The academic birth rate. Production and reproduction of the research work force, and its effect on innovation and research misconduct

Universities have been churning out PhD students to reap financial and other rewards for training biomedical scientists. This deluge of cheap labour has created unhealthy competition, which encourages scientific misconduct.Most developed nations invest a considerable amount of public money in scientific research for a variety of reasons: most importantly because research is regarded as a motor for economic progress and development, and to train a research workforce for both academia and industry. Not surprisingly, governments are occasionally confronted with questions about whether the money invested in research is appropriate and whether taxpayers are getting the maximum value for their investments.…questions about the size and composition of the research workforce have historically been driven by concerns that the system produces an insufficient number of scientistsThe training and maintenance of the research workforce is a large component of these investments. Yet discussions in the USA about the appropriate size of this workforce have typically been contentious, owing to an apparent lack of reliable data to tell us whether the system yields academic ‘reproduction rates'' that are above, below or at replacement levels. In the USA, questions about the size and composition of the research workforce have historically been driven by concerns that the system produces an insufficient number of scientists. As Donald Kennedy, then Editor-in-Chief of Science, noted several years ago, leaders in prestigious academic institutions have repeatedly rung alarm bells about shortages in the science workforce. Less often does one see questions raised about whether too many scientists are being produced or concerns about unintended consequences that may result from such overproduction. Yet recognizing that resources are finite, it seems reasonable to ask what level of competition for resources is productive, and at what level does competition become counter-productive.Finding a proper balance between the size of the research workforce and the resources available to sustain it has other important implications. Unhealthy competition—too many people clamouring for too little money and too few desirable positions—creates its own problems, most notably research misconduct and lower-quality, less innovative research. If an increasing number of scientists are scrambling for jobs and resources, some might begin to cut corners in order to gain a competitive edge. Moreover, many in the science community worry that every publicized case of research misconduct could jeopardize those resources, if politicians and taxpayers become unwilling to invest in a research system that seems to be riddled with fraud and misconduct.The biomedical research enterprise in the USA provides a useful context in which to examine the level of competition for resources among academic scientists. My thesis is that the system of publicly funded research in the USA as it is currently configured supports a feedback system of institutional incentives that generate excessive competition for resources in biomedical research. These institutional incentives encourage universities to overproduce graduate students and postdoctoral scientists, who are both trainees and a cheap source of skilled labour for research while in training. However, once they have completed their training, they become competitors for money and positions, thereby exacerbating competitive pressures.Questions raised about whether too many scientists are being produced or concerns about the unintended consequences of such overproduction are less commonThe resulting scarcity of resources, partly through its effect on peer review, leads to a shunting of resources away from both younger researchers and the most innovative ideas, which undermines the effectiveness of the research enterprise as a whole. Faced with an increasing number of grant applications and the consequent decrease in the percentage of projects that can be funded, reviewers tend to ‘play it safe'' and favour projects that have a higher likelihood of yielding results, even if the research is conservative in the sense that it does not explore new questions. Resource scarcity can also introduce unwanted randomness to the process of determining which research gets funded. A large group of scientists, led by a cancer biologist, has recently mounted a campaign against a change in a policy of the National Institutes of Health (NIH) to allow only one resubmission of an unfunded grant proposal (Wadman, 2011). The core of their argument is that peer reviewers are likely able to distinguish the top 20% of research applications from the rest, but that within that top 20%, distinguishing the top 5% or 10% means asking peer reviewers for a level of precision that is simply not possible. With funding levels in many NIH institutes now within that 5–10% range, the argument is that reviewers are being forced to choose at random which excellent applications do and do not get funding. In addition to the inefficiency of overproduction and excessive competition in terms of their costs to society and opportunity costs to individuals, these institutional incentives might undermine the integrity and quality of science, and reduce the likelihood of breakthroughs.My colleagues and I have expressed such concerns about workforce dynamics and related issues in several publications (Martinson, 2007; Martinson et al, 2005, 2006, 2009, 2010). Early on, we observed that, “missing from current analyses of scientific integrity is a consideration of the wider research environment, including institutional and systemic structures” (Martinson et al, 2005). Our more recent publications have been more specific about the institutional and systemic structures concerned. It seems that at least a few important leaders in science share these concerns.In April 2009, the NIH, through the National Institute of General Medical Sciences (NIGMS), issued a request for applications (RFA) calling for proposals to develop computational models of the research workforce (http://grants.nih.gov/grants/guide/rfa-files/RFA-GM-10-003.html). Although such an initiative might be premature given the current level of knowledge, the rationale behind the RFA seems irrefutable: “there is a need to […] pursue a systems-based approach to the study of scientific workforce dynamics.” Roughly four decades after the NIH appeared on the scene, this is, to my knowledge, the first official, public recognition that the biomedical workforce tends not to conform nicely to market forces of supply and demand, despite the fact that others have previously made such arguments.Early last year, Francis Collins, Director of the NIH, published a PolicyForum article in Science, voicing many of the concerns I have expressed about specific influences that have led to growth rates in the science workforce that are undermining the effectiveness of research in general, and biomedical research in particular. He notes the increasing stress in the biomedical research community after the end of the NIH “budget doubling” between 1998 and 2003, and the likelihood of further disruptions when the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 (ARRA) funding ends in 2011. Arguing that innovation is crucial to the future success of biomedical research, he notes the tendency towards conservatism of the NIH peer-review process, and how this worsens in fiscally tight times. Collins further highlights the ageing of the NIH workforce—as grants increasingly go to older scientists—and the increasing time that researchers are spending in itinerant and low-paid postdoctoral positions as they stack up in a holding pattern, waiting for faculty positions that may or may not materialize. Having noted these challenging trends, and echoing the central concerns of a 2007 Nature commentary (Martinson, 2007), he concludes that “…it is time for NIH to develop better models to guide decisions about the optimum size and nature of the US workforce for biomedical research. A related issue that needs attention, though it will be controversial, is whether institutional incentives in the current system that encourage faculty to obtain up to 100% of their salary from grants are the best way to encourage productivity.”Similarly, Bruce Alberts, Editor-in-Chief of Science, writing about incentives for innovation, notes that the US biomedical research enterprise includes more than 100,000 graduate students and postdoctoral fellows. He observes that “only a select few will go on to become independent research scientists in academia”, and argues that “assuming that the system supporting this career path works well, these will be the individuals with the most talent and interest in such an endeavor” (Alberts, 2009).His editorial is not concerned with what happens to the remaining majority, but argues that even among the select few who manage to succeed, the funding process for biomedical research “forces them to avoid risk-taking and innovation”. The primary culprit, in his estimation, is the conservatism of the traditional peer-review system for federal grants, which values “research projects that are almost certain to ‘work''”. He continues, “the innovation that is essential for keeping science exciting and productive is replaced by […] research that has little chance of producing the breakthroughs needed to improve human health.”If an increasing number of scientists are scrambling for jobs and resources, some might begin to cut corners in order to gain a competitive edgeAlthough I believe his assessment of the symptoms is correct, I think he has misdiagnosed the cause, in part because he has failed to identify which influence he is concerned with from the network of influences in biomedical research. To contextualize the influences of concern to Alberts, we must consider the remaining majority of doctorally trained individuals so easily dismissed in his editorial, and further examine what drives the dynamics of the biomedical research workforce.Labour economists might argue that market forces will always balance the number of individuals with doctorates with the number of appropriate jobs for them in the long term. Such arguments would ignore, however, the typical information asymmetry between incoming graduate students, whose knowledge about their eventual job opportunities and career options is by definition far more limited than that of those who run the training programmes. They would also ignore the fact that universities are generally not confronted with the externalities resulting from overproduction of PhDs, and have positive financial incentives that encourage overproduction. During the past 40 years, NIH ‘extramural'' funding has become crucial for graduate student training, faculty salaries and university overheads. For their part, universities have embraced NIH extramural funding as a primary revenue source that, for a time, allowed them to implement a business model based on the interconnected assumptions that, as one of the primary ‘outputs'' or ‘products'' of the university, more doctorally trained individuals are always better than fewer, and because these individuals are an excellent source of cheap, skilled labour during their training, they help to contain the real costs of faculty research.