All downhill from here: An aging hot dog hangs up his skis



I was living in Brooklyn at the time. I was 40-ish. I went home to Oregon for the Christmas holidays, and one of my siblings suggested we go skiing.

We were a skiing family when we were kids. In my teens, I skied nearly every weekend for several months of the year. I got pretty good at it and have fond memories of those days.

I remembered a doctor on TV saying something like: 'Most injuries I see are older people trying to do things they did when they were young.'

But I had not skied or ridden a chairlift in 20 years. The idea of going again seemed really fun. Why hadn’t we thought of this before?

Toys in the attic

Most of my old ski stuff was still around my parents’ house. I found my slightly rusted skis in the attic. My old Nordica ski boots still fit. I dug up some musty ski gloves and a ski hat and some old goggles. I wasn’t going to look fashionable or current, but I had the necessary stuff to ski down the mountain.

I would be like the eccentric older guys I occasionally rode the chairlift with when I was a teenager. Guys with ancient-looking skis and out-of-date parkas and mittens. Skiing wasn’t a social activity for them. They didn’t mind looking out of place. They were just there for the skiing.

Runnin’ up that hill

My siblings and I drove up to Mt. Hood Meadows and bought our lift tickets. We rode up the chairlift, which all by itself was thrilling.

To actually ski felt weird at first. I did a couple of snow-plow turns, then a couple of real turns, and then I was more or less back to form.

The ski trails were mostly the same. I remembered them from high school. But other things had changed. The skis were shorter and oddly shaped. People wore helmets. There were snowboarders to contend with. And of course, everyone was younger and speedier than I remembered.

After a couple easy runs, I was feeling pretty confident. I decided to check out some of the more difficult trails. So I dragged my brother over to one of the black diamond runs.

Looking down into it, I was shocked by how steep and formidable it looked. I used to ski down this? And then some 12-year-old shot past me and went flying straight down the face of it.

I decided against following him, and instead we found a trail that went along the ridge. Here we encountered a “jump.”

This was not a jump like you see on TV, where you do two back flips and a triple twist. This was a little bump off to the side of the trail, where if you could build up enough speed, you might go two or three feet into the air and land six feet from where you started.

Still, I’d loved jumps when I was a kid. My body reacted to the sight of it so strongly, I immediately sped up and steered right at it.

Unfortunately, it turned out to have a badly shaped landing. You basically stopped dead when you hit. I nearly rolled forward out of my ski boots. It was so jarring, I felt queasy in my stomach.

And then I had to get out of the way, so someone else could have that same experience.

Slow your roll

So that’s how it went. I found that I got bored cruising the easy runs. But whenever I tried something hard, I was outmatched.

After lunch, I made the decision to stick to the intermediate runs. I would do like the other middle-aged people, carving wide, graceful turns, taking it easy, getting into that elder-skier groove.

But then my problem became speed. Each time I did a run, I went a little faster. Soon, I was going a little too fast. But I couldn’t resist that downhill racer sensation.

And then I fell. I don’t know how. I must have “caught an edge.” One moment, I was leaning into a turn, and the next, I was face-planted into the hard pack.

I came to my senses with a face full of snow and my skis, hat, and goggles scattered all around me.

My brother pulled up behind me. He was scared. He said my wipeout looked bad. I told him it felt bad. Though as far as I could tell, I wasn’t seriously injured.

I sat there for several minutes, making sure I was OK. Then I rose to my feet. Eventually, I put my skis back on. Very gingerly, we made our way down.

But by the time we reached the chairlift, I felt fine. I was OK. And there was still time for a couple more runs. I assured my brother I could continue. And we got back in line.

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Dazed and confused

Riding the chairlift was when I realized something wasn’t right. My brain seemed slow. I couldn’t seem to focus. I would look at things and not really see them. Everything felt weird and slowed down and unreal.

I must have a concussion, I thought. So I gave myself a simple concussion test. What was my phone number? I thought about it. I thought about it more. I had no idea.

