Tagged Nursing Homes

For Seniors, COVID-19 Sets Off A Pandemic Of Despair

As states relax coronavirus restrictions, older adults are advised, in most cases, to keep sheltering in place. But for some, the burden of isolation and uncertainty is becoming hard to bear.

This “stay at home awhile longer” advice recognizes that older adults are more likely to become critically ill and die if infected with the virus. At highest risk are seniors with underlying medical conditions such as heart, lung or autoimmune diseases.

Yet after two months at home, many want to go out into the world again. It is discouraging for them to see people of other ages resume activities. They feel excluded. Still, they want to be safe.

“It’s been really lonely,” said Kathleen Koenen, 77, who moved to Atlanta in July after selling her house in South Carolina. She’s living in a 16th-floor apartment while waiting to move into a senior housing community, which has had cases of COVID-19.

“I had thought that would be a new community for me, but everyone there is isolated,” Koenen said. “Wherever we go, we’re isolated in this situation. And the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes.”

(Georgia residents age 65 and older are required to shelter in place through June 12, along with other vulnerable populations.)

Her daughter, Karestan Koenen, is a professor of psychiatric epidemiology at Harvard University’s T.H. Chan School of Public Health. During a Facebook Live event this month, she said her mother had felt in March and April that “everyone was in [this crisis] together.” But now, that sense of communality has disappeared.

Making it worse, some seniors fear that their lives may be seen as expendable in the rush to reopen the country.

“[Older adults] are wondering if their lives are going to end shortly for reasons out of their control,” said Dr. Linda Fried, dean of the Mailman School of Public Health at Columbia University, in a university publication. “They’re wondering if they’ll be able to get the care they need. And most profoundly, they’re wondering if they are going to be cast out of society. If their lives have value.”

On the positive side, resilience is common in this age group. Virtually all older adults have known adversity and loss; many have a “this too shall pass” attitude. And research confirms that they tend to be adept at regulating their reactions to stressful life events — a useful skill in this pandemic.

“If anything, I’ve seen a very strong will to live and acceptance of whatever one’s fate might be,” said Dr. Marc Agronin, a geriatric psychiatrist and vice president of behavioral health at Miami Jewish Health, a 20-acre campus with independent living, assisted living, nursing home care and other services.

Several times a week, psychologists, nurses and social workers are calling residents on the campus, doing brief mental health checks and referring anyone who needs help for follow-up attention. There’s “a lot of loneliness,” Agronin said, but many seniors are “already habituated to being alone or are doing OK with contact [only] from staff.”

Still, “if this goes on much longer,” he said, “I think we’ll start to see less engagement, more withdrawal, more isolation — a greater toll of disconnection.”

Erin Cassidy-Eagle, a clinical associate professor of psychiatry at Stanford University, shares that concern.

From mid-March to mid-April, all her conversations with older patients revolved around several questions: “How do we keep from getting COVID-19? How am I going to get my needs met? What’s going to happen to me?”

But more recently, Cassidy-Eagle said, “older adults have realized the course of being isolated is going to be much longer for them than for everyone else. And sadness, loneliness and some hopelessness have set in.”

She tells of a woman in her 70s who moved into independent living in a continuing care community because she wanted to build a strong social network. Since March, activities and group dining have been canceled. The community’s director recently announced that restrictions would remain until 2021.

“This woman had a tendency to be depressed, but she was doing OK,” Cassidy-Eagle said. “Now she’s incredibly depressed and she feels trapped.”

Especially vulnerable during this pandemic are older adults who have suffered previous trauma. Dr. Gary Kennedy, director of the division of geriatric psychiatry at Montefiore Medical Center in New York City, has seen this happen to several patients, including a Holocaust survivor in her 90s.

This woman lives with her son, who got COVID-19. Then she did as well. “It’s like going back to the terror of the [concentration] camp,” Kennedy said, “an agonizing emotional flashback.”