“…the current system has succeeded in maximizing the amount of research […] it has also degraded the quality of graduate training and led to an overproduction of PhDs…”However, it has also made universities increasingly dependent on NIH funding. As recently documented by the economist Paula Stephan, most faculty growth in graduate school programmes during the past decade has occurred in medical colleges, with the majority—more than 70%—in non-tenure-track positions. Arguably, this represents a shift of risk away from universities and onto their faculty. Despite perennial cries of concern about shortages in the research workforce (Butz et al, 2003; Kennedy et al, 2004; National Academy of Sciences et al, 2005) a number of commentators have recently expressed concerns that the current system of academic research might be overbuilt (Cech, 2005; Heinig et al, 2007; Martinson, 2007; Stephan, 2007). Some explicitly connect this to structural arrangements between the universities and NIH funding (Cech, 2005; Collins, 2007; Martinson, 2007; Stephan, 2007).In 1995, David Korn pointed out what he saw as some problematic aspects of the business model employed by Academic Medical Centers (AMCs) in the USA during the past few decades (Korn, 1995). He noted the reliance of AMCs on the relatively low-cost, but highly skilled labour represented by postdoctoral fellows, graduate students and others—who quickly start to compete with their own professors and mentors for resources. Having identified the economic dependence of the AMCs on these inexpensive labour pools, he noted additional problems with the graduate training programmes themselves. “These programs are […] imbued with a value system that clearly indicates to all participants that true success is only marked by the attainment of a faculty position in a high-profile research institution and the coveted status of principal investigator on NIH grants.” Pointing to “more than 10 years of severe supply/demand imbalance in NIH funds”, Korn concluded that, “considering the generative nature of each faculty mentor, this enterprise could only sustain itself in an inflationary environment, in which the society''s investment in biomedical research and clinical care was continuously and sharply expanding.” From 1994 to 2003, total funding for biomedical research in the USA increased at an annual rate of 7.8%, after adjustment for inflation. The comparable rate of growth between 2003 and 2007 was 3.4% (Dorsey et al, 2010). These observations resonate with the now classic observation by Derek J. de Solla Price, from more than 30 years before, that growth in science frequently follows an exponential pattern that cannot continue indefinitely; the enterprise must eventually come to a plateau (de Solla Price, 1963).In May 2009, echoing some of Korn''s observations, Nobel laureate Roald Hoffmann caused a stir in the US science community when he argued for a “de-coupling” of the dual roles of graduate students as trainees and cheap labour (Hoffmann, 2009). His suggestion was to cease supporting graduate students with faculty research grants, and to use the money instead to create competitive awards for which graduate students could apply, making them more similar to free agents. During the ensuing discussion, Shirley Tilghman, president of Princeton University, argued that “although the current system has succeeded in maximizing the amount of research performed […] it has also degraded the quality of graduate training and led to an overproduction of PhDs in some areas. Unhitching training from research grants would be a much-needed form of professional ‘birth control''” (Mervis, 2009).The greying of the NIH research workforce is another important driver of workforce dynamics, and it is integrally linked to the fate of young scientistsAlthough the issue of what I will call the ‘academic birth rate'' is the central concern of this analysis, the ‘academic end-of-life'' also warrants some attention. The greying of the NIH research workforce is another important driver of workforce dynamics, and it is integrally linked to the fate of young scientists. A 2008 news item in Science quoted then 70-year-old Robert Wells, a molecular geneticist at Texas A&M University, “‘if I and other old birds continue to land the grants, the [young scientists] are not going to get them.” He worries that the budget will not be able to support “the 100 people ‘I''ve trained […] to replace me''” (Kaiser, 2008). While his claim of 100 trainees might be astonishing, it might be more astonishing that his was the outlying perspective. The majority of senior scientists interviewed for that article voiced intentions to keep doing science—and going after NIH grants—until someone forced them to stop or they died.Some have looked at the current situation with concern, primarily because of the threats it poses to the financial and academic viability of universities (Korn, 1995; Heinig et al, 2007; Korn & Heinig, 2007), although most of those who express such concerns have been distinctly reticent to acknowledge the role of universities in creating and maintaining the situation. Others have expressed concerns about the differential impact of extreme competition and meagre job prospects on the recruitment, development and career survival of young and aspiring scientists (Freeman et al, 2001; Kennedy et al, 2004; Martinson et al, 2006; Anderson et al, 2007a; Martinson, 2007; Stephan, 2007). There seems to be little disagreement, however, that the system has generated excessively high competition for federal research funding, and that this threatens to undermine the very innovation and production of knowledge that is its raison d''etre.The production of knowledge in science, particularly of the ‘revolutionary'' variety, is generally not a linear input–output process with predictable returns on investment, clear timelines and high levels of certainty (Lane, 2009). On the contrary, it is arguable that “revolutionary science is a high risk and long-term endeavour which usually fails” (Charlton & Andras, 2008). Predicting where, when and by whom breakthroughs in understanding will be produced has proven to be an extremely difficult task. In the face of such uncertainty, and denying the realities of finite resources, some have argued that the best bet is to maximize the number of scientists, using that logic to justify a steady-state production of new PhDs, regardless of whether the labour market is sending signals of increasing or decreasing demand for that supply. Only recently have we begun to explore the effects of the current arrangement on the process of knowledge production, and on innovation in particular (Charlton & Andras, 2008; Kolata, 2009).…most of those who express such concerns have been reticent to acknowledge the role of universities themselves in creating and maintaining the situationBruce Alberts, in the above-mentioned editorial, points to several initiatives launched by the NIH that aim to get a larger share of NIH funding into the hands of young scientists with particularly innovative ideas. These include the “New Innovator Award,” the “Pioneer Award” and the “Transformational R01 Awards”. The proportion of NIH funding dedicated to these awards, however, amounts to “only 0.27% of the NIH budget” (Alberts, 2009). Such a small proportion of the NIH budget does not seem likely to generate a large amount of more innovative science. Moreover, to the extent that such initiatives actually succeed in enticing more young investigators to become dependent on NIH funds, any benefit these efforts have in terms of innovation may be offset by further increases in competition for resources that will come when these new ‘innovators'' reach the end of this specialty funding and add to the rank and file of those scrapping for funds through the standard mechanisms.Our studies on research integrity have been mostly oriented towards understanding how the influences within which academic scientists work might affect their behaviour, and thus the quality of the science they produce (Anderson et al, 2007a, 2007b; Martinson et al, 2009, 2010). My colleagues and I have focused on whether biomedical researchers perceive fairness in the various exchange relationships within their work systems. I am persuaded by the argument that expectations of fairness in exchange relationships have been hard-wired into us through evolution (Crockett et al, 2008; Hsu et al, 2008; Izuma et al, 2008; Pennisi, 2009), with the advent of modern markets being a primary manifestation of this. Thus, violations of these expectations strike me as potentially corrupting influences. Such violations might be prime motivators for ill will, possibly engendering bad-faith behaviour among those who perceive themselves to have been slighted, and therefore increasing the risk of research misconduct. They might also corrupt the enterprise by signalling to talented young people that biomedical research is an inhospitable environment in which to develop a career, possibly chasing away some of the most talented individuals, and encouraging a selection of characteristics that might not lead to optimal effectiveness, in terms of scientific innovation and productivity (Charlton, 2009).To the extent that we have an ecology with steep competition that is fraught with high risks of career failure for young scientists after they incur large costs of time, effort and sometimes financial resources to obtain a doctoral degree, why would we expect them to take on the additional, substantial risks involved in doing truly innovative science and asking risky research questions? And why, in such a cut-throat setting, would we not anticipate an increase in corner-cutting, and a corrosion of good scientific practice, collegiality, mentoring and sociability? Would we not also expect a reduction in high-risk, innovative science, and a reversion to a more career-safe type of ‘normal'' science? Would this not reduce the effectiveness of the institution of biomedical research? I do not claim to know the conditions needed to maximize the production of research that is novel, innovative and conducted with integrity. I am fairly certain, however, that putting scientists in tenuous positions in which their careers and livelihoods would be put at risk by pursuing truly revolutionary research is one way to insure against it.     

