Lifetime Risk of Developing or Dying From Cancer in the U.S.

The lifetime risk of developing or dying from cancer refers to the chance a person has, over the course of his or her lifetime (from birth to death), of being diagnosed with or dying from cancer. These risk estimates, like annual incidence and mortality data, provide another measure of how widespread cancer is in the United States.

The following tables list lifetime risks of developing and dying from certain cancers for men and women. The information is from the US National Cancer Institute’s Surveillance Epidemiology and End Results (SEER) Database, and is based on incidence and mortality data for the United States from 2012 through 2014, the most current years for which data are available.

The risk is expressed both in terms of a percentage and as odds.

  • For example, the risk that a man will develop bladder cancer during his lifetime is 3.76%. This means he has about 1 chance in 27 of developing bladder cancer (100/3.76 = 26.6).
  • Put another way, 1 out of every 27 men in the United States will develop bladder cancer during his lifetime.

These numbers are average risks for the overall US population. Your risk may be higher or lower than these numbers, depending on your particular risk factors.


Males

Risk of developing

Risk of dying from

%

1 in

%

1 in

All invasive sites

39.66

3

22.03

5

Bladder (includes in situ)

3.76

27

0.94

106

Brain and nervous system

0.7

143

0.53

189

Breast

0.12

833

0.03

3,333

Colon and rectum

4.49

22

1.91

52

Esophagus

0.76

132

0.77

130

Hodgkin disease

0.23

435

0.04

2,500

Kidney and renal pelvis

2.09

48

0.62

161

Larynx (voice box)

0.55

182

0.20

500

Leukemia

1.79

56

1.02

98

Liver and bile duct

1.39

72

0.99

101

Lung and bronchus

6.85

15

5.96

17

Melanoma of the skin

2.77

36

0.43

233

Multiple myeloma

0.89

113

0.48

208

Non-Hodgkin lymphoma

2.38

42

0.84

119

Oral cavity and pharynx

1.61

62

0.40

250

Pancreas

1.58

63

1.38

72

Prostate

11.55

9

2.45

41

Stomach

1.05

95

0.47

213

Testicles

0.4

250

0.02

5,000

Thyroid

0.63

159

0.06

1,667


Females

Risk of developing

Risk of dying from

%

1 in

%

1 in

All invasive sites

37.65

3

18.76

5

Bladder (includes in situ)

1.12

89

0.34

294

Brain and nervous system

0.54

185

0.41

244

Breast

12.41

8

2.62

38

Cervix

0.62

161

0.22

455

Colon and rectum

4.15

24

1.74

57

Esophagus

0.22

455

0.20

500

Hodgkin disease

0.19

526

0.03

3,333

Kidney and renal pelvis

1.20

83

0.33

303

Larynx (voice box)

0.12

833

0.05

2,000

Leukemia

1.26

79

0.71

141

Liver and bile duct

0.6

167

0.52

192

Lung and bronchus

5.95

17

4.73

21

Melanoma of the skin

1.72

58

0.21

476

Multiple myeloma

0.65

154

0.39

256

Non-Hodgkin lymphoma

1.87

53

0.66

152

Oral cavity and pharynx

0.68

147

0.18

556

Ovary

1.27

79

0.93

108

Pancreas

1.54

65

1.35

74

Stomach

0.65

154

0.31

323

Thyroid

1.79

56

0.07

1,429

Uterine corpus

2.85

35

0.6

167


Source: American Cancer Society

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Essay: A Thai Chicken Pizza, Just for Us

Vivian Lee wrote . . . . . . .

“See?” my mom said, pointing to a photo of a pizza topped with cilantro. “They know that we like to eat here, so they have this on the menu.” The Thai Chicken pizza, with its orange carrot slivers and lush green herbs, rendered in near-neon, popped off of the menu. It was 1998, and my family was celebrating the beginning of the school year at California Pizza Kitchen.

While my mother pored over the photo, pleased that an American restaurant was using ingredients she was familiar with, I stared at the BBQ Chicken pizza, slathered with a gloopy, taupe sauce and sprinkled with red onions, then took in everything else: the beach-montage walls that separated the airy space from the rest of the mall, the blond waiters who looked like they spent hours surfing, the palm trees in every corner. While the setting was slightly out of my parents’ comfort zone, it was pure California to me — the California I lived in but, as a child of immigrants, never felt like I belonged in, except at California Pizza Kitchen.

I was born and raised in Torrance, an LA suburb just 10 minutes from the beach, but the Beach Boys never had a song about the way our house looked: The entryway was bordered by two calligraphy scrolls, and during Chinese New Year celebrations, we had a table dedicated to our ancestors whose legs buckled under the weight of oranges, red paper envelopes, and sweets. My whole life mimicked how it would have been if we had grown up in Hong Kong, albeit within the spacious environs of a California suburb. And while I grew up with a lot of Chinese friends in Torrance, their parents been educated in the West. For a long time, my brother and I felt like we had a lot of American catching up to do.