Jennifer Olszewski, an expert in gerontology at Drexel University, works in three nursing homes in the Philadelphia area. As is true across most of the country, no visitors are allowed and residents are mostly confined to their rooms.

“I’m seeing a lot of patients with pronounced situational depression,” she said — “decreased appetite, decreased energy, a lack of motivation and overall feelings of sadness.”

“If this goes on for months longer, I think we’ll see more people with functional decline, mental health decline and failure to thrive,” Olszewski said.

Some are simply giving up. Anne Sansevero, a geriatric care manager in New York City, has a 93-year-old client who plunged into despair after her assisted living facility went on lockdown in mid-March. Antidepressant and anti-anxiety medications have not helped.

“She’s telling her family and her health aides ‘life’s not worth living. Please help me end it,’” Sansevero said. “And she’s stopped eating and getting out of bed.”

The woman’s attentive adult children are doing all they can to comfort their mother at a distance and are feeling acute anguish.

What can be done to ease this sort of psychic pain? Kennedy of Montefiore has several suggestions.

“Don’t try to counter the person’s perception and offer false reassurance. Instead, say, yes, this is bad, no doubt about it. It’s understandable to be angry, to be sad. Then provide a sense of companionship. Tell the person, ‘I can’t change this situation but I can be with you. I’ll call tomorrow or in a few days and check in with you again.’”

“Try to explore what made life worth living before the person started feeling this way,” she said. “Remind them of ways they’ve coped with adversity in the past.”

If someone is religiously-inclined, encourage them to reach out to a pastor or a rabbi. “Tell them, I’d like to pray together or read this Bible passage and discuss it,” Kennedy said. “Comforting person-to-person interaction is a very effective form of support.”

Do not count on older adults to own up to feeling depressed. “Some people will acknowledge that, yes, they’ve been feeling sad, but others may describe physical symptoms — fatigue, difficulty sleeping, difficulty concentrating,” said Julie Lutz, a geropsychologist and postdoctoral fellow at the University of Rochester.

If someone has expressed frequent concerns about being a burden to other people or has become notably withdrawn, that’s a worrisome sign, Lutz said.

In nursing homes, ask for a referral to a psychologist or social worker, especially for a loved one who’s recovering from a COVID hospitalization.

“Almost everybody that I’m seeing has some kind of adjustment disorder because their whole worlds have been turned upside down,” said Eleanor Feldman Barbera, an elder care psychologist in New York City. “Talking to a psychologist when they first come in can help put people on a good trajectory.”

The National Alliance on Mental Illness has compiled a COVID-19 information and resource guide, available at https://www.nami.org/covid-19-guide. The American Psychological Association has created a webpage devoted to this topic and recently wrote about finding local mental health resources. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration has a 24-hour hotline, 1-800-662-4357. And the national suicide prevention hotline for those in acute distress is 1-800-273-8255.

Related Topics

Aging Navigating Aging Public Health

My Mother Died Of The Coronavirus. It’s Time She Was Counted.

We recently received the death certificate for my mother, who died May 4 in an assisted living facility near New York City. “Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome” was the primary cause. And the secondary — no surprise — was “suspected COVID-19.”

The White House, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the states are debating the proper theoretical (and politically beneficial) way to tally COVID-19 deaths. One group, led by President Donald Trump, feels the current tally is too high. The other, including Dr. Anthony Fauci, the nation’s top infectious disease expert, thinks it may be an underestimate.

Though my mother almost certainly died of COVID-19 (she met the clinical case definition), her death was, as far as I can tell, not counted — and certainly will not be counted if the White House gets its way. Unfortunately, counting COVID deaths and cases has been turned into a battle of semantics, chance, bureaucracy, politics and immediate circumstance, rather than science.

And we are fooling ourselves: Not having an accurate, standard, honest, nationwide way to tally COVID cases will only add to the current tragedy.