Gut microbiota of healthy Canadian infants: profiles by mode of delivery and infant diet at 4 months

Background:

The gut microbiota is essential to human health throughout life, yet the acquisition and development of this microbial community during infancy remains poorly understood. Meanwhile, there is increasing concern over rising rates of cesarean delivery and insufficient exclusive breastfeeding of infants in developed countries. In this article, we characterize the gut microbiota of healthy Canadian infants and describe the influence of cesarean delivery and formula feeding.

Methods:

We included a subset of 24 term infants from the Canadian Healthy Infant Longitudinal Development (CHILD) birth cohort. Mode of delivery was obtained from medical records, and mothers were asked to report on infant diet and medication use. Fecal samples were collected at 4 months of age, and we characterized the microbiota composition using high-throughput DNA sequencing.

Results:

We observed high variability in the profiles of fecal microbiota among the infants. The profiles were generally dominated by Actinobacteria (mainly the genus Bifidobacterium) and Firmicutes (with diverse representation from numerous genera). Compared with breastfed infants, formula-fed infants had increased richness of species, with overrepresentation of Clostridium difficile. Escherichia–Shigella and Bacteroides species were underrepresented in infants born by cesarean delivery. Infants born by elective cesarean delivery had particularly low bacterial richness and diversity.

Interpretation:

These findings advance our understanding of the gut microbiota in healthy infants. They also provide new evidence for the effects of delivery mode and infant diet as determinants of this essential microbial community in early life.The human body harbours trillions of microbes, known collectively as the “human microbiome.” By far the highest density of commensal bacteria is found in the digestive tract, where resident microbes outnumber host cells by at least 10 to 1. Gut bacteria play a fundamental role in human health by promoting intestinal homeostasis, stimulating development of the immune system, providing protection against pathogens, and contributing to the processing of nutrients and harvesting of energy.^1,2 The disruption of the gut microbiota has been linked to an increasing number of diseases, including inflammatory bowel disease, necrotizing enterocolitis, diabetes, obesity, cancer, allergies and asthma.¹ Despite this evidence and a growing appreciation for the integral role of the gut microbiota in lifelong health, relatively little is known about the acquisition and development of this complex microbial community during infancy.³Two of the best-studied determinants of the gut microbiota during infancy are mode of delivery and exposure to breast milk.^4,5 Cesarean delivery perturbs normal colonization of the infant gut by preventing exposure to maternal microbes, whereas breastfeeding promotes a “healthy” gut microbiota by providing selective metabolic substrates for beneficial bacteria.^3,5 Despite recommendations from the World Health Organization,⁶ the rate of cesarean delivery has continued to rise in developed countries and rates of breastfeeding decrease substantially within the first few months of life.^7,8 In Canada, more than 1 in 4 newborns are born by cesarean delivery, and less than 15% of infants are exclusively breastfed for the recommended duration of 6 months.^9,10 In some parts of the world, elective cesarean deliveries are performed by maternal request, often because of apprehension about pain during childbirth, and sometimes for patient–physician convenience.¹¹The potential long-term consequences of decisions regarding mode of delivery and infant diet are not to be underestimated. Infants born by cesarean delivery are at increased risk of asthma, obesity and type 1 diabetes,¹² whereas breastfeeding is variably protective against these and other disorders.¹³ These long-term health consequences may be partially attributable to disruption of the gut microbiota.^12,14Historically, the gut microbiota has been studied with the use of culture-based methodologies to examine individual organisms. However, up to 80% of intestinal microbes cannot be grown in culture.^3,15 New technology using culture-independent DNA sequencing enables comprehensive detection of intestinal microbes and permits simultaneous characterization of entire microbial communities. Multinational consortia have been established to characterize the “normal” adult microbiome using these exciting new methods;¹⁶ however, these methods have been underused in infant studies. Because early colonization may have long-lasting effects on health, infant studies are vital.^3,4 Among the few studies of infant gut microbiota using DNA sequencing, most were conducted in restricted populations, such as infants delivered vaginally,¹⁷ infants born by cesarean delivery who were formula-fed¹⁸ or preterm infants with necrotizing enterocolitis.¹⁹Thus, the gut microbiota is essential to human health, yet the acquisition and development of this microbial community during infancy remains poorly understood.³ In the current study, we address this gap in knowledge using new sequencing technology and detailed exposure assessments²⁰ of healthy Canadian infants selected from a national birth cohort to provide representative, comprehensive profiles of gut microbiota according to mode of delivery and infant diet.     

