No turbo cancer at ASCO: William Makis vs. Scott Adams and A Midwestern Doctor instead?

What ASCO is (and why “No turbo cancer at ASCO” matters)

ASCO’s annual meeting is where oncology researchers and clinicians present new findingsoften before they become
standard practice. Think: results from large randomized trials, real-world registry analyses, new drug safety data,
and updated guidelines-in-the-making. It’s not perfect (science never is), but it’s built around methods designed to
reduce wishful thinking: peer review, reproducibility, statistical rigor, and the boring-but-critical work of
measuring outcomes in thousands of people.

That’s what makes the “no turbo cancer at ASCO” observation interesting. If there were a sudden, vaccine-driven wave
of ultra-aggressive cancerssomething new, widespread, and clinically obviousoncologists wouldn’t need TikTok to
discover it. They’d be tripping over it in clinic schedules, pathology reports, tumor boards, and national cancer
registries. And it would show up as a signal strong enough to be studied, abstracted, debated, and presented.

Instead, what you see at meetings like ASCO are discussions about real cancer trends: shifts in screening rates,
rising incidence of some cancers in younger adults, the impact of obesity and alcohol, the downstream effects of
delayed diagnoses during the COVID-19 era, and continued improvements in survival for many cancers. None of that is
“nothing,” and none of it requires a brand-new mystery diagnosis called “turbo cancer.”

“Turbo cancer”: catchy phrase, slippery definition

“Turbo cancer” isn’t a recognized medical diagnosis. It’s a label used online to suggest that COVID-19 vaccination
especially mRNA vaccinationcauses a surge of unusually fast-growing cancers. The problem isn’t just that the term is
informal. It’s that it’s usually undefined.

Ask ten people online what “turbo cancer” means, and you’ll get twelve answers:

• “Cancer that appears shortly after a vaccine.”
• “Cancer that was hidden and suddenly shows up.”
• “Cancer that spreads quickly.”
• “Any stage 4 diagnosis in someone who seemed fine last year.”

But aggressive cancers have always existed. Certain lymphomas, pancreatic cancers, glioblastomas, small-cell lung
cancers, and some metastatic prostate cancers can progress rapidly. That’s tragic, not novel. The scientific question
is whether there’s a new population-level phenomenonan increased rate of aggressive cancers attributable to
vaccinationbeyond what we’d expect from known risks, aging, delayed screening, and normal variation.

When a claim is broad (“vaccines are causing turbo cancer”), the evidence needs to be equally broad: large datasets,
consistent signals across populations, dose/timing patterns that make biological sense, and plausible mechanisms that
hold up outside a PowerPoint slide.

What we know about cancer timelines (a reality check)

Cancer generally develops over years. Not always decades, but rarely “last Tuesday.” Even with strong carcinogenic
exposures, the shortest plausible latencies depend on the cancer type. For example, in radiation-exposed populations,
leukemia risk can rise within a couple of years, while many solid tumors take far longer to appear.

That matters because “turbo cancer” narratives often hinge on extremely short windows: “I got vaccinated and then I
got cancer soon after.” A temporal sequence can feel convincingespecially when you’re scaredbut timing alone isn’t
causation. If it were, every bad thing that happens after a birthday candle would be caused by cake.

Meanwhile, major cancer organizations have been direct about the core claim: there’s no evidence COVID-19 vaccines
cause cancer, make cancer recur, or accelerate cancer progression.

What the data say: cancer is common, trends are real, and “vaccine turbo cancer” isn’t supported

1) Cancer incidence and deaths are trackedand the numbers are huge

In the United States, cancer cases and deaths are documented through large surveillance systems and registries. These
aren’t vibes. They’re countsby age, sex, region, cancer type, stage, and year. Recent national data show millions of
Americans are living with or beyond cancer, and hundreds of thousands die each year. That is grim, but it’s also why
we can detect genuine shifts in trends.

2) The pandemic changed detection patterns (and that can look like “more aggressive cancer”)

During early COVID-19 waves, screening dropped sharplymammograms, colonoscopies, lung screening, you name it. When
screening falls, fewer early cancers are caught. Later, when people return to care, more cancers can be found at a
later stage, and outcomes can look worse in the short term. That can create the impression that cancer suddenly got
“faster,” when what changed was timing: detection moved later.

Researchers have documented disruptions and incomplete recovery in screening and detection in the years after the
onset of the pandemic. That’s a serious, evidence-based explanation for why some people encountered more advanced
disease after 2020without inventing a new diagnosis category.