The message drilled into us throughout elementary school, that America was a melting pot and we were all a part of it, only ingrained how fully I needed to assimilate. In fifth grade, my teacher drew a large chalk circle on the black asphalt, then told us to jump into the circle and run around, so that we were “mixing” together. “Throw in some heat and now we’re all one! America is a giant melting pot!” my teacher explained as we all flailed inside the circle, bumping into each other. The exercise, rather than affirming my identity, just made me want to be more like the white kids and second-generation Asian Americans at my school, who had easy access to the cultural touchpoints that felt far out of reach for me and the rest of my immigrant friends, like getting an allowance, going on vacations, having grandparents who lived in the same neighborhood, and eating out at McDonald’s.

Instead, we wore hand-me-downs from cousins in Hong Kong and dined out exclusively at Chinese restaurants where my parents knew the staff — who would pinch my cheeks, tell me I was getting too fat, and then send out extra food anyway. One hazy Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1997, though, my parents, my brother, and I were over at a family friend’s house — also immigrants from Hong Kong, but who had assimilated seamlessly, their English flawless, their kids costumed in sunflower baby doll dresses and bucket hats while I still wore full sweat suits decorated with cartoons. They suggested that we all go to California Pizza Kitchen for dinner, since one had just opened nearby. “They give you free bread,” they said, which sold my parents.

This particular California Pizza Kitchen was inside the South Bay Galleria in Redondo Beach, and like many ’90s Southern California malls, it boasted a huge marquee in neon script at the entryway, flanked by palm trees. The CPK took up the front of the mall, anchored on the left side by a valet station and a little outdoor patio with umbrellas. Inside, two young women clad in sensible black and perma-smiles stood in front of an enormous open kitchen and a wood-fire oven prominently near the bar. They took us to a booth, where instead of hot tea, we were served giant glasses of ice water. The menus were big, glossy, and full of photos; there were no set banquet menus, hot tea cups, or chopsticks; and nothing was served what is now called “family style,” so I found myself confronted by the exotic idea of having your own dish that you did not share with the eight other people at your round table. I got a salad and it was thrilling. From that day forward, I recognized CPK as my gateway to being a real American: I could eat the food I couldn’t eat at home, the things that I saw my American friends eat when I was invited into their houses, like cold lettuce chopped up with dressing, pizza not from a take-out box, and multi-colored drinks with ice.


California Pizza Kitchen was established in 1985 by former federal prosecutors Rick Rosenfield and Larry Flax with a $200,000 lease in Beverly Hills. CPK’s first menu includes the now-famous BBQ Chicken pizza, which was developed by the former pizza chef at Spago — one of the temples of fusion cuisine — and, according to CPK’s “About Us” page, “gave California a place in the pizza pantheon alongside Chicago and New York.” (Even if that were true then, whether California still belongs there now is debatable.) Most importantly, at least on the surface, CPK embraced the hodgepodge of cultures of Southern California with a menu that endlessly combined signature ingredients from the cuisines of the area’s fastest-growing populations, from peanut sauces to avocados, tortilla chips to soy sauce. By 1992, CPK had expanded to 26 locations, including one a 10-minute drive from our house.

After that first visit, my family and I started going for special occasions, since my parents were more easily persuaded to go to CPK than any other American restaurant in our suburb. Just like they continually sought similar families to socialize with, they also sought out restaurants where they could understand the menu, and seeing familiar ingredients in even derivative facsimiles of dishes they recognized — lettuce wraps, Peking duck pizza, Chinese chicken salad — in a thoroughly Western restaurant was a sign of true acceptance.

At the same time, I learned that if I brought CPK leftovers to school, I wouldn’t be made fun of by my classmates. I was tired of seeing my mom wake up two hours before school to cook my lunch — noodles and fermented tofu and rice dumplings — and pack it in an insulated lunch box so that it was still warm when I opened it up at noon, only for me to quickly eat it so that no one would see how different it was from the square lunch meats everyone else was eating. A lunch of CPK leftovers showed all my peers that I belonged, that I knew how to eat like an American. Sure, the BBQ Chicken pizza was crammed into my bento box, but it was so recognizable that everyone knew and immediately understood what I was eating, sparing me the humiliation of explaining, for the millionth time, that I was not eating worms.

Something else was at work, too. As I got older, I realized that while I couldn’t change myself to physically blend in with the white kids or expect my parents to speak perfect, non-accented English, the more that people came to recognize the menu at CPK — the spring rolls, the lettuce wraps — the easier it was for these same people to recognize that the food my family ate could go hand in hand with what they were used to: fried food, and foods you can eat with your hands. In a suburban blandscape of malls and big-box retailers and countless chains, California Pizza Kitchen was the epitome of a cultural exchange.


