Vox Meditantis

Elizabeth Garrett Anderson (1836-1917) earned her place in history by becoming the first woman to qualify as a physician in Britain in 1865, founding the New Hospital for Women, and co-establishing the London School of Medicine for Women. She combined her medical practice with suffrage activism, serving as both healer and advocate for women’s rights. Her remarkable achievements extended beyond medicine, making her the first female mayor in Britain and the first English woman to earn a medical degree from the University of Paris.

As I sit in the comfortable consultation room of what was once the New Hospital for Women on Euston Road, I can sense the weight of history. The woman before me carries herself with quiet authority, her hands – so familiar with both stethoscope and pen – folded carefully in her lap. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, now speaking from beyond her time, seems as focused and determined as the historical accounts describe, though there’s a warmth in her eyes that speaks to her compassion for patients and cause alike.

Her contributions to STEM were revolutionary not merely in their outcomes but in their methodology. By exploiting a legal loophole in the Society of Apothecaries’ charter, she demonstrated the kind of creative problem-solving that characterises excellent scientific minds. Her establishment of the first hospital staffed entirely by women created a new model of healthcare delivery, whilst her doctoral thesis on migraine represented pioneering work in neurological medicine. Her story matters today because it illustrates how innovation often requires challenging established systems, how true scientific progress demands both technical excellence and social courage.

Dr Anderson, thank you for speaking with us today. I’d like to begin at the beginning – what drew you to medicine in the first place?

It was quite accidental, really. In 1859, I attended a lecture by Elizabeth Blackwell – the first woman to graduate from medical school in America. She spoke about the desperate need for female physicians, particularly for women who suffered in silence rather than submit to examination by male doctors. I remember sitting there thinking, “If an English woman can accomplish this in America, why not here?” The idea simply wouldn’t leave me alone.

Your path to qualification was extraordinarily challenging. Can you walk us through the technical aspects of how you finally achieved your medical licence?

Ah, the famous loophole. After being refused by every medical school – Edinburgh, Cambridge, Oxford, the lot – I studied the charters carefully. The Society of Apothecaries’ charter from 1617 didn’t explicitly forbid women from taking examinations. Their regulations required candidates to serve an apprenticeship, attend lectures, and pass examinations. I arranged private tuition in Latin, Greek, materia medica, and chemistry. I studied anatomy three evenings a week with a private tutor and attended dissections at the London Hospital.

For the practical requirements, I observed surgeries and worked as a nurse at Middlesex Hospital until the male students petitioned against my presence. The examination itself was rigorous – five separate papers covering anatomy, physiology, pathology, therapeutics, and forensic medicine, plus an oral examination. Of the seven candidates that September day in 1865, only three passed. I achieved the highest marks.

The Society immediately changed their rules after you qualified. How did that feel?

Rather like having a door slammed in your face after you’d already walked through it. They amended their regulations specifically to prevent other women following the same path. But you see, that’s precisely why the work mattered. Each barrier they erected after me proved how threatened they felt by the possibility of competent female physicians.

Let’s discuss your doctoral thesis “Sur la migraine” from the University of Paris. Can you explain your approach to this research?

I chose migraine for practical reasons – it required no post-mortem examinations, which would have been difficult to arrange in private practice, and many of my patients presented with the condition. But the subject proved far more complex than I initially anticipated.

My thesis examined migraine through three lenses: clinical observation, pathophysiology, and therapeutics. I documented detailed case studies from my own practice – women who had suffered for years without proper medical attention. One patient experienced attacks lasting thirty-six hours with complete prostration; another found relief only through complete isolation in darkness.

For the pathophysiological component, I argued that migraine resulted from electrical changes in nervous tissue – following the work of Matteucci and du Bois-Reymond on bioelectricity. I proposed that migraine was a hereditary central and peripheral nervous disease, comparable to asthma and epilepsy in its systemic effects.

That’s fascinating from a historical perspective on neurology. What treatments did you recommend?

Prevention was key – regular meals, adequate sleep, proper ventilation, avoiding sudden temperature changes. During attacks, I prescribed complete rest in darkened rooms with hot tea administered in large quantities. I also experimented with galvanic current – what you might call early neurostimulation.

