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《HOPE English 希平方》服務條款關於個人資料收集與使用之規定

隱私權政策
上次更新日期:2014-12-30

希平方 為一英文學習平台,我們每天固定上傳優質且豐富的影片內容,讓您不但能以有趣的方式學習英文,還能增加內涵,豐富知識。我們非常注重您的隱私,以下說明為當您使用我們平台時,我們如何收集、使用、揭露、轉移及儲存你的資料。請您花一些時間熟讀我們的隱私權做法,我們歡迎您的任何疑問或意見,提供我們將產品、服務、內容、廣告做得更好。

本政策涵蓋的內容包括:希平方 如何處理蒐集或收到的個人資料。
本隱私權保護政策只適用於: 希平方 平台,不適用於非 希平方 平台所有或控制的公司,也不適用於非 希平方 僱用或管理之人。

個人資料的收集與使用
當您註冊 希平方 平台時,我們會詢問您姓名、電子郵件、出生日期、職位、行業及個人興趣等資料。在您註冊完 希平方 帳號並登入我們的服務後,我們就能辨認您的身分,讓您使用更完整的服務,或參加相關宣傳、優惠及贈獎活動。希平方 也可能從商業夥伴或其他公司處取得您的個人資料,並將這些資料與 希平方 所擁有的您的個人資料相結合。

我們所收集的個人資料, 將用於通知您有關 希平方 最新產品公告、軟體更新,以及即將發生的事件,也可用以協助改進我們的服務。

我們也可能使用個人資料為內部用途。例如:稽核、資料分析、研究等,以改進 希平方公司 產品、服務及客戶溝通。

瀏覽資料的收集與使用
希平方 自動接收並記錄您電腦和瀏覽器上的資料,包括 IP 位址、希平方 cookie 中的資料、軟體和硬體屬性以及您瀏覽的網頁紀錄。

隱私權政策修訂
我們會不定時修正與變更《隱私權政策》,不會在未經您明確同意的情況下,縮減本《隱私權政策》賦予您的權利。隱私權政策變更時一律會在本頁發佈;如果屬於重大變更,我們會提供更明顯的通知 (包括某些服務會以電子郵件通知隱私權政策的變更)。我們還會將本《隱私權政策》的舊版加以封存,方便您回顧。

服務條款
歡迎您加入看 ”希平方”
上次更新日期:2013-09-09

歡迎您加入看 ”希平方”
感謝您使用我們的產品和服務(以下簡稱「本服務」),本服務是由 希平方 所提供。
本服務條款訂立的目的,是為了保護會員以及所有使用者(以下稱會員)的權益,並構成會員與本服務提供者之間的契約,在使用者完成註冊手續前,應詳細閱讀本服務條款之全部條文,一旦您按下「註冊」按鈕,即表示您已知悉、並完全同意本服務條款的所有約定。如您是法律上之無行為能力人或限制行為能力人(如未滿二十歲之未成年人),則您在加入會員前,請將本服務條款交由您的法定代理人(如父母、輔助人或監護人)閱讀,並得到其同意,您才可註冊及使用 希平方 所提供之會員服務。當您開始使用 希平方 所提供之會員服務時,則表示您的法定代理人(如父母、輔助人或監護人)已經閱讀、了解並同意本服務條款。 我們可能會修改本條款或適用於本服務之任何額外條款,以(例如)反映法律之變更或本服務之變動。您應定期查閱本條款內容。這些條款如有修訂,我們會在本網頁發佈通知。變更不會回溯適用,並將於公布變更起十四天或更長時間後方始生效。不過,針對本服務新功能的變更,或基於法律理由而為之變更,將立即生效。如果您不同意本服務之修訂條款,則請停止使用該本服務。

第三人網站的連結 本服務或協力廠商可能會提供連結至其他網站或網路資源的連結。您可能會因此連結至其他業者經營的網站,但不表示希平方與該等業者有任何關係。其他業者經營的網站均由各該業者自行負責,不屬希平方控制及負責範圍之內。

兒童及青少年之保護 兒童及青少年上網已經成為無可避免之趨勢,使用網際網路獲取知識更可以培養子女的成熟度與競爭能力。然而網路上的確存有不適宜兒童及青少年接受的訊息,例如色情與暴力的訊息,兒童及青少年有可能因此受到心靈與肉體上的傷害。因此,為確保兒童及青少年使用網路的安全,並避免隱私權受到侵犯,家長(或監護人)應先檢閱各該網站是否有保護個人資料的「隱私權政策」,再決定是否同意提出相關的個人資料;並應持續叮嚀兒童及青少年不可洩漏自己或家人的任何資料(包括姓名、地址、電話、電子郵件信箱、照片、信用卡號等)給任何人。

為了維護 希平方 網站安全,我們需要您的協助:

您承諾絕不為任何非法目的或以任何非法方式使用本服務,並承諾遵守中華民國相關法規及一切使用網際網路之國際慣例。您若係中華民國以外之使用者,並同意遵守所屬國家或地域之法令。您同意並保證不得利用本服務從事侵害他人權益或違法之行為,包括但不限於:
A. 侵害他人名譽、隱私權、營業秘密、商標權、著作權、專利權、其他智慧財產權及其他權利;
B. 違反依法律或契約所應負之保密義務;
C. 冒用他人名義使用本服務;
D. 上載、張貼、傳輸或散佈任何含有電腦病毒或任何對電腦軟、硬體產生中斷、破壞或限制功能之程式碼之資料;
E. 干擾或中斷本服務或伺服器或連結本服務之網路,或不遵守連結至本服務之相關需求、程序、政策或規則等,包括但不限於:使用任何設備、軟體或刻意規避看 希平方 - 看 YouTube 學英文 之排除自動搜尋之標頭 (robot exclusion headers);

服務中斷或暫停
本公司將以合理之方式及技術,維護會員服務之正常運作,但有時仍會有無法預期的因素導致服務中斷或故障等現象,可能將造成您使用上的不便、資料喪失、錯誤、遭人篡改或其他經濟上損失等情形。建議您於使用本服務時宜自行採取防護措施。 希平方 對於您因使用(或無法使用)本服務而造成的損害,除故意或重大過失外,不負任何賠償責任。

版權宣告
上次更新日期:2013-09-16

希平方 內所有資料之著作權、所有權與智慧財產權,包括翻譯內容、程式與軟體均為 希平方 所有,須經希平方同意合法才得以使用。
希平方歡迎你分享網站連結、單字、片語、佳句,使用時須標明出處,並遵守下列原則:

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  • 禁止侵害或毀損希平方或他人名譽、隱私權、營業秘密、商標權、著作權、專利權、其他智慧財產權及其他權利、違反法律或契約所應付支保密義務
  • 嚴禁謊稱希平方辦公室、職員、代理人或發言人的言論背書,或作為募款的用途

網站連結
歡迎您分享 希平方 網站連結,與您的朋友一起學習英文。

抱歉傳送失敗!

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希平方 x ICRT

「Lucy Kalanithi:在死亡面前,是什麼讓生命顯得珍貴」- What Makes Life Worth Living in the Face of Death


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A few days after my husband Paul was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer, we were lying in our bed at home, and Paul said, "It's going to be OK." And I remember answering back, "Yes. We just don't know what OK means yet."

Paul and I had met as first-year medical students at Yale. He was smart and kind and super funny. He used to keep a gorilla suit in the trunk of his car, and he'd say, "It's for emergencies only."

I fell in love with Paul as I watched the care he took with his patients. He stayed late talking with them, seeking to understand the experience of illness and not just its technicalities. He later told me he fell in love with me when he saw me cry over an EKG of a heart that had ceased beating. We didn't know it yet, but even in the heady days of young love, we were learning how to approach suffering together.

We got married and became doctors. I was working as an internist and Paul was finishing his training as a neurosurgeon when he started to lose weight. He developed excruciating back pain and a cough that wouldn't go away. And when he was admitted to the hospital, a CT scan revealed tumors in Paul's lungs and in his bones. We had both cared for patients with devastating diagnoses; now it was our turn.

We lived with Paul's illness for 22 months. He wrote a memoir about facing mortality. I gave birth to our daughter Cady, and we loved her and each other. We learned directly how to struggle through really tough medical decisions. The day we took Paul into the hospital for the last time was the most difficult day of my life. When he turned to me at the end and said, "I'm ready," I knew that wasn't just a brave decision. It was the right one. Paul didn't want a ventilator and CPR. In that moment, the most important thing to Paul was to hold our baby daughter. Nine hours later, Paul died.

I've always thought of myself as a caregiver—most physicians do—and taking care of Paul deepened what that meant. Watching him reshape his identity during his illness, learning to witness and accept his pain, talking together through his choices—those experiences taught me that resilience does not mean bouncing back to where you were before, or pretending that the hard stuff isn't hard. It is so hard. It's painful, messy stuff. But it's the stuff. And I learned that when we approach it together, we get to decide what success looks like.

One of the first things Paul said to me after his diagnosis was, "I want you to get remarried." And I was like, whoa, I guess we get to say anything out loud.

It was so shocking and heartbreaking...and generous, and really comforting because it was so starkly honest, and that honesty turned out to be exactly what we needed. Early in Paul's illness, we agreed we would just keep saying things out loud. Tasks like making a will, or completing our advance directives—tasks that I had always avoided—were not as daunting as they once seemed. I realized that completing an advance directive is an act of love—like a wedding vow. A pact to take care of someone, codifying the promise that til death do us part, I will be there. If needed, I will speak for you. I will honor your wishes. That paperwork became a tangible part of our love story.

As physicians, Paul and I were in a good position to understand and even accept his diagnosis. We weren't angry about it, luckily, because we'd seen so many patients in devastating situations, and we knew that death is a part of life. But it's one thing to know that; it was a very different experience to actually live with the sadness and uncertainty of a serious illness. Huge strides are being made against lung cancer, but we knew that Paul likely had months to a few years left to live.

