Chapter1: The Encounter That Changed Everything
Chapter 1: The Morgue Whisper
My Life Before the Whisper
In 2009, I was
a man drowning in my own body, a vessel weighed down by a hundred
pounds of excess weight, each step a protest from joints that
screamed with pain and a back that refused to forgive. At sixty-one,
I was a shadow of the vibrant man I once knew myself to be, my energy
sapped, my clarity dulled by a fog I couldn’t shake. I’d spent
decades solving puzzles as an award-winning author, former CPA, and
entrepreneur—building a securities firm that I sold to HSN, coding
an accounting package on a TI 990 Model 1, and outsmarting IBM’s
Outlook and Exchange protocol. This feat sparked their $1 billion
Linux investment. My mind, sharpened by dual majors in literature and
business at UT Austin and a CPA at SMU Cox, had always been my
greatest asset. I’d written songs for Pompeii Records, weaving
melodies as effortlessly as I untangled financial systems. But my
body was a discordant note in my symphony, a riddle I hadn’t yet
cracked. I refused to end up like my father, his vitality stolen by
illness, his days reduced to pills and weakness—a fate I was
determined to avoid. My passion for biotech and longevity, sparked by
years of studying resilient survivors like those of the 1720 Plague
of Marseille, drove me to find a better path. I wanted to reclaim my
vitality, clarity, and joy—not just for myself, but to inspire
others through my writing. My latest assignment—covering a County Hospital cyber—attack seemed like just another story. But
ordinary, as I’d soon learn, was about to become extraordinary.
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The Encounter That Changed Everything
The
hospital’s morgue smelled of industrial cleaner, a sterile scent
that barely masked the chill of absence. My press badge had opened
doors most preferred to keep shut, and I’d convinced the
administrator that the cyber-attack’s impact on their systems
warranted thorough documentation—even down here, in the basement
where the deceased waited for final processing. Fluorescent lights
buzzed overhead, flickering as if struggling against the cold. My
notebook felt unnaturally warm in my hand, a small tether to life
amid the stillness. The air conditioning sent artificial currents
through the room, raising goosebumps on my arms as I moved between
rows of stainless steel drawers, each labeled with a clinical
designation—15A, 15B, 16A—a catalog of ended stories.
I
was jotting notes about the failure of the digital system when it happened.
A metallic groan, like old hinges protesting movement, broke the
silence. Drawer 23B slid open an inch, then two—not fully, but
enough to make my heart stutter.
“I’m a hundred and
six, but only my driver’s license knows that.”
The
voice rasped, heavy with decades, yet carrying a playful edge. A dry
chuckle followed, like autumn leaves skittering across stone. I stood
frozen, pen suspended above paper, rationality wrestling with
evidence. The drawer shouldn’t have opened. The voice shouldn’t
exist. Yet both had happened.
“Odd place to rethink
aging, isn’t it?” the voice continued, calm yet profoundly
unsettling. “But where better to cheat death?”
Its
echo lingered in the cold air, each word hanging with unnatural
clarity. I pictured a man who’d lived through a century, from
horse-drawn carriages to space shuttles, through world wars and
technological revolutions. His tone carried an invitation, a dare to
unravel time’s supposed constants.
My writer’s
curiosity warred with primal fear. I’d crafted thrillers, not lived
them. Yet that eternal detective’s instinct—the same one that had
cracked financial codes and tech protocols—pushed me forward. What
if this were real? What if aging wasn’t the sentence I’d accepted?
What if I could rewrite my own story?
I approached drawer
23B, each step deliberate, my breath visible in the chilled air. A jolt coursed through me when my fingertips touched the cold metal handle, as if the drawer itself were alive. The overhead lights flickered
rapidly—three quick pulses—then darkness swallowed the room for
three heartbeats before the emergency system kicked in.
The
display screen above drawer 23B went dark. When light returned, I
pulled the drawer fully open.
Empty.
My heart
hammered as I stared at the vacant stainless steel tray, the sheet
lying perfectly smooth, as if never disturbed. Had I imagined it? Was
the weight of my own decline breaking my mind?