First of all, states, agencies and workplaces are all counting differently, sometimes bending, I suspect, to political convenience: At first both the CDC and New York state required a positive test to count as a COVID death. Later, each decided to add, for some purposes, cases from senior care facilities in which “presumed” or “assumed” COVID-19 was listed on a death certificate, or when a doctor deemed it was the probable cause of death.

But what of “suspected COVID-19,” the term on my mom’s death certificate? Almost certainly not. Jill Montag, a spokesperson for the New York Department of Health, explained: “The case count for deaths of residents in nursing homes and adult care facilities includes presumed (as determined by a physician) COVID-19 deaths.”

And how did the hospice doctor, who had never physically seen my mother, determine what word to use? Did she mean to draw a distinction between “presumed” and “suspected”? As a doctor who filled out these forms during the AIDS epidemic in New York, I know it’s often a quick and arbitrary process, not bound by rules; generally, the primary cause is listed as cardiopulmonary or respiratory arrest, with secondary and tertiary causes after that. If a patient also had pneumonia and diabetes, COVID-19 might not even make the cut.

Indeed, on May 16, Colorado said it would not count nearly 300 people who had tested positive but did not have COVID-19 listed on a death certificate.

Let me explain how the coronavirus crisis played out in my mother’s final month of life: Shortly after she turned 96 in March, she spiked a temperature of 102, raising alarms. Although the facility had gone into lockdown weeks earlier, we knew it had several confirmed cases among residents. The doctor first checked her urine and skin. All were clear. But a chest X-ray showed bilateral pneumonia, and the next day she had a dry cough. Exposure+fever+cough+bilateral infiltrates = COVID-19.

Had she gone to a hospital and needed admission, she would have been tested for COVID-19 and counted. But she didn’t want aggressive treatment, such as a ventilator, and she was not in pain or struggling to breathe. So she stayed in her apartment.

Because my mother was “presumed COVID,” the geriatrician started standard outpatient COVID treatment: azithromycin and supplemental oxygen, as needed.

But the third reason she was not tested is, from a public health standpoint, disturbing: Many of the people who might have mandated or performed a COVID test at that point do not really want to know if patients like her have the disease.

Not testing or transparently reporting COVID cases is a great way to keep numbers low. As Trump said when he balked at having American passengers come ashore from an infected cruise ship on March 7, “I like the numbers being where they are.”

For states, avoiding robust testing and reporting is a good way to make sure new cases decrease for 14 days (a CDC recommendation for reopening). But it deprives those same states of crucial information for rational decisions.

The data scientist who designed Florida’s COVID reporting system was fired recently because, she said, she had made it too transparent for her superiors in the state’s health department.

For assisted living facilities, nursing homes and other businesses, there is pressure not to know. Who wants to be known as a place where 20%, 30% or 50% of the residents or workers have gotten COVID-19? With tremendous pressure to resume business as usual, those with high numbers are pilloried and branded — even though many facilities (including my mom’s) did what seemed like a heroic job trying to keep their residents safe and even feeling loved when their real families could not be there.

By not testing residents like my mom, her facility could report for weeks that it had only four positive cases on the premises — even though that might not reflect the underlying reality.

What we need instead is a single and clear national testing strategy outlining who must be tested, when and with which test.

On the morning of March 9, the last day I saw my mother, the facility had gone into lockdown, unknown to me. The director, kindly, brought my mom out to the garden so we could have a socially distant visit, before an unknown length of confinement.

Two weeks later she was “suspected COVID,” in isolation and on hospice care. I didn’t pester for an official test then. I was simply grateful for the compassionate care the staff was clearly struggling to provide: the daily updates from the director; the texts and calls quickly answered from the geriatrician; the sweet message left by the head nurse on her floor, whom she loved, reporting on her mood and condition.

The day after my mother died, I gently asked her physician whether she had ever been tested. The facility had done some internal sampling, but my mother was not among those subjects.

My mom was 96, frail and declining, though she had no chronic conditions per se. COVID-19 was not a terrible way for her to pass. But that doesn’t mean her death shouldn’t be counted for what it was. Cataloging deaths like hers would make our “numbers” look worse, yes. But it would also greatly add to our knowledge of how this virus spreads and affects patients, as we try to develop a coherent strategic reaction.

