Cerise ad: The Neurologist Became The Patient😭💔

I don't give a f*ck if this upsets you. I am going to say something that nobody with chronic mold illness wants to hear. I completed my 2,043rd neurology consult on November 2nd, 2024. Nineteen days later, at 4:08 AM on November 21st, I was being driven to my own emergency MRI with the right side of my face numb and my husband doing seventy on an empty county road. I was 54 years old. I am a board-certified neurologist. Twenty-four years of practice. A clean MRI read by a radiologist I had trained seven years earlier. I lost control of my right hand in the scanner. The initial workup bill was $44,800. Follow-up imaging and labs were another $13,600. They will let me practice again. My hospital privileges are intact. But I will never read another MRI of a middle-aged woman with "nonspecific white matter" without remembering that I was in that same tube with someone I had trained running the sequence over my own brain because everything I had been prescribing for twenty years had not saved me. I am writing this because I know exactly what my colleagues will say when they see it. I do not care. If you are over 40 and you have been told your symptoms are not MS, or someone you love has, please read the entire thing. I know it is long. I know you are scrolling. I know you have things to do. Thirteen months ago I would have given anything for someone with my credential to sit me down and tell me what I am about to tell you. Nobody did. I was diagnosed with mold toxicity four years ago at 50. Elevated ochratoxin A on a urine mycotoxin panel. Elevated gliotoxin. Low MSH. The whole neuro-inflammatory signature. The diagnosis surprised me and it did not. My residency mentor, the neurologist who taught me how to read an MRI, had died at 59 of "demyelinating process of uncertain origin, likely atypical MS variant" after six years of brain fog, numb hands, memory gaps, and 3am wake-ups that nobody connected to the water-damaged academic office she occupied for the last twelve years of her career. She had been the sharpest neurologist I ever worked with. I had watched the pattern in the woman who taught me how to read brains and I had built my entire neurology practice on treating the mold-driven neuroinflammation of patients who looked like her. I did what any neurologist with a functional medicine certificate would prescribe. I started cholestyramine at diagnosis. My colleague, another neurologist in my own practice who had added functional training, added CellCore binders the following year when my ochratoxin stalled. She added a sauna protocol the year after that when my inflammatory markers started climbing. Three interventions. Two of them protocols I had personally prescribed to hundreds of my own patients. I remediated my house. I threw away the furniture. I stopped drinking. I slept with an air purifier running. I ate the anti-inflammatory diet I recommend to every patient after a mold-driven neuroinflammation diagnosis. Pastured protein. Olive oil. Leafy greens. Minimal refined sugar. I ran a full mycotoxin panel on myself the year I was diagnosed. Mild to moderate load. I checked every box on my own protocol. By last October, my ochratoxin A had come down modestly. My gliotoxin had held steady. My symptoms were "stable." By the standard of the guidelines I had helped write for our practice group, I was managed. Managed. That word again. I ran a second full panel on myself last October, four years after the first one. I did it because a hunch would not leave me alone. My ochratoxin A had crept back up to 10.9. My gliotoxin had risen from 2.1 to 4.8. My C4a was the highest it had ever been. For context, I have called patients into my office with panels half that bad and used the sentence, we need to escalate your protocol today, not next week. I called my colleague and asked her to review my labs. She did. She was concerned. She recommended a repeat MRI and a lumbar puncture to rule out demyelination. I scheduled them. And then I did not go. I want to tell you why. Because sitting in my office at 7 PM staring at my own labs on my own screen, I recognized something. I was doing exactly what Dr. Rhodes had done. She had been "managed" for six years before the final decline that killed her. She had been on supplements and clean living and quarterly follow-ups with her own neurology colleagues. Her charts had read fine. Her numbers had been "acceptable." And she had been in a wheelchair by 58 and dead by 59. I did not go to my own MRI because I already knew what it would show, which is nothing. That is the point. My training would read it as unremarkable and my colleagues would send me home with "nonspecific white matter changes, consistent with age." I told myself I had time. Nineteen days later my husband was doing seventy on an empty county road at 4 AM. The numbness started in the right side of my face at 3:51 AM. I remember the time because I looked at my bedside clock and thought, this is not just travel fatigue. It was not. It was the sensory loss I had described to a thousand patients in follow-up appointments. Hemifacial. Sharp edge of distribution right down the midline. A clumsy right hand that would not grip my phone. My