downed power lines. Other lines were propped up with large, downed tree limbs or tied up with rope so cars could get under them. Utility poles were snapped in two. A transformer lay on the side of the road, as did a rather large boat, washed up from who knows where. Just last week, power crews arrived on Reems Creek Road, but there’s still no word on when everyone will regain electricity.

Jackie Martin of Canton, North Carolina, relies on supplemental oxygen for chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and emphysema. When the storm hit, she had four hours’ worth left. Because of her condition, Martin and her husband, David, have an electrical generator, which David checks every month to make sure it works.

“We keep enough gas to run about eight hours,” Jackie Martin said. But the Martins were without power for nearly a week. When they ran out of gasoline, their neighbors gave them the gas from their lawn mower. Then another neighbor evacuated and offered his propane generator. The Martins’ daughter came through with four tanks of propane.

“We went through tons of gas and propane,” Jackie Martin said. “Never did I think I would need every drop and then some. Thank goodness we got power back after a week.”

In Buncombe County, population 275,000, there were still more than 50,000 customers without electricity almost two weeks after the storm. Duke Energy reported that outages were down to about 1,600 customers in the Asheville area as of Wednesday.

In most places, the debris that littered the road has been cleared. Cars, trucks, and military vehicles can make their way through. But huge piles of trash still line the roadways. Buncombe County is asking residents not to burn it out of concern for air quality.

In a scene out of biblical end-times, yellow jackets swarmed in the days after the storm — displaced after falling trees and floodwaters destroyed their nests. Three or four days after the storm hit, an EMT drove through my neighborhood looking for Benadryl. My husband handed over what we had: a half-full bottle.

Overhead, helicopters fly day and night. The Federal Emergency Management Agency arrived in my neighborhood two Sundays ago to deliver bottled water and food rations. Potable water in some areas of western North Carolina, including Asheville, may take weeks or months to restore.

Weaverville’s residents were under a boil-water advisory until Oct. 11.

“We had sewer and water line breaks,” said Patrick Fitzsimmons, Weaverville’s mayor. “We had a lot of infrastructure destruction.”

Households with wells have fared no better. Well pumps don’t work without electricity. And storm-damaged or flooded wells may be compromised. Officials are urging residents to disinfect their wells before consuming water. The federal Environmental Protection Agency has given residents kits to test their well water.

A physical therapist at Asheville Specialty Hospital, who asked not to be identified out of concern for losing their job, told me that in the first days after the storm, crews hauled trash cans full of water into the facility so that staff could flush toilets with buckets.

“The water got shut off and we managed. We took care of people the best we could,” the therapist said. “But the amount of water that it takes to run a hospital is unsustainable for the length of time they think we’ll be out of water.”

The hospital is a 34-bed long-term acute care facility down the street from Asheville’s Mission Hospital. Nancy Lindell, a spokesperson for Mission Health, which operates both hospitals, said in a statement that fewer than 100 “low acuity patients in stable condition” at the organization’s facilities were transferred “to hospitals outside of the areas hardest hit by this disaster.”

“This decision, which was made in collaboration with more than 50 physicians and nursing leaders, helps ensure we have the capacity to meet the most critical needs of our region,” she said. “It also provides relief for our caregivers, who have been working around the clock in the wake of the storm.”

U.S. Rep. Chuck Edwards, who represents North Carolina’s 11th District, said FEMA has shipped 6 million liters of water and 4 million individual meals to western North Carolina. FEMA has promised 120 truckloads a day of food and water with no specified end date, the Republican congressman said.

The Biden administration has also opened an emergency program for uninsured North Carolinians to replace lost prescriptions and medical equipment.

Fitzsimmons, Weaverville’s mayor, said he’s concerned about the impact of the storm on mental health. “People are going for an extended period of time without power or water,” he said. “Their nerves are frayed.”

Richard Zenn, chief medical officer at North Carolina-based Vaya Health, said the recovery will be long.

“We’re now in the phase where we have to deal with the effects of this ongoing trauma we’ve all suffered,” Zenn said. “Connect with others. Don’t get too isolated. Eat. Sleep. Try to get back into a normal routine. Do whatever reduces stress for you.”

For me, that has always been hiking or running through these ancient mountains. But there are too many uprooted trees to safely do that now. Instead I take solace on my porch and give thanks that I still have a porch to sit on. It’s a near-perfect day in Appalachia. The sky is painfully blue. I listen for the songs of birds, but all I can hear are generators.

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That was on Tuesday, Oct. 8. The next morning a social worker and a doctor woke Trumble to say her discharge was canceled. CVS would no longer provide her home nutrition, and she had to stay in the hospital. “I was dropped between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning with no care for my life or my health,” Trumble said from her hospital bed eight days later.

After this article was published, on Oct. 18, Trumble said she was being discharged, after her caregivers found a replacement service. “I’m just afraid their supplies will run out,” she said. “My backup plan is always to go back to the hospital.”

Trumble is among 25,000 U.S. patients whose survival depends on parenteral nutrition, or PN — IV bags containing life-sustaining amino acids, sugars, fats, vitamins, and electrolytes. Hurricane Helene wrecked a factory in North Carolina that produced 60% of the fluids their sustenance is mixed from. About two weeks later, CVS announced that its Coram division, a leading infusion pharmacy, was exiting the PN and IV antibiotics business.

The hurricane led Baxter International to ration its dwindling supplies. Pharmacies that supply Trumble and other patients like her were already plagued by shortages, and the rationing means the remaining infusion pharmacies can’t take on the customers cut off by CVS, said David Seres, director of medical nutrition at Columbia University Medical Center in New York.

At the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, seven or eight patients were ready to go home Tuesday but couldn’t be discharged because no infusion company would accept them, said Manpreet Mundi, a Mayo endocrinologist. The patients would fall ill within a day or two without this nutrition, he said.

By Oct. 18, home supplies had been located for all but a few of them, Mundi said. “A lot of public pressure” on Coram was starting to have an effect, he said.