3) Early-onset cancer increases predate COVID-19 vaccination

Another ingredient in the “turbo cancer” stew is the real concern about some cancers rising in younger adults,
especially colorectal cancer. But multiple analyses indicate these increases began well before 2020 and long before
vaccines were introduced. That points researchers toward other driversdiet, obesity, alcohol, sedentary behavior,
environmental exposures, and changes in screening practicesrather than a sudden vaccine-era switch flipping all at once.

4) Registry data don’t show a clear “post-vaccine explosion”

National cancer surveillance programs have also discussed how COVID-19 affected incidence reporting: a dip in 2020
consistent with delayed diagnosis, followed by partial rebounds. That pattern is exactly what you’d expect when
healthcare access is disrupted and then resumesnot what you’d expect from a new carcinogenic exposure suddenly
creating unprecedented, uniquely aggressive cancers.

Why “turbo cancer” stories spread anyway (and why they feel persuasive)

Anecdotes are emotionally powerfulespecially in cancer

Cancer is one of the most terrifying words in the English language because it arrives with uncertainty: prognosis,
treatment, side effects, finances, mortality. When something scary happens, the human brain demands an explanation
like it demands oxygen. If the explanation includes a villain (“the vaccine did it”) and a simple moral (“they lied”),
it can feel satisfyingly complete.

People mistake “more visible cancer” for “more cancer caused by X”

Cancer is also more visible than ever:

• We have better imaging and blood tests.
• We diagnose and stage cancers more precisely.
• More people are living longer (including long enough to develop cancer).
• More patients publicly share their diagnoses online.

A world where you hear about more cancer is not automatically a world where a single new cause is responsible.

“DNA” makes for good horror-movie marketing

Some “turbo cancer” arguments try to sound scientific by leaning on buzzwords like “DNA integration.”
But public health agencies have repeatedly explained a basic point: mRNA vaccines do not enter the cell nucleus where
your DNA is stored, and they do not change your genetic code. The mRNA is transientyour cells use it, then break it
down.

The online cage match: Makis vs. Adams vs. “A Midwestern Doctor”

Here’s where the story gets uniquely 2025: instead of “turbo cancer” showing up in oncology programs, it shows up in
online influencer ecosystemsoften paired with alternative treatment claims and distrust of standard care.

Scott Adams: a public cancer diagnosis meets the internet’s need for a storyline

When a well-known figure like Scott Adams shares a metastatic cancer diagnosis, people pay attentionand the internet
promptly tries to fit it into pre-existing narratives. Some corners of social media treated high-profile prostate
cancer diagnoses as “evidence” of vaccine injury, despite the lack of supporting data.

What’s more revealing (and genuinely human) is what often happens next: a person confronted with an incurable
diagnosis may test “low downside” alternatives in parallel with or instead of evidence-based treatment. That desire
isn’t stupidit’s hope. The danger is when hope gets sold as certainty.

William Makis: “turbo cancer” plus alternative protocols

In the online ecosystem, “turbo cancer” isn’t just a claim. It’s frequently a funnel: first you’re told a hidden wave
of aggressive cancers is here; then you’re offered a stack of repurposed drugs and supplements that “they don’t want
you to know about.” Common recurring characters include ivermectin and antiparasitic drugs like fenbendazole,
frequently promoted with testimonials rather than robust clinical evidence.

This is where it stops being a mere argument and becomes a safety issue. Cancer patients can lose precious timeand
risk harmful interactionswhen they substitute unproven protocols for standard care. The FDA has repeatedly warned
consumers about products claiming to “cure” cancer and the cruelty of exploiting patients who are understandably
desperate.

“A Midwestern Doctor”: the pseudonymous authority vibe

Anonymous or pseudonymous writers can sound confident, prolific, and “doctor-y” without the accountability that comes
with publishing in medical journals. Some promote sweeping cure-all narratives (including DMSO claims) that outrun the
available evidence. When influencer factions fight each other, it can look like “debate,” but it’s often just
competing brands of certainty.

And notice what gets lost in the noise: the ordinary, unsexy truth that oncology advances come from careful trials,
incremental improvements, and uncomfortable conversations about trade-offs.