husband, a high school physics teacher, sat up before I could finish the sentence. He is not a physician but he has heard me describe this exact presentation at our kitchen table for twenty years. He drove me. We went to a competing academic medical center, not my own. Because I did not want the residents I had trained to see me in that chair. They saw me anyway. The neurologist on call was a woman I had trained through her fellowship in 2017. She walked into the ER bay, saw me on the gurney, and her face did the thing. She said my name. "I need a full stroke workup," I told her. "Then rule out MS. Then run a mycotoxin panel. In that order." "Yes, Dr. Bergstrom," she said. They walked me down the corridor I had walked a thousand times going the other direction. I looked at the ceiling tiles and counted them because I did not want to look at the resident who was about to run an MRI sequence over my own brain. I lost control of my right hand in the scanner forty minutes after they seated me. My resident later told me they had to stop the sequence and restart with my hand strapped because I could not hold still. Three days of inpatient workup. MRI with and without contrast. MR angiography. Lumbar puncture. Repeat MRI at 72 hours. The MRI was read by a radiologist I had trained in 2017. He used the phrase in his official read, "scattered nonspecific white matter hyperintensities, not meeting criteria for MS or acute stroke." The lumbar puncture was negative for oligoclonal bands. I was on IV steroids for three days just in case. On antihistamines for four to manage the histamine dump the steroids triggered. I came home on November 25th with my husband, a right hand that was 70 percent back, a scheduled follow-up with the colleague I had trained, and a shopping bag of prescriptions I had personally recommended to hundreds of patients over twenty-four years. I did not want the full systems workup my colleagues were suggesting. I ran it on myself anyway. Because I knew that if I did not, in eighteen months I would be the subject of a case conference at an outside institution and seeing my own name on the chart, exactly where Dr. Rhodes had ended up. The repeat neurology consult was with a colleague I had trained with in residency. He pulled my last four panels up on his screen. They had been climbing quietly for three years. My gliotoxin was 4.8 and had been 1.2 four years earlier. He used the phrase, advancing mycotoxin-driven neuroinflammation with white matter correlate. Nobody had flagged it because my MRI had read "nonspecific" and a nonspecific MRI does not trigger an aggressive escalation in the standard-of-care algorithm I had signed off on for our group. The cardiology consult found measurable autonomic dysfunction on a tilt table test. He used the phrase, early dysautonomia, likely mycotoxin-driven. I had been feeling my heart race when I stood up for eight months. I had blamed menopause. The ophthalmology consult found optic disc pallor consistent with low-grade chronic optic neuritis that had never produced a frank episode. She used the phrase, subclinical optic involvement. I had been noticing my right eye felt tired by 4 PM for a year. I had blamed my computer. The rheumatology consult ran a full autoantibody panel. Rising ANA. Low-positive anti-SSA. My joints had been burning in the mornings for a year. My colleagues had said, probably perimenopause. Nobody kept an eye on it. Every one of my systems was showing the pattern I had watched in hundreds of my own patients after a first neurological warning. Same disease. Same trapped mycotoxins. Damage at my brain. Damage at my autonomic nervous system. Damage at my optic nerve. Damage at my joints. And finally, the hemifacial numbness I collapsed from. I sat in my office on December 8th with all four reports in front of me and I understood something I had never let myself understand before. Every intervention in my treatment cascade had been treating a downstream measurement. Cholestyramine was binding whatever was already loose in my gut. CellCore was adding more binding and more drainage support. The sauna was mobilizing from fat tissue into circulation. Not one of them had touched what was doing this to four systems at once. I am a neurologist with a functional medicine certificate. I am supposed to be the person who knows how to prevent this. I had prescribed the exact three-part protocol I was on to a thousand patients who looked like Dr. Rhodes. Every one of those prescriptions had passed peer review in our practice group. Every one had followed the ISEAI guidelines. Every one had been the correct standard of care for mycotoxin-driven neuroinflammation. And it had failed me at 54. I sat at my desk that night at 11 PM after my husband had gone to bed and I did something I had not done since residency. I opened PubMed and I searched for the actual mechanism. Not the management protocols. Not the binder papers. The mechanism. I read for five hours. I found what my neurology training had covered lightly and my functional certificate had covered superficially and never in the depth it deserved. The mycotoxin biofilm. The lipid-based protective shield mycotoxins build around themselves in tissue, including in CNS tissue. The