Although the FDA is allowing emergency imports of IV fluids wiped out by Helene, as well as production of some of the fluids by U.S. compounding pharmacies, it’s unclear how long it will take to replenish supplies, said Mundi, who is a board member of the American Society for Parenteral and Enteral Nutrition and medical adviser to the Oley Foundation, which advocates for PN patients. “We’re trying to raise awareness that this could get worse before it gets better,” he said.

The patients who rely on PN have a variety of conditions that render them unable to digest food. Some have congenital abnormalities or disorders like Crohn’s disease that led to surgical removal of bowel sections. Others were scarred by cancer, car accidents, or gunfire, or are preemies born with underdeveloped intestines. In most patients, the fluid is pumped through a catheter into a large vein near the heart.

A crisis hit this community two years ago when CVS Health announced that it was shutting half of the 71 Coram pharmacies.

CVS, which recently announced nearly 3,000 layoffs amid reports of a possible restructuring, on Oct. 8 began telling its remaining 800 to 1,000 PN customers that they would have to find other infusion pharmacies. A news release provided to KFF Health News suggested the phaseout would last into January, but for patients like Trumble, the impact was immediate.

Highly specialized infusion medicine is “a challenging environment” for all companies “and Coram has not been immune to these challenges,” the CVS release said. “As such, we have reevaluated our service offerings.”

When asked about Trumble’s case, CVS Health spokesperson Mike DeAngelis said the company would “try to resolve it.” The next day, a company called Optum stepped in to replace Coram, Trumble said.

It’s hard enough normally for such patients to find new suppliers for their materials, which can include 120 pounds of IV fluid per week.

Coram’s departure “made a big crisis that much worse,” Mundi said. “It’s become kind of a double whammy.”

The Baxter International North Cove plant produced most of the country’s high-concentration dextrose, a major source of energy for PN patients, as well as saline solution and sterile water, also vital supplies. A week after Helene hit, Hurricane Milton threatened sterile IV fluid supplier B. Braun Medical’s facility in Daytona Beach, Florida. The federal government helped truck 60 loads of the company’s inventory to a safe location, but the plant was spared the storm’s worst. It restarted production on Oct. 11.

That was a huge relief for Beth Gore, CEO of the Oley Foundation. She, her husband, and their six adopted children braved the storm’s seven hours of lashing wind in their home near Ruskin, Florida. Milton wrecked a car and part of the roof, but the family prayed through it all and somehow never lost power, though their neighbors did, Gore said. That kept the IV fluids fresh and the internet on, which calmed the kids.

Coram has supplied her youngest son, 15-year-old Manny, with PN for 13 years, and the family will need to find another supplier, she said.

“There’s been no relief” since Coram reduced its services in 2022, Gore said. “Now there’s this new twist.”

Her son gets care through Medicaid, whose reimbursement provides barely break-even margins for many infusion pharmacies, she said. Insurance limits, state licensing differences, and highly specific nutritional needs pose challenges for patients seeking new IV suppliers in the best of times, she said.

The FDA announced Oct. 9 that it would allow Baxter to import emergency supplies from Canada, China, Ireland, and the U.K. In the meantime, Baxter is prioritizing hospital patients over the home infusion companies — which lack backup supplies, Mundi said.

“We’re all on the phone 24/7,” said Kathleen Gura, president-elect of the American Society for Parenteral and Enteral Nutrition and pharmacy clinical research program manager at Boston Children’s Hospital. Her team is struggling to find new suppliers of IV nutrition at home for the 20 Coram patients among the 150 she sees.

“Some kids have a situation where they can’t absorb at all through their intestines and will die of dehydration if they can’t get IV,” Gura said.

The IV fluids lost in the Baxter disaster are key to all kinds of inpatient care. Many U.S. hospitals are conserving fluid by giving some patients oral hydration instead of IVs, or by delaying surgeries, said Soumi Saha, senior vice president of government affairs at Premier, which negotiates group hospital purchases.

President Joe Biden has invoked the Defense Production Act, which will enable the government to order companies to prioritize rebuilding the Baxter plant.

The military is flying in supplies from Baxter plants overseas, Saha said. Premier has also asked the FDA to put additional PN ingredients on its shortage list, which would allow large compounding facilities to produce the materials.

Ellie Rogers, 17, of Simpsonville, South Carolina, fears the worst if she can’t get her supplies. She suffers from a host of immunological and neurological ailments that require her to get four liters of IV fluid daily to stay alive, she said.

Her supplier, an Option Care Health pharmacy in South Carolina, informed the family Oct. 14 that instead of her weekly supply it was sending her enough bags for a day or two. “They really don’t know when they’re going to get what they need,” she said. Reducing the infusions in the past has led to dizziness, nausea, and pooling of her blood that “felt like my veins were going to explode.”

On Oct. 7, Crohn’s disease patient Hannah Hale’s infusion pharmacy called and said it couldn’t fill her standing weekly order of IV bags, urging her to find a new pharmacy.

“I called 14 infusion pharmacies and haven’t been able to find anyone to take me,” said the Dallas 37-year-old. She suffers from weight loss and low blood sugar, and rationing her supplies raises dangers of seizures or coma, she said.

Trumble, 52, who started on PN 13 months ago because of colon cancer and severe intestinal issues, said she was grateful to the hospital and gets excellent care there, but missed her mother, son, and 8-year-old grandson, Jordan — and her cats — during her 17-day hospitalization.

What’s worse, Trumble said, her mother and son, who get Medicaid payments to care for her, weren’t paid while she was away.

But without IV nutrition at home, she said, “I’d starve.”

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“When the ride is an hour or an hour and a half of mostly freeway driving, people tend to tell you what they’re going through,” she said.

Drivers such as Carr have become a critical part of the medical transportation system in Georgia, as well as in Washington, D.C., Mississippi, Arizona, and elsewhere. While some patients use transportation companies solely dedicated to medical rides or nonemergency ambulance rides to get to their appointments, the San Francisco-based ride-hailing companies Uber and Lyft are also ferrying people to emergency rooms, kidney dialysis, cancer care, physical therapy, and other medical visits.

But Georgia ride-hail drivers aren’t only serving patients living in Atlanta or its sprawling suburbs. When rural Georgians are too sick to drive themselves, Uber or Lyft is often one of the only ways to reach medical care in the state capital.

