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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。
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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。

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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
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上次更新日期:2013-09-09

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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。

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上次更新日期:2013-09-16

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網站連結
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「Amanda Bennett:關於死亡,我們需要英雄的故事」- We Need a Heroic Narrative for Death


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So I'd like you to come back with me just for a few minutes to a dark night in China, the night I met my husband. It was a city so long ago that it was still called Peking.

So I went to a party. I sat down next to a stout, middle-aged man with owl glasses and a bow tie, and he turned out to be a Fulbright scholar, there in China specifically to study Sino-Soviet relations. What a gift it was to the eager, young foreign correspondent that I was then. I'd pump him for information, I'm mentally scribbling notes for the stories I plan to write. I talk to him for hours.

Only months later, I discover who he really was. He was the China representative for the American Soybean Association.

"I don't understand. Soybeans? You told me you were a Fulbright scholar."

"Well, how long would you have talked to me if I told you we're in soybeans?"

I said, "You jerk." Only jerk wasn't the word I used. I said, "You could've gotten me fired."

And he said, "Let's get married."
"Travel the world and have lots of kids." So we did.

And what an alive man Terence Bryan Foley turned out to be. He was a Chinese scholar who later, in his 60s, got a Ph.D. in Chinese history. He spoke six languages, he played 15 musical instruments, he was a licensed pilot, he had once been a San Francisco cable car operator, he was an expert in swine nutrition, dairy cattle, Dixieland jazz, film noir, and we did travel the country, and the world, and we did have a lot of kids. We followed my job, and it seemed like there was nothing that we couldn't do.

So when we found the cancer, it doesn't seem strange to us at all that without saying a word to each other, we believed that, if we were smart enough and strong enough and brave enough, and we worked hard enough, we could keep him from dying ever.

And for years, it seemed like we were succeeding. The surgeon emerged from the surgery. What'd he say? He said what surgeons always say: "We got it all." Then there was a setback when the pathologists looked at the kidney cancer closely. It turned out to be a rare, exceedingly aggressive type, with a diagnosis that was almost universally fatal in several weeks at most. And yet, he did not die. Mysteriously, he lived on. He coached Little League for our son. He built a playhouse for our daughter. And meanwhile, I'm burying myself in the Internet looking for specialists. I'm looking for a cure.

So a year goes by before the cancer, as cancers do, reappears, and with it comes another death sentence, this time nine months. So we try another treatment, aggressive, nasty. It makes him so sick, he has to quit it, yet still he lives on. Then another year goes by. Two years go by. More specialists. We take the kids to Italy. We take the kids to Australia.

And then more years pass, and the cancer begins to grow. This time, there's new treatments on the horizon. They're exotic. They're experimental. They're going to attack the cancer in new ways. So he enters a clinical trial, and it works. The cancer begins to shrink, and for the third time, we've dodged death.

So now I ask you, how do I feel when the time finally comes and there's another dark night, sometime between midnight and 2 a.m.? This time it's on the intensive care ward when a twenty something resident that I've never met before tells me that Terence is dying, perhaps tonight.

So what do I say when he says, "What do you want me to do?"

There's another drug out there. It's newer. It's more powerful. He started it just two weeks ago. Perhaps there's still hope ahead.

So what do I say?

I say, "Keep him alive if you can."

And Terence died six days later.

So we fought, we struggled, we triumphed. It was an exhilarating fight, and I'd repeat the fight today without a moment's hesitation. We fought together, we lived together. It turned what could have been seven of the grimmest years of our life into seven of the most glorious. It was also an expensive fight. It was the kind of fight and the kind of choices that everyone here agrees pump up the cost of end-of-life care, and of healthcare for all of us.

And for me, for us, we pushed the fight right over the edge, and I never got the chance to say to him what I say to him now almost every day: "Hey, buddy, it was a hell of a ride." We never got the chance to say goodbye. We never thought it was the end. We always had hope.

So what do we make of all of this?

Being a journalist, after Terence died, I wrote a book, "The Cost Of Hope." I wrote it because I wanted to know why I did what I did, why he did what he did, why everyone around us did what they did.

And what did I discover? Well, one of the things I discovered is that experts think that one answer to what I did at the end was a piece of paper, the advance directive, to help families get past the seemingly irrational choices. Yet I had that piece of paper. We both did. And they were readily available. I had them right at hand. Both of them said the same thing: Do nothing if there is no further hope. I knew Terence's wishes as clearly and as surely as I knew my own.

Yet we never got to no further hope. Even with that clear-cut paper in our hands, we just kept redefining hope. I believed I could keep him from dying, and I'd be embarrassed to say that if I hadn't seen so many people and have talked to so many people who have felt exactly the same way. Right up until days before his death, I felt strongly and powerfully, and, you might say, irrationally, that I could keep him from dying ever.

Now, what do the experts call this? They say it's denial. It's a strong word, isn't it? Yet I will tell you that denial isn't even close to a strong enough word to describe what those of us facing the death of our loved ones go through.