Scientific dissent and public policy

The temptation to silence dissenters whose non-mainstream views negatively affect public policies is powerful. However, silencing dissent, no matter how scientifically unsound it might be, can cause the public to mistrust science in general.Dissent is crucial for the advancement of science. Disagreement is at the heart of peer review and is important for uncovering unjustified assumptions, flawed methodologies and problematic reasoning. Enabling and encouraging dissent also helps to generate alternative hypotheses, models and explanations. Yet, despite the importance of dissent in science, there is growing concern that dissenting voices have a negative effect on the public perception of science, on policy-making and public health. In some cases, dissenting views are deliberately used to derail certain policies. For example, dissenting positions on climate change, environmental toxins or the hazards of tobacco smoke [1,2] seem to laypeople as equally valid conflicting opinions and thereby create or increase uncertainty. Critics often use legitimate scientific disagreements about narrow claims to reinforce the impression of uncertainty about general and widely accepted truths; for instance, that a given substance is harmful [3,4]. This impression of uncertainty about the evidence is then used to question particular policies [1,2,5,6].The negative effects of dissent on establishing public polices are present in cases in which the disagreements are scientifically well-grounded, but the significance of the dissent is misunderstood or blown out of proportion. A study showing that many factors affect the size of reef islands, to the effect that they will not necessarily be reduced in size as sea levels rise [7], was simplistically interpreted by the media as evidence that climate change will not have a negative impact on reef islands [8].In other instances, dissenting voices affect the public perception of and motivation to follow public-health policies or recommendations. For example, the publication of a now debunked link between the measles, mumps and rubella vaccine and autism [9], as well as the claim that the mercury preservative thimerosal, which was used in childhood vaccines, was a possible risk factor for autism [10,11], created public doubts about the safety of vaccinating children. Although later studies showed no evidence for these claims, doubts led many parents to reject vaccinations for their children, risking the herd immunity for diseases that had been largely eradicated from the industrialized world [12,13,14,15]. Many scientists have therefore come to regard dissent as problematic if it has the potential to affect public behaviour and policy-making. However, we argue that such concerns about dissent as an obstacle to public policy are both dangerous and misguided.Whether dissent is based on genuine scientific evidence or is unfounded, interested parties can use it to sow doubt, thwart public policies, promote problematic alternatives and lead the public to ignore sound advice. In response, scientists have adopted several strategies to limit these negative effects of dissent—masking dissent, silencing dissent and discrediting dissenters. The first strategy aims to present a united front to the public. Scientists mask existing disagreements among themselves by presenting only those claims or pieces of evidence about which they agree [16]. Although there is nearly universal agreement among scientists that average global temperatures are increasing, there are also legitimate disagreements about how much warming will occur, how quickly it will occur and the impact it might have [7,17,18,19]. As presenting these disagreements to the public probably creates more doubt and uncertainty than is warranted, scientists react by presenting only general claims [20].A second strategy is to silence dissenting views that might have negative consequences. This can take the form of self-censorship when scientists are reluctant to publish or publicly discuss research that might—incorrectly—be used to question existing scientific knowledge. For example, there are genuine disagreements about how best to model cloud formation, water vapour feedback and aerosols in general circulation paradigms, all of which have significant effects on the magnitude of global climate change predictions [17,19]. Yet, some scientists are hesitant to make these disagreements public, for fear that they will be accused of being denialists, faulted for confusing the public and policy-makers, censured for abating climate-change deniers, or criticized for undermining public policy [21,22,23,24].…there is growing concern that dissenting voices can have a negative effect on the public perception of science, on policy-making and public healthAnother strategy is to discredit dissenters, especially in cases in which the dissent seems to be ideologically motivated. This could involve publicizing the financial or political ties of the dissenters [2,6,25], which would call attention to their probable bias. In other cases, scientists might discredit the expertise of the dissenter. One such example concerns a 2007 study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA, which claimed that cadis fly larvae consuming Bt maize pollen die at twice the rate of flies feeding on non-Bt maize pollen [26]. Immediately after publication, both the authors and the study itself became the target of relentless and sometimes scathing attacks from a group of scientists who were concerned that anti-GMO (genetically modified organism) interest groups would seize on the study to advance their agenda [27]. The article was criticized for its methodology and its conclusions, the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA was criticized for publishing the article and the US National Science Foundation was criticized for funding the study in the first place.Public policies, health advice and regulatory decisions should be based on the best available evidence and knowledge. As the public often lack the expertise to assess the quality of dissenting views, disagreements have the potential to cast doubt over the reliability of scientific knowledge and lead the public to question relevant policies. Strategies to block dissent therefore seem reasonable as a means to protect much needed or effective health policies, advice and regulations. However, even if the public were unable to evaluate the science appropriately, targeting dissent is not the most appropriate strategy to prevent negative side effects for several reasons. Chiefly, it contributes to the problems that the critics of dissent seek to address, namely increasing the cacophony of dissenting voices that only aim to create doubt. Focusing on dissent as a problematic activity sends the message to policy-makers and the public that any dissent undermines scientific knowledge. Reinforcing this false assumption further incentivizes those who seek merely to create doubt to thwart particular policies. Not surprisingly, think-tanks, industry and other organizations are willing to manufacture dissent simply to derail policies that they find economically or ideologically undesirable.Another danger of targeting dissent is that it probably stifles legitimate crucial voices that are needed for both advancing science and informing sound policy decisions. Attacking dissent makes scientists reluctant to voice genuine doubts, especially if they believe that doing so might harm their reputations, damage their careers and undermine prevailing theories or policies needed. For instance, a panel of scientists for the US National Academy of Sciences, when presenting a risk assessment of radiation in 1956, omitted wildly different predictions about the potential genetic harm of radiation [16]. They did not include this wide range of predictions in their final report precisely because they thought the differences would undermine confidence in their recommendations. Yet, this information could have been relevant to policy-makers. As such, targeting dissent as an obstacle to public policy might simply reinforce self-censorship and stifle legitimate and scientifically informed debate. If this happens, scientific progress is hindered.Second, even if the public has mistaken beliefs about science or the state of the knowledge of the science in question, focusing on dissent is not an effective way to protect public policy from false claims. It fails to address the presumed cause of the problem—the apparent lack of understanding of the science by the public. A better alternative would be to promote the public''s scientific literacy. If the public were educated to better assess the quality of the dissent and thus disregard instances of ideological, unsupported or unsound dissent, dissenting voices would not have such a negative effect. Of course, one might argue that educating the public would be costly and difficult, and that therefore, the public should simply listen to scientists about which dissent to ignore and which to consider. This is, however, a paternalistic attitude that requires the public to remain ignorant ‘for their own good''; a position that seems unjustified on many levels as there are better alternatives for addressing the problem.Moreover, silencing dissent, rather than promoting scientific literacy, risks undermining public trust in science even if the dissent is invalid. This was exemplified by the 2009 case of hacked e-mails from a computer server at the University of East Anglia''s Climate Research Unit (CRU). After the selective leaking of the e-mails, climate scientists at the CRU came under fire because some of the quotes, which were taken out of context, seemed to suggest that they were fudging data or suppressing dissenting views [28,29,30,31]. The stolen e-mails gave further ammunition to those opposing policies to reduce greenhouse emissions as they could use accusations of data ‘cover up'' as proof that climate scientists were not being honest with the public [29,30,31]. It also allowed critics to present climate scientists as conspirators who were trying to push a political agenda [32]. As a result, although there was nothing scientifically inappropriate revealed in the ‘climategate'' e-mails, it had the consequence of undermining the public''s trust in climate science [33,34,35,36].A significant amount of evidence shows that the ‘deficit model'' of public understanding of science, as described above, is too simplistic to account correctly for the public''s reluctance to accept particular policy decisions [37,38,39,40]. It ignores other important factors such as people''s attitudes towards science and technology, their social, political and ethical values, their past experiences and the public''s trust in governmental institutions [41,42,43,44]. The development of sound public policy depends not only on good science, but also on value judgements. One can agree with the scientific evidence for the safety of GMOs, for instance, but still disagree with the widespread use of GMOs because of social justice concerns about the developing world''s dependence on the interests of the global market. Similarly, one need not reject the scientific evidence about the harmful health effects of sugar to reject regulations on sugary drinks. One could rationally challenge such regulations on the grounds that informed citizens ought to be able to make free decisions about what they consume. Whether or not these value judgements are justified is an open question, but the focus on dissent hinders our ability to have that debate.Focusing on dissent as a problematic activity sends the message to policy-makers and the public that any dissent undermines scientific knowledgeAs such, targeting dissent completely fails to address the real issues. The focus on dissent, and the threat that it seems to pose to public policy, misdiagnoses the problem as one of the public misunderstanding science, its quality and its authority. It assumes that scientific or technological knowledge is the only relevant factor in the development of policy and it ignores the role of other factors, such as value judgements about social benefits and harms, and institutional trust and reliability [45,46]. The emphasis on dissent, and thus on scientific knowledge, as the only or main factor in public policy decisions does not give due attention to these legitimate considerations.Furthermore, by misdiagnosing the problem, targeting dissent also impedes more effective solutions and prevents an informed debate about the values that should guide public policy. By framing policy debates solely as debates over scientific facts, the normative aspects of public policy are hidden and neglected. Relevant ethical, social and political values fail to be publicly acknowledged and openly discussed.Controversies over GMOs and climate policies have called attention to the negative effects of dissent in the scientific community. Based on the assumption that the public''s reluctance to support particular policies is the result of their inability to properly understand scientific evidence, scientists have tried to limit dissenting views that create doubt. However, as outlined above, targeting dissent as an obstacle to public policy probably does more harm than good. It fails to focus on the real problem at stake—that science is not the only relevant factor in sound policy-making. Of course, we do not deny that scientific evidence is important to the develop.ment of public policy and behavioural decisions. Rather, our claim is that this role is misunderstood and often oversimplified in ways that actually contribute to problems in developing sound science-based policies.? Open in a separate windowInmaculada de Melo-MartínOpen in a separate windowKristen Intemann     