Rural hospital closures in Georgia have meant people battling cancer and other serious illnesses must now commute two or more hours to treatment facilities in Atlanta, said Bryan Miller, director of psychosocial support services at the Atlanta Cancer Care Foundation, a medical practice offshoot that seeks to alleviate financial burdens for cancer patients and their families.

From April 2022 to April 2024, Lyft drivers completed thousands of rides that were greater than 50 miles each way and that began or ended at Atlanta-area medical treatment centers, including the Winship Cancer Institute of Emory University and Emory University Hospital Midtown, according to Lyft.

While 75% of those trips were under 100 miles, the company said, 21% of them were between 100 and 200 miles and 4% were over 200, showing that even Georgians who live hours away from metro Atlanta rely on the ride-hail platform to reach medical care there.

Uber Health global head Zachary Clark declined to provide comparable ridership data. Uber Health is a division of Uber that organizes medical transportation for some Medicaid and Medicare recipients, health care workers, prescription drug delivery, and others seeking reimbursement for medical-related Uber rides, according to Uber’s website.

Lyft also has a health care division, offering programs such as Lyft Assisted and Lyft Concierge to coordinate rides for patients.

Nationwide, some insurance companies and cancer treatment centers, plus Medicare Advantage and state Medicaid plans, pay for such ride-hailing services, often with the goal of reducing missed appointments, according to Krisda Chaiyachati, an adjunct assistant professor at the University of Pennsylvania medical school.

In 2024, 36% of individual Medicare Advantage plans and 88% of special needs plans offered transportation services, said Jeannie Fuglesten Biniek, associate director of Medicare policy at KFF, the health policy research, polling, and news organization that includes KFF Health News. A special needs plan provides extra benefits to Medicare recipients who have severe and chronic diseases or certain other health care needs, or who also have Medicaid.

And Medicaid — the federal-state government safety net insurance plan for those with low incomes or disabilities — paid for up to 4 million beneficiaries to use nonemergency medical transportation services annually from 2018 through 2021, according to a Department of Health and Human Services report. Patients residing in rural areas used ride-hailing and other nonemergency transportation providers at the highest rates, the report said.

The estimated total federal and state investment in nonemergency medical transportation was approximately $5 billion in 2019, according to a study by the Texas A&M University Transportation Institute.

Even with some insurance covering trips or charities offering ride credits, social workers say, many ailing patients are still left without a ride. Nationwide, 21% of adults without access to a vehicle or public transit went without needed medical care in 2022, according to a study by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. People who lacked access to a vehicle but had access to public transit were less likely to skip needed care.

The data analytics company Geotab ranked Atlanta as tied for second worst in the nation when it comes to the accessibility of its public transportation network.

“The ability to get to a doctor’s appointment can be a barrier to care,” said Rochelle Schube, a cancer support group facilitator in Atlanta. “If I give a patient $250 in Uber cards and they live far away, that gets spent quickly.”

The fact that Uber and Lyft are harder to come by in rural America compounds the lack of medical access in those areas. “When you move to rural areas — which you could argue have a higher need — you see fewer services,” Chaiyachati said.

Finding drivers who are able and willing to provide medical transportation can be a challenge. The Atlanta-based start-up MedTrans Go connects patients and health care providers with vetted drivers, many offering wheelchair or stretcher rides, in Georgia and 16 other states. Many of its drivers have medical training, walk patients to and from medical facilities or their homes, and can handle complex situations for vulnerable patients, said Dana Weeks, the company’s co-founder and CEO.

The company’s app can also dispatch directly to Uber or Lyft for patients who do not need specialized assistance, she said.

Uber and Lyft trips can save patients and insurers money, costing a fraction of the typical fee for an ambulance ride, said David Slusky, an economics professor at the University of Kansas who has studied the impact of ride-hailing services on medicine.

But instead of all of that, argued Timothy Crimmins, a history professor emeritus at Georgia State University and a former director of the school’s neighborhood-studies center, the best solution would be for Georgia to expand Medicaid, so more rural hospitals would be able to remain open and Georgians could seek medical care close to home.

The decision by Georgia lawmakers to not accept a federally funded expansion of Medicaid has left more than 1.4 million Georgians without health insurance, according to KFF — and that hurts rural hospitals when those patients use the medical facilities and cannot pay their bills. In Georgia, 10 rural hospitals have either closed or ceased their inpatient care operations since 2010, according to a 2024 report from health care consultant Chartis, and 18 more are in danger of shuttering.

Until more patients are insured, Crimmins said, the state should subsidize Uber and Lyft trips for less prosperous Georgians who need help reaching medical care in Atlanta. “We might be talking about $100 to $150 round-trip,” he said. “That can be subsidized.”

Still, ferrying around patients is not for every ride-hail driver. Damian Durand said his Chevrolet Equinox SUV is large enough to accommodate a medical passenger requiring a wheelchair, but he isn’t paid extra to transport those with medical needs. He said some of his recent passengers in Atlanta have been Medicaid recipients with mental health conditions or disabilities.

“It can be stressful,” he said. “I do feel like Uber and Lyft are trying to catch me off guard. When I can see that the ride is going to the hospital, I try to avoid or cancel the ride.”

While Durand’s experience with medical transport has been mostly negative, Carr loves the work and appreciates being able to help older Georgians, who she said often tip her well. For her, ride-hail work remains a good option even when it entails medical calls.

“It’s not stressful for me,” she said. “I worked a good 20 years in customer service. For me, human connection is important. I tried to work from home, and I really didn’t like it. I prefer this because I can connect with people.”

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The clinic, called the UniMóvil, is part of the Healthy Mujeres program at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley School of Medicine.

The U.S. has about 3,000 mobile health programs. But Saul Rivas, an OB-GYN, said he wasn’t aware of any that shared the specific mission of Healthy Mujeres when he helped launch the initiative in 2017. “Mujeres” means “women” in Spanish.

It’s now part of a small but growing number of mobile programs aimed at increasing rural access to women’s health services, including long-acting reversible contraception.

There are two kinds of these highly effective methods: intrauterine devices, known as IUDs, and hormonal implants inserted into the upper arm. These birth control options can be especially difficult to obtain — or have removed — in rural areas.