What about my address? What city did I live in? I couldn’t seem to hold any clear thought in my head.

I explained to my brother what was happening. He was concerned. We did one last easy-does-it run. Then we headed home.

Dark night of the soul

That night, back at my parents’ house, I did the concussion protocols. I stayed awake for 12 hours, took aspirin, drank water, lay on the living room couch, perfectly still, with a dark towel over my eyes. I now had a very sore neck and back. I could barely move. I probably had whiplash.

I was OK in the end. But that was a scary day. As I lay silent and still on the couch, I remembered a doctor on TV saying something like: “Most injuries I see are older people trying to do things they did when they were young.”

That was definitely me. I guess I learned my lesson. But I’d also learned the lesson that — for me at least — the desire to do those things, even when I KNEW I SHOULDN’T DO THEM, could be overwhelming.

In other words, it was best for me to stay off the ski slopes entirely. And maybe take up some new activities, things I’d never done before. Like softball. Or surfing. Or golf. Activities where memories of youthful glory wouldn’t get me into trouble.

You can't be 50 in Hollywood



I had been living in New York for several years, writing young adult novels. But I wanted to move to Los Angeles. I needed a change of scenery, and I wanted to try screenwriting.

A friend connected me to a guy who had spent several years in L.A. pursuing film and TV writing. I called the guy and told him my plan.

The hair dye felt like it was burning my scalp. After I rinsed it out, my whole head glowed. Did it make me look younger? I guess it did. But it also made me look like a clown.

He said: “How old are you?”

I said 49.

He said, “That’s too old. You can’t be 50 in Hollywood. You’ll need to lie about your age.”

Then he asked me if I had gray hair. I said I did. He said I would need to dye it.

I said, “But George Clooney has gray hair. Doesn’t it look distinguished?”

He said I would definitely want to dye it. “Everyone dyes their hair in L.A. Get a good hairdresser.”

*******

He continued relating his experiences. He listed the dangers of Hollywood. They steal your ideas. They lie. They pretend to be your friend. I would need a good lawyer, and a manager, and an agent.

Most of this I already knew. But the “you can’t be 50 in Hollywood” part: I hadn’t heard that before.

Reelin' In the Years

After we hung up, I thought about the age problem. I had already “adjusted” my age once while I was writing young adult novels.

I did this after attending a book festival, where I saw that all the other young adult authors were generally in their 20s and 30s. I was at least a decade older than most of them.

So I shaved five years off my Facebook age. Just in case anybody looked. And then I did the same thing when I filled out the publicity questionnaires for my publisher.

But the age problem got worse when I arrived in L.A. The first screenwriter I met with was 24 and looked like he was in high school. When I got home from that meeting, I went on Facebook and shaved three more years off my birthday.

When I did this, a little notice popped up, informing me that this would be the last time I would be allowed to change my birthday on Facebook.

So now, I was 41 according to Facebook, 44 according to my New York publisher, and 49 according to my driver’s license and the IRS.

This was a lot to keep track of. It made for some awkward moments on first dates.

Gray matters

It didn’t take long to realize that in Hollywood — where lying is considered “self-care” — what people really judged you on was your looks.

So then I considered my appearance. My hair was pretty gray. Should I try dyeing it?

I went to Ralphs and bought a box of Clairol Nice'n Easy hair dye. I went for espresso brown, which seemed closest to my original hair color.

I set up shop in my bathroom. I put on the gloves and followed the instructions on the box, mixing the chemicals and smearing them onto my head. It was a messy business.

The hair dye felt like it was burning my scalp. After I rinsed it out, my whole head glowed. Did it make me look younger? I guess it did. But it also made me look like a clown.

*******

I flew back to New York soon after, and a female friend immediately noticed the change. She said: “It’s true what they say; you look 10 years younger!”

That was nice to hear. But I was alarmed that she noticed it instantly. From 50 feet away.

Another friend didn’t believe me when I told her it was dyed. She had to look closer and touch it until she saw that I was telling the truth.