And I hear the medical professionals say, "Well, we'd like to do such-and-such, but the family's in denial. The family won't listen to reason. They're in denial. How can they insist on this treatment at the end? It's so clear, yet they're in denial."

Now, I think this maybe isn't a very useful way of thinking. It's not just families either. The medical professionals too, you out there, you're in denial too. You want to help. You want to fix. You want to do. You've succeeded in everything you've done, and having a patient die, well, that must feel like failure.

I saw it firsthand. Just days before Terence died, his oncologist said, "Tell Terence that better days are just ahead." Days before he died.

Yet Ira Byock, the director of palliative medicine at Dartmouth said, "You know, the best doctor in the world has never succeeded in making anyone immortal."

So what the experts call "denial," I call "hope," and I'd like to borrow a phrase from my friends in software design. You just redefine denial and hope, and it becomes a feature of being human. It's not a bug. It's a feature.

So we need to think more constructively about this very common, very profound and very powerful human emotion. It's part of the human condition, and yet our system and our thinking isn't built to accommodate it.

So Terence told me a story on that long-ago night, and I believed it. Maybe I wanted to believe it. And during Terence's illness, I, we, we wanted to believe the story of our fight together too. Giving up the fight—for that's how it felt, it felt like giving up—meant giving up not only his life but also our story, our story of us as fighters, the story of us as invincible, and for the doctors, the story of themselves as healers.

So what do we need?

Maybe we don't need a new piece of paper. Maybe we need a new story, not a story about giving up the fight or of hopelessness, but rather a story of victory and triumph, of a valiant battle and, eventually, a graceful retreat, a story that acknowledges that not even the greatest general defeats every foe, that no doctor has ever succeeded in making anyone immortal, and that no wife, no matter how hard she tried, has ever stopped even the bravest, wittiest and most maddeningly lovable husband from dying when it was his time to go.

People did mention hospice, but I wouldn't listen. Hospice was for people who were dying, and Terence wasn't dying. As a result, he spent just four days in hospice, which I'm sure, as you all know, is a pretty typical outcome, and we never said goodbye because we were unprepared for the end.

We have a noble path to curing the disease, patients and doctors alike, but there doesn't seem to be a noble path to dying. Dying is seen as failing, and we had a heroic narrative for fighting together, but we didn't have a heroic narrative for letting go.

So maybe we need a narrative for acknowledging the end, and for saying goodbye, and maybe our new story will be about a hero's fight, and a hero's goodbye. Terence loved poetry, and the Greek poet Constantine Cavafy is one of my favorite poets. So I'll give you a couple lines from him. This is a poem about Mark Antony. You know Mark Antony, the conquering hero, Cleopatra's guy? Actually, one of Cleopatra's guys. And he's been a pretty good general. He's won all the fights, he's eluded all the people that are out to get him, and yet this time, finally, he's come to the city of Alexandria and realized he's lost. The people are leaving. They're playing instruments. They're singing. And suddenly he knows he's been defeated. And he suddenly knows he's been deserted by the gods, and it's time to let go. And the poet tells him what to do. He tells him how to say a noble goodbye, a goodbye that's fit for a hero.

"As if long-prepared, as if courageous, as it becomes you who were worthy of such a city, approach the window with a firm step, and with emotion, but not with the entreaties or the complaints of a coward, as a last enjoyment, listen to the sounds, the exquisite instruments of the musical troops, and bid her farewell, the Alexandria you are losing."

That's a goodbye for a man who was larger than life, a goodbye for a man for whom anything, well, almost anything, was possible, a goodbye for a man who kept hope alive.

And isn't that what we're missing? How can we learn that people's decisions about their loved ones are often based strongly, powerfully, many times irrationally, on the slimmest of hopes? The overwhelming presence of hope isn't denial. It's part of our DNA as humans, and maybe it's time our healthcare system—doctors, patients, insurance companies, us, started accounting for the power of that hope. Hope isn't a bug. It's a feature.

Thank you.

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  • 功能簡介

    單句重覆、上一句、下一句:顧名思義,以句子為單位重覆播放,單句重覆鍵顯示橘色時為重覆播放狀態;顯示灰色時為正常播放狀態。按上一句鍵、下一句鍵時就會自動重覆播放該句。
    收錄佳句:點擊可增減想收藏的句子。

    中、英文字幕開關:中、英文字幕按鍵為綠色為開啟,灰色為關閉。鼓勵大家搞懂每一句的內容以後,關上字幕聽聽看,會發現自己好像在聽中文說故事一樣,會很有成就感喔!
    收錄單字:用滑鼠框選英文單字可以收藏不會的單字。
  • 分享
    如果您覺得本篇短片很有趣或很喜歡,在短片結束時有分享連結,可以分享給朋友一同欣賞,一起看YouTube學英文!

    或是您有收錄很優秀的句子時,也可以分享佳句給大家,一同看佳句學英文!