A practical checklist for readers: how to fact-check the next “turbo cancer” post

• Start with definitions. What exactly counts as “turbo cancer”? A specific pathology? A time window?
  A measurable change in incidence or stage distribution?
• Look for population-level data. Case reports and anecdotes can generate hypotheses, not prove causes.
  Trust claims that show up across registries and large studies.
• Ask “compared to what?” Compared to pre-pandemic trends? Adjusted for delayed screening and reporting?
  Stratified by age and cancer type?
• Beware the “one weird trick” funnel. If the post ends with a product, a protocol, a paid consult,
  or a Substack subscription, your skepticism should go to platinum tier.
• Use credible medical sources. National cancer agencies, major academic centers, peer-reviewed journals,
  and professional societies are boring for a reason: they’re trying to be right, not viral.

Bottom line: no “turbo cancer” at ASCObecause that’s not how real signals behave

If “turbo cancer” were a widespread, vaccine-driven phenomenon, oncologists wouldn’t be discovering it through
influencer feuds. It would appear in registry trends, pathology patterns, and large datasetsand it would immediately
become the subject of intense research and conference presentations.

What we do have are real cancer challenges: uneven screening recovery, rising risk factors like obesity and alcohol,
concerning increases in certain cancers among younger adults that predate COVID-19, and a healthcare system still
recovering from pandemic disruptions. That’s plenty to work onwithout layering a conspiracy theory on top.

Keep your empathy for people facing cancer. Keep your standards for evidence. And when you see the phrase “turbo cancer,”
remember: the “turbo” part is usually the speed at which misinformation accelerates, not the biology of cancer itself.

Experiences people report around “turbo cancer” narratives (and what they reveal)

The most important thing to understand about “turbo cancer” discourse is that it often starts with something real:
someone’s fear. Not abstract fearspecific, personal, 2 a.m. fear, the kind that makes you stare at a ceiling and
negotiate with the universe. In many online communities, a typical story goes like this: a friend seemed fine, then
got diagnosed with stage 4 cancer; a coworker finally went to the doctor after months of ignoring symptoms; a parent
skipped screening during the pandemic; a celebrity announces metastatic disease and the comment section erupts into
“See? We told you!”

People also describe a whiplash effect: during COVID-19, life felt frozenappointments canceled, routines disrupted,
“we’ll reschedule later.” Then “later” arrives and suddenly you’re back in medical settings, hearing big words fast:
biopsy, metastasis, treatment plan, port placement. It can feel like the cancer appeared overnight. But what often
happened is that the diagnosis arrived late, not that the tumor evolved at superhero speed.

Clinicians frequently talk about a parallel experience: spending precious clinic time unpacking misinformation while
trying not to shame a patient who is already overwhelmed. The patient brings screenshots. The family brings a podcast
clip. Someone in the room says, “But a doctor online said this protocol has hundreds of success stories.” The
clinician then has to do two jobs: oncology and myth-busting. It’s emotionally hard because the patient isn’t asking
for a debate club. They’re asking for hopeand sometimes the internet has offered them a hope that sounds simpler and
kinder than reality.

Patients and caregivers also describe the “protocol buffet” experience: ivermectin, fenbendazole, supplements,
hyperbaric oxygen, off-label stacks, restrictive diets, expensive tests, and the belief that if you just assemble the
right combination, you can outsmart biology. For some, experimenting feels like taking control. For others, it becomes
a second full-time jobtracking pills, chasing anecdotes, and feeling guilty when a treatment doesn’t “work,” as if the
problem is insufficient faith or discipline.

There’s another recurring experience: watching influencer factions fight. One Substack dismisses another Substack as a
“sellout.” One “doctor” implies the other is sabotaging the truth. And a patient, caught between them, is left with a
confusing impression that medicine is mostly politics. In reality, scientific disagreement is supposed to be resolved
by methodsreplication, controlled trials, transparent datanot by who can write the longest thread in all caps.

The healthiest pattern people describeoften after a painful learning curveis building a “trust stack” that includes
their oncology team, reputable cancer organizations, and a small circle of grounded supporters who can help filter the
noise. The goal isn’t blind trust. It’s earned trust, updated when new evidence arrives. People also say it helps to
separate emotional needs from medical decisions: you can seek comfort, spirituality, community, and meaning without
outsourcing treatment decisions to the most confident stranger online.

If you’re reading this because you’re scaredabout yourself, a friend, or the barrage of claimshere’s the most human
truth in the room: cancer is scary enough without adding mythology. You deserve real explanations, real probabilities,
and real options. And you deserve those things without being recruited into someone else’s internet storyline.