“Women who want to prevent an unintended pregnancy should have whatever works best for them,” said Kelly Conroy, senior director of mobile and maternal health programs at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences.

The school is launching a mobile women’s health and contraception program in rural parts of the state this month.

Rural areas have disproportionately fewer doctors, including OB-GYNs, than urban areas. And rural providers may not be able to afford to stock long-acting birth control devices or may not be trained in administering them, program leaders say.

Mobile clinics help shrink that gap in rural care, but they can be challenging to operate, said Elizabeth Jones, a senior director at the National Family Planning & Reproductive Health Association.

Money is the greatest obstacle, Jones said. The Texas program costs up to $400,000 a year. A 2020 study of 173 mobile clinics found they cost an average of more than $630,000 a year. Mobile dental programs were the most expensive, averaging more than $1 million.

While many programs launch with the help of grants, they can be difficult to sustain, especially with over a decade of decreased or stagnant funding to Title X, a federal money stream that helps low-income people receive family planning services.

For example, a mobile contraception program serving rural Pennsylvania lasted less than three years before closing in 2023. It shut down after losing federal funding, said a spokesperson for the clinic that ran it.

Rural mobile programs aren’t as efficient or profitable as brick-and-mortar clinics. That’s because staff members may have to make hours-long trips to reach towns where they’ll probably see fewer patients than they would at a traditional site, Jones said.

She said organizations that can’t afford mobile programs can consider setting up “pop-up clinics” at existing health and community sites in rural areas.

Maria Briones is a patient who has benefited from the Healthy Mujeres program in southern Texas. The 41-year-old day care worker was concerned because she wasn’t getting her menstrual period with her IUD.

She considered going to Mexico to have the device removed because few doctors take her insurance on the U.S. side of the Rio Grande Valley.

But Briones learned that the UniMóvil was visiting a small Texas city about 20 minutes from her home. She told the staff there that she doesn’t want more kids but was worried about the IUD.

Briones decided to keep the device after learning it’s safe and normal not to have periods while using an IUD. She won’t get billed for her appointment with the mobile clinic, even though the university health system doesn’t take her insurance.

“They have a lot of patience, and they answered all the questions that I had,” Briones said.

IUDs and hormonal implants are highly effective and can last up to 10 years. But they’re also expensive — devices can cost more than $1,000 without insurance — and inserting an IUD can be painful.

Patient-rights advocates are also concerned that some providers pressure people to use these devices.

They say ethical birth control programs aim to empower patients to choose the contraceptive method — if any — that is best for them, instead of promoting long-acting methods in an attempt to lower birth and poverty rates. They point to the history of eugenics-inspired sterilization and even more recent incidents.

For example, an investigation by Time magazine found doctors are more likely to push Black, Latina, young, and low-income women than other patients to use long-acting birth control — and to refuse to remove the devices.

Rivas said Healthy Mujeres staffers are trained on this issue.

“Our goal isn’t necessarily to place IUDs and implants,” he said. It’s to “provide education and help patients make the best decisions for themselves.”

David Wise, a spokesperson for the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences, said staff members with the university’s mobile program will ask patients if they want to get pregnant in the next year, and will support their choice. The Arkansas and Texas programs also remove IUDs and hormonal arm implants if patients aren’t happy with them.

The Arkansas initiative will visit 14 rural counties with four vehicles the size of food trucks that were used in previous mobile health efforts. Staffing and equipment will be covered by a two-year, $431,000 grant from an anonymous donor, Wise said.

In addition to contraception, faculty and medical residents staffing the vehicles will offer women’s health screenings, vaccinations, prenatal care, and testing and treatment for sexually transmitted infections.

Rivas said the Texas program was inspired by a study that found that, six months after giving birth, 34% of surveyed Texas mothers said long-acting contraception is their preferred birth control option — but only 13% were using that method.

“We started thinking about ways to address that gap,” Rivas said.

Healthy Mujeres, which is funded through multiple grants, started with a focus on contraception. It later expanded to services such as pregnancy ultrasounds, cervical cancer screenings, and testing for sexually transmitted infections.

While the Texas and Arkansas programs can bill insurance, they also have funding to help uninsured and underinsured patients afford their services. Both use community health workers — called promotoras in largely Spanish-speaking communities like the Rio Grande Valley — to connect patients with food, transportation, additional medical services, and other needs.

They partner with organizations that locals trust, such as food pantries and community colleges, which let the mobile units set up in their parking lots. And to further increase the availability of long-acting contraception in rural areas, the universities are training their students and local providers on how to insert, remove, and get reimbursed for the devices.

One difference between the programs is dictated by state laws. The Arkansas program can provide birth control to minors without a parent or guardian’s consent. But in Texas, most minors need consent before receiving health care, including contraception.

Advocates say these initiatives might help lower the rates of unintended and teen pregnancies in both states, which are higher than the national average.

Rivas and Conroy said their programs haven’t received much pushback. But Rivas said some churches that had asked the UniMóvil to visit their congregations changed their minds after learning the services included birth control.

Catherine Phillips, director of the Respect Life Office at Arkansas’ Catholic diocese, said the diocese supports efforts to achieve health care equity and she’s personally interested in mobile programs that visit rural areas such as where she lives.

But Phillips said the Arkansas program’s focus on birth control, especially long-acting methods, violates the teachings of the Catholic Church. Offering these services to minors without parental consent “makes it more egregious,” she said.

Jones said that, while these programs have hefty costs and other challenges, they also have benefits that can’t be measured in numbers.

“Building community trust and making an impact in the communities most impacted by health inequities — that’s invaluable,” she said.

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It seemed clear they had some type of cognitive impairment. Yet they were living alone.

Portacolone, an associate professor at the University of California-San Francisco, wondered how common this was. Had anyone examined this group? How were they managing?

When she reviewed the research literature more than a decade ago, there was little there. “I realized this is a largely invisible population,” she said.

Portacolone got to work and now leads the Living Alone With Cognitive Impairment Project at UCSF. The project estimates that that at least 4.3 million people 55 or older who have cognitive impairment or dementia live alone in the United States.