hydrophobic barrier that repels every water-based binder in the gut. The enterohepatic recirculation loop that returns mobilized mycotoxins to the tissues before any oral protocol can neutralize them. The blood-brain barrier passage of lipid-soluble mycotoxins and the inability of water-based glutathione capsules to follow them across. The gastric destruction that denatures 90% of swallowed glutathione before it ever reaches circulation. The mechanistic explanation for why the three interventions I had been prescribing for twenty years managed downstream measurements without addressing the upstream failure driving all of them. None of this was hidden. It sat in journals I had had access to for twenty-four years. Neurotoxicology. Journal of Neuroinflammation. Mycotoxin Research. Frontiers in Neurology. I had read those journals every month. I had read them for the demyelination trials. I had never read them for the mycotoxin biofilm and sublingual delivery papers because my training had told me the mechanism was managed and the treatment was to manage the downstream measurements. My training was wrong. I closed my laptop at 4 AM. I sat at my kitchen table. I could not sleep. I understood at that moment that I had prescribed the exact protocol that failed me to hundreds of other people. And every one of them was walking around with the same trapped mycotoxins recirculating through their tissues, waiting for their November 21st to arrive. Three weeks later I saw a patient in follow-up who should not have been in the numbers she was in. Her name was Fernanda. Advanced mycotoxin-driven neuroinflammation. Eight years post-diagnosis. She had been my patient for three years after transferring to me following a stalled Shoemaker protocol. Her ochratoxin A at intake three years earlier had been 12.6. Her gliotoxin had been 5.3. She had been on CSM, CellCore, and sauna. She had come in originally with numbness in both hands and three MRIs that had read nonspecific white matter, each one slightly worse than the last. I pulled her chart before she came in expecting to escalate her protocol. Her ochratoxin A was 1.4. Her gliotoxin was 0.8. Her C4a was in normal range. Her hands had been clear for 22 months. She had come off CSM 18 months earlier at her own insistence and her panels had not climbed back up. Her last MRI, which I had ordered on autopilot six months earlier, had come back with the white matter signal reduced from the prior study. I had read "reduced" in a mycotoxin patient's MRI exactly twice in twenty-four years. Hers was one of them. I looked at her across the exam room and asked her what she was doing. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Dr. Bergstrom, my grandmother Luísa lives in a small town in western Massachusetts. She has been telling us for years. I did not bring it up because I did not think you would take it seriously." I asked her what her grandmother had told her. She wrote a name and an address on the back of my prescription pad. Luísa Nogueira. A town I had never heard of in the Berkshires. A house with a garden of Portuguese medicinal plants she had transplanted from her mother's village in the Alentejo. I drove there the following Saturday. I did not tell my husband where I was going. I did not tell my practice partner. I did not tell anyone in my institution that a board-certified neurologist was driving four hours to meet an 83-year-old grandmother because everything I had been taught in twenty-four years of practice had not saved me. I pulled into the driveway of a small clapboard farmhouse at 11:20 AM. The garden along the front walkway was unlike anything I had seen. Milk thistle. Dandelion. A row of fig trees along the south fence. A small olive tree sheltered against the house. Herbs I recognized from the botanical section of pharmacognosy journals I had not thought about since medical school. She was on the porch sorting dried flower heads into a wooden tray. Small woman. Thin. Early eighties. White hair wound into a low knot at the base of her neck. Clear eyes. Steady hands. A face that did not look sick in any way I could place. I introduced myself. Not as a doctor. As Anna. She looked up with sharp clear eyes and asked me why I had come. I told her. I told her I was a neurologist. Twenty-four years in practice. That I had lost control of my right hand in an MRI scanner five weeks earlier. That my three interventions had not saved me. That four systems in my own body were showing the pattern I had watched in hundreds of my own patients. That one of my patients, her granddaughter, had told me about her. She listened. She did not interrupt. When I finished she set the tray down and said, "Entra, doutora. Come inside." Her kitchen smelled like dried fig leaf and bay. She poured me tea without asking. She sat across from me and said, "Your binders are fighting the wrong battle. You know this. That is why you are sitting at my kitchen table." I did know it. She said, "Every binder you prescribed for yourself. Every sauna session you scheduled for your patients. All of them work on what has already left the tissue. That is all. The trapped mycotoxins underneath, the ones hiding behind the biofilm shield in your organs and your brain