I was still trying to get used to it myself. Every time I saw my reflection, I startled myself. Who’s that guy with the dye job?

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Blake Nelson

Pro tips

Back in L.A., I spotted a sign in a hair salon near my apartment: “Dye and Haircut $80.” Maybe this was the solution: getting your hair dyed by a professional.

I would like to say this was a luxurious, pampering experience. It was not. The hairdresser roughed me up pretty good. And then I had to sit there for 40 minutes, in sight of people walking by the window, with a giant plastic covering over me and my thinning hair wrapped in tin foil.

And then, after all that, it looked no different from the Clairol dye job I had given myself for $9.99!

*******

Still, I stuck with it, re-dyeing it every six weeks — like it said on the box — for most of a year.

During this time, I kept a watchful eye out for other men with dyed hair. I was definitely not alone. At the beach, you would see aging “surfer dads” with dyed blonde hair and a skateboard under their arms. It wasn’t a terrible look. As long as you wore Vans and board shorts.

And of course, men who were on TV or acted in movies always dyed their hair. I’d see these men everywhere. Or I’d see guests on late-night talk shows who looked like they had just had it done an hour before. Their hair had that blurry, fresh-dye glow.

I became skilled at spotting dye jobs on either sex. I hadn’t realized how many women dyed their hair: basically all of them, after about 30.

The good news was that nobody thought less of a man for dyeing his hair. This was Los Angeles. Dyeing your hair meant you had a job.

All is vanity

This wasn’t the case on the East Coast. New York City was the land of the silver fox. Being a well-dressed, gray-haired, 50-year-old male was highly desirable. It meant you were rich!

In fact, it was in New York that a couple of female friends intervened and informed me that the hair-dye thing wasn’t working. I looked better being gray.

After that, my vanity took over, and when I returned to L.A., I shaved my head and released myself back into middle age.

Once I let myself go gray again, another Los Angeles acquaintance told me she thought I looked much better. She said the dye job made me look untrustworthy, like a used-car salesman.

*******

So that was a relief. But the real relief didn’t come until many years later, when I retired from writing and went back home to Portland and returned to total normalcy.

In retirement, I didn’t have to be young; I didn’t have to be cool. I could just be an old, gray-haired person like everybody else.

Though on Facebook — thanks to its birthday-changing restrictions — I remain a slightly younger and livelier version of myself.

Caregiving decisions begin in the bathroom



The holidays have a way of forcing conversations many families would rather postpone.

Every year, as adult children come home and aging parents gather around the table, familiar signs emerge. Someone struggles with stairs. Someone tires more easily. Someone forgets what was once routine. And with those observations come discussions caregivers know well.

The promise.

“I’ll never put Mom or Dad in a nursing home.”

It is often spoken years earlier, in healthier days, and always with sincerity. At the time, it feels like a declaration of love and loyalty. Assisted living seems distant, unnecessary, and meant for other families, not ours.

The problem is not the promise. The problem is that life keeps changing.

Circumstances change. Strength ebbs. What once worked may no longer work safely or wisely.

Over time, what began as devotion can quietly become more than one person can manage alone. Needs grow. Safety becomes a concern. Medical issues multiply. Caregivers often find themselves trying to do, by themselves, what normally requires trained professionals, proper equipment, and constant oversight.

At that point, the issue is no longer love or loyalty. It’s capacity.

That reality came into focus during a recent conversation with a friend. He had offered a small cottage on his property to help a friend relocate aging parents closer to family. The mother now uses a walker. The father has been her caregiver for years, but serious heart problems have begun to limit what he can safely do.

Still the conversation kept circling back to the same refrain: Neither would ever go into assisted living or a nursing home.

Their adult son is caught in the middle, trying desperately to make everyone happy. That is a fool’s task. In my work with fellow caregivers, I call this the caregiver FOG — fear, obligation, and guilt — because it blurs perspective, narrows options, and makes even familiar paths hard to see. No one wins.