About half have trouble with daily activities such as bathing, eating, cooking, shopping, taking medications, and managing money, according to their research. But only 1 in 3 received help with at least one such activity.

Compared with other older adults who live by themselves, people living alone with cognitive impairment are older, more likely to be women, and disproportionately Black or Latino, with lower levels of education, wealth, and homeownership. Yet only 21% qualify for publicly funded programs such as Medicaid that pay for aides to provide services in the home.

In a health care system that assumes older adults have family caregivers to help them, “we realized this population is destined to fall through the cracks,” Portacolone said.

Imagine what this means. As memory and thinking problems accelerate, these seniors can lose track of bills, have their electricity shut off, or be threatened with eviction. They might stop shopping (it’s too overwhelming) or cooking (it’s too hard to follow recipes). Or they might be unable to communicate clearly or navigate automated phone systems.

A variety of other problems can ensue, including social isolation, malnutrition, self-neglect, and susceptibility to scams. Without someone to watch over them, older adults on their own may experience worsening health without anyone noticing or struggle with dementia without ever being diagnosed.

Should vulnerable seniors live this way?

For years, Portacolone and her collaborators nationwide have followed nearly 100 older adults with cognitive impairment who live alone. She listed some concerns people told researchers they worried most about: “Who do I trust? When is the next time I’m going to forget? If I think I need more help, where do I find it? How do I hide my forgetfulness?”

Jane Lowers, an assistant professor at the Emory University School of Medicine, has been studying “kinless” adults in the early stages of dementia — those without a live-in partner or children nearby. Their top priority, she told me, is “remaining independent for as long as possible.”

Seeking to learn more about these seniors’ experiences, I contacted the National Council of Dementia Minds. The organization last year started a biweekly online group for people living alone with dementia. Its staffers arranged a Zoom conversation with five people, all with early-to-moderate dementia.

One was Kathleen Healy, 60, who has significant memory problems and lives alone in Fresno, California.

“One of the biggest challenges is that people don’t really see what’s going on with you,” she said. “Let’s say my house is a mess or I’m sick or I’m losing track of my bills. If I can get myself together, I can walk out the door and nobody knows what’s going on.”

An administrator with the city of Fresno for 28 years, Healy said she had to retire in 2019 “because my brain stopped working.” With her pension, she’s able to cover her expenses, but she doesn’t have significant savings or assets.

Healy said she can’t rely on family members who have troubles of their own. (Her 83-year-old mother has dementia and lives with Healy’s sister.) The person who checks on her most frequently is an ex-boyfriend.

“I don’t really have anybody,” she said, choking up.

David West, 62, is a divorced former social worker with Lewy body dementia, which can impair thinking and concentration and cause hallucinations. He lives alone in an apartment in downtown Fort Worth, Texas.

“I will not survive this in the end — I know that — but I’m going to meet this with resilience,” he said when I spoke with him by phone in June.

Since his diagnosis nearly three years ago, West has filled his life with exercise and joined three dementia support groups. He spends up to 20 hours a week volunteering, at a restaurant, a food bank, a museum, and Dementia Friendly Fort Worth.

Still, West knows that his illness will progress and that this period of relative independence is limited. What will he do then? Although he has three adult children, he said, he can’t expect them to take him in and become dementia caregivers — an extraordinarily stressful, time-intensive, financially draining commitment.

“I don’t know how it’s going to work out,” he said.

Denise Baker, 80, a former CIA analyst, lives in a 100-year-old house in Asheville, North Carolina, with her dog, Yolo. She has cognitive problems related to a stroke 28 years ago, Alzheimer’s disease, and serious vision impairment that prevents her from driving. Her adult daughters live in Massachusetts and Colorado.

“I’m a very independent person, and I find that I want to do everything I possibly can for myself,” Baker told me, months before Asheville was ravaged by severe flooding. “It makes me feel better about myself.”

She was lucky in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene: Baker lives on a hill in West Asheville that was untouched by floodwaters. In the week immediately after the storm, she filled water jugs every day at an old well near her house and brought them back in a wheelbarrow.  Though her power was out, she had plenty of food and neighbors looked in on her. 

“I’m absolutely fine,” she told me on the phone in early October after a member of Dementia Friendly Western North Carolina drove to Baker’s house to check in on her, upon my request. Baker is on the steering committee of that organization.

Baker once found it hard to ask for assistance, but these days she relies routinely on friends and hired help. A few examples: Elaine takes her grocery shopping every Monday. Roberta comes once a month to help with her mail and finances. Jack mows her lawn. Helen offers care management advice. Tom, a cab driver she connected with through Buncombe County’s transportation program for seniors, is her go-to guy for errands.

Her daughter Karen in Boston has the authority to make legal and health care decisions when Baker can no longer do so. When that day comes — and Baker knows it will — she expects her long-term care insurance policy to pay for home aides or memory care. Until then, “I plan to do as much as I can in the state I’m in,” she said.

Much can be done to better assist older adults with dementia who are on their own, said Elizabeth Gould, co-director of the National Alzheimer’s and Dementia Resource Center at RTI International, a nonprofit research institute. “If health care providers would just ask ‘Who do you live with?’” she said, “that could open the door to identifying who might need more help.”

We’re eager to hear from readers about questions you’d like answered, problems you’ve been having with your care, and advice you need in dealing with the health care system. Visit kffhealthnews.org/columnists to submit your requests or tips.

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

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• Click here to watch Gounder on “CBS News 24/7”

KFF Health News chief Washington correspondent Julie Rovner discussed obesity on WAMU and NPR’s “1A” on Oct. 9.

• Click here to hear Rovner on “1A”

KFF Health News senior correspondent Arthur Allen discussed pulse oximeter bias on KCBS Radio on Oct. 7.

• Click here to hear Allen on KCBS Radio
• Read Allen’s “FDA’s Promised Guidance on Pulse Oximeters Unlikely To End Decades of Racial Bias”

KFF Health News contributor Andy Miller discussed the impact of climate change on human health and a potential new hospital in Atlanta for WUGA’s “The Georgia Health Report” on Oct. 4 and Sept. 27, respectively. He also spoke on a panel about climate and public health aired on Atlanta Video Network on Sept. 30.