Listening to public concerns about human life extension

The public view of life-extension technologies is more nuanced than expected and researchers must engage in discussions if they hope to promote awareness and acceptanceThere is increasing research and commercial interest in the development of novel interventions that might be able to extend human life expectancy by decelerating the ageing process. In this context, there is unabated interest in the life-extending effects of caloric restriction in mammals, and there are great hopes for drugs that could slow human ageing by mimicking its effects (Fontana et al, 2010). The multinational pharmaceutical company GlaxoSmithKline, for example, acquired Sirtris Pharmaceuticals in 2008, ostensibly for their portfolio of drugs targeting ‘diseases of ageing''. More recently, the immunosuppressant drug rapamycin has been shown to extend maximum lifespan in mice (Harrison et al, 2009). Such findings have stoked the kind of enthusiasm that has become common in media reports of life-extension and anti-ageing research, with claims that rapamycin might be “the cure for all that ails” (Hasty, 2009), or that it is an “anti-aging drug [that] could be used today” (Blagosklonny, 2007).Given the academic, commercial and media interest in prolonging human lifespan—a centuries-old dream of humanity—it is interesting to gauge what the public thinks about the possibility of living longer, healthier lives, and to ask whether they would be willing to buy and use drugs that slow the ageing process. Surveys that have addressed these questions, have given some rather surprising results, contrary to the expectations of many researchers in the field. They have also highlighted that although human life extension (HLE) and ageing are topics with enormous implications for society and individuals, scientists have not communicated efficiently with the public about their research and its possible applications.Given the academic, commercial and media interest in prolonging human lifespan […] it is interesting to gauge what the public thinks about the possibility of living longer, healthier lives…Proponents and opponents of HLE often assume that public attitudes towards ageing interventions will be strongly for or against, but until now, there has been little empirical evidence with which to test these assumptions (Lucke & Hall, 2005). We recently surveyed members of the public in Australia and found a variety of opinions, including some ambivalence towards the development and use of drugs that could slow ageing and increase lifespan. Our findings suggest that many members of the public anticipate both positive and negative outcomes from this work (Partridge 2009a, b, 2010; Underwood et al, 2009).In a community survey of public attitudes towards HLE we found that around two-thirds of a sample of 605 Australian adults supported research with the potential to increase the maximum human lifespan by slowing ageing (Partridge et al, 2010). However, only one-third expressed an interest in using an anti-ageing pill if it were developed. Half of the respondents were not interested in personally using such a pill and around one in ten were undecided.Some proponents of HLE anticipate their research being impeded by strong public antipathy (Miller, 2002, 2009). Richard Miller has claimed that opposition to the development of anti-ageing interventions often exists because of an “irrational public predisposition” to think that increased lifespans will only lead to elongation of infirmity. He has called this “gerontologiphobia”—a shared feeling among laypeople that while research to cure age-related diseases such as dementia is laudable, research that aims to intervene in ageing is a “public menace” (Miller, 2002).We found broad support for the amelioration of age-related diseases and for technologies that might preserve quality of life, but scepticism about a major promise of HLE—that it will delay the onset of age-related diseases and extend an individual''s healthy lifespan. From the people we interviewed, the most commonly cited potential negative personal outcome of HLE was that it would extend the number of years a person spent with chronic illnesses and poor quality of life (Partridge et al, 2009a). Although some members of the public envisioned more years spent in good health, almost 40% of participants were concerned that a drug to slow ageing would do more harm than good to them personally; another 13% were unsure about the benefits and costs (Partridge et al, 2010).…it might be that advocates of HLE have failed to persuade the public on this issueIt would be unwise to label such concerns as irrational, when it might be that advocates of HLE have failed to persuade the public on this issue. Have HLE researchers explained what they have discovered about ageing and what it means? Perhaps the public see the claims that have been made about HLE as ‘too good to be true‘.Results of surveys of biogerontologists suggest that they are either unaware or dismissive of public concerns about HLE. They often ignore them, dismiss them as “far-fetched”, or feel no responsibility “to respond” (Settersten Jr et al, 2008). Given this attitude, it is perhaps not surprising that the public are sceptical of their claims.Scientists are not always clear about the outcomes of their work, biogerontologists included. Although the life-extending effects of interventions in animal models are invoked as arguments for supporting anti-ageing research, it is not certain that these interventions will also extend healthy lifespans in humans. Miller (2009) reassuringly claims that the available evidence consistently suggests that quality of life is maintained in laboratory animals with extended lifespans, but he acknowledges that the evidence is “sparse” and urges more research on the topic (Miller, 2009). In the light of such ambiguity, researchers need to respond to public concerns in ways that reflect the available evidence and the potential of their work, without becoming apostles for technologies that have not yet been developed. An anti-ageing drug that extends lifespan without maintaining quality of life is clearly undesirable, but the public needs to be persuaded that such an outcome can be avoided.The public is also concerned about the possible adverse side effects of anti-ageing drugs. Many people were bemused when they discovered that members of the Caloric Restriction Society experienced a loss of libido and loss of muscle mass as a result of adhering to a low-calorie diet to extend their longevity—for many people, such side effects would not be worth the promise of some extra years of life. Adverse side effects are acknowledged as a considerable potential challenge to the development of an effective life-extending drug in humans (Fontana et al, 2010). If researchers do not discuss these possible effects, then a curious public might draw their own conclusions.Adverse side effects are acknowledged as a considerable potential challenge to the development of an effective life-extending drug in humansSome HLE advocates seem eager to tout potential anti-ageing drugs as being free from adverse side effects. For example, Blagosklonny (2007) has argued that rapamycin could be used to prevent age-related diseases in humans because it is “a non-toxic, well tolerated drug that is suitable for everyday oral administration” with its major “side-effects” being anti-tumour, bone-protecting, and mimicking caloric restriction effects. By contrast, Kaeberlein & Kennedy (2009) have advised the public against using the drug because of its immunosuppressive effects.Aubrey de Grey has called for scientists to provide more optimistic timescales for HLE on several occasions. He claims that public opposition to interventions in ageing is based on “extraordinarily transparently flawed opinions” that HLE would be unethical and unsustainable (de Grey, 2004). In his view, public opposition is driven by scepticism about whether HLE will be possible, and that concerns about extending infirmity, injustice or social harms are simply excuses to justify people''s belief that ageing is ‘not so bad'' (de Grey, 2007). He argues that this “pro-ageing trance” can only be broken by persuading the public that HLE technologies are just around the corner.Contrary to de Grey''s expectations of public pessimism, 75% of our survey participants thought that HLE technologies were likely to be developed in the near future. Furthermore, concerns about the personal, social and ethical implications of ageing interventions and HLE were not confined to those who believed that HLE is not feasible (Partridge et al, 2010).Juengst et al (2003) have rightly pointed out that any interventions that slow ageing and substantially increase human longevity might generate more social, economic, political, legal, ethical and public health issues than any other technological advance in biomedicine. Our survey supports this idea; the major ethical concerns raised by members of the public reflect the many and diverse issues that are discussed in the bioethics literature (Partridge et al, 2009b; Partridge & Hall, 2007).When pressed, even enthusiasts admit that a drastic extension of human life might be a mixed blessing. A recent review by researchers at the US National Institute on Aging pointed to several economic and social challenges that arise from longevity extension (Sierra et al, 2009). Perry (2004) suggests that the ability to slow ageing will cause “profound changes” and a “firestorm of controversy”. Even de Grey (2005) concedes that the development of an effective way to slow ageing will cause “mayhem” and “absolute pandemonium”. If even the advocates of anti-ageing and HLE anticipate widespread societal disruption, the public is right to express concerns about the prospect of these things becoming reality. It is accordingly unfair to dismiss public concerns about the social and ethical implications as “irrational”, “inane” or “breathtakingly stupid” (de Grey, 2004).The breadth of the possible implications of HLE reinforces the need for more discussion about the funding of such research and management of its outcomes ( Juengst et al, 2003). Biogerontologists need to take public concerns more seriously if they hope to foster support for their work. If there are misperceptions about the likely outcomes of intervention in ageing, then biogerontologists need to better explain their research to the public and discuss how their concerns will be addressed. It is not enough to hope that a breakthrough in human ageing research will automatically assuage public concerns about the effects of HLE on quality of life, overpopulation, economic sustainability, the environment and inequities in access to such technologies. The trajectories of other controversial research areas—such as human embryonic stem cell research and assisted reproductive technologies (Deech & Smajdor, 2007)—have shown that “listening to public concerns on research and responding appropriately” is a more effective way of fostering support than arrogant dismissal of public concerns (Anon, 2009).Biogerontologists need to take public concerns more seriously if they hope to foster support for their work? Open in a separate windowBrad PartridgeOpen in a separate windowJayne LuckeOpen in a separate windowWayne Hall     

A qualitative investigation of smoke-free policies on hospital property

Background:

Many hospitals have adopted smoke-free policies on their property. We examined the consequences of such polices at two Canadian tertiary acute-care hospitals.

Methods:

We conducted a qualitative study using ethnographic techniques over a six-month period. Participants (n = 186) shared their perspectives on and experiences with tobacco dependence and managing the use of tobacco, as well as their impressions of the smoke-free policy. We interviewed inpatients individually from eight wards (n = 82), key policy-makers (n = 9) and support staff (n = 14) and held 16 focus groups with health care providers and ward staff (n = 81). We also reviewed ward documents relating to tobacco dependence and looked at smoking-related activities on hospital property.

Results:

Noncompliance with the policy and exposure to secondhand smoke were ongoing concerns. Peoples’ impressions of the use of tobacco varied, including divergent opinions as to whether such use was a bad habit or an addiction. Treatment for tobacco dependence and the management of symptoms of withdrawal were offered inconsistently. Participants voiced concerns over patient safety and leaving the ward to smoke.

Interpretation:

Policies mandating smoke-free hospital property have important consequences beyond noncompliance, including concerns over patient safety and disruptions to care. Without adequately available and accessible support for withdrawal from tobacco, patients will continue to face personal risk when they leave hospital property to smoke.Canadian cities and provinces have passed smoking bans with the goal of reducing people’s exposure to secondhand smoke in workplaces, public spaces and on the property adjacent to public buildings.^1,2 In response, Canadian health authorities and hospitals began implementing policies mandating smoke-free hospital property, with the goals of reducing the exposure of workers, patients and visitors to tobacco smoke while delivering a public health message about the dangers of smoking.^2–5 An additional anticipated outcome was the reduced use of tobacco among patients and staff. The impetuses for adopting smoke-free policies include public support for such legislation and the potential for litigation for exposure to second-hand smoke.^2,4Tobacco use is a modifiable risk factor associated with a variety of cancers, cardiovascular diseases and respiratory conditions.^6–11 Patients in hospital who use tobacco tend to have more surgical complications and exacerbations of acute and chronic health conditions than patients who do not use tobacco.^6–11 Any policy aimed at reducing exposure to tobacco in hospitals is well supported by evidence, as is the integration of interventions targetting tobacco dependence.¹² Unfortunately, most of the nearly five million Canadians who smoke will receive suboptimal treatment,¹³ as the routine provision of interventions for tobacco dependence in hospital settings is not a practice norm.^14–16 In smoke-free hospitals, two studies suggest minimal support is offered for withdrawal, ^17,18 and one reports an increased use of nicotine-replacement therapy after the implementation of the smoke-free policy.¹⁹Assessments of the effectiveness of smoke-free policies for hospital property tend to focus on noncompliance and related issues of enforcement.^17,20,21 Although evidence of noncompliance and litter on hospital property^2,17,20 implies ongoing exposure to tobacco smoke, half of the participating hospital sites in one study reported less exposure to tobacco smoke within hospital buildings and on the property.¹⁸ In addition, there is evidence to suggest some decline in smoking among staff.^18,19,21,22We sought to determine the consequences of policies mandating smoke-free hospital property in two Canadian acute-care hospitals by eliciting lived experiences of the people faced with enacting the policies: patients and health care providers. In addition, we elicited stories from hospital support staff and administrators regarding the policies.     

Of mice and men

Thomas Erren and colleagues point out that studies on light and circadian rhythmicity in humans have their own interesting pitfalls, of which all researchers should be mindful.We would like to compliment, and complement, the recent Opinion in EMBO reports by Stuart Peirson and Russell Foster (2011), which calls attention to the potential obstacles associated with linking observations on light and circadian rhythmicity made on nocturnal mice to diurnally active humans. Pitfalls to consider include that qualitative extrapolations from short-lived rodents to long-lived humans, quantitative extrapolations of very different doses (Gold et al, 1992), and the varying sensitivities of each species to experimental optical radiation as a circadian stimulus (Bullough et al, 2006) can all have a critical influence on an experiment. Thus, Peirson & Foster remind us that “humans are not big mice”. We certainly agree, but we also thought it worthwhile to point out that human studies have their own interesting pitfalls, of which all researchers should be mindful.Many investigations with humans—such as testing the effects of different light exposures on alertness, cognitive performance, well-being and depression—can suffer from what has been coined as the ‘Hawthorne effect''. The term is derived from a series of studies conducted at the Western Electric Company''s Hawthorne Works near Chicago, Illinois, between 1924 and 1932, to test whether the productivity of workers would change with changing illumination levels. One important punch line was that productivity increased with almost any change that was made at the workplaces. One prevailing interpretation of these findings is that humans who know that they are being studied—and in most investigations they cannot help but notice—might exhibit responses that have little or nothing to do with what was intended as the experiment. Those who conduct circadian biology studies in humans try hard to eliminate possible ‘Hawthorne effects'', but every so often, all they can do is to hope for the best and expect the Hawthorne effect to be insignificant.Even so, and despite the obstacles to circadian experiments with both mice and humans, the wealth of information from work in both species is indispensable. To exemplify, in the last handful of years alone, experimental research in mice has substantially contributed to our understanding of the retinal interface between visible light and circadian circuitry (Chen et al, 2011); has shown that disturbances of the circadian systems through manipulations of the light–dark cycles might accelerate carcinogenesis (Filipski et al, 2009); and has suggested that perinatal light exposure—through an imprinting of the stability of circadian systems (Ciarleglio et al, 2011)—might be related to a human''s susceptibility to mood disorders (Erren et al, 2011a) and internal cancer developments later in life (Erren et al, 2011b). Future studies in humans must now examine whether, and to what extent, what was found in mice is applicable to and relevant for humans.The bottom line is that we must be aware of, and first and foremost exploit, evolutionary legacies, such as the seemingly ubiquitous photoreceptive clockwork that marine and terrestrial vertebrates—including mammals such as mice and humans—share (Erren et al, 2008). Translating insights from studies in animals to humans (Erren et al, 2011a,b), and vice versa, into testable research can be a means to one end: to arrive at sensible answers to pressing questions about light and circadian clockworks that, no doubt, play key roles in human health and disease. Pitfalls, however, abound on either side, and we agree with Peirson & Foster that they have to be recognized and monitored.     

Secular trends in acute dialysis after elective major surgery �� 1995 to 2009

Background:

Acute kidney injury is a serious complication of elective major surgery. Acute dialysis is used to support life in the most severe cases. We examined whether rates and outcomes of acute dialysis after elective major surgery have changed over time.

Methods:

We used data from Ontario’s universal health care databases to study all consecutive patients who had elective major surgery at 118 hospitals between 1995 and 2009. Our primary outcomes were acute dialysis within 14 days of surgery, death within 90 days of surgery and chronic dialysis for patients who did not recover kidney function.

Results:

A total of 552 672 patients underwent elective major surgery during the study period, 2231 of whom received acute dialysis. The incidence of acute dialysis increased steadily from 0.2% in 1995 (95% confidence interval [CI] 0.15–0.2) to 0.6% in 2009 (95% CI 0.6–0.7). This increase was primarily in cardiac and vascular surgeries. Among patients who received acute dialysis, 937 died within 90 days of surgery (42.0%, 95% CI 40.0–44.1), with no change in 90-day survival over time. Among the 1294 patients who received acute dialysis and survived beyond 90 days, 352 required chronic dialysis (27.2%, 95% CI 24.8–29.7), with no change over time.

Interpretation:

The use of acute dialysis after cardiac and vascular surgery has increased substantially since 1995. Studies focusing on interventions to better prevent and treat perioperative acute kidney injury are needed.More than 230 million elective major surgeries are done annually worldwide.¹ Acute kidney injury is a serious complication of major surgery. It represents a sudden loss of kidney function that affects morbidity, mortality and health care costs.² Dialysis is used for the most severe forms of acute kidney injury. In the nonsurgical setting, the incidence of acute dialysis has steadily increased over the last 15 years, and patients are now more likely to survive to discharge from hospital.^3–5 Similarly, in the surgical setting, the incidence of acute dialysis appears to be increasing over time,^6–10 with declining inhospital mortality.^8,10,11Although previous studies have improved our understanding of the epidemiology of acute dialysis in the surgical setting, several questions remain. Many previous studies were conducted at a single centre, thereby limiting their generalizability.^6,12–14 Most multicentre studies were conducted in the nonsurgical setting and used diagnostic codes for acute kidney injury not requiring dialysis; however, these codes can be inaccurate.^15,16 In contrast, a procedure such as dialysis is easily determined. The incidence of acute dialysis after elective surgery is of particular interest given the need for surgical consent, the severe nature of the event and the potential for mitigation. The need for chronic dialysis among patients who do not recover renal function after surgery has been poorly studied, yet this condition has a major affect on patient survival and quality of life.¹⁷ For these reasons, we studied secular trends in acute dialysis after elective major surgery, focusing on incidence, 90-day mortality and need for chronic dialysis.     