For medications, I used phosphorus, arsenic compounds in small doses, belladonna, and quinine. The arsenic particularly seemed beneficial for patients with chronic, frequent attacks. I also recommended digitalin and potassium bromide for severe cases.

Your hospital was revolutionary – the first in Britain staffed entirely by women. How did you develop this model?

It began as necessity. In 1866, I opened St Mary’s Dispensary for Women and Children at 69 Seymour Place. Women were travelling considerable distances – some from as far as Yorkshire – because they preferred treatment by a female physician. In the first year alone, we saw 3,000 new patients with 9,300 visits.

The model worked because it addressed a genuine medical need that male physicians either couldn’t or wouldn’t meet. Women with gynaecological conditions, obstetric complications, and even general ailments often delayed seeking treatment rather than face examination by male doctors. Our mortality rates were comparable to – and in some cases better than – mixed hospitals of the time.

By 1872, when Lord Shaftesbury opened our ten-bed ward, we had proved that women could manage complex medical cases independently. The nursing staff, medical assistants, and physicians were all female. It wasn’t ideology – it was effective medicine.

You mentioned working with Hughlings Jackson, one of the era’s most distinguished neurologists. How did that collaboration develop?

Jackson consulted on several of our more complex neurological cases. He had no prejudice against female physicians – only against incompetent ones. When I presented him with detailed case notes and accurate observations, he treated me as he would any qualified colleague. That acceptance meant more to me professionally than many of the public accolades.

Now I’d like to examine a moment of self-critique. Looking back, what would you have done differently?

I sometimes wonder whether I focused too narrowly on opening doors for women like myself – educated, middle-class women with family support. The working-class women I treated deserved the same opportunities for medical education, but I didn’t create pathways for them. My hospital served all women regardless of means, but my medical school still required resources that excluded many capable women.

I also perhaps underestimated how long change would take. I thought that once I’d proved women could practice medicine competently, acceptance would follow naturally. I didn’t anticipate the depth of institutional resistance.

You were closely connected to the suffrage movement through your sister Millicent Fawcett. How did your medical work inform your views on women’s voting rights?

Medicine taught me that women’s bodies and minds were far more capable than society believed. I treated women through complicated childbirth, performed surgery, saw them endure pain with remarkable courage. Yet these same women couldn’t vote on laws affecting their own medical care, their children’s welfare, or public health measures.

In 1866, Emily Davies and I presented John Stuart Mill with petitions signed by over 1,500 women requesting suffrage for female heads of household. My medical practice had shown me daily evidence of women’s competence and judgment. How could society trust women to nurse the sick, manage households, and bear responsibility for children’s welfare, yet not trust them to mark a ballot?

You briefly joined the more militant WSPU after years with constitutional suffragists. What prompted that change?

Patience has its limits. By 1908, I had been advocating for women’s suffrage for over forty years. I had proved women could excel in medicine, run hospitals, serve as mayors – I became Aldeburgh’s first female mayor that same year. Yet we still lacked basic political representation.

I participated in the ‘From Prison to Citizenship’ march in 1910 and was present during ‘Black Friday’ when police violently suppressed our peaceful delegation. But I withdrew support when the WSPU escalated to property destruction. As a physician, I couldn’t endorse tactics that might harm innocents.

What do you observe about women in medicine today compared to your era?

The numbers are extraordinary – women constitute roughly half of medical students in Britain now, I understand. What would have seemed impossible in my lifetime. Yet I’m told that in certain specialties, particularly surgery, women still face barriers. The techniques have advanced remarkably – your imaging technology, keyhole surgery, pharmaceutical innovations – but some social challenges persist.

I’m particularly pleased to learn about the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Wing at University College Hospital, focusing on maternity and neonatal care. That continuation of women-centred medicine represents exactly what I hoped to establish permanently.

Your work bridged medicine and activism seamlessly. What advice would you offer to young women entering STEM fields today?

Excellence is your strongest argument. I couldn’t afford to be merely competent – I had to be demonstrably superior to counter prejudice. Master your technical skills thoroughly, but also understand the systems you’re working within. Look for the loopholes, the unexploited opportunities.

More importantly, remember that your success creates pathways for others. Each position you hold, each barrier you breach, makes it easier for the woman following behind you. That responsibility can feel burdensome, but it’s also empowering.