• Click here to hear Miller talk climate change on “The Georgia Health Report”
• Click here to hear Miller discuss a potential new hospital in Atlanta on “The Georgia Health Report”
• Click here to watch Miller on Atlanta Video Network

KFF Health News correspondent Daniel Chang discussed vaccine misinformation in Florida on Radio Bilingüe’s “Línea Abierta” on Oct. 2.

• Click here to hear Chang on “Línea Abierta”
• Read “Florida’s New Covid Booster Guidance Is Straight-Up Misinformation,” which Chang co-authored with Arthur Allen and Sam Whitehead

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

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“I didn’t know what I was going to do, where I was going to go,” he told me, describing a period of crisis that began in 2017.

Seeking a change of venue, Rousseau moved to the mountains of North Carolina, the start of an extended period of wandering. Soon, a sense of emptiness enveloped him. He had no friends or hobbies — his work as a doctor had been all-consuming. Former colleagues didn’t get in touch, nor did he reach out.

His wife had passed away after a painful illness a decade earlier. Rousseau was estranged from one adult daughter and in only occasional contact with another. His isolation mounted as his three dogs, his most reliable companions, died.

Rousseau was completely alone — without friends, family, or a professional identity — and overcome by a sense of loss.

“I was a somewhat distinguished physician with a 60-page resume,” Rousseau, now 73, wrote in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society in May. “Now, I’m ‘no one,’ a retired, forgotten old man who dithers away the days.”

In some ways, older men living alone are disadvantaged compared with older women in similar circumstances. Research shows that men tend to have fewer friends than women and be less inclined to make new friends. Often, they’re reluctant to ask for help.

“Men have a harder time being connected and reaching out,” said Robert Waldinger, a psychiatrist who directs the Harvard Study of Adult Development, which has traced the arc of hundreds of men’s lives over a span of more than eight decades. The men in the study who fared the worst, Waldinger said, “didn’t have friendships and things they were interested in — and couldn’t find them.” He recommends that men invest in their “social fitness” in addition to their physical fitness to ensure they have satisfying social interactions.

Slightly more than 1 in every 5 men ages 65 to 74 live alone, according to 2022 Census Bureau data. That rises to nearly 1 in 4 for those 75 or older. Nearly 40% of these men are divorced, 31% are widowed, and 21% never married.

That’s a significant change from 2000, when only 1 in 6 older men lived by themselves. Longer life spans for men and rising divorce rates are contributing to the trend. It’s difficult to find information about this group — which is dwarfed by the number of women who live alone — because it hasn’t been studied in depth. But psychologists and psychiatrists say these older men can be quite vulnerable.

When men are widowed, their health and well-being tend to decline more than women’s.

“Older men have a tendency to ruminate, to get into our heads with worries and fears and to feel more lonely and isolated,” said Jed Diamond, 80, a therapist and the author of “Surviving Male Menopause” and “The Irritable Male Syndrome.”

Add in the decline of civic institutions where men used to congregate — think of the Elks or the Shriners — and older men’s reduced ability to participate in athletic activities, and the result is a lack of stimulation and the loss of a sense of belonging.

Depression can ensue, fueling excessive alcohol use, accidents, or, in the most extreme cases, suicide. Of all age groups in the United States, men over age 75 have the highest suicide rate, by far.

For this column, I spoke at length to several older men who live alone. All but two (who’d been divorced) were widowed. Their experiences don’t represent all men who live alone. But still, they’re revealing.

The first person I called was Art Koff, 88, of Chicago, a longtime marketing executive I’d known for several years. When I reached out in January, I learned that Koff’s wife, Norma, had died the year before, leaving him hobbled by grief. Uninterested in eating and beset by unremitting loneliness, Koff lost 45 pounds.

“I’ve had a long and wonderful life, and I have lots of family and lots of friends who are terrific,” Koff told me. But now, he said, “nothing is of interest to me any longer.”

“I’m not happy living this life,” he said.

Nine days later, I learned that Koff had died. His nephew, Alexander Koff, said he had passed out and was gone within a day. The death certificate cited “end stage protein calorie malnutrition” as the cause.

The transition from being coupled to being single can be profoundly disorienting for older men. Lodovico Balducci, 80, was married to his wife, Claudia, for 52 years before she died in October 2023. Balducci, a renowned physician known as the “patriarch of geriatric oncology,” wrote about his emotional reaction in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society, likening Claudia’s death to an “amputation.”

“I find myself talking to her all the time, most of the time in my head,” Balducci told me in a phone conversation. When I asked him whom he confides in, he admitted, “Maybe I don’t have any close friends.”

Disoriented and disorganized since Claudia died, he said his “anxiety has exploded.”

We spoke in late February. Two weeks later, Balducci moved from Tampa to New Orleans, to be near his son and daughter-in-law and their two teenagers.

“I am planning to help as much as possible with my grandchildren,” he said. “Life has to go on.”

Verne Ostrander, a carpenter in the small town of Willits, California, about 140 miles north of San Francisco, was reflective when I spoke with him, also in late February. His second wife, Cindy Morninglight, died four years ago after a long battle with cancer.

“Here I am, almost 80 years old — alone,” Ostrander said. “Who would have guessed?”

When Ostrander isn’t painting watercolors, composing music, or playing guitar, “I fall into this lonely state, and I cry quite a bit,” he told me. “I don’t ignore those feelings. I let myself feel them. It’s like therapy.”

Ostrander has lived in Willits for nearly 50 years and belongs to a men’s group and a couples’ group that’s been meeting for 20 years. He’s in remarkably good health and in close touch with his three adult children, who live within easy driving distance.

“The hard part of living alone is missing Cindy,” he told me. “The good part is the freedom to do whatever I want. My goal is to live another 20 to 30 years and become a better artist and get to know my kids when they get older.”

The Rev. Johnny Walker, 76, lives in a low-income apartment building in a financially challenged neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side. Twice divorced, he’s been on his own for five years. He, too, has close family connections. At least one of his several children and grandchildren checks in on him every day.

Walker says he had a life-changing religious conversion in 1993. Since then, he has depended on his faith and his church for a sense of meaning and community.

“It’s not hard being alone,” Walker said when I asked whether he was lonely. “I accept Christ in my life, and he said that he would never leave us or forsake us. When I wake up in the morning, that’s a new blessing. I just thank God that he has brought me this far.”

Waldinger recommended that men “make an effort every day to be in touch with people. Find what you love — golf, gardening, birdwatching, pickleball, working on a political campaign — and pursue it,” he said. “Put yourself in a situation where you’re going to see the same people over and over again. Because that’s the most natural way conversations get struck up and friendships start to develop.”

Rousseau, the retired South Carolina doctor, said he doesn’t think about the future much. After feeling lost for several years, he moved across the country to Jackson, Wyoming, in the summer of 2023. He embraced solitude, choosing a remarkably isolated spot to live — a 150-square-foot cabin with no running water and no bathroom, surrounded by 25,000 undeveloped acres of public and privately owned land.

“Yes, I’m still lonely, but the nature and the beauty here totally changed me and focused me on what’s really important,” he told me, describing a feeling of redemption in his solitude.

Rousseau realizes that the death of his parents and a very close friend in his childhood left him with a sense of loss that he kept at bay for most of his life. Now, he said, rather than denying his vulnerability, he’s trying to live with it. “There’s only so long you can put off dealing with all the things you’re trying to escape from.”

It’s not the life he envisioned, but it’s one that fits him, Rousseau said. He stays busy with volunteer activities — cleaning tanks and running tours at Jackson’s fish hatchery, serving as a part-time park ranger, and maintaining trails in nearby national forests. Those activities put him in touch with other people, mostly strangers, only intermittently.

What will happen to him when this way of living is no longer possible?

“I wish I had an answer, but I don’t,” Rousseau said. “I don’t see my daughters taking care of me. As far as someone else, I don’t think there’s anyone else who’s going to help me.”

We’re eager to hear from readers about questions you’d like answered, problems you’ve been having with your care, and advice you need in dealing with the health care system. Visit kffhealthnews.org/columnists to submit your requests or tips.

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

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His mother, Deborah Melvin-Muse, doesn’t display photos of him, the second-youngest of six children. His brother’s birthday was the day after the crash — and he hasn’t celebrated it since. An older brother carries a deep sense of guilt because he was looking after John that morning.

And Cheek Road, in a predominantly Black neighborhood, still lacks sidewalks for children to safely make their way to the local elementary school.

This, despite the years community activists and academic researchers have spent pleading with city leaders for safety improvements along the busy thoroughfare with sloping shoulders where John died. Drivers zoom along Cheek Road in the Merrick-Moore neighborhood, which connects downtown Durham to industrial sites and newer suburban developments.

Melvin-Muse moved her family out of the neighborhood after John’s death. “Now when I go down there, I look and see, you know, nothing really changed,” she said. “It still looks the same.”

Cheek Road has been “identified as needing improvements” by a local metropolitan planning board, said Erin Convery, Durham’s transportation planning manager, in an email.

“The infrastructure that exists is not well implemented,” concluded a May preliminary report produced by University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill students who collected data on speeding, noise, and air quality along Cheek Road. “Poorly marked crosswalks and inadequately positioned bus stops show a need for safety and accessibility improvements,” the report said.

Data was difficult to collect because “there were areas we didn’t want to get out of our cars because of the dangerous conditions,” said Ari Schwartz, one of the researchers.

In the 1940s, Black military veterans returning from World War II helped establish the Merrick-Moore neighborhood. Since then, residents say they have endured everything from noisy industrial trucks and speeding cars to illegal tire dumping and air pollution that threaten their health and safety.

Pedestrian deaths are highest in formerly redlined areas, neighborhoods where Black people lived because of discriminatory federal mortgage lending practices, research shows. The lack of sidewalks, damaged walkways, and roads with high speed limits are concentrated in these neighborhoods, studies show, creating a little-recognized public health crisis.

Governments invest in roads for people driving through such neighborhoods, but not in safety measures — like sidewalks, crosswalks, traffic circles, and speed bumps — that protect people living in them, researchers and advocates say.

“People will talk about vulnerable communities as if there is a problem with these communities, when in fact it is our systems and policies that have created these failings,” said Darya Minovi, a senior analyst at the Union of Concerned Scientists who studies environmental health and justice.

While the share of Black residents in Merrick-Moore has dropped in recent decades, data shows the neighborhood remains more than 80% Black or Hispanic and households there are typically less well-off than in other parts of the city.

“Local government takes money from the neighborhood but does not invest in it,” said Bonita Green, head of the Merrick-Moore Community Development Corporation and a former City Council candidate.

Green said the community group had documented more than 100 auto crashes along Cheek Road during a recent four-year span and at least three pedestrian deaths before 2020. In this fast-growing city of roughly 300,000, students at Merrick-Moore Elementary and others at a nearby high school sometimes walk along the road — where traffic is heavy, drivers are known to disregard the 25-mph speed limit, and the shoulders slope steeply.

When longtime residents like Ponsella Brown see kids walking there or hear about another accident, they remember the death of John Parker, who was in first grade.

“I just cringe,” said Brown, who worked as an administrative assistant at Merrick-Moore Elementary when John died. “Every time it comes up, it’s like really vivid in my mind.”

On the day John died, someone rushed into the office and said a child had been hit by a car on Cheek Road, recalled Brown, who said she ran to the scene.

“I remember the way his head was turned. I remember the spot of blood on his face. Like one speck of blood,” said Brown, who also works for the Merrick-Moore Community Development Corporation and is now a counselor at another school.

Traffic on Cheek Road is expected to increase as the population grows in Durham and surrounding areas, according to a separate April report from UNC graduate students. It noted that during the morning school drop-off time, many cars driving on Cheek Road don’t observe the posted speed limits.

Under an equity program meant to reverse the harm done to communities of color, Convery said, Durham officials are considering traffic-calming measures, including traffic circles, speed cushions, and high-visibility crosswalks.

“We’re open to future conversations that will help us achieve zero traffic deaths and injuries,” Convery said.

Yet a 2017 plan that prioritized more than 600 sidewalk projects based on safety, equity, and demand did not include Merrick-Moore Elementary School on Cheek Road, she said.