Erythropoietin Receptor (EpoR) Agonism Is Used to Treat a Wide Range of Disease

The erythropoietin receptor (EpoR) was discovered and described in red blood cells (RBCs), stimulating its proliferation and survival. The target in humans for EpoR agonists drugs appears clear—to treat anemia. However, there is evidence of the pleitropic actions of erythropoietin (Epo). For that reason, rhEpo therapy was suggested as a reliable approach for treating a broad range of pathologies, including heart and cardiovascular diseases, neurodegenerative disorders (Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease), spinal cord injury, stroke, diabetic retinopathy and rare diseases (Friedreich ataxia). Unfortunately, the side effects of rhEpo are also evident. A new generation of nonhematopoietic EpoR agonists drugs (asialoEpo, Cepo and ARA 290) have been investigated and further developed. These EpoR agonists, without the erythropoietic activity of Epo, while preserving its tissue-protective properties, will provide better outcomes in ongoing clinical trials. Nonhematopoietic EpoR agonists represent safer and more effective surrogates for the treatment of several diseases such as brain and peripheral nerve injury, diabetic complications, renal ischemia, rare diseases, myocardial infarction, chronic heart disease and others.In principle, the erythropoietin receptor (EpoR) was discovered and described in red blood cell (RBC) progenitors, stimulating its proliferation and survival. Erythropoietin (Epo) is mainly synthesized in fetal liver and adult kidneys (1–3). Therefore, it was hypothesized that Epo act exclusively on erythroid progenitor cells. Accordingly, the target in humans for EpoR agonists drugs (such as recombinant erythropoietin [rhEpo], in general, called erythropoiesis-simulating agents) appears clear (that is, to treat anemia). However, evidence of a kaleidoscope of pleitropic actions of Epo has been provided (4,5). The Epo/EpoR axis research involved an initial journey from laboratory basic research to clinical therapeutics. However, as a consequence of clinical observations, basic research on Epo/EpoR comes back to expand its clinical therapeutic applicability.Although kidney and liver have long been considered the major sources of synthesis, Epo mRNA expression has also been detected in the brain (neurons and glial cells), lung, heart, bone marrow, spleen, hair follicles, reproductive tract and osteoblasts (6–17). Accordingly, EpoR was detected in other cells, such as neurons, astrocytes, microglia, immune cells, cancer cell lines, endothelial cells, bone marrow stromal cells and cells of heart, reproductive system, gastrointestinal tract, kidney, pancreas and skeletal muscle (18–27). Conversely, Sinclair et al.(28) reported data questioning the presence or function of EpoR on nonhematopoietic cells (endothelial, neuronal and cardiac cells), suggesting that further studies are needed to confirm the diversity of EpoR. Elliott et al.(29) also showed that EpoR is virtually undetectable in human renal cells and other tissues with no detectable EpoR on cell surfaces. These results have raised doubts about the preclinical basis for studies exploring pleiotropic actions of rhEpo (30).For the above-mentioned data, a return to basic research studies has become necessary, and many studies in animal models have been initiated or have already been performed. The effect of rhEpo administration on angiogenesis, myogenesis, shift in muscle fiber types and oxidative enzyme activities in skeletal muscle (4,31), cardiac muscle mitochondrial biogenesis (32), cognitive effects (31), antiapoptotic and antiinflammatory actions (33–37) and plasma glucose concentrations (38) has been extensively studied. Neuro- and cardioprotection properties have been mainly described. Accordingly, rhEpo therapy was suggested as a reliable approach for treating a broad range of pathologies, including heart and cardiovascular diseases, neurodegenerative disorders (Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease), spinal cord injury, stroke, diabetic retinopathy and rare diseases (Friedreich ataxia).Unfortunately, the side effects of rhEpo are also evident. Epo is involved in regulating tumor angiogenesis (39) and probably in the survival and growth of tumor cells (25,40,41). rhEpo administration also induces serious side effects such as hypertension, polycythemia, myocardial infarction, stroke and seizures, platelet activation and increased thromboembolic risk, and immunogenicity (42–46), with the most common being hypertension (47,48). A new generation of nonhematopoietic EpoR agonists drugs have hence been investigated and further developed in animals models. These compounds, namely asialoerythropoietin (asialoEpo) and carbamylated Epo (Cepo), were developed for preserving tissue-protective properties but reducing the erythropoietic activity of native Epo (49,50). These drugs will provide better outcome in ongoing clinical trials. The advantage of using nonhematopoietic Epo analogs is to avoid the stimulation of hematopoiesis and thereby the prevention of an increased hematocrit with a subsequent procoagulant status or increased blood pressure. In this regard, a new study by van Rijt et al. has shed new light on this topic (51). A new nonhematopoietic EpoR agonist analog named ARA 290 has been developed, promising cytoprotective capacities to prevent renal ischemia/reperfusion injury (51). ARA 290 is a short peptide that has shown no safety concerns in preclinical and human studies. In addition, ARA 290 has proven efficacious in cardiac disorders (52,53), neuropathic pain (54) and sarcoidosis-induced chronic neuropathic pain (55). Thus, ARA 290 is a novel nonhematopoietic EpoR agonist with promising therapeutic options in treating a wide range of pathologies and without increased risks of cardiovascular events.Overall, this new generation of EpoR agonists without the erythropoietic activity of Epo while preserving tissue-protective properties of Epo will provide better outcomes in ongoing clinical trials (49,50). Nonhematopoietic EpoR agonists represent safer and more effective surrogates for the treatment of several diseases, such as brain and peripheral nerve injury, diabetic complications, renal ischemia, rare diseases, myocardial infarction, chronic heart disease and others.     

PR55��, a Regulatory Subunit of PP2A, Specifically Regulates PP2A-mediated ��-Catenin Dephosphorylation

A central question in Wnt signaling is the regulation of β-catenin phosphorylation and degradation. Multiple kinases, including CKIα and GSK3, are involved in β-catenin phosphorylation. Protein phosphatases such as PP2A and PP1 have been implicated in the regulation of β-catenin. However, which phosphatase dephosphorylates β-catenin in vivo and how the specificity of β-catenin dephosphorylation is regulated are not clear. In this study, we show that PP2A regulates β-catenin phosphorylation and degradation in vivo. We demonstrate that PP2A is required for Wnt/β-catenin signaling in Drosophila. Moreover, we have identified PR55α as the regulatory subunit of PP2A that controls β-catenin phosphorylation and degradation. PR55α, but not the catalytic subunit, PP2Ac, directly interacts with β-catenin. RNA interference knockdown of PR55α elevates β-catenin phosphorylation and decreases Wnt signaling, whereas overexpressing PR55α enhances Wnt signaling. Taken together, our results suggest that PR55α specifically regulates PP2A-mediated β-catenin dephosphorylation and plays an essential role in Wnt signaling.Wnt/β-catenin signaling plays essential roles in development and tumorigenesis (1–3). Our previous work found that β-catenin is sequentially phosphorylated by CKIα⁴ and GSK3 (4), which creates a binding site for β-Trcp (5), leading to degradation via the ubiquitination/proteasome machinery (3). Mutations in β-catenin or APC genes that prevent β-catenin phosphorylation or ubiquitination/degradation lead ultimately to cancer (1, 2).In addition to the involvement of kinases, protein phosphatases, such as PP1, PP2A, and PP2C, are also implicated in Wnt/β-catenin regulation. PP2C and PP1 may regulate dephosphorylation of Axin and play positive roles in Wnt signaling (6, 7). PP2A is a multisubunit enzyme (8–10); it has been reported to play either positive or negative roles in Wnt signaling likely by targeting different components (11–21). Toward the goal of understanding the mechanism of β-catenin phosphorylation, we carried out siRNA screening targeting several major phosphatases, in which we found that PP2A dephosphorylates β-catenin. This is consistent with a recent study where PP2A is shown to dephosphorylate β-catenin in a cell-free system (18).PP2A consists of a catalytic subunit (PP2Ac), a structure subunit (PR65/A), and variable regulatory B subunits (PR/B, PR/B′, PR/B″, or PR/B‴). The substrate specificity of PP2A is thought to be determined by its B subunit (9). By siRNA screening, we further identified that PR55α, a regulatory subunit of PP2A, specifically regulates β-catenin phosphorylation and degradation. Mechanistically, we found that PR55α directly interacts with β-catenin and regulates PP2A-mediated β-catenin dephosphorylation in Wnt signaling.     

Effect of ambient air pollution on the incidence of appendicitis

Background

The pathogenesis of appendicitis is unclear. We evaluated whether exposure to air pollution was associated with an increased incidence of appendicitis.

Methods

We identified 5191 adults who had been admitted to hospital with appendicitis between Apr. 1, 1999, and Dec. 31, 2006. The air pollutants studied were ozone, nitrogen dioxide, sulfur dioxide, carbon monoxide, and suspended particulate matter of less than 10 μ and less than 2.5 μ in diameter. We estimated the odds of appendicitis relative to short-term increases in concentrations of selected pollutants, alone and in combination, after controlling for temperature and relative humidity as well as the effects of age, sex and season.

Results

An increase in the interquartile range of the 5-day average of ozone was associated with appendicitis (odds ratio [OR] 1.14, 95% confidence interval [CI] 1.03–1.25). In summer (July–August), the effects were most pronounced for ozone (OR 1.32, 95% CI 1.10–1.57), sulfur dioxide (OR 1.30, 95% CI 1.03–1.63), nitrogen dioxide (OR 1.76, 95% CI 1.20–2.58), carbon monoxide (OR 1.35, 95% CI 1.01–1.80) and particulate matter less than 10 μ in diameter (OR 1.20, 95% CI 1.05–1.38). We observed a significant effect of the air pollutants in the summer months among men but not among women (e.g., OR for increase in the 5-day average of nitrogen dioxide 2.05, 95% CI 1.21–3.47, among men and 1.48, 95% CI 0.85–2.59, among women). The double-pollutant model of exposure to ozone and nitrogen dioxide in the summer months was associated with attenuation of the effects of ozone (OR 1.22, 95% CI 1.01–1.48) and nitrogen dioxide (OR 1.48, 95% CI 0.97–2.24).

Interpretation

Our findings suggest that some cases of appendicitis may be triggered by short-term exposure to air pollution. If these findings are confirmed, measures to improve air quality may help to decrease rates of appendicitis.Appendicitis was introduced into the medical vernacular in 1886.¹ Since then, the prevailing theory of its pathogenesis implicated an obstruction of the appendiceal orifice by a fecalith or lymphoid hyperplasia.² However, this notion does not completely account for variations in incidence observed by age,^3,4 sex,^3,4 ethnic background,^3,4 family history,⁵ temporal–spatial clustering⁶ and seasonality,^3,4 nor does it completely explain the trends in incidence of appendicitis in developed and developing nations.^3,7,8The incidence of appendicitis increased dramatically in industrialized nations in the 19th century and in the early part of the 20th century.¹ Without explanation, it decreased in the middle and latter part of the 20th century.³ The decrease coincided with legislation to improve air quality. For example, after the United States Clean Air Act was passed in 1970,⁹ the incidence of appendicitis decreased by 14.6% from 1970 to 1984.³ Likewise, a 36% drop in incidence was reported in the United Kingdom between 1975 and 1994¹⁰ after legislation was passed in 1956 and 1968 to improve air quality and in the 1970s to control industrial sources of air pollution. Furthermore, appendicitis is less common in developing nations; however, as these countries become more industrialized, the incidence of appendicitis has been increasing.⁷Air pollution is known to be a risk factor for multiple conditions, to exacerbate disease states and to increase all-cause mortality.¹¹ It has a direct effect on pulmonary diseases such as asthma¹¹ and on nonpulmonary diseases including myocardial infarction, stroke and cancer.^11–13 Inflammation induced by exposure to air pollution contributes to some adverse health effects.^14–17 Similar to the effects of air pollution, a proinflammatory response has been associated with appendicitis.^18–20We conducted a case–crossover study involving a population-based cohort of patients admitted to hospital with appendicitis to determine whether short-term increases in concentrations of selected air pollutants were associated with hospital admission because of appendicitis.     

Proinsulin and the Genetics of Diabetes Mellitus

Insulin plays a central role in the regulation of vertebrate metabolism. The hormone, the post-translational product of a single-chain precursor, is a globular protein containing two chains, A (21 residues) and B (30 residues). Recent advances in human genetics have identified dominant mutations in the insulin gene causing permanent neonatal-onset DM² (1–4). The mutations are predicted to block folding of the precursor in the ER of pancreatic β-cells. Although expression of the wild-type allele would in other circumstances be sufficient to maintain homeostasis, studies of a corresponding mouse model (5–7) suggest that the misfolded variant perturbs wild-type biosynthesis (8, 9). Impaired β-cell secretion is associated with ER stress, distorted organelle architecture, and cell death (10). These findings have renewed interest in insulin biosynthesis (11–13) and the structural basis of disulfide pairing (14–19). Protein evolution is constrained not only by structure and function but also by susceptibility to toxic misfolding.Insulin plays a central role in the regulation of vertebrate metabolism. The hormone, the post-translational product of a single-chain precursor, is a globular protein containing two chains, A (21 residues) and B (30 residues). Recent advances in human genetics have identified dominant mutations in the insulin gene causing permanent neonatal-onset DM² (1–4). The mutations are predicted to block folding of the precursor in the ER of pancreatic β-cells. Although expression of the wild-type allele would in other circumstances be sufficient to maintain homeostasis, studies of a corresponding mouse model (5–7) suggest that the misfolded variant perturbs wild-type biosynthesis (8, 9). Impaired β-cell secretion is associated with ER stress, distorted organelle architecture, and cell death (10). These findings have renewed interest in insulin biosynthesis (11–13) and the structural basis of disulfide pairing (14–19). Protein evolution is constrained not only by structure and function but also by susceptibility to toxic misfolding.     

��-Defensins in Enteric Innate Immunity: FUNCTIONAL PANETH CELL ��-DEFENSINS IN MOUSE COLONIC LUMEN*

Paneth cells are a secretory epithelial lineage that release dense core granules rich in host defense peptides and proteins from the base of small intestinal crypts. Enteric α-defensins, termed cryptdins (Crps) in mice, are highly abundant in Paneth cell secretions and inherently resistant to proteolysis. Accordingly, we tested the hypothesis that enteric α-defensins of Paneth cell origin persist in a functional state in the mouse large bowel lumen. To test this idea, putative Crps purified from mouse distal colonic lumen were characterized biochemically and assayed in vitro for bactericidal peptide activities. The peptides comigrated with cryptdin control peptides in acid-urea-PAGE and SDS-PAGE, providing identification as putative Crps. Matrix-assisted laser desorption ionization time-of-flight mass spectrometry experiments showed that the molecular masses of the putative α-defensins matched those of the six most abundant known Crps, as well as N-terminally truncated forms of each, and that the peptides contain six Cys residues, consistent with identities as α-defensins. N-terminal sequencing definitively revealed peptides with N termini corresponding to full-length, (des-Leu)-truncated, and (des-Leu-Arg)-truncated N termini of Crps 1–4 and 6. Crps from mouse large bowel lumen were bactericidal in the low micromolar range. Thus, Paneth cell α-defensins secreted into the small intestinal lumen persist as intact and functional forms throughout the intestinal tract, suggesting that the peptides may mediate enteric innate immunity in the colonic lumen, far from their upstream point of secretion in small intestinal crypts.Antimicrobial peptides (AMPs)² are released by epithelial cells onto mucosal surfaces as effectors of innate immunity (1–5). In mammals, most AMPs derive from two major families, the cathelicidins and defensins (6). The defensins comprise the α-, β-, and θ-defensin subfamilies, which are defined by the presence of six cysteine residues paired in characteristic tridisulfide arrays (7). α-Defensins are highly abundant in two primary cell lineages: phagocytic leukocytes, primarily neutrophils, of myeloid origin and Paneth cells, which are secretory epithelial cells located at the base of the crypts of Lieberkühn in the small intestine (8–10). Neutrophil α-defensins are stored in azurophilic granules and contribute to non-oxidative microbial cell killing in phagolysosomes (11, 12), except in mice whose neutrophils lack defensins (13). In the small bowel, α-defensins and other host defense proteins (14–18) are released apically as components of Paneth cell secretory granules in response to cholinergic stimulation and after exposure to bacterial antigens (19). Therefore, the release of Paneth cell products into the crypt lumen is inferred to protect mitotically active crypt cells from colonization by potential pathogens and confer protection against enteric infection (7, 20, 21).Under normal, homeostatic conditions, Paneth cells are not found outside the small bowel, although they may appear ectopically in response to local inflammation throughout the gastrointestinal tract (22, 23). Paneth cell numbers increase progressively throughout the small intestine, occurring at highest numbers in the distal ileum (24). Mouse Paneth cells express numerous α-defensin isoforms, termed cryptdins (Crps) (25), that have broad spectrum antimicrobial activities (6, 26). Collectively, α-defensins constitute approximately seventy percent of the bactericidal peptide activity in mouse Paneth cell secretions (19), selectively killing bacteria by membrane-disruptive mechanisms (27–30). The role of Paneth cell α-defensins in gastrointestinal mucosal immunity is evident from studies of mice transgenic for human enteric α-defensin-5, HD-5, which are immune to infection by orally administered Salmonella enterica sv. typhimurium (S. typhimurium) (31).The biosynthesis of mature, bactericidal α-defensins from their inactive precursors requires activation by lineage-specific proteolytic convertases. In mouse Paneth cells, inactive ∼8.4-kDa Crp precursors are processed intracellularly into microbicidal ∼4-kDa Crps by specific cleavage events mediated by matrix metalloproteinase-7 (MMP-7) (32, 33). MMP-7 null mice exhibit increased susceptibility to systemic S. typhimurium infection and decreased clearance of orally administered non-invasive Escherichia coli (19, 32). Although the α-defensin proregions are sensitive to proteolysis, the mature, disulfide-stabilized peptides resist digestion by their converting enzymes in vitro, whether the convertase is MMP-7 (32), trypsin (34), or neutrophil serine proteinases (35). Because α-defensins resist proteolysis in vitro, we hypothesized that Paneth cell α-defensins resist degradation and remain in a functional state in the large bowel, a complex, hostile environment containing varied proteases of both host and microbial origin.Here, we report on the isolation and characterization of a population of enteric α-defensins from the mouse colonic lumen. Full-length and N-terminally truncated Paneth cell α-defensins were identified and are abundant in the distal large bowel lumen.