Hej.
Hi.
Tak.
Thank you.
[Jennifer Brea er lydfølsom. Publikum er blevet bedt om bifalde på tegnsprog, i stilhed.]
[Jennifer Brea is sound-sensitive. The live audience was asked to applaud ASL-style, in silence.]
Så for fem år siden, var det her mig. Jeg var Ph.d.-studerende på Harvard, og jeg elskede at rejse. Jeg var lige blevet forlovet med mit livs kærlighed. Jeg var 28 år, og ligesom så mange andre, når man har et godt helbred, så følte jeg mig uovervindelig.
So, five years ago, this was me. I was a PhD student at Harvard, and I loved to travel. I had just gotten engaged to marry the love of my life. I was 28, and like so many of us when we are in good health, I felt like I was invincible.
Men en dag fik jeg 40°C i feber. Jeg skulle sikkert have gået til lægen, men jeg havde aldrig rigtigt været syg i mit liv, og jeg vidste, at hvis man har en virus, så bliver man hjemme og laver kyllingesuppe, og om et par dage, så er alt godt igen. Men denne gang blev det ikke godt igen. Efter feberen faldt, var jeg i tre uger så svimmel, at jeg ikke kunne forlade mit hus. Jeg gik direkte ind i dørkarme. Jeg klyngede mig til væggen, bare for at komme på badeværelset. Dét forår fik jeg infektion efter infektion, og hver gang jeg gik til lægen, sagde han, at der intet var galt. Han havde sine laboratorietests, som altid kom tilbage normale. Alt, hvad jeg havde, var mine symptomer, som jeg kunne beskrive, men som ingen andre kunne se. Det lyder fjollet, men man må finde en måde at forklare det til sig selv på, og så tænkte jeg, at jeg måske bare var ved at blive ældre. Måske er det sådan her det føles at være over 25.
Then one day I had a fever of 104.7 degrees. I probably should have gone to the doctor, but I'd never really been sick in my life, and I knew that usually, if you have a virus, you stay home and you make some chicken soup, and in a few days, everything will be fine. But this time it wasn't fine. After the fever broke, for three weeks I was so dizzy, I couldn't leave my house. I would walk straight into door frames. I had to hug the walls just to make it to the bathroom. That spring I got infection after infection, and every time I went to the doctor, he said there was absolutely nothing wrong. He had his laboratory tests, which always came back normal. All I had were my symptoms, which I could describe, but no one else can see. I know it sounds silly, but you have to find a way to explain things like this to yourself, and so I thought maybe I was just aging. Maybe this is what it's like to be on the other side of 25.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Så begyndte de neurologiske symptomer. Nogle gange kunne jeg ikke tegne den højre side af en cirkel. Andre gange kunne jeg ikke tale eller bevæge mig. Jeg så enhver form for specialist: infektionsmedicinske læger, dermatologer, endokrinologer, kardiologer. Jeg så endda en psykiater. Min psykiater sagde, "Det er tydeligt, at du er virkelig syg, men ikke psykiatrisk. Jeg håber, de kan finde ud af, hvad du fejler."
Then the neurological symptoms started. Sometimes I would find that I couldn't draw the right side of a circle. Other times I wouldn't be able to speak or move at all. I saw every kind of specialist: infectious disease doctors, dermatologists, endocrinologists, cardiologists. I even saw a psychiatrist. My psychiatrist said, "It's clear you're really sick, but not with anything psychiatric. I hope they can find out what's wrong with you."
Den næste dag diagnotiserede min neurolog mig med konversionssyndrom. Han fortalte mig at alting -- feberen, den ømme hals, bihulebetændelsen, alle de gastrointestinale, neurologiske og kardiale symptomer -- var forårsaget af et fjernt, følelsesmæssigt trauma, som jeg ikke kunne erindre. Symptomerne var virkelige, sagde han, men de havde ikke biologisk årsag.
The next day, my neurologist diagnosed me with conversion disorder. He told me that everything -- the fevers, the sore throats, the sinus infection, all of the gastrointestinal, neurological and cardiac symptoms -- were being caused by some distant emotional trauma that I could not remember. The symptoms were real, he said, but they had no biological cause.