And don’t underestimate the power of collaboration. My work succeeded because of relationships with supporters like my father, mentors like Elizabeth Blackwell, colleagues like Hughlings Jackson, and fellow activists like Emily Davies. Find your allies and support other women’s advancement as vigorously as you pursue your own.

Finally, how do you hope history remembers your contributions?

I hope I’m remembered not as an exception, but as a beginning. My generation of women in medicine – myself, Sophia Jex-Blake, Elizabeth Blackwell – we were pioneers by necessity, not choice. We endured exclusion and hostility because we had to, not because we enjoyed the struggle.

I’d prefer to be remembered for the medical advances – the migraine research, the hospital model that prioritised patient dignity, the training programmes that produced generations of female physicians. The “first woman” designations matter less than whether the work itself proved valuable.

Most of all, I hope young people today understand that progress isn’t inevitable – it requires individuals willing to challenge unjust systems, even when success seems impossible. Every person who refuses to accept “that’s how things have always been done” continues our work.

Letters and emails

Following our conversation with Dr Anderson, we’ve received an overwhelming response from readers eager to explore further aspects of her remarkable career and legacy. We’ve selected five letters and emails from our growing community who want to ask her more about her life, her work, and what guidance she might offer to those following the path she carved through medicine and advocacy.

Clara Rossi, 34, Public Health Researcher, Cape Town, South Africa:
Dr Anderson, you mentioned using galvanic current for migraine treatment – essentially early neurostimulation. Given that transcranial electrical stimulation is now being researched for neurological conditions, do you think your Victorian-era experiments with bioelectricity were more scientifically sound than your contemporaries recognised? What specific parameters did you use, and how did you measure treatment efficacy?

Miss Rossi, your question brings me considerable satisfaction, for it suggests that our early experiments with electrical therapy were indeed more prescient than my contemporaries acknowledged. The galvanic current work emerged from my reading of Guillaume-Benjamin Duchenne’s research at the Salpêtrière – his “De l’électrisation localisée” had documented remarkable therapeutic effects, though he focused primarily on muscular disorders rather than neurological conditions.

For migraine treatment, I employed what we called faradisation – interrupted galvanic current applied via conducting sponges placed at the temple and base of the skull. The apparatus required careful calibration; too weak proved ineffective, whilst excessive current caused intolerable muscular contractions. I discovered that sessions of twelve to fifteen minutes, repeated every second day during attack-free periods, yielded the most promising results.

Measuring efficacy presented considerable challenges in our era. We lacked your modern instruments for quantifying pain or neurological function. Instead, I maintained detailed patient diaries documenting attack frequency, duration, and severity using a simple numerical scale of my own devising. One patient, a governess from Hampstead, experienced attacks thrice weekly before treatment; after six weeks of electrical therapy, she reported attacks reduced to once per fortnight, with markedly diminished intensity.

The scientific reasoning, I believe, was sound despite our limited understanding. Following the work of Emil du Bois-Reymond on bioelectricity, I theorised that migraine resulted from disrupted electrical activity within nervous tissue. By applying controlled external current, we might restore normal electrical balance – not unlike your modern transcranial stimulation, though our methods were admittedly crude.

My medical colleagues dismissed such treatments as quackery, preferring their tried remedies of bloodletting and mercury compounds. Yet I observed genuine improvement in roughly sixty percent of treated patients – results that compared favourably with conventional approaches. The Royal College of Physicians remained sceptical, but I maintained careful records demonstrating statistical improvements in both attack frequency and patient functionality.

What vindicated our approach was patient testimony. These women returned to work, resumed social activities, experienced relief from chronic suffering. Whatever the precise mechanism – and I suspect your modern understanding of neuroplasticity and electrical brain stimulation confirms our basic hypothesis – the therapeutic benefit was undeniable.

I’m gratified to learn that contemporary medicine has returned to electrical treatments for neurological conditions. Perhaps our Victorian experiments, dismissed as feminine fancy, were simply ahead of their proper time.

Felipe Navarro, 28, Medical Student, Toronto, Canada:
You worked during the miasma theory era, before germ theory was widely accepted. How did you reconcile competing medical theories when treating patients? If you had access to today’s understanding of infection control and evidence-based medicine, which of your treatment approaches would you have abandoned first, and which do you believe were ahead of their time?