It is like driving into actual fog. Visibility drops. Muscles tense. Judgment narrows. We try to peer miles ahead when we can barely see the hood of the car.

Every highway safety officer gives the same advice: Slow down, turn on the low beams, and stop trying to see five miles down the road.

Caregiving requires the same discipline.

My friend asked what I thought.

I suggested we lower the emotional temperature and start with one concrete issue.

Not the promise. Not the arguments. Not the guilt.

Start with the toilet.

Laugh if you like. It sounds abrupt. But it has a way of clarifying reality quickly.

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The bathroom is often ground zero for caregiving challenges. If the toilet is not safe and accessible, the demands on the caregiver escalate immediately. Transfers become harder. Fatigue compounds. Falls become more likely.

Once the toilet is addressed, you move outward.

The shower. The bedroom. Doorways, lighting, entrances.

Sometimes modest changes are enough — grab bars, a raised toilet seat, a walk-in shower. None of these are exotic ideas. But determining needs honestly requires facing the limits of strength, balance, and endurance as they exist today, not as we wish they were.

While politicians and toilets often deal with similar subject matter, toilets remain refreshingly honest. They simply reveal what actually works.

When families do this, reality follows. Cost. Time. Budgets weighed against needs. Timelines measured against declining strength. What once felt like a moral standoff becomes a practical evaluation.

Fear, obligation, and guilt begin to loosen their grip. In their place come planning, stewardship, and direction.

This matters because emotional decisions often rush families into choices that create larger — and sometimes far more expensive — problems later. We see this dynamic everywhere, including politics. While politicians and toilets often deal with similar subject matter, toilets remain refreshingly honest. They do not respond to intentions, promises, or speeches. They simply reveal what actually works.

Families do not choose assisted living or nursing homes in the abstract. Toilets always have a seat at the decision table.

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Surveys consistently show that most older Americans want to remain in their own homes as they age. That desire is sincere and understandable. But staying home without meaningful accommodations transfers an enormous burden onto the caregiver. The home may remain familiar, but the cost — physical, emotional, and relational — often rises exponentially.

Most promises are made sincerely. They are also made without a full understanding of how disease progresses, how bodies change, or how deeply caregiving reshapes everyone involved. Honoring a promise does not mean freezing it in time. It means continually asking how we can care well, given today’s realities.

Assisted living is not a surrender of care. In many cases, it is an extension of it. It allows families to return to being sons, daughters, and spouses, rather than exhausted amateur medical staff running on guilt and fumes.

We are not obligated to preserve every arrangement exactly as it once was. We are called to steward what has been entrusted to us — finances, time, energy, relationships, and the caregiver as well.

Circumstances change. Strength ebbs. What once worked may no longer work safely or wisely.

Important decisions are best made with clear heads, honest assessments, and wise counsel — not under the duress and resentment that so often accompany them. The days after the holidays are not a verdict. They are an invitation to slow down, think clearly, seek experienced guidance, and choose what is best not just for one individual but for the whole family.

The path forward is rarely determined by emotion, decades-old promises, or guilt.

More often, it is clarified by something far more unassuming — and far more truthful.

The appliance in the nearest bathroom.

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Why We Are on the Cusp of Curing Most Diseases & Living to 120 | Deepak Chopra
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Why We Are on the Cusp of Curing Most Diseases & Living to 120 | Deepak Chopra

Cool under pressure: Why sports are better than exercise



I was swimming at my athletic club the other day when I saw a woman on the second floor running on a treadmill and watching CNN. I always think that’s a weird thing to do. Like, would that make you less stressed or more stressed?

I mean, what fun is running on a treadmill? All that pounding on your knee joints. And for what? And then you’re watching TV? That can’t be good for your mental health.

Plus, it’s good mental health to be on a team. Doing something that involves skill, coordination, and strategy ... doing it with your team, against another team.

But you always see that in gyms. Thirty-something women running on the treadmill. Guys too. Guys who don’t like sports but know they’re supposed to “stay active.”