Jeg var ved at uddanne mig som sociolog. Jeg havde studeret stastistik, sandsynlighedsregning, matematiske modeller, eksperimentelt design. Jeg følte, at jeg ikke bare kunne afvise min neurologs diagnose. Det føltes ikke rigtigt, men jeg vidste fra min uddannelse, at sandheden ofte er kontraintuitiv; og meget let sløret af det, vi ønsker at tro. Jeg var nødt til at overveje, at han muligvis havde ret.
I was training to be a social scientist. I had studied statistics, probability theory, mathematical modeling, experimental design. I felt like I couldn't just reject my neurologist's diagnosis. It didn't feel true, but I knew from my training that the truth is often counterintuitive, so easily obscured by what we want to believe. So I had to consider the possibility that he was right.
Dén dag lavede jeg et lille eksperiement. Jeg gik de 3 kilometer hjem fra min neurologs kontor med mine ben indhyllet i denne sære, næsten elekstriske smerte. Jeg mediterede over smerten, og tænkte over, hvordan mit sind kunne have gjort alt dette. Så snart jeg gik gennem døren, kollapsede jeg. Min hjerne og min ryggrad brændte. Min nakke var så stiv, jeg ikke kunne røre mit bryst med min hage, og den mindste lyd -- lagnernes ruslen, min mand, der gik barfodet i det andet rum -- kunne forårsage ulidelig smerte. Jeg ville bruge det meste af de næste to år i sengen.
That day, I ran a small experiment. I walked back the two miles from my neurologist's office to my house, my legs wrapped in this strange, almost electric kind of pain. I meditated on that pain, contemplating how my mind could have possibly generated all this. As soon as I walked through the door, I collapsed. My brain and my spinal cord were burning. My neck was so stiff I couldn't touch my chin to my chest, and the slightest sound -- the rustling of the sheets, my husband walking barefoot in the next room -- could cause excruciating pain. I would spend most of the next two years in bed.
Hvordan kunne min læge have taget så meget fejl? Jeg troede, jeg havde en sjælden sygdom, noget som læger aldrig havde set. Og så gik jeg online og fandt tusindvis af mennesker over hele verden, som levede med de samme symptomer, ligeledes isoleret, på samme måde i vantro. Nogle kunne stadig arbejde, men brugte deres aftener og weekender i sengen, kun for at kunne møde op den næste mandag. På den anden side af spektrummet, var nogle så syge, at de var nødt til at leve i komplet mørke, ude af stand til at klare lyden af en menneskestemmme eller beøringen af sine elskede.
How could my doctor have gotten it so wrong? I thought I had a rare disease, something doctors had never seen. And then I went online and found thousands of people all over the world living with the same symptoms, similarly isolated, similarly disbelieved. Some could still work, but had to spend their evenings and weekends in bed, just so they could show up the next Monday. On the other end of the spectrum, some were so sick they had to live in complete darkness, unable to tolerate the sound of a human voice or the touch of a loved one.
Jeg var dianotiseret med myalgic encephalomyelitis. I har sikkert hørt det blive kaldt "kronisk træthedssyndrom." For årtider var det et navn som har betydet at det her har været det dominerede syn på en sygsom, som kan være så alvorlig som dette. Symptomet, som vi alle deler, er, at når vi anstrenger os selv -- fysisk, psykisk -- så bøder vi for det hårdt. Hvis min mand løber en tur, så er han måske øm i et par dage. Hvis jeg prøver at gå 100 meter, så er jeg måske sengeliggende i en uge. Det er det perfekte brugerdefinerede fængsel. Jeg kender balletdansere, som ikke kan danse, revisorere, som ikke kan lægge tal sammen, lægestuderende, som aldrig blev læger. Det er ligegyldig, hvad du engang var; du kan ikke gøre det længere. Det er gået fire år, og jeg har stadig aldrig haft det så godt, som minuttet før jeg gik hjem fra min neurologs kontor.
I was diagnosed with myalgic encephalomyelitis. You've probably heard it called "chronic fatigue syndrome." For decades, that's a name that's meant that this has been the dominant image of a disease that can be as serious as this. The key symptom we all share is that whenever we exert ourselves -- physically, mentally -- we pay and we pay hard. If my husband goes for a run, he might be sore for a couple of days. If I try to walk half a block, I might be bedridden for a week. It is a perfect custom prison. I know ballet dancers who can't dance, accountants who can't add, medical students who never became doctors. It doesn't matter what you once were; you can't do it anymore. It's been four years, and I've still never been as well as I was the minute before I walked home from my neurologist's office.