In 2010, when I was 22, I moved to New York for graduate school. The only person I knew in the city was my high school friend Shazia, who had just moved to the city the year before. When we had both lived in Torrance, we would meet up at the Galleria after school, walk around the mall, then eat at CPK before being picked up to go home. As the child of immigrant parents from India and Pakistan, she too found a salve in the CPK menu, where she could indulge her taste for the American food not found in her family’s pantry. During one of our regular Gchat sessions my first year in New York, she told me that she was missing California, and that there was a CPK in Murray Hill.

We met up for lunch there on a cool spring day, 3,000 miles from where we were both born and raised. While we now had disposable income and lived in a city known for its pizza, we still ended up ordering what we used to get as high schoolers: BBQ Chicken and Thai Chicken pizzas. They tasted like I remembered — tangy sauces, a little crunch on the carrots and cilantro, that unmistakable, slightly raw dough — but the food was slightly cold and gloopy. The julienned carrots were tossed on a single side of the Thai pizza; the cheese of the BBQ was haphazardly strewn across the doughy canvas. Everything was too sweet and made our teeth hurt.

We pointed at the menu and laughed at the ridiculous, Guy Fieri levels of exxxtreme “fusion” CPK had reached: Chicken Tequila Fettuccine, Szechwan Chicken Dumplings, Avocado Club Egg Rolls. But as we sat in an alien forest of fake palm trees and I stabbed a cold piece of chicken, we talked about how we couldn’t feel the magic and awe of this place anymore. While we were happy to grow up seeing some acknowledgement of ourselves at a culturally American institution, this brand of the California melting pot had become unpalatable. After spending so much of our lives trying to make ourselves acceptable to white Americans, we had realized that it was fundamentally Californian to be both Asian and American, not as a mix, but in parallel.

Source: EATER

Food for Thought: After 45 Birthdays, Here Are Megan McArdie’s ’12 Rules for Life’

Megan McArdie wrote . . . . . . .

Yesterday was January 29, meaning that Oprah Winfrey and I are each a year older: 64 and 45.

Forty-five is somehow a very definite year; there is no question that you are middle aged.

At 45 one takes stock. The building years of your life are over, and what you are now is pretty much what you are going to be. Soon it will be what you were.

You can no longer tell yourself that you might move to Lisbon, learn Portuguese, and take up the guitar. You cannot learn Portuguese at your age. You can’t remember new words anymore; you can’t even remember where you have left your keys.

So it seems a good opportunity to do two things. First, to wish Oprah Winfrey a happy belated birthday. And second, to address this “12 Rules for Life” meme that you young whippersnappers have got up to on the social medias. I am probably more than halfway through my life now; I ought to have some rules.

  1. Be kind. Mean is easy; kind is hard. Somewhere in eighth grade, many of us acquired the idea that the nasty putdown, the superior smile, the clever one liner, are the signs of intelligence and great personal strength. But this kind of wit is, to borrow from the great John Scalzi, “playing the game on easy mode.” Making yourself feel bigger by making someone else feel small takes so little skill that 12-year-olds can do it. Those with greater ambitions should leave casual cruelty behind them.
  2. Politics is not the most important thing in the world. It’s just the one people talk about the most. That’s because everyone shares the government; only you are married to your spouse, and can knowledgeably expound on their habit of mashing up soft-boiled egg and ketchup into a disgusting paste; this makes it hard to have much of a dialogue with your friends on the subject.

    But your spouse and others around you matter more to your happiness than the government does. You will notice, as you go about your day, that many, many important things are riding on your spouse, things that will have immediate costs and benefits to you. Very few of the things that irritate you or bring you joy have anything to do with the government. So keep some perspective about politics. It doesn’t matter as much as the real people around you, and the real things you can do in the world. If you have to choose between politics and a friendship, choose the friendship every time.

