The assisted-living facility in Edina, Minn., where Jean H. Peters and her siblings moved their mother in 2011, looked lovely. “But then you start uncovering things,” Ms. Peters said.

Her mother, Jackie Hourigan, widowed and developing memory problems at 82, too often was still in bed when her children came to see her in mid-morning.

“She wasn’t being toileted, so her pants would be soaked,” said Ms. Peters, 69, a retired nurse-practitioner in Bloomington, Minn. “They didn’t give her water. They didn’t get her up for meals.” She dwindled to 94 pounds.

Most ominously, Ms. Peters said, “we noticed bruises on her arm that we couldn’t account for.” Complaints to administrators — in person, by phone and by email — brought “tons of excuses.”

So Ms. Peters bought an inexpensive camera at Best Buy. She and her sisters installed it atop the refrigerator in her mother’s apartment, worrying that the facility might evict her if the staff noticed it.

Monitoring from an app on their phones, the family saw Ms. Hourigan going hours without being changed. They saw and heard an aide loudly berating her and handling her roughly as she helped her dress.

They watched as another aide awakened her for breakfast and left the room even though Ms. Hourigan was unable to open the heavy apartment door and go to the dining room. “It was traumatic to learn that we were right,” Ms. Peters said.

In 2016, after filing a police report and a lawsuit, and after her mother’s death, Ms. Peters helped found Elder Voice Advocates, which lobbied for a state law permitting cameras in residents’ rooms in nursing homes and assisted-living facilities. Minnesota passed it in 2019.

Though they remain a contentious subject, cameras in care facilities are gaining ground. By 2020, eight states had joined Minnesota in enacting laws allowing them, according to the National Consumer Voice for Quality Long-Term Care: Illinois, Kansas, Louisiana, Missouri, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Texas and Washington.

The legislative pace has picked up since, with nine more states enacting laws: Connecticut, North Dakota, South Dakota, Nevada, Ohio, Rhode Island, Utah, Virginia and Wyoming. Legislation is pending in several others.

California and Maryland have adopted guidelines, not laws. The state governments in New Jersey and Wisconsin will lend cameras to families concerned about loved ones’ safety.

But bills have also gone down to defeat, most recently in Arizona. In March, for the second year, a camera bill passed the House of Representatives overwhelmingly but failed to get a floor vote in the State Senate.

“My temperature is a little high right now,” said State Representative Quang Nguyen, a Republican who is the bill’s primary sponsor and plans to reintroduce it. He blamed opposition from industry groups, which in Arizona included LeadingAge, which represents nonprofit aging services providers, for the bill’s failure to pass.

The American Health Care Association, whose members are mostly for-profit long-term care providers, doesn’t take a national position on cameras. But its local affiliate also opposed the bill.

“These people voting no should be called out in public and told, ‘You don’t care about the elderly population,’” Mr. Nguyen said.

A few camera laws cover only nursing homes, but the majority also include assisted-living facilities. Most mandate that the resident (and roommates, if any) provide written consent. Some call for signs alerting staff and visitors that their interactions may be recorded.

The laws often prohibit tampering with cameras or retaliating against residents who use them, and include “some talk about who has access to the footage and whether it can be used in litigation,” added Lori Smetanka, executive director of the National Consumer Voice.

It’s unclear how seriously facilities take these laws. Several relatives interviewed for this article reported that administrators told them that cameras weren’t permitted, then never mentioned the issue again. Cameras placed in the room remained.

Why the legislative surge? During the Covid-19 pandemic, families were locked out of facilities for months, Ms. Smetanka pointed out. “People want eyes on their loved ones.”

Changes in technology probably also contributed, as Americans became more familiar and comfortable with video chatting and virtual assistants. Cameras have become nearly ubiquitous — in public spaces, in workplaces, in police cars and on officers’ uniforms, in people’s pockets.

Initially, the push for cameras reflected fears about loved ones’ safety. Kari Shaw’s family, for instance, had already been victimized by a trusted home care nurse who stole her mother’s prescribed pain medications.

So when Ms. Shaw, who lives in San Diego, and her sisters moved their mother into assisted living in Maple Grove, Minn., they immediately installed a motion-activated camera in her apartment.