Det er anslået at omkring 15-30 millioner mennesker over hele verden har denne sygdom. I USA, hvor jeg er fra, er det omtrent en million mennesker. Det gør den groft sagt dobbelt så hyppig, som multipel sclerose. Patienter kan leve for årtider med den fysiske funktion, som en med kongestivt hjertesvigt. 25 procent af os er bundet til hjemmet eller sengen, og 75-85 procent af os kan ikke engang arbejde deltid. Alligevel behandler læger os ikke og videnskaben studerer os ikke. Hvordan kan en sygdom, der er så almindelig og altødelæggende været blevet glemt af lægevidenskaben?
It's estimated that about 15 to 30 million people around the world have this disease. In the US, where I'm from, it's about one million people. That makes it roughly twice as common as multiple sclerosis. Patients can live for decades with the physical function of someone with congestive heart failure. Twenty-five percent of us are homebound or bedridden, and 75 to 85 percent of us can't even work part-time. Yet doctors do not treat us and science does not study us. How could a disease this common and this devastating have been forgotten by medicine?
Da min læge gav mig diagnosen konversionssyndrom, så inddrog han en række af idéer om kvinders kroppe, som er over 2.500 år gamle. Den romerske læge, Galen, mente, at hysteriet var forårsaget af seksuel mangel i særdeles passionerede kvinder. Grækerne mente, at livmoderen ville tørre ud og vandre rundt i kroppen i søgen efter fugt, og ligge pres på indre organer -- ja -- og forårsage symptomer som alt fra ekstreme følelser til svimmelhed og paralyse. Kuren var ægteskab og moderskab.
When my doctor diagnosed me with conversion disorder, he was invoking a lineage of ideas about women's bodies that are over 2,500 years old. The Roman physician Galen thought that hysteria was caused by sexual deprivation in particularly passionate women. The Greeks thought the uterus would literally dry up and wander around the body in search of moisture, pressing on internal organs -- yes -- causing symptoms from extreme emotions to dizziness and paralysis. The cure was marriage and motherhood.
Disse idéer var stort set uforandrede i adskillige årtusinder frem til 1880'erne, hvor neurologer prøvede at modernisere hysteri-teorien. Sigmund Freud udviklede teorien, at ubevidstheden kunne producere fysiske symptomer, når det gjaldt minder eller føleleser, der var for smertefulde for bevidstheden. Den forvandlede disee følelser til fysiske symptomer. Det betød nu, at mænd godt kunne få hysteri, men selvfølgelig var kvinder stadig de mest udsatte.
These ideas went largely unchanged for several millennia until the 1880s, when neurologists tried to modernize the theory of hysteria. Sigmund Freud developed a theory that the unconscious mind could produce physical symptoms when dealing with memories or emotions too painful for the conscious mind to handle. It converted these emotions into physical symptoms. This meant that men could now get hysteria, but of course women were still the most susceptible.
Da jeg begyndte at undersøge historien bag min egen sygdom, så blev jeg forbløffet over, hvor forankrede idéerne stadig er. I 1934, blev 198 læger, sygeplejerskere og ansatte på Los Angeles County General Hospital alvorligt syge. De havde muskelsvaghed, stivhed i nakken og ryggen, feber -- alle de samme symptomer, som jeg havde, da jeg blev diagnosticeret. Læger mente, at det var en ny form for polio. Sidenhed har der været dokumenteret flere end 70 udbrud over hele verden af en påfaldende lignende postinfektiøs sygdom. Alle disse udbrud har som regel uforholdsmæssigt ramt kvinder, og med tiden, når læger ikke fandt årsagen til sygdommen, så mente de, at disse udbrud var massehysteri.
When I began investigating the history of my own disease, I was amazed to find how deep these ideas still run. In 1934, 198 doctors, nurses and staff at the Los Angeles County General Hospital became seriously ill. They had muscle weakness, stiffness in the neck and back, fevers -- all of the same symptoms I had when I first got diagnosed. Doctors thought it was a new form of polio. Since then, there have been more than 70 outbreaks documented around the world, of a strikingly similar post-infectious disease. All of these outbreaks have tended to disproportionately affect women, and in time, when doctors failed to find the one cause of the disease, they thought that these outbreaks were mass hysteria.