During that time, Paul wrote about his transition from doctor to patient. He talked about feeling like he was suddenly at a crossroads, and how he would have thought he'd be able to see the path, that because he treated so many patients, maybe he could follow in their footsteps. But he was totally disoriented. Rather than a path, Paul wrote, "I saw instead only a harsh, vacant, gleaming white desert. As if a sandstorm had erased all familiarity. I had to face my mortality and try to understand what made my life worth living, and I needed my oncologist's help to do so."

The clinicians taking care of Paul gave me an even deeper appreciation for my colleagues in health care. We have a tough job. We're responsible for helping patients have clarity around their prognoses and their treatment options, and that's never easy, but it's especially tough when you're dealing with potentially terminal illnesses like cancer. Some people don't want to know how long they have left, others do. Either way, we never have those answers. Sometimes we substitute hope by emphasizing the best-case scenario. In a survey of physicians, 55 percent said they painted a rosier picture than their honest opinion when describing a patient's prognosis. It's an instinct born out of kindness. But researchers have found that when people better understand the possible outcomes of an illness, they have less anxiety, greater ability to plan and less trauma for their families.

Families can struggle with those conversations, but for us, we also found that information immensely helpful with big decisions. Most notably, whether to have a baby. Months to a few years meant Paul was not likely to see her grow up. But he had a good chance of being there for her birth and for the beginning of her life. I remember asking Paul if he thought having to say goodbye to a child would make dying even more painful. And his answer astounded me. He said, "Wouldn't it be great if it did?" And we did it. Not in order to spite cancer, but because we were learning that living fully means accepting suffering.

Paul's oncologist tailored his chemo so he could continue working as a neurosurgeon, which initially we thought was totally impossible. When the cancer advanced and Paul shifted from surgery to writing, his palliative care doctor prescribed a stimulant medication so he could be more focused. They asked Paul about his priorities and his worries. They asked him what trade-offs he was willing to make. Those conversations are the best way to ensure that your health care matches your values. Paul joked that it's not like that "birds and bees" talk you have with your parents, where you all get it over with as quickly as possible, and then pretend it never happened. You revisit the conversation as things change. You keep saying things out loud. I'm forever grateful because Paul's clinicians felt that their job wasn't to try to give us answers they didn't have, or only to try to fix things for us, but to counsel Paul through painful choices...when his body was failing but his will to live wasn't.

Later, after Paul died, I received a dozen bouquets of flowers, but I sent just one...to Paul's oncologist, because she supported his goals and she helped him weigh his choices. She knew that living means more than just staying alive.

A few weeks ago, a patient came into my clinic. A woman dealing with a serious chronic disease. And while we were talking about her life and her health care, she said, "I love my palliative care team. They taught me that it's OK to say 'no'." Yeah, I thought, of course it is. But many patients don't feel that. Compassion and Choices did a study where they asked people about their health care preferences. And a lot of people started their answers with the words "Well, if I had a choice... "If I had a choice. And when I read that "if," I understood better why one in four people receives excessive or unwanted medical treatment, or watches a family member receive excessive or unwanted medical treatment. It's not because doctors don't get it. We do. We understand the real psychological consequences on patients and their families. The things is, we deal with them, too. Half of critical care nurses and a quarter of ICU doctors have considered quitting their jobs because of distress over feeling that for some of their patients, they've provided care that didn't fit with the person's values. But doctors can't make sure your wishes are respected until they know what they are.

Would you want to be on life support if it offered any chance of longer life? Are you most worried about the quality of that time, rather than quantity? Both of those choices are thoughtful and brave, but for all of us, it's our choice. That's true at the end of life and for medical care throughout our lives. If you're pregnant, do you want genetic screening? Is a knee replacement right or not? Do you want to do dialysis in a clinic or at home? The answer is: it depends. What medical care will help you live the way you want to? I hope you remember that question the next time you face a decision in your health care. Remember that you always have a choice, and it is OK to say no to a treatment that's not right for you.

There's a poem by W.S. Merwin—it's just two sentences long—that captures how I feel now. "Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color." For me that poem evokes my love for Paul, and a new fortitude that came from loving and losing him.

When Paul said, "It's going to be OK," that didn't mean that we could cure his illness. Instead, we learned to accept both joy and sadness at the same time; to uncover beauty and purpose both despite and because we are all born and we all die. And for all the sadness and sleepless nights, it turns out there is joy. I leave flowers on Paul's grave and watch our two-year-old run around on the grass. I build bonfires on the beach and watch the sunset with our friends. Exercise and mindfulness meditation have helped a lot. And someday, I hope I do get remarried.

Most importantly, I get to watch our daughter grow. I've thought a lot about what I'm going to say to her when she's older. "Cady, engaging in the full range of experience—living and dying, love and loss—is what we get to do. Being human doesn't happen despite suffering. It happens within it. When we approach suffering together, when we choose not to hide from it, our lives don't diminish, they expand."

I've learned that cancer isn't always a battle. Or if it is, maybe it's a fight for something different than we thought. Our job isn't to fight fate, but to help each other through. Not as soldiers but as shepherds. That's how we make it OK, even when it's not. By saying it out loud, by helping each other through...and a gorilla suit never hurts, either.

Thank you.

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