No. That
voice had been real—more solid than the flickering lights, more
present than my labored breathing. It had posed a question that
now burrowed into my consciousness: What did I truly know about
aging? Was it the inevitable decline I’d accepted, or a code
waiting to be cracked, a process ready to be hacked? That morgue
whisper found resonance in my own life’s fog—in the hundred
pounds I carried, the pain that shadowed my days, the clarity I
longed to reclaim. I didn’t recognize it then, but this moment
would mark a before and after in my journey. Within five years, I’d
shed that weight, reverse chronic conditions doctors had called
permanent, and uncover secrets about aging as impossible as a voice
from a morgue drawer.
[Insert Image: A somber morgue scene
with a reflective figure standing over an open drawer, a faint glow
of determination in their eyes]
==========
The Crash That Broke Me Open
Leaving
the hospital parking garage, my mind churned with questions. The
voice from drawer 23B had lodged in my thoughts like a splinter—small
but impossible to ignore. I barely noticed the afternoon traffic, my
body on autopilot while my thoughts raced elsewhere.
I
didn’t see the red Honda until it was too late. In my rearview
mirror, a flash of movement—a woman leaning toward her mirror,
mascara wand in hand, accelerating through what should have been a
stopping distance. The light ahead turned yellow. I pressed my brake
pedal, slowing responsibly. Her car didn’t slow. I had just enough
time to think, This will hurt, before impact.
The
crash wasn’t cinematic—no slow motion, no dramatic music swell.
The sudden crunch of metal yielding to physics, the violent jolt
as two objects tried to occupy the same space, and the musical
tinkling of safety glass cascading onto asphalt. My head snapped
forward, then back against the headrest, the seatbelt cutting into my
shoulder with bruising force.
Silence followed, that
peculiar quiet after chaos. Then pain bloomed across my neck and
lower back—not new pain, but old aches amplified, as if the crash
had found my weakest points and pressed hard. I sat motionless, hands
gripping the wheel, as a teenage boy tapped on my window, mouthing
words I couldn’t process. When I rolled the window, his
concern rushed in with the cool air.
“Sir, are you okay?
The ambulance is coming.”
I wasn’t okay—not because
of the crash, which had done minor damage, but because of the
revelation it triggered. In that moment of impact, when my body
braced for harm, I felt how comprehensively I’d surrendered to
decline. The hundred pounds I carried, the joint pain that shadowed
my days, the foggy mind that dulled my sharpness—they were all
signs I’d ignored for too long. The crash confirmed what drawer 23B
had whispered: I was already fading, just slowly enough to call it
normal.
The paramedics insisted on taking me back to
County Hospital. X-rays showed no fractures, just soft tissue damage
and whiplash. “Pre-existing degenerative disc disease,” the
doctor noted, pointing to shadows on my spine scan. “The accident
just aggravated what was already there.”
Already
there. Those words echoed the morgue whisper. What else was
“already there” in my body, not just deterioration, but
potential? What if aging were like that drawer—seemingly locked and
labeled, yet capable of sliding open if approached correctly?
A fire sparked within me as I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, waiting for discharge papers. I was done surrendering. I wanted to
reclaim the vitality, clarity, and joy I’d lost, to avoid my
father’s fate and live a life of strength well into my later years.
As an author, I wanted to share this journey and inspire others to rewrite their stories. I left the hospital with a neck brace,
prescription pain relievers, and something I hadn’t carried in
years—determination.
==========
First Notes on Aging
With my neck immobilized and sleep impossible that night, I turned my
detective’s skills inward. I’d always thoroughly investigated my stories, leaving no source unexplored. I applied that rigor to the most crucial story I’d ever pursue—my potential recovery.
My first searches were basic:
“reverse aging,” “longevity science,” “can aging be
stopped.” The results ranged from legitimate research to snake oil
promises. I created a “Morgue Notes” document and began
sorting evidence from wishful thinking. Around 3 AM, several
scientific papers caught my attention, fueling my lifelong
fascination with biotech. This passion had begun years earlier
while researching survivors of the 1720 Plague of Marseille,
wondering what kept them strong while others fell.
A study
on caloric restriction in rhesus monkeys showed dramatic life
extension and disease prevention. The photographs struck
me—restricted monkeys appeared visibly younger than their
chronological peers. Could reducing food intake truly slow the aging clock?