So they run on the treadmill. Their wife does it. Their co-workers do it. People on TV do it. So they do it.

I’ve been in that upstairs area. There’s a weight room too. That also seems weird to me. Lifting weights. Dudes sitting in front of a mirror, admiring themselves doing arm curls.

Not that swimming laps is much better. But I’m in my 60s. I’ve reached that age where I have to go easy. And at least it’s quiet and peaceful in the pool. It’s meditative. And no CNN.

The shape I'm in

Growing up in Oregon, I never saw a real gym. Not like you see in movies, with the grime and the sweat and the old guy with the broken nose.

In the suburbs of Portland, we had weight rooms in our high school gyms. I guess that counts. I remember bench-pressing 150 lbs once, during football season. That was considered good at the time, for someone of my small size and weight.

At college, in Connecticut, I played in alternative rock bands. Music and sports didn’t really mix in the 1980s. So if you were in a band, you wanted to avoid any overt “jock” behavior.

Still, at one point, I joined the local YMCA so I could “stay in shape.” I don’t remember why I did that. I was 20 years old. How “out of shape” could I get?

That was my first urban gym experience. I went there and swam and shot baskets, by myself mostly. Then I ventured into the mysterious steam room.

During the day, most of the patrons of the local Y were older black men. So it would be me and a bunch of white-haired black guys, sitting there in the dense steam fog, sweating into our towels.

Coffee and cigarettes

After that, I enrolled at NYU, where I began my career as a writer. This began a long period when I didn’t think about my health or my physical fitness at all.

I became a coffee and cigarettes person, which kept me slim and trim. I worked in nightclubs for a couple of years. I got pasty. I got pale. But that was good. I was the right age for that look.

It wasn’t until I’d sold my first novel at 32 and moved to Los Angeles that I once again signed up for some physical exercise. I joined the Hollywood YMCA.

Playing with 'the big kids'

There, I planned on swimming laps, maybe shooting some baskets, but within a week, I was playing in pickup basketball with out-of-work actors and recently fired movie producers. There were also some very talented ex-high school and college players in these games. So the competition was sometimes intense.

But that’s what I needed. Competition. I didn’t have the discipline to swim laps in my 30s. I needed something to get my blood flowing.

Those pickup games became the highlight of my week. Since I wasn’t a great basketball player, every time I was on the court, I had to hustle to make myself useful. It was like being a little kid again. Playing with the big kids.

Some of those guys could really play. In many cases, if I could do anything positive in a game, it was an accomplishment. And then I’d walk home along Hollywood Boulevard, glowing with excitement and satisfaction.

Swimming in it

Eventually, at age 37, I ended up back in New York, living in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Whenever physical fitness came up, people would talk about the Williamsburg pool.

So I signed up and started going there. It was a public pool and not the cleanest. At times, it would get super crowded. The good news was that Williamsburg was the coolest neighborhood in the world at that time (late 1990s).

So even at the public pool, there were interesting people around. Hipsters, weirdos, indie-rock stars, trust fund bohemians — a true cast of characters!

A young man's game

And then I learned to surf in my 40s, and that changed everything. I would never have to join another YMCA or a gym or a pool again. Or so I thought. Surfing took care of all your physical fitness needs. If you surfed regularly, you were in the best shape of your life, all the time.

Unfortunately, surfing is a young man’s game. It can become genuinely life-threatening in the big, brutal surf of the Oregon coast where I live now. I’ve had to cut way back and limit myself to only the mildest surf days.

Team player

So now I’m playing in a senior softball league, which has been great fun. Competitive sports, to me, are always preferable to just working out.

Basketball, softball, volleyball, whatever. Competition creates adrenaline. Adrenaline cleans out your body and clears your head. And generates testosterone, if you’re worried about that.

Plus, it’s good mental health to be on a team. Doing something that involves skill, coordination, and strategy ... doing it with your team, against another team ... what could be more fun than that? And better for you. Much healthier than staring at your biceps in a mirror.