where your binders cannot reach, none of them touch it." I said, "I understand the mechanism. I read the papers last week." She smiled. "Then you understand it clinically. You do not yet understand it in your own body. Especially not in your own brain." She picked up four dried bay leaves from her tray. She set them on the table in front of me. "This one is your brain. This one is your autonomic nervous system. This one is your right optic nerve. This one is your joints." She tapped each leaf. "Same trapped mycotoxins. Grinding through all four. Every one of your specialists has told you they are treating four different problems. It is one problem. You already know this. But you have been trained for twenty-four years to prescribe for each of them separately." I nodded. I could not speak. She said, "The cholestyramine binds what is already loose in your gut. The CellCore adds more of the same binding, farther along the intestine. The sauna mobilizes what is in your fat into your bloodstream and sends it right back to your gut to be reabsorbed through the bile loop. Three downstream levers. Below all three, the trapped mycotoxins have been grinding through your tissues. Year after year. Every meal. Every breath. Including the ones that cross into your brain, where no capsule your training allows will ever reach them." She leaned forward. "The steroids your resident put you on bought you three days of swelling reduction. They did not touch the mycotoxins. If the trapped load is not addressed, you will be back in that scanner within two years with a sharper edge of distribution and a resident who will no longer be able to call your MRI 'nonspecific.' This is not opinion. This is the mechanism you already understand." I said, "I know." She said, "Now here is what nobody taught you in medical school. For over a thousand years the women in my mother's village have been using the same five plants for this. My mother grew them. Her mother before her. I am eighty-three. I have never been in a hospital for anything other than the births of my children. My mind is clear. My hands are steady. My daughters do not have what killed your teacher." She stood. She walked to a shelf. She pulled down a dark glass dropper bottle. Inside, a dark amber liquid caught the light. "Five plants. One sequence. One delivery," she said. "Not what your patients are buying at the vitamin store. What is sold as glutathione at the store is in capsule form. The stomach destroys most of it before it reaches circulation at all, and almost none of what survives reaches the brain. The glutathione your training uses in the clinic is intravenous, and even that cannot be given daily, and even that does not break the biofilm. Real sublingual liposomal glutathione, standardized, absorbs through the mucous membrane under the tongue at a dose and concentration that reaches circulation at the clinical level, and crosses the blood-brain barrier because it is suspended in a lipid matrix that the barrier allows across." She set the bottle down. "Real Portuguese grandmother medicine has five compounds your body needs for this, in the right order. The first is NAC. This dissolves the lipid biofilm your training tells you is managed by binders. The biofilm is oil-based, so water-based binders bounce off it like water off a greasy pan. NAC is sulfur-containing and lipid-active, so it merges with the shield and dissolves it on contact. Once the shield is gone, the trapped mycotoxins finally have nowhere to hide, including the ones hiding in your white matter." She held up the bottle. "The second is liposomal glutathione. The compound your liver uses to neutralize mycotoxins the moment they are released, and the one your brain cells use when mycotoxins cross the blood-brain barrier. Delivered sublingually, in a true liposomal suspension, it reaches circulation at ten to twenty times the concentration of a capsule and it crosses into the brain where oral glutathione cannot follow. It neutralizes what the NAC uncovers in real time. The third is milk thistle. It protects the liver while it does the work of neutralizing. The fourth is TUDCA. It opens the bile pathway so the neutralized load has an exit. The fifth is fulvic and humic acid. They bind what has been loosened and carry it out through the body's own elimination." She looked at me. "Five compounds. From five plants. One dissolves the shield. One neutralizes the load, including the load in your brain. One protects the liver. One opens the exit. One carries it out. That is why the women in my mother's village do not die of what killed your teacher." I asked her if the form mattered. She nodded. "Real glutathione has to be at the right potency, at the clinical dose, in a true liposomal suspension, delivered under the tongue. Capsule glutathione does nothing for the brain. Glutathione at the drugstore is in dry powder form in a gel cap. The active compound is denatured by stomach acid. Ninety percent is destroyed before it reaches the intestinal wall. Of the 10 percent that survives, almost none crosses the blood-brain barrier. Without the sublingual liposomal delivery, most of what you swallow passes through the body and never reaches the tissues where the mycotoxins live. In