My mother had a long and meaningful life. Being counted would give her premature death meaning as well.

Related Topics

Public Health

Crossing Paths: A Baby and His Grandfather

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

In a photo essay, Thad Russell and Josephine Sittenfeld chronicle the end of life of a beloved father and the beginning of life of their new baby.

Nov. 20 – Thad

I’ve left my very pregnant wife, Jo, and our little daughter, Polly, to drive up to northern Vermont to retrieve my 86-year-old father and bring him back to Providence.

But when I get there, Dad is hunched over in his chair in the living room. He looks thin and tired, unshaven, confused, cold, short of breath.

In a weak voice he says that his lungs aren’t working and he can’t get enough air. With his arm hanging limply over my shoulder I move him toward his bedroom. I take off his shoes and glasses, turn off his light, and kiss him goodnight. I go to bed shaken to the core.

Dad grew up on a farm, played football in high school, went to M.I.T. to study engineering and architecture, and had a long career designing and building houses.

He became an expert skier back in the 1950s when downhill skiing was rebellious and dangerous.

And now, maybe for the first time ever, he doesn’t want to get out of bed.

I call my friend Bill, an emergency room doctor. He tells me quietly and firmly, “Call 911 and get him to a hospital ASAP. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

This is the last time my father will ever see his land or be in his own house or sleep in his own bed. In fact, it is the last time he will sleep in any bed that isn’t in a hospital or nursing home. It’s the last time he will live without the assistance of a walker or a wheelchair, a professional caregiver or an adult diaper.

At the hospital, Dad’s cardiologist puts it bluntly. “Your father needs a new heart, and he’s not going to get one. I’ve used up my bag of tricks. Have you thought about hospice?”

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

Jo

That tiny, rapidly fluttering shape amid the gray static — even though I’ve been through ultrasounds before with my first child, the evidence of the life inside me is still awe-inspiring. I feel excited and tearful.

Nov. 28 – Thad

Dad’s vital signs are bad. He has trouble breathing and now needs oxygen full-time. It’s Thanksgiving morning, and Dad is taken by ambulance from the nursing home to the Miriam Hospital. I meet him in the emergency room, abandoning Jo to cook her first turkey and prepare for a house full of in-laws. The emergency room staff does a battery of tests and confirms what we already know: Dad is suffering from late-stage heart failure.

But after a few hours, he’s released, and I bring him home for Thanksgiving dinner.

Dec. 25 – Thad

Amazingly, Dad is able to be at our house on Christmas Day. He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, or even Jesus for that matter. But he does like a good turkey dinner.

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

Jan. 9 – Jo

I wake up at exactly midnight with contractions. Around 6 a.m. the contractions get closer together. Polly wakes up and thinks it’s funny that I’m mooing like a cow. Thad and I take Polly to a neighbor’s house and head to the hospital.

I have another killer contraction in the lobby. I’m on all fours on the floor, moaning. People are staring.

Once we finally get to the room, I get into the tub. It feels good to be in the water, but the contractions are painful and intense — after the tub I’m on a ball, then on the bed, then standing, then on the toilet, then back on the bed.

Thad is on the phone in the next room trying to coordinate a urology appointment for his dad when all of a sudden things intensify. The baby’s head starts crowning, and it burns like hell. The nurse runs out to get Thad. And with a few more pushes our baby is out.

When they hand him to me, he’s big and grayish, but pretty quickly turns pink.

It’s intense and beautiful and crazy and amazing.

Baby Curtis lies on my chest, still connected through the umbilical cord, and Thad and I just take him in.

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

Jan. 13 – Thad

Dad is excited to meet his first grandson  —  and a little confused. He keeps calling him Matt, and asks when we have to give him back.

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

Jan. 24 – Thad

A nurse calls to tell me that Dad has fallen. I meet him in the E.R., again. He looks pretty beat up and has a big gash on the top of his head.

The test results worry the doctors.

And yet he survives  —  for days, then weeks, then months.

I visit Dad as often as I can and for as long as I can. I pick him up and we go on little field trips: to doctors’ appointments, to get new eyeglasses, to get his hearing aids cleaned, or to our house for dinner.

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

Occasionally, I find Dad asleep in his room, his face lit by the light of CNN Headline News. Some nights I stay with him for quite a while, rubbing his feet, watching him breathe and wondering what he is dreaming about.

I feel conflicted  —  it’s not that I want Dad to die, but I sometimes wonder if this is the way he ever wanted to live.

Dad can’t walk, get dressed or complete most basic daily routines without assistance, but his spirits are good.

In July, Dad has a bad fall, spends another week in the hospital. I call my siblings and tell them it’s time. We’re going to start hospice.

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell

Aug. 8 – Jo and Thad

Dear Family & Friends –

We are sad to report that Sam died Friday evening. He was 87 years old.

For the past year, Dad continually impressed us with his dignity, toughness and overriding will to live. He  —  and we  —  were rewarded with some distinctly good days that we will never forget.

But last week, he and his heart decided it was time. He retired early one evening, declaring that his bed felt “wonderful,” and started his long sleep.

In the end, he passed quietly and gracefully, surrounded by his family (including his bouncy and bubbly baby grandson Curtis, who played happily at the foot of his bed), and a wonderfully compassionate team of rotating attendants and nurses.

Ever the solar animal, he waited until just after sunset to pass.

With love and thanks,

Thad & Jo

Photo

Credit Josephine Sittenfeld and Thad Russell


Thad Russell and Josephine Sittenfeld are photographers who live in Providence, R.I., and teach at the Rhode Island School of Design. More of their work can be found at thadrussell.com and josittenfeld.com.

Finding Ways to Keep Patients at Home

Photo

Credit Getty Images

My patient was a proudly elegant woman in her 70s who lived alone. Her Parkinson’s disease had so severely restricted her ability to move that it would take her hours to get dressed in the morning. And leaving the house was virtually impossible, so she had to rely on neighbors and friends from her church community for help with shopping.

She was adamant that she wouldn’t want aggressive treatment to keep her alive. She’d been hospitalized many times, and she told me she wouldn’t want to take a hospital bed that would be better used for someone else. So she dutifully completed an advance directive that made her wishes clear. It said that she would not want to be kept alive on a breathing machine, and that she wouldn’t want cardiopulmonary resuscitation if her heart stopped. She also wouldn’t want to be fed through a tube if she was no longer able to eat. What was most important to her, though, was staying at home and avoiding a nursing home.

As a palliative care physician, I always urge my patients to complete advance directives. These are legal documents that tell doctors and family members what treatment they do and don’t want if they’re ever unable to make decisions for themselves. That’s important, because if I don’t know what my patients want, the default is to do everything to keep them alive, which typically results in unnecessary and costly treatment. Indeed, one of the most often-cited arguments for advance directives is the fact that 25 percent of Medicare spending is for people in the last year of life.

When my patient developed a cough and a fever, likely a result of pneumonia, she became too confused to make decisions for herself. Thanks to her advance directive, her family knew that she didn’t want aggressive treatment, and we knew that she wanted to stay home. So we arranged for short-term daily nursing visits and enough support so that, with additional help from her family, she was able to remain at home as she wanted.

I thought that she would get worse without aggressive treatment in the hospital, and that we would enroll her in hospice, so I was surprised when she began to improve. Soon she was able to make decisions for herself and even returned to the same level of independence that she’d had before she became sick. That’s when it became obvious to me that advance directives have their limits.

My patient lived, as many people with chronic, serious illnesses do, on a thin ledge of independence. The smallest nudge — a few missed medication doses, the loss of just a little support — left her entirely vulnerable. In my patient’s case, that nudge came two months later, when her neighbors ran into financial problems and their daughter, who had been doing the grocery shopping for my patient, had to take an after-school job. My patient valued her independence more than anything, so whenever her neighbors and her out-of-state family checked on her, or when we called her, she told us all that she was fine.

For three weeks, my patient subsisted on nothing but white rice, because that was all she had in the house. When her grand niece called us and asked us to check on her, we sent a social worker and a nurse to visit her. We found her housebound, surrounded by garbage, with no clean laundry and no toilet paper.

Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t do enough to keep her safe at home, so she went to live in a nursing home, where she spent the last two months of her life. An advance directive had helped her stay out of the hospital, as she had wanted. And perhaps it even made a bed available for someone who needed it more, as she’d hoped. But that piece of paper didn’t help her to live out her final months with the sort of comfort and dignity that she deserved.

When we talk about advance directives and reducing costly and unnecessary treatment at the end of life, we should also be talking about ways we can provide more support. We need to make sure that people like my patient have access to the kinds of care that can help them remain safely and comfortably at home.

Now when I help my patients complete an advance directive that defines the treatment they don’t want, we also discuss what support they’ll need in the future. I talk with my patients and their families about what’s going to be necessary to keep them safe and comfortable in their homes today, and next month and — if they’re lucky — for the next few years.

Those sorts of discussions are essential, but they’re not enough. We also need to revise the way we think about advance directives. Advance directives help reduce health care costs at the end of life by avoiding aggressive treatment, but that’s not the most compelling argument for them. It’s not enough to reduce what we spend on aggressive treatment at the end of life; we also need to spend those resources in better ways.

For someone around my patient’s age, the average cost of a hospitalization is about $13,000. So Medicare should have been willing to spend $13,000 to keep her safe and comfortable at home. That sum would have been more than enough to pay for a visiting nurse to continue to check on her after she recovered from pneumonia and a home health aide to help her with bathing and dressing. And it could have paid the girl next door to do her grocery shopping so a frail elderly woman didn’t need to subsist on white rice because it was the only food she had.

We should have been able to provide all of that help. My patient was adamant that she didn’t want to spend her last days of life in a hospital, taking up a bed that someone else could use. Let’s make sure that when people like her forgo costly treatment at the end of life, they get something in return.

Dr. David Casarett is a professor at the University of Pennsylvania Perelman School of Medicine and the author of “Stoned: A Doctor’s Case for Medical Marijuana.”

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Using the Arts to Promote Healthy Aging

Photo

Credit Paul Rogers

Throughout the country, the arts are pumping new life into the bodies and minds of the elderly.

Two summers ago, a remarkable documentary called “Alive Inside” showed how much music can do for the most vulnerable older Americans, especially those whose memories and personalities are dimmed by dementia.

The film opens with a 90-year-old African-American woman living in a nursing home being asked about her life growing up in the South. All she could say in response to specific questions was, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

But once she was fitted with an iPod that played the music she had enjoyed in her youth, her smile grew wide and her eyes sparkled as vivid memories flooded her consciousness. She was now able to describe in detail the music and dances she had relished with her young friends.

At another nursing home, a man named George with advanced dementia refused to speak or even raise his head when asked his name. He too was outfitted with an iPod, and suddenly George came back to life, talking freely, wiggling to the music in his wheelchair and singing along with the songs he once loved.

The Music and Memory project that provided the iPods was the inspiration of a volunteer music lover named Dan Cohen, and has since spread to many nursing homes and facilities for the aged around the country. Alas, not nearly enough of them. Medicaid, which fully covers the cost of potent drugs that can turn old people into virtual zombies, has no policy that would pay for far less expensive music players. So the vast majority of nursing home residents who might benefit are deprived of this joyous experience.

Nonetheless, across the country, the arts in their myriad forms are enhancing the lives and health of older people — and not just those with dementia— helping to keep many men and women out of nursing homes and living independently. With grants from organizations like the National Endowment for the Arts and the National Institute on Aging, incredibly dedicated individuals with backgrounds in the arts have established programs that utilize activities as diverse as music, dance, painting, quilting, singing, poetry writing and storytelling to add meaning, joy and a vibrant sense of well-being to the lives of older people.