Of course, being older, I can’t go super hard. That’s why senior softball is a good fit. But even senior softball involves speed, skill, split-second decisions, and physical dexterity under pressure.

That might be the most important thing of all: a chance to be cool under pressure. There’s nothing that elevates your confidence and self-esteem like calmly making a key play in a crucial situation. And you can’t do that at a spin cycle class.

In my opinion, exercise with no goal, no sense of victory or defeat, no risk, no danger, no moment of truth where you either make the play or you don’t ... to me that’s just moving your body around. It doesn’t enrich your life.

Old joy

But yeah, I’m in my 60s now. So I’m back in the pool, back in the hot tub, trying to soothe my joints and ease my stiff muscles between softball games. I sweat in the steam room. Now, I’m the old white-haired guy.

But I have to say, I never feel frustrated with my aging body or the physical limitations that seem to come faster and quicker as you age.

The main thing I think about is how lucky I have been. And all the joy I’ve experienced from sports and exercise and the thrill of competition.

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Joe Biden – ‘a certified nut’



Mark Levin is a scholar of American history, and according to him, Joe Biden is one of a kind.

Just not in a good way.

“I’ve never seen anything like this in American history,” he says, pointing to the current president. “[Joe Biden] is a certified nut. ... He’s like a mannequin dummy they keep pushing out.”

“What is upsetting and stunning is the extent to which his cabinet won't trigger the 25th Amendment,” which allows a president to be replaced by the vice president in the event he is deemed unfit to serve.

And we all know Biden is unfit to serve. His list of blunders grows longer by the day.

But radical politicians and the left-owned media are trying to sell the false narrative that Joe Biden is the picture of health.

That’s “why Merrick Garland would rather drop dead than release the audio of Biden's interview with Robert Hur,” who stated himself that “Biden’s memory had been ‘significantly limited,”’ says Levin.

But how can they keep up the pretense of Biden’s cognitive soundness when he does things like indicate "he was vice president during the COVID-19 pandemic, which started three years after he left office”?

According to the Washington Post, “It was one of the numerous flubs in the single speech that prompted the White House to make corrections to the official transcript.”

Further, “In January, he mixed up two of his Hispanic cabinet secretaries, Alejandro Mayorkas and Xavier Becerra.”

“During a February fundraising in New York, he recounted speaking to German Chancellor Helmut Kohl, who died in 2017, at the 2021 Group of Seven meeting.”

“That same month at a different fundraiser, he said that during the 2021 G7 Summit, he'd spoken to former French President François Mitterrand, who died in 1996.”

“Here's my question,” says Levin. “Does he eat his oatmeal on his own, or does the wife have to feed it to him?”


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Researchers blame explosion of of cancer cases among younger people on 'accelerated aging'



Americans are increasingly suffering cancer at younger ages.

The journal Nature noted last month that the number of early-onset cancer cases will increase by roughly 30% between 2019 and 2030. Additionally, colorectal cancer, which historically has affected geriatric men, is now the leading cause of cancer death among men under 50 and is now the second-leading cause of cancer death among young women. Uterine cancer has increase by 2% every year for the past three decades. Early-onset breast cancer has reportedly jumped by nearly 4% annually between 2016 and 2019.

"If it had been a single smoking gun, our studies would have at least pointed to one factor," said Sonia Kupfer, a gastroenterologist at the University of Chicago. "But it doesn't seem to be that — it seems to be a combination of many different factors."

Various possible factors have been considered, including rising rates of obesity; dietary changes and corresponding alterations to gut bacteria; sleep deprivation; increased alcohol consumption; and vaccines.

A study presented over the weekend at the American Association for Cancer Research Annual Meeting in San Diego suggested that the incredible spike in cancer among younger adults in the U.S. may be the result of "accelerated aging."

"We all know cancer is anaging disease. However, it is really coming to a younger population. So whether we can use the well-developed concept of biological aging to apply that to the younger generation is a really untouched area," Dr. Yin Cao, an associate professor of surgery at the Washington University School of Medicine in St. Louis and senior author of the research, told CNN.