Inflammation research appeared across conditions
I’d accepted as inevitable—arthritis, cognitive decline, and cardiovascular disease. One paper called inflammation “the silent
driver of aging.” If true, could anti-inflammatory approaches
reverse what I’d thought was irreversible?
Most intriguing
was emerging research on cellular senescence—cells that stopped
dividing but refused to die, instead secreting compounds that
promoted aging and disease in surrounding tissues. Scientists called
them “zombie cells,” and some were developing “senolytics” to
clear them. The concept fascinated me—removing aging’s architects
rather than treating symptoms.
Dawn broke as I compiled my
notes, the pain in my neck forgotten. For the first time in years, I
felt a spark of hope—not the passive wishing kind, but the
determined variety that precedes action. If aging was partly a
metabolic process that could be altered, perhaps I could reclaim the
clarity and joy I’d lost. My passion for longevity science grew as
I connected the dots: this wasn’t just about living longer; it was
about living better. As a CPA, I’d tracked numbers to find truth;
now I’d track biomarkers to find health. That morning, I left my
usual cereal untouched and made eggs instead—a small change, but
the first conscious step on a path that would transform everything.
==========
The Road Ahead
The
morgue whisper and car crash became twin catalysts, breaking open my
acceptance of decline. In the weeks that followed, I began adjusting
my diet, first eliminating processed foods and then gradually reducing
carbohydrates. My body protested initially—headaches, fatigue, the
withdrawal symptoms of a system recalibrating after decades of poor
fuel.
But small changes accumulated. Ten pounds lost
became twenty. Energy I’d forgotten returned in bursts. The
constant inflammation in my joints began to recede, not dramatically
but noticeably. Most importantly, I thought more
clearly, as if a mental fog was lifting alongside the physical
one.
My research deepened. I discovered the ketogenic
diet—not as a trend, but as a metabolic approach with roots in
therapeutic medicine. The science fascinated me: shifting the body
from glucose to ketone metabolism, potentially reducing inflammation
and supporting cellular repair. Like a detective following evidence,
I felt drawn to this approach, sensing it might be key to cracking my
body’s code.
Beyond keto lie other frontiers—the carnivore diet with its elimination of potential inflammatory triggers, intermittent fasting with its cellular housekeeping benefits, and specific supplements targeting aging pathways. Each
represented a chapter in the story I was beginning to write with my
own life.
The voice from drawer 23B never returned, but it
didn’t need to. Its message had been delivered, and its purpose was served.
Sometimes, when my joints moved more freely or my mind felt sharper
than it had in years, I thought of that voice—the impossible
whisper that had made me question what was possible.
This
journey to reverse aging wasn’t just about extending life, but
reclaiming its quality. It was about restoring the vitality, clarity,
and joy I’d lost, avoiding my father’s fate, and sharing what I
learned as an author to inspire others. The road ahead would be long,
filled with experiments, setbacks, and discoveries. But I welcomed the journey for the first time in years rather than dreading it. Drawer
23B had posed a question: Was aging the sentence I’d accepted? My
answer was becoming clearer with each passing day—a resounding
no.
==========
© Tom Adelstein Copyright 2025, All Rights Reserved.
Have You Ever Wondered If You Could Turn Back Time?
Navigation:
Chapter 1: The Encounter That Changed Everything
Chapter 2: Keto's Tune - Tighter Beats
Chapter 4: My Anti-Aging Supplement Protocol
Chapter 5: How to Start Atkins - My First Turn
Chapter 6: How to Start Keto - My 2014 Turn
Chapter 7: How to Start Carnivore and Why It Works
Chapter 8: The Aging Cascade - When My Body Crashed and How I Rebuilt It
Chapter 9: Mental Clarity at 77—How Carnivore Rewired My Brain After Decades of Fog
Chapter 10: The Origins of Low-Carb Diets: Dr. Robert Atkins' Legacy and My Journey
Chapter 11: Intermittent Fasting: Silent Healer
Chapter 12: Exercise as Rhythm
Chapter 13: Understanding Aging and Longevity
Chapter 14: Unlocking Longevity: A Transformative Path
Chapter 16: Beyond Blue Zones - The Collective Path to Longevity's Advanced Intelligence
© 2025 Tom Adelstein. All rights reserved.
