When I was healthy, I had the luxury of forgetting that my immune system functioned as a precise, intra-related cellular cascade. Suddenly, however, at the age of 45, I quickly transformed from a once-vibrant and high-achieving psychiatrist and ultra-marathoner—running ten miles during breaks between caring for patients—to a sickly, immunocompromised, and bed-ridden patient. My illness began when I was engaged in humanitarian work with war victims in Chechnya, where I was seen as challenging Russian policy and poisoned with what I suspect was anthrax.