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Walter Hurlburt, 90, decorates rooms at the Burbank Senior Artists Colony, a retirement facility where he lives.

Walter Hurlburt, 90, decorates rooms at the Burbank Senior Artists Colony, a retirement facility where he lives.Credit

Through a program called EngAGE in Southern California, 90-year-old Walter Hurlburt, who once made a living as a sign painter, now decorates rooms at the Burbank Senior Artists Colony, a retirement facility where he lives, with lovely oil paintings he creates from pictures he finds in magazines and books. Mr. Hurlburt regularly attends classes on various art forms at the residence where, he told me, “I’m always learning something new.”

His buddy at the residence, Sally Connors, an 82-year-old former schoolteacher, surprised herself by writing and directing a screenplay that was performed by fellow residents. Then, with Dolly Brittan, 79, a former early childhood educator, they both surprised themselves by writing their life stories in rap and performing their rap memoirs on a stage for at-risk teenagers they were mentoring.

Both she and Ms. Connors said their newfound involvement with the arts has made them feel decades younger.

Tim Carpenter, the executive director of EngAGE, is now working to expand this approach to senior living in other cities, including Minneapolis, Portland, Ore., and Raleigh, N.C. His goal is to create a nationwide network of programs for seniors that keep them healthy, happy and active through lifelong learning in every conceivable art form, enabling them to live independently as long as possible.

As in Burbank, Mr. Carpenter is promoting the development of arts colonies in senior residences where residents can study and create art in all its forms and where they can see their artistic creations come to life on a stage.

Dr. Gene D. Cohen, a gerontologist at George Washington University who died in 2009, was a staunch advocate for the mental and physical benefits of creativity for the elderly. He directed the Creativity and Aging Study, a controlled study sponsored by the National Endowment for the Arts at three sites, including Elders Share the Arts in Brooklyn, N.Y., that showed after only a year that the health of elders in the cultural groups stabilized or improved in contrast to a decline among those in the control groups.

In a film called “Do Not Go Gently,” Dr. Cohen, who founded the Creativity Discovery Corps, featured an architect who, at age 96, submitted a plan for redeveloping the World Trade Center site. Dr. Cohen pointed out that creativity challenges the mind and results in the formation of new dendrites, the brain’s communication channels.

At 26 different facilities in the Washington, D.C., area, 15 teaching artists work with seniors in centers where they live or visit regularly. Janine Tursini, director of Arts for the Aging in Rockville, Md., seeks to “get at what best jazzes up older adults.” Groups of about 20 older adults get involved in what she calls “art making” — music, dance, painting or storytelling.

Ms. Tursini said the N.E.A.-sponsored study showed that when older people become involved in culturally enriching programs, they experience a decline in depression, are less likely to fall and pay fewer visits to the doctor. In another study among people with Alzheimer’s disease, a sculpting program improved the participants’ mood and decreased their agitation even after the program ended.

“The arts open people up, giving them new vehicles for self-expression, a chance to tell their stories,” Ms. Tursini said. “The programs capitalize on assets that remain, not on what’s been lost.”

Naomi Goldberg Haas created the Dances for a Variable Population program to get older adults dancing. People who haven’t moved in years, even those who can no longer stand, can participate. Young professionals and older dancers go to various sites — libraries, churches, senior centers — where elders gather and encourage them to “move more.”

“Movement enriches the quality of their lives,” Ms. Haas said. “It’s absolutely healing. Balance, mobility, strength — everything improves.”

Social engagement, which nearly all these programs provide, has been repeatedly found in major population studies to prolong life and enhance healthy aging. Clinically, the programs have been linked to lowered blood pressure, reduced levels of stress hormones, and increased levels of the “happiness hormones” that are responsible for a runner’s high.

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