Hvorfor har denne idé været så forankret? Jeg tror, det har at gøre med sexisme, men jeg tror også, at læger fundamentalt set gerne vil hjælpe. De vil gerne kende svaret, og denne kategori lader læger behandle det, man ellers ville anse som uhelbredeligt, og forklare sygdomme, der ingen forklaring har. Problemet er, at det kan gøre alvorlig skade. I 1950'erne, studerede en psykiater ved navn Eliot Slater en gruppe af 85 patienter, som var diagnosticeret med hysteri. Ni år senere var 12 af dem døde, og 30 af dem havde funktionsnedsættelse. Mange havde udiagnosticeret lidelser, som multipel sclerose, epilepsi, hjernesvulster. I 1980 blev hysteri officielt omdømt til "konversionssyndrom". Da mine neurologer gav mig diagnosen i 2012, så ekkoede han Freuds ord verbatim, og selv i dag, er kvinder 2-10 gange mere sandsynlige til at få stillet diagnosen.
Why has this idea had such staying power? I do think it has to do with sexism, but I also think that fundamentally, doctors want to help. They want to know the answer, and this category allows doctors to treat what would otherwise be untreatable, to explain illnesses that have no explanation. The problem is that this can cause real harm. In the 1950s, a psychiatrist named Eliot Slater studied a cohort of 85 patients who had been diagnosed with hysteria. Nine years later, 12 of them were dead and 30 had become disabled. Many had undiagnosed conditions like multiple sclerosis, epilepsy, brain tumors. In 1980, hysteria was officially renamed "conversion disorder." When my neurologist gave me that diagnosis in 2012, he was echoing Freud's words verbatim, and even today, women are 2 to 10 times more likely to receive that diagnosis.
Problemet med hysteri-teorien eller psykogene lidelser er, at de aldrig kan påvises. Det er per definition manglen af beviser, og i tilfældet med ME, så har psykologiske forklaringer holdt biologisk forskning tilbage. Over hele verden er ME én af de mindst finansierede sygdomme. I USA bruger vi hvert år omtrent 2.500 dollars per AIDS-patient, 250 dollars per MS-patient og kun 5 dollars om året per ME-patient. Det var ikke bare ingenting. Det var ikke bare uheldigt. Ignorancen, der omgiver min sygdom, har været et valg. et valg truffet af de institutioner, der skulle beskytte os.
The problem with the theory of hysteria or psychogenic illness is that it can never be proven. It is by definition the absence of evidence, and in the case of ME, psychological explanations have held back biological research. All around the world, ME is one of the least funded diseases. In the US, we spend each year roughly 2,500 dollars per AIDS patient, 250 dollars per MS patient and just 5 dollars per year per ME patient. This was not just lightning. I was not just unlucky. The ignorance surrounding my disease has been a choice, a choice made by the institutions that were supposed to protect us.
Vi ved ikke hvorfor ME nogle gange løber i familien, hvorfor man kan få det efter næsten alle infektioner lige fra enterovira, til Epstein-Barr-virus og Q-feber, eller hvorfor det rammer kvinder to til tre gange så ofte som mænd. Dette problem er meget større end bare min sygdom. Da jeg først blev syg, så tog gamle venner kontakt til mig. Jeg blev hurtigt en del af en gruppe af kvinder sidst i 20'erne, hvis kroppe var ved at forfalde. Hvad der var forbløffende var, hvor svært vi havde ved at blive taget alvorlig.
We don't know why ME sometimes runs in families, why you can get it after almost any infection, from enteroviruses to Epstein-Barr virus to Q fever, or why it affects women at two to three times the rate of men. This issue is much bigger than just my disease. When I first got sick, old friends were reaching out to me. I soon found myself a part of a cohort of women in their late 20s whose bodies were falling apart. What was striking was just how much trouble we were having being taken seriously.
En af kvinderne med sclerodermi, en autoimmun bindevævssygdom , som i årevis fik at vide, at det hele var i hendes hoved. Tiden mellem udbruddet og diagnosen var hendes spiserør så skadet, at hun aldrig vil kunne spise igen. En anden kvinde med æggestokkræft, som i årevis fik at vide, det bare var overgangsalderen. En ven fra universitetet, hvis hjernesvulst i årevis var fejldiagnosticeret som angst.
I learned of one woman with scleroderma, an autoimmune connective tissue disease, who was told for years that it was all in her head. Between the time of onset and diagnosis, her esophagus was so thoroughly damaged, she will never be able to eat again. Another woman with ovarian cancer, who for years was told that it was just early menopause. A friend from college, whose brain tumor was misdiagnosed for years as anxiety.
Her er hvorfor det bekymrer mig: siden 1950'erne har antallet at autoimmune sygdomme fordoblet eller tredobelt. 45 procent af patienter, som bliver diagnosticeret med en anerkendt autoimmun sygdom, bliver i starten fortalt, at de er hypokondere. Ligesom hysteriet i gamle dag, så har det alt at gøre med køn og med de historier, som vi tror på. 75 procent af autoimmune sygdomspatienter er kvinder, og i nogle tilfælde er det så højt som 90 procent. Selvom at disse sygdomme uforholdsmæssigt rammer kvinder, så er det ikke en kvindesygdom. ME rammer børn og ME rammer millioner af mænd. Og som en patient fortalte mig, vi forstår det -- hvis man er en kvinde, så siger man, at man overdriver sine symptomer, men hvis man er en fyr, så siger man, at man skal være stærk. Og mænd har det muligvis endnu sværere med at blive diagnosticeret.
Here's why this worries me: since the 1950s, rates of many autoimmune diseases have doubled to tripled. Forty-five percent of patients who are eventually diagnosed with a recognized autoimmune disease are initially told they're hypochondriacs. Like the hysteria of old, this has everything to do with gender and with whose stories we believe. Seventy-five percent of autoimmune disease patients are women, and in some diseases, it's as high as 90 percent. Even though these diseases disproportionately affect women, they are not women's diseases. ME affects children and ME affects millions of men. And as one patient told me, we get it coming and going -- if you're a woman, you're told you're exaggerating your symptoms, but if you're a guy, you're told to be strong, to buck up. And men may even have a more difficult time getting diagnosed.
Min hjerne er ikke, hvad den har været.
My brain is not what it used to be.
Her er den gode del: på trods af alt, så har jeg stadig håb. Så mange sygdomme var engang anset som psykologiske indtil videnskaben opdagede deres biologiske mekanismer. Patienter med epilepsi kunne blive tvangsindlagt indtil EEG kunne måle unormal elektrisk aktivitet i deres hjerne. Multiple sclerose kunne blive fejldiagnosticeret som hysterisk paralyse indtil CAT-skanninger og MRI opdagede hjernelæsioner. For nyligt plejede vi at mene, at mavesår var forårsaget af stress, indtil vi opdagede at H. pylori var årsagen. ME har aldrig nydt godt af denne form for videnskab, på samme måde som andre sygdomme har gjort, men det er ved at ændre sig. I Tyskland er forskere i gang med at finde beviser for autoimmunitet og i Japan, hjerneinflammation. I USA er forskere fra Stanford i gang med at finde abnormaliteter i stofskifte, der er 16 standard afvigelser fra det normale. Og i Norge er forskere i gang med en klinisk test i fase 3 af et kræftmedicin, der forårsager fuldstændig remission i visse patienter.
Here's the good part: despite everything, I still have hope. So many diseases were once thought of as psychological until science uncovered their biological mechanisms. Patients with epilepsy could be forcibly institutionalized until the EEG was able to measure abnormal electrical activity in the brain. Multiple sclerosis could be misdiagnosed as hysterical paralysis until the CAT scan and the MRI discovered brain lesions. And recently, we used to think that stomach ulcers were just caused by stress, until we discovered that H. pylori was the culprit. ME has never benefited from the kind of science that other diseases have had, but that's starting to change. In Germany, scientists are starting to find evidence of autoimmunity, and in Japan, of brain inflammation. In the US, scientists at Stanford are finding abnormalities in energy metabolism that are 16 standard deviations away from normal. And in Norway, researchers are running a phase-3 clinical trial on a cancer drug that in some patients causes complete remission.
Det, som også giver mig håb, er patienters modstandsdygtighed. Vi fandt sammen online, og vi delte vores historier. Vi fortærede al den forskning der fandtes. Vi eksperimentede på os selv. Vi blev vores egne forskere, og vores egne læger fordi vi var nødt til det. Og langsomt tilføjede jeg fem procent her, fem procent der, indtil jeg, på en god dag, var i stand til at forlade mit hjem. Jeg var stadig nødt til at træffe absurde valg: Vil jeg sidde i have i 15 minutter eller vil jeg vaske mit hår? Men det gav mig håb på, at blive behandlet. Jeg havde en syg krop; dét var det hele. Og med den rigtige hjælp, kunne jeg måske en dag få det bedre.
What also gives me hope is the resilience of patients. Online we came together, and we shared our stories. We devoured what research there was. We experimented on ourselves. We became our own scientists and our own doctors because we had to be. And slowly I added five percent here, five percent there, until eventually, on a good day, I was able to leave my home. I still had to make ridiculous choices: Will I sit in the garden for 15 minutes, or will I wash my hair today? But it gave me hope that I could be treated. I had a sick body; that was all. And with the right kind of help, maybe one day I could get better.
Jeg fandt sammen med patienter fra hele verden, og vi begyndte at kæmpe. Vi har fyldt tomrummet med noget fantastisk, men det er ikke nok. Jeg ved stadigvæk ikke om jeg nogensinde vil kunne løbe igen, eller gå så langt, som jeg vil, eller gøre nogle af alle de kinetiske ting, som jeg nu kun gør i mine drømme. Men jeg er også taknemmelig over, hvor langt jeg er kommet. Fremskridt går langsomt, og det går op og det går ned, men jeg får det en smule bedre hver dag.
I came together with patients around the world, and we started to fight. We have filled the void with something wonderful, but it is not enough. I still don't know if I will ever be able to run again, or walk at any distance, or do any of those kinetic things that I now only get to do in my dreams. But I am so grateful for how far I have come. Progress is slow, and it is up and it is down, but I am getting a little better each day.
Jeg kan huske, hvordan det var, da jeg var fanget i soveværelset, hvor det havde været måneder siden, jeg sidst havde set solen. Jeg troede, at jeg skulle dø der. Men her er jeg i dag sammen med jer og det er et mirakel.
I remember what it was like when I was stuck in that bedroom, when it had been months since I had seen the sun. I thought that I would die there. But here I am today, with you, and that is a miracle.
Jeg ved ikke hvordan det ville være, hvis jeg ikke havde været heldig, hvis jeg var blevet syg før internettet, hvis jeg ikke havde fundet mit fællesskab. Jeg ville sikkert allerede have taget mit eget liv, som så mange andre har gjort. Hvor mange liv kunne vi have reddet for årtier siden, havde vi stillet de rigtige spørgsmål? Hvor mange liv kan vi redde i dag, hvis vi beslutter os for at gøre noget?
I don't know what would have happened had I not been one of the lucky ones, had I gotten sick before the internet, had I not found my community. I probably would have already taken my own life, as so many others have done. How many lives could we have saved, decades ago, if we had asked the right questions? How many lives could we save today if we decide to make a real start?
Selv når den rigtige årsag til min sygdom bliver opdaget, hvis vi ikke ændrer vores institutioner og vores kultur, så vil vi gøre dette igen med en anden sygdom. At leve med denne sygdom har lært mig, at videnskab og medicin er menneskelige bestræbelser. Læger, forskere og politikere er ikke immune til de samme bias, som påvirker os alle.
Even once the true cause of my disease is discovered, if we don't change our institutions and our culture, we will do this again to another disease. Living with this illness has taught me that science and medicine are profoundly human endeavors. Doctors, scientists and policy makers are not immune to the same biases that affect all of us.
Vi skal tænke over kvinders helbred på mere nuancerede måder. Vores immunforsvar er ligeså meget en slagmark for lighed, som resten af vores krop. Vi er nødt til at lytte til patienters historier, og villig til at sige, "jeg ved det ikke." "Jeg ved det ikke" er en smuk ting. "Jeg ved det ikke" er, hvor opdagelse begynder. Og hvis vi kan gøre dette, hvis vi kan nærme os den enorme mængde af alt det, som vi ikke ved, og istedet for at frygte usikkerhed, så kan vi måske byde den velkommen med en følelse af forunderlighed.
We need to think in more nuanced ways about women's health. Our immune systems are just as much a battleground for equality as the rest of our bodies. We need to listen to patients' stories, and we need to be willing to say, "I don't know." "I don't know" is a beautiful thing. "I don't know" is where discovery starts. And if we can do that, if we can approach the great vastness of all that we do not know, and then, rather than fear uncertainty, maybe we can greet it with a sense of wonder.
Tak.
Thank you.
Tak.
Thank you.