  3. Always order one extra dish at a restaurant, an unfamiliar one. You might like it, which would be splendid. If you don’t like it, all you lost was a couple of bucks. If you can’t afford to order that one extra dish, then the restaurant is too expensive for your budget and you should find a cheaper one.
  4. Give yourself permission to be bad. You know what you’re really good at? Things you’ve done many times before. Mastery is boredom. Unfortunately, we like feeling like masters; we hate feeling like idiots. So we keep ourselves bored in order to protect ourselves from feeling stupid. This is a bad trade. (Trust me, I wrote the book on this.)
  5. Go to the party even when you don’t want to. Nine times in 10, you’ll be bored and go home early. But the 10th time, you will have a worthy experience or meet an interesting person. That more than redeems those other wasted hours.
  6. Save 25 percent of your income. No, don’t tell me how expensive your city is; I have spent basically my whole life in New York and Washington, DC. You can save if you want to; what you really mean is “There are all these things I want more than financial security.” And you’re right: You do want them more than financial security right now. But when you’re comparison shopping brands of generic dog food, or begging your parents for a loan, you’ll wish you’d saved the money. So cut out the things in your life that matter less than the financial freedom that will let you take important risks while sleeping easy at night (which is to say, almost all of them except the people) and save more money.
  7. Don’t just pay people compliments; give them living eulogies. Tell them exactly how great they are, in how many ways. Embarrass them. Here’s a funny thing I have learned by being just a little bit internet famous: it doesn’t matter how many times you hear them, the words “You are amazing, and here’s why” never get old. They do not go out of style. You will be wearing them to your 80th birthday party, along with a dazzling smile.
  8. That thing you kinda want to do someday? Do it now. I mean, literally, pause reading this column, pick up the phone, and book that skydiving session. RIGHT NOW. I’ll wait. Pixels are patient.

    Don’t wait until you have the time to really relax and enjoy it. That will be approximately three decades from now, and it’s highly possible you won’t be able to enjoy it. I will never forgive myself for passing up a chance to go to trapeze school in my late 20s. I figured I could always do it later, little suspecting that in my early thirties my lower back would decide to take up amateur dramatics. At least somebody got to perform.

  9. Somewhere around that same eighth-grade mark where we all experimented with being mean, we get the idea that believing in things makes you a sucker — that good art is the stuff that reveals how shoddy and grasping people are, that good politics is cynical, that “realism” means accepting how rotten everything is to the core.

    The cynics aren’t exactly wrong; there is a lot of shoddy, grasping, rottenness in the world. But cynicism is radically incomplete. Early modernist critics used to complain about the sanitized unreality of “nice” books with no bathrooms. The great modernist mistake was to decide that if books without sewers were unrealistic, “reality” must be the sewers. This was a greater error than the one it aimed to correct. In fact, human beings are often splendid, the world is often glorious, and nature, red in tooth and claw, also invented kindness, charity and love. Believe in that.

  10. Don’t try to resolve fundamental conflicts with your spouse or roommates. The only people who win marital arguments about bedrock values are divorce lawyers.

    I mean, you wouldn’t say “I have a free hour; I bet I could solve the Israel/Palestinian conflict and still have time for a spot of tennis!” So why do you try to use the same hour to convince your spouse that potato salad should have pickles in it?

    If you want pickles in your potato salad, chop up some pickles and put them on the side so you can add it to your dish. If you have radically differing ideas about tidiness, eliminate meals out and make the old car do for another few years so that you can have someone in to clean a couple of times a month. If one of you wants skim milk and the other drinks whole, don’t settle for a sad compromise on 2 percent; buy skim milk and heavy cream and mix your own whole milk as-needed (here are the proportions, if you need them).

    Not all conflicts can be resolved this way, but a surprising number can. You should never, ever argue with your spouse about anything that could be solved with a proper application of money or ingenuity. As for the rest: unless it is an existential threat to your future (out-of-control spending, wants/doesn’t want kids, abuse, substance problem, infidelity), leave it alone. On your deathbed, your spouse will be there, holding your hand. The dream house you’re dying to buy will not be.

  11. Be grateful. No matter how awful your life seems at the moment, you have something to be grateful for. Focus on it with the laser-like, single-minded devotion of a dog eyeing a porterhouse.

    You have been granted 2 billion seconds on this planet, give or take. You are a billionaire! Many billionaires, however, squander most of their fortune on bitter recriminations about how unfair everything is. Many of them are right, and it really is unfair. But you won’t get a refund from the universe for the time you spent brooding about the unfairness. You lose them just as surely as a second spent experiencing joy, only they don’t even give you something nice to remember them by.

  12. Always make more dinner rolls than you think you can eat. For some reason, dinner rolls loom much larger in our imaginations than in our stomachs.

Source: Bloomberg

Video: Amazing Ad from Japanese Confectioner Glico Stars 72 Actresses Each Showing One Year of A Woman’s Life in One Second

About 100 years ago, the global average life expectancy was only 31 years.

Today, it has increased to 71.8 years.

The heroine, who turns a year older every second, is played by 72 actresses from 0 to 71 years old (their actual age).

Watch video at You Tube (1:38 minutes) . . . . .

Video: TED Talks – How China Is Changing the Future of Shopping

China is a huge laboratory of innovation, says retail expert Angela Wang, and in this lab, everything takes place on people’s phones. Five hundred million Chinese consumers — the equivalent of the combined populations of the US, UK and Germany — regularly make purchases via mobile platforms, even in brick-and-mortar stores. What will this transformation mean for the future of shopping? Learn more about the new business-as-usual, where everything is ultra-convenient, ultra-flexible and ultra-social.

Watch video at You Tube (13:38 minutes) . . . .