Chronological age refers to the period of time an individual has been alive. Biological age, also known as physiological age, refers to the condition of a person's body and the state of his genetic material. A chronologically younger person who vapes, eats too much, doesn't get enough sleep, and/or is genetically predisposed to various diseases could, accordingly, find himself biologically older than someone who has seen many more sunsets.

While cancer has long disproportionately affected chronologically older people, Cao and his fellow researchers have come to suspect that the spike in cases of early-onset solid tumors among younger Americans may be the result of increased biological age, characterized by "accelerated aging."

"Multiple cancer types are becoming increasingly common among younger adults in the United States and globally," Ruiyi Tian, a researcher from WUSM on Cao's team, told the American Association for Cancer Research, referencing increased incidents of cancer in adults under the age of 55. "Understanding the factors driving this increase will be key to improve the prevention or early detection of cancers in younger and future generations."

"Accumulating evidence suggests that the younger generations may be aging more swiftly than anticipated, likely due to earlier exposure to various risk factors and environmental insults," continued Tian. "However, the impact of accelerated aging on early-onset cancer development remains unclear."

Tian and her colleagues examined data from nearly 150,000 people in the U.K. Biobank database and calculated each individual's biological age using nine biomarkers found in the blood: albumin, alkaline phosphatase, creatinine, C-reactive protein, glucose, mean corpuscular volume, red cell distribution width, white blood cell count, and lymphocyte proportion.

According to the Cleveland Clinic:

  • Albumin is a protein in blood plasma. Low levels may indicate kidney disease, liver disease, inflammation, or infection. High levels may indicate dehydration or sever diarrhea.
  • Alkaline phosphatase is an enzyme found throughout the human body. High levels of the enzyme indicate liver disease or possible bone disorders.
  • Creatinine is a natural chemical the body uses to energize muscles. High creatinine levels usually signify kidney damage.
  • C-reactive protein is released by the liver into the bloodstream in response to inflammation. Elevated levels suggest serious infections or inflammatory conditions.
  • Glucose or sugar is carried by the blood to all of the body's cells for energy. Elevated levels of glucose tend to indicate diabetes.
  • Mean corpuscular volume references the average size of a patient's red blood cells. Low MCV could be a sign of iron-deficiency anemia and other blood disorders. Alternatively, high MCV could mean a vitamin B12 deficiency, folate deficiency, liver disease, or bone marrow dysfunction.
  • Red cell distribution width is measured because inconsistency or high variation could be a signal of anemia.
  • White blood cells counts are executed to detect hidden infections, immune deficiencies, autoimmune disease, and other disorders. High and low counts alike indicate possibly serious problems.

The researchers, whose study was supported by the National Institutes of Health, identified individuals whose biological age — as indicated by these biomarkers — was higher than their chronological age as having accelerated aging.

According to Tian and her colleagues, individuals born in or after 1965 had a 17% higher likelihood of accelerated aging than those born born between 1950 and 1954. They further found that "each standard deviation increase in accelerated aging was associated with a 42% increased risk of early-onset lung cancer, a 22% increased risk of early-onset gastrointestinal cancer, a 36% increase risk of early-onset uterine cancer."

Tian speculated that certain cancer types had stronger associations with accelerated aging because of the natures of the affected tissues. The lungs, for instance, have a limited ability to regenerate, making them more vulnerable to biological aging.

"If validated, our findings suggest that interventions to slow biological aging could be a new avenue for cancer prevention, and screening efforts tailored to younger individuals with signs of accelerated aging could help detect cancers early," said Tian.

The American Cancer Society revealed in its latest annual report on cancer facts and trends that over 2 million new cancer cases are expected to be diagnosed this year. In the previous three years, the estimate was 1.9 million.

Yale Medicine noted that younger adults are ostensibly the only age group with an increase in overall cancer incidence between 1995 and 2020.

This year, there are altogether expected to be 611,720 deaths from cancer in the United States.

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