Their mother, 91, has severe physical disabilities and uses a wheelchair. “Why wait for something to happen?” Ms. Shaw said.

In particular, “people with dementia are at high risk,” added Eilon Caspi, a gerontologist and researcher of elder mistreatment. “And they may not be capable of reporting incidents or recalling details.”

More recently, however, families are using cameras simply to stay in touch.

Anne Swardson, who lives in Virginia and in France, uses an Echo Show for video visits with her mother, 96, in memory care in Fort Collins, Colo. “She’s incapable of touching any buttons, but this screen just comes on,” Ms. Swardson said.

Art Siegel and his brothers were struggling to talk to their mother, who, at 101, is in assisted living in Florida; her portable phone frequently died because she forgot to charge it. “It was worrying,” said Mr. Siegel, who lives in San Francisco and had to call the facility and ask the staff to check on her.

Now, with an old-fashioned phone installed next to her favorite chair and a camera trained on the chair, they know when she’s available to talk.

As the debate over cameras continues, a central question remains unanswered: Do they bolster the quality of care? “There’s zero research cited to back up these bills,” said Clara Berridge, a gerontologist at the University of Washington who studies technology in elder care.

“Do cameras actually deter abuse and neglect? Does it cause a facility to change its policies or improve?”

Both camera opponents and supporters cite concerns about residents’ privacy and dignity in a setting where they are being helped to wash, dress and use the bathroom.

“Consider, too, the importance of ensuring privacy during visits related to spiritual, legal, financial or other personal issues,” Lisa Sanders, a spokeswoman for LeadingAge, said in a statement.

Though cameras can be turned off, it’s probably impractical to expect residents or a stretched-thin staff to do so.

Moreover, surveillance can treat those staff members as “suspects who have to be deterred from bad behavior,” Dr. Berridge said. She has seen facilities installing cameras in all residents’ rooms: “Everyone is living under surveillance. Is that what we want for our elders and our future selves?”

Ultimately, experts said, even when cameras detect problems, they can’t substitute for improved care that would prevent them — an effort that will require engagement from families, better staffing, training and monitoring by facilities, and more active federal and state oversight.

“I think of cameras as a symptom, not a solution,” Dr. Berridge said. “It’s a Band-Aid that can distract from the harder problem of how we provide quality long-term care.”

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with KFF Health News.

Jeremiah Ostriker, an astrophysicist who helped set off a revolution in humankind’s view of the universe, revealing it to be a vaster, darker realm than the one we can see, ruled by invisible forms of matter and energy we still don’t understand, died on Sunday at his home on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He was 87.

His daughter Rebecca Ostriker said the cause was end-stage renal disease.

Over more than four decades, mostly at Princeton University, Dr. Ostriker’s work altered our understanding of how galaxies form and evolve as he explored the nature of pulsars, the role of black holes in the evolution of the cosmos and what the universe is made of.

Before the 1970s, most astronomers believed that galaxies were made up mostly of stars.

“Ostriker was arguably the most important single figure in convincing the astronomical community that this natural and seductive assumption is wrong,” David Spergel, the president of the Simons Foundation, which supports scientific research, wrote in 2022, nominating Dr. Ostriker, his mentor, for the Crafoord Prize, the astronomical equivalent of a Nobel. He cited Dr. Ostriker’s “eloquent advocacy for the then-radical new model in which the visible stars in galaxies were only a minor pollutant at the center of a much larger halo of dark matter of unknown composition.”

Dr. Ostriker’s work, he said, was “the grandest revision in our understanding of galaxies” in half a century.

Jerry Ostriker, as he was known to friends and colleagues, a man with a prickly sense of humor and a soft but commanding voice, was willing to go wherever the data and scientific calculations led him, and was not shy about questioning assumptions — or having fun. Prominently displayed in his home was a youthful photo of himself, taken in Cambridge, Mass., driving a motor scooter as his wife, Alicia Ostriker, seated behind him, lifts a bottle of wine to her lips. (A close look shows the cork still in the bottle.)

“He had the quickest wit of any scientist I have encountered,” said James Peebles, a Nobel physics laureate and a colleague of Dr. Ostriker’s at Princeton. “And I don’t remember ever matching him in a spontaneous debate” on any issue.