A strike by Durham school bus drivers this year only heightened concerns about the lack of safe walking routes for the 650 students who attend the elementary school, according to the April report.

Melvin-Muse, now 67, was at work when she got a call that John had been struck by a truck in front of their house. Before she left home that late May morning in 1989, she put her older kids in charge of the younger ones. They passed the time before school riding bicycles near their house, a few blocks from Merrick-Moore Elementary School, when the accident occurred.

John died two months shy of his 7th birthday from “massive head injuries,” according to The (Raleigh) News & Observer, which wrote about his death on Cheek Road at the time. John was buried in Markham Memorial Gardens, according to his obituary in The (Durham) Herald-Sun.

Melvin-Muse said his death sent the family into a tailspin of grief, anger, and regret.

“It caused a big rip in the family,” Melvin-Muse said.

Melvin-Muse and John’s father later divorced. She said she paid for therapy for her other kids, but they still got in trouble at school and two of her children ended up living in a home for kids with behavioral health issues. “It was just a bad time,” she said.

Years after the accident, Melvin-Muse said, she worked up the courage to call the driver who had hit her son. When he answered, he didn’t recognize her name, or John’s, fueling her rage, she recalled.

“I wanted revenge. An eye-for-an-eye kind of thing,” she said. “And I plotted to take him out the same way my son was taken out.”

She went so far as to get a job where he worked, the Durham County tax department, only to find he had left a week before she started.

“God knows what was in my heart and what I planned on doing,” Melvin-Muse said. “God moved him out of that place before I got there.”

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New laws to curb aggressive hospital billing, to expand charity care for lower-income patients, and to rein in debt collectors have been enacted in more than 20 states since 2021.

Democrats championed most measures. But the legislative efforts often passed with Republican support. In a few states, GOP lawmakers led the push to expand patient protections.

“Regardless of their party, regardless of their background … any significant medical procedure can place people into bankruptcy,” Florida House Speaker Paul Renner, a conservative Republican, said in an interview. “This is a real issue.”

Renner, who has shepherded controversial measures to curb abortion rights and expand the death penalty in Florida, this year also led an effort to limit when hospitals could send patients to collections. It garnered unanimous support in the Florida Legislature.

Bipartisan measures in other states have gone further, barring unpaid medical bills from consumer credit reports and restricting medical providers from placing liens on patients’ homes.

About 100 million people in the U.S. are burdened by some form of health care debt, forcing millions to drain savings, take out second mortgages, or cut back on food and other essentials, KFF Health News has found. A quarter of those with debt owed more than $5,000 in 2022.

“Republicans in the legislature seem more open to protecting people from medical debt than from other kinds of debt,” said Marceline White, executive director of Economic Action Maryland, which helped lead efforts in that state to stop medical providers from garnishing the wages of low-income patients. That bill drew unanimous support from Democrats and Republicans

“There seems to be broad agreement that you shouldn’t lose your home or your life savings because you got ill,” White said. “That’s just a basic level of fairness.”

Medical debt remains a more polarizing issue in Washington, where the Biden administration has pushed several efforts to tackle the issue, including a proposed rule by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, or CFPB, to bar all medical debt from consumer credit reports.

Vice President Kamala Harris, who is spearheading the administration’s medical debt campaign, has touted the work on the presidential campaign trail while calling for new efforts to retire health care debt for millions of Americans.

Former President Donald Trump doesn’t typically talk about medical debt while stumping. But congressional Republicans have blasted the CFPB proposal, which House Financial Services Committee Chairman Patrick McHenry (R-N.C.) called “regulatory overreach.”

Nevertheless, pollster Michael Perry, who has surveyed Americans extensively about health care, said that conservative voters typically wary of government seem to view medical debt through another lens. “I think they feel it’s so stacked against them that they, as patients, don’t really have a voice,” he said. “The partisan divides we normally see just aren’t there.”

When Arizona consumer advocates put a measure on the ballot in 2022 to cap interest rates on medical debt, 72% of voters backed the initiative.

Similarly, nationwide polls have found more than 80% of Republicans and Democrats back limits on medical debt collections and stronger requirements that hospitals provide financial aid to patients.

Perry surfaced something else that may be driving bipartisan interest in medical debt: growing mistrust as health systems get bigger and act more like major corporations. “Hospitals aren’t what they used to be,” he said. “That is making it clear that profit and greed are driving lots of the decision-making.”

Not every state effort to address medical debt has garnered broad bipartisan support.

When Colorado last year became the first state to bar medical debt from residents’ credit reports, just one Republican lawmaker backed the measure. A Minnesota bill that did the same thing this year passed without a single GOP vote.

But elsewhere, similarly tough measures have sailed through.

A 2024 Illinois bill to bar credit reporting for medical debt passed unanimously in the state Senate and cleared the House of Representatives 109-2. In Rhode Island, not a single GOP lawmaker opposed a credit reporting ban.

And when the California Legislature took up a 2021 bill to require hospitals in the state to provide more financial assistance to patients, it passed 72-0 in the state Assembly and 39-0 in the Senate.

Even some conservative states, such as Oklahoma, have taken steps, albeit more modest. A new law there bars medical providers from pursuing patients for debts if the provider has not publicly posted its prices. The measure, signed by the state’s Republican governor, passed unanimously.

New Mexico state Sen. Steve Neville, a Republican who backed legislation to restrict aggressive collections against low-income patients in that state, said he was simply being pragmatic.

“There was not much advantage to spending a lot of time trying to do collections on indigent patients,” Neville said. “If they don’t have the money, they don’t have the money.” Three of 12 GOP senators supported the measure.

North Carolina state Treasurer Dale Folwell, a Republican who as a state legislator spearheaded a 2012 effort to ban same-sex marriage, said all elected officials, no matter their party, should care about what medical debt is doing to patients.

“It doesn’t matter if, as a conservative, I’m saying these things, or if Bernie Sanders is saying these things,” Folwell said, referencing Vermont’s liberal U.S. senator. “At the end of the day, it should be all our jobs to advocate for the invisible.”

KFF Health News is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues and is one of the core operating programs at KFF—an independent source of health policy research, polling, and journalism. Learn more about KFF.

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