our tradition we take the tinctures under the tongue. In every evening ritual. My mother did not know the biochemistry. She knew that in our kitchen, the dropper and the tongue go together before bed. That is why our women keep their minds and their hands into their nineties." She paused. "There is a company my granddaughter in New York told me about. They source the real plants. Standardized. They concentrate the formula to match the dose in the published research. They suspend it in a true liposomal matrix, which is what makes sublingual absorption work, and what allows the glutathione to cross the blood-brain barrier. The same delivery my mother used. Just concentrated into a dropper so it actually reaches the deep tissues, including the brain. Third-party tested. Made in the USA." She wrote a name on the back of a receipt and slid it across the table. Cerise. I ordered three bottles from her kitchen table before I left Massachusetts. I drove four hours home. I did not tell my husband where I had been. The bottles arrived the following Wednesday. I took 2 milliliters under my tongue before bed that night. Week one. The 3am wake-ups that had owned my nights since the hospital began to ease. I had been waking every morning at 3:51 AM, the exact time the facial numbness had started, since the discharge. On day five, I slept through until 6:10 AM. I lay in the dark and recognized that my body felt quiet for the first time in six weeks. Week two. The tiredness in my right eye by 4 PM that my ophthalmology colleague had flagged began to lift. I had been dreading the end of the clinic day since discharge because by my last patient my right field was blurring. That week I finished a 5:30 PM visit and recognized that both eyes still felt fresh. Week three. I ran my own ochratoxin A twice that week through my practice's lab. My reading had been sitting at 10.9 since discharge. That week it measured 6.4. I had not changed a single binder or added a single sauna session. Week four. I ran my own C4a and gliotoxin. C4a down 51 percent from my discharge-week lab. Gliotoxin down from 4.8 to 2.1. I ran the panel twice because I did not believe it. Both runs matched. Week six. I repeated the full mycotoxin urine panel. Ochratoxin A at 2.9. Down from 10.9 at discharge. Gliotoxin at 1.1. Down from 4.8. Aflatoxin undetectable. I scheduled a follow-up MRI two weeks later. Week eight. Repeat MRI with and without contrast. The scattered white matter hyperintensities my resident had flagged at discharge were measurably reduced in both number and signal. My radiologist colleague called me herself to read it to me. She used the phrase, "I have never seen a reduction like this in a non-MS patient over eight weeks." Week twelve. Full panel plus repeat MoCA plus repeat tilt table. Ochratoxin A at 1.3. Gliotoxin at 0.6. C4a in normal range for the first time in four years. MoCA score up from 25 to 29 out of 30. Tilt table at 10 minutes without orthostatic drop for the first time in two years. ANA titer dropped from 1:320 to 1:80. The right-sided facial sensation I had regained to 70 percent by discharge had returned to full on repeat exam. I called my radiology colleague back and asked him to blind-read both MRIs side by side. He did. He confirmed the reduction without knowing which scan was which. I sat in my office at 6 PM staring at my own imaging on my screen and I understood that I was looking at a reversal I had not seen in a scan in twenty-four years. I brought the imaging to my practice partner. Another neurologist. Fourteen years of practice. Someone I had trained. I put the discharge MRI next to the twelve-week MRI on her light board and I did not say anything. She read them. She looked at me. "Anna. What did you do." I told her. The grandmother. The kitchen table. The five compounds. The trapped mycotoxins. The biofilm. The sublingual delivery. All of it. She listened for an hour without interrupting. When I finished she was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I have not been trained on this. But I want to see this in my own patients. Tell me the name of the product." I gave it to her. She has been running it with sixteen of her stalled mycotoxin-driven neuroinflammation patients for the last three months. She called me last week. Eleven of them have moved their mycotoxin panels into the clearing range. Four have had repeat MRIs showing reduced white matter signal. Two have come off their binder stacks at their own insistence after their symptoms resolved. I am still clearing from the collapse. I am still on a reduced follow-up schedule. My binders were discontinued at week fifteen by my colleague. I rode my bicycle with my husband last Sunday for the first time in three years. Nine miles on the rail trail. My hands held the bars the whole way. I woke the next morning without the burning in my knees. My last panel two weeks ago showed an ochratoxin A of 1.1 and a gliotoxin of 0.4. I came within one scanner session of ending up in a wheelchair the way Dr. Rhodes did. I am writing this because I still have my practice. I still have my husband. And I have watched every system in my body reverse. I have watched a colleague I trained read my MRI and say the word I had waited eleven months to hear. Improving. Not managed. Improving. I am also writing this because I know the truth about what my field is doing. I did not sit at that grandmother's kitchen table because I wanted to. I sat there because everything my medical school and my neurology residency and my functional medicine certificate and my twenty-four years of practice had taught me about how to treat this disease had failed me. I completed 2,043 neurology consults before I ran one for myself that worked. Every one of those consults was in a person walking the same trajectory I was walking. Every one of them left my office with the same three-part protocol I was on. Every one of them was told their panels were managed and their MRIs were nonspecific. I do not know how many of them are already back. I do not know how many of them have already collapsed. I know that the standard of care my training taught me was built on the assumption that managing three downstream measurements with three separate interventions was equivalent to addressing the mechanism driving all three. It is not. I have four systems' worth of workup reports in my own body that prove it is not. And Dr. Rhodes's wheelchair from thirty months before her death proves it was not for her either. If your sister, your mother, your daughter, your best friend, or you have been diagnosed with mold-driven neuroinflammation and you have been told your panels are managed and your MRI is nonspecific while your brain and your autonomic nervous system and your optic nerve and your joints are quietly falling apart, please listen to what I am telling you. The trapped mycotoxins are what is taking you. Not the number on the panel. Not the read on the MRI. The binders lower what is already loose in your gut. They do not dissolve the biofilm. They do not cross the blood-brain barrier. They do not repair the damage the trapped mycotoxins have already done to your brain, your autonomic nervous system, your optic nerve, your joints, and your life. Remediating does not save you. I did that four years ago and it did not stop what was coming. The sauna does not save you. Same idea. Different lever. It just moves mycotoxins from your fat to your bloodstream, where your bile sends them right back to your gut. There is one thing I know of that dissolves the biofilm, neutralizes the mycotoxins the moment they are mobilized, crosses the blood-brain barrier, protects the liver, opens the bile, and carries the load out. The five compounds in the Portuguese grandmother tradition. NAC dissolves the biofilm. Liposomal glutathione neutralizes the load, in the body and in the brain. Milk thistle protects the liver. TUDCA opens the bile. Fulvic and humic acid bind and flush. Together, at the right dose, in the right sublingual liposomal delivery, they address what my three interventions did not touch. Cerise. Standardized sublingual liposomal formula. Concentrated to match the dose in the clinical research. Delivered under the tongue so the active compounds actually reach circulation, including the brain. Third-party tested. Made in the USA. 2 milliliters under the tongue every morning. That is the whole protocol. 90-day money-back guarantee. If your panels do not move, you pay nothing. The system that trained me did not give this to me when I needed it. It is reaching you now. https://trycerise.com/pages/cerise-lp3 P.S. Dr. Mira Rhodes was the neurologist who taught me how to read an MRI during my residency at 29. She died at 59 of "demyelinating process of uncertain origin, likely atypical MS variant" after six years of brain fog, numb hands, memory gaps, and 3am wake-ups that nobody in our own department connected to the water-damaged academic office she occupied for twelve years. She had been the sharpest neurologist I ever worked with. She was in a wheelchair by 58 and buried before her youngest son finished high school. I built my entire neurology practice on the assumption that I would prevent for my patients what my own field had not prevented for the woman who taught me. Instead I have watched myself walk the same trajectory in my own body. The difference is that I got the one-scanner warning she did not get. Please do not let your family's warning be shorter than mine was. P.P.S. I do not work for Cerise. I do not receive a penny from this. I am writing this at 10:50 PM on a Sunday, alone in my office, because a patient came in Friday whose gliotoxin had dropped from 5.1 to 0.9 in eight weeks on this protocol and I recognized my own labs on her panel. She had found Cerise on her own after reading a post from a woman named Nicole about a trip to Iceland where a neurologist in Akureyri told her the fire was in the tissue and not on the MRI. She told me the post had been circulating among the women in her MS-ruled-out support group. I read it that night. It was the second time in six months I had recognized my own patient in a story written by a stranger. Please share this with anyone you love who has been told their MRI is nonspecific and their symptoms are stress. Even a little. Even borderline. Even if they think they are managed. I promise you they are not. ~ Dr. Anna Bergstrom, MD, board-certified neurologist, functional medicine certificate, age 55