Asked in a 1988 oral history interview for the American Institute of Physics if he had favored any of the models of the universe being batted about in the 1970s, when he entered the field — whether the universe was finite or infinite, whether it had a beginning or was somehow always here, whether it would expand forever or crash back down in a big crunch — he said he had not.

“Scientists have followed their own biases, and my principle bias at the time was being contemptuous and intolerant of all of these people who had specific models,” he answered. “How could they be so certain when the evidence was as confusing and inconclusive?”

A ‘Classic Nerd Child’

Jeremiah Paul Ostriker was born on April 13, 1937, on the Upper West Side, the second of four siblings. His father, Martin Ostriker, ran a clothing company, and his mother, Jeanne (Sumpf) Ostriker, was a public-school teacher. Babe Ruth lived around the corner, and the children used to chase his car for autographs.

“I must have been the classic nerd child,” Dr. Ostriker wrote in a memoir published in the Annual Review of Astronomy and Astrophysics in 2016. He first became interested in science when he was 4: His mother started reading science books aloud to get him to sit still for an oil portrait, and the readings stuck.

After graduating from the Ethical Culture Fieldston School in the Bronx, Jerry Ostriker went to Harvard University, where he planned to study chemistry. Instead, he switched to physics, which appealed to what he called his “cosmic perspective.”

“I probably spent more time on literature than I spent on science,” he said in the oral history interview.

He soon began commuting to Brandeis University to visit Alicia Suskin, a former Fieldston classmate who was an aspiring artist and poet. They were married in 1958, while they were still undergraduates.

Ms. Ostriker, a professor emerita of English at Rutgers University, became an award-winning poet and has often written her husband into her work. In turn, he found poetry in astrophysics. “As an astrophysicist, you get a perspective on humankind,” he said, describing it as “sweating on this little grain of spinning sand.”

In addition to his wife and his daughter Rebecca, an editor for the opinion section of The Boston Globe, Dr. Ostriker is survived by two other children, Eve Ostriker, an astrophysicist at Princeton, and Gabriel Ostriker, a data engineer; a sister, Naomi Seligman; two brothers, Jon and David; and three grandchildren.

After graduating from Harvard in 1959, Dr. Ostriker worked at the United States Naval Research Laboratory for a year before enrolling in graduate school at the University of Chicago, splitting his time between the university’s Yerkes Observatory and the physics department, where he worked under the future Nobel laureate Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar.

He earned his Ph.D. in 1964. After a postdoctoral year at the University of Cambridge in England, where he rubbed elbows with future black hole eminences like Stephen Hawking and Martin Rees, Dr. Ostriker joined Princeton as a research scientist. He remained there for 47 years, rising through the ranks to become chairman of the astronomy department and provost of the university.

The Dark Side of the Universe

At Princeton, Dr. Ostriker wrote a series of papers that would lead astronomy to the dark side.

He wondered whether galaxies, like stars, could break apart if they rotated too fast. The question was particularly relevant to so-called disc galaxies like the Milky Way, which are shaped sort of like a fried egg, with a fat, yolky center surrounded by a thin, white flat of stars.

Working with Dr. Peebles, he constructed a computer simulation and found that disc galaxies were indeed unstable. They would fall apart unless there was something we couldn’t see, a halo of some additional invisible mass, lending gravitational support.

Whatever this stuff called dark matter was — dim stars, black holes, rocks, exotic subatomic particles left over from the Big Bang — there could be a lot of it, as much as 10 times the mass of ordinary atomic matter.

It was one of the first theoretical arguments that there must be more to galaxies than could be seen in starlight. In the 1930s, the astronomer Fritz Zwicky had suggested that most of the mass in galaxies was “dark.” His idea was largely ignored until Dr. Ostriker and Dr. Peebles published their paper in 1973.

The reaction from the scientific community was predominantly hostile, Dr. Ostriker said. “I couldn’t see particularly why,” he said in the oral history. “It was just a fact.”

A year later, incorporating more data from galaxy clusters and other star systems, he and his colleagues argued that, in fact, most of the mass in the universe was invisible.

By the early 1980s, the idea of dark matter had become an accepted part of cosmology, but there remained conundrums, including calculations that suggested that stars were older than the universe in which they lived.

The missing ingredient, Dr. Ostriker and the theoretical physicist Paul Steinhardt, then at the University of Pennsylvania, suggested in 1995, was a fudge factor known as the cosmological constant. Einstein had come up with this concept in 1917, but had later abandoned it, considering it a blunder.

As Dr. Steinhardt recalled, he and Dr. Ostriker were “convinced that a universe with only dark and ordinary matter could not explain the existing observations.” But once they added the cosmological constant, everything came out right.

They were not the only ones with this idea. The cosmologists Michael Turner, now retired from the University of Chicago, and Lawrence Krauss, now retired from Arizona State University, also argued in favor of bringing back the constant. “To say Jerry was a giant in the field is an understatement,” Dr. Turner wrote in an email, adding, “Sparring with Jerry over science was a privilege and often a learning experience.”

Three years later, two competing teams of astronomers discovered that the expansion of the universe was being accelerated by a “dark energy” acting as the cosmological constant, pushing galaxies apart. The cosmological constant then became part of a standard model of the universe, as Dr. Ostriker and others had predicted.

In another series of papers, he and various collaborators transformed astronomers’ view of what was going on in the space between stars.

Dr. Ostriker and Renyue Cen, also of Princeton, concluded in 1999 that most ordinary atomic matter in the nearby universe was invisible, taking the form of intergalactic gas heated to millions of degrees by shock waves and explosions.

A Passion That Never Waned

At Princeton, Dr. Ostriker helped set up the Sloan Digital Sky Survey, a collaboration — initially of Princeton, the University of Chicago and the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, N.J. — aimed at remapping the entire sky in digital form with a dedicated telescope at Apache Point Observatory in Sunspot, N.M.

“The survey is going to increase our knowledge and our understanding of the universe a hundredfold,” he told The New York Times in 1991. “The map is not going to show us how the universe began, but it will show us the nature and origin of large-scale structure, the most interesting problem in astrophysics today. With an answer to this problem, we will be able to better approach the question of how it all began.”

The survey, started in 1998, is now in its fifth iteration and has generated some 10,000 research papers and archived measurements of a half-billion stars and galaxies, all free to any astronomer in the world.

As provost, Dr. Ostriker led the effort to vastly expand the university’s financial aid program, changing many loans to grants that would not need to be repaid, making a Princeton education more egalitarian. In 2000, he was awarded the National Medal of Science by President Bill Clinton.

Dr. Ostriker retired from Princeton in 2012, just as his daughter Eve was joining the astronomy faculty there. He took a part-time position at Columbia University, returning to his childhood neighborhood.

“Growing up in New York City, I couldn’t see the stars,” he once told The Times. He found them anyway, and a whole lot more that we can’t see with or without the glare of streetlights.

It was a passion that never waned. Encountered recently by a reporter on the sidewalk in front of Columbia, Dr. Ostriker launched into an enthusiastic description of a promising new theory of dark matter.

Early in 2023, by then ailing, he took to his bed at home. But he kept up with his research by email and had regular pizza lunches with colleagues.

Apprised recently of results from the James Webb Space Telescope that seemed to reinforce his ideas about dark matter, he wrote in an email to his colleagues, “Keep up the good work.”

The dark universe he helped conjure half a century ago has developed a few small cracks, leading to new ideas about the nature of that dark matter.

“It’s a very, very, very specific and clear theory. So therefore, God bless it, it can be wrong,” Dr. Ostriker said in a recent interview. “That’s the way science proceeds. And what we know about it is that it is a little bit wrong, not a lot wrong.”

Dr. Rees, a cosmologist at the University of Cambridge and the Astronomer Royal, summed up Dr. Ostriker’s life this way: “Some scientists come up with pioneering ideas on novel themes; others write definitive ‘last words’ on already-established topics. Jerry was in the first category.”

“He wrote among the earliest papers — now classics — on the nature of pulsars, the evidence for dark matter and on galaxy formation and cosmology. His flow of papers continued into his 80s,” Dr. Rees added. “He enthusiastically engaged in new data and in computational techniques. He inspired younger colleagues and collaborators, not just at Princeton but around the world.”