Mr Navarro, your question goes to the heart of medical practice during a most turbulent period in our understanding of disease causation. When I began practising in the 1860s, miasma theory dominated – the notion that disease spread through “bad air” or noxious vapours. Yet even then, perceptive physicians harboured doubts about this explanation.

I confess I found myself caught between competing theories throughout my career. Max von Pettenkofer’s miasmatic teachings held sway in most medical circles, yet John Snow’s cholera investigations in Soho had demonstrated clear evidence of waterborne transmission. When Pasteur published his germ theory work in the 1870s, followed by Lister’s antiseptic principles, I found myself gradually abandoning miasmatic explanations.

In practical terms, this meant considerable changes to my hospital protocols. Initially, we focused on ventilation and air quality – opening windows, burning aromatic substances, avoiding “pestilential atmospheres.” Our early ward designs emphasised high ceilings and cross-ventilation, following Florence Nightingale’s principles from her Crimean experience.

However, as Lister’s carbolic acid methods proved successful in reducing post-operative infections, I implemented antiseptic procedures at the New Hospital for Women. We began washing hands with carbolic solutions, sterilising instruments, and maintaining cleaner surgical environments. The reduction in puerperal fever among our maternity patients was remarkable – mortality rates dropped from roughly twelve percent to under four percent within two years.

Looking back with your modern knowledge, I would have abandoned bloodletting and mercury treatments immediately. These caused genuine harm whilst providing no therapeutic benefit. Mercury particularly – we used it for everything from syphilis to teething troubles, yet it caused severe poisoning in many patients. I continued these treatments far longer than warranted, simply because medical tradition demanded them.

Conversely, our emphasis on fresh air, cleanliness, and nutritious diet proved prescient. Though we misunderstood the mechanisms, these practices genuinely improved patient outcomes. Our insistence on handwashing, regular bathing of patients, and clean bedding – originally justified by miasmatic theory – actually prevented bacterial transmission.

The lesson, I believe, is that effective treatments sometimes emerge from imperfect theories. A physician must remain open to evidence whilst maintaining healthy scepticism about established doctrine. Had I trusted my observations over received wisdom sooner, many patients might have been spared unnecessary suffering. Your generation’s evidence-based approach represents exactly the kind of rigorous thinking we needed but lacked the framework to implement properly.

Amina Diallo, 41, Medical Anthropologist, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia:
Your decision to focus medical practice exclusively on women patients was radical for its time. How did this gender-specific approach influence your diagnostic methods and treatment protocols? Did you discover clinical presentations or symptoms in women that male physicians had consistently missed or misinterpreted, and how did this shape your understanding of sex-based medical differences?

Miss Diallo, your question illuminates one of the most profound discoveries of my medical career – the extraordinary differences in how women presented symptoms compared to the clinical descriptions found in our textbooks, all written by men treating predominantly male patients.

From my earliest days in practice, I observed phenomena that male physicians either missed entirely or dismissed as feminine hysteria. Women experiencing what we now understand as cardiac conditions frequently described chest discomfort as “flutterings” or “tightness,” accompanied by breathlessness and fatigue. Male doctors, expecting the dramatic chest-clutching episodes described in their training, often attributed these symptoms to nervous disorders or recommended rest cures.

The gynaecological examinations proved most revealing. Women would confide symptoms they had endured for years without seeking help – irregular bleeding, pelvic pain, difficulties with marital relations – because the prospect of examination by male physicians seemed unbearable. I discovered cases of ovarian cysts, uterine fibroids, and prolapse that had gone untreated for decades. One patient, a seamstress aged thirty-four, had suffered debilitating monthly pain since adolescence; examination revealed endometrial tissue where it shouldn’t belong – a condition we barely understood then.

Perhaps most significantly, I recognised patterns in what physicians termed “neurasthenia” or nervous exhaustion. Women diagnosed with hysteria often exhibited genuine physical symptoms – tremors, paralysis, digestive troubles – but presented them differently when speaking to female physicians. They spoke more candidly about domestic violence, sexual difficulties, the exhaustion of bearing numerous children whilst managing households. What appeared as mysterious feminine maladies often proved to be rational responses to impossible circumstances.

My diagnostic approach evolved considerably. I learned to listen for longer periods, ask different questions, create environments where women felt safe disclosing intimate details. I discovered that women’s pain tolerance was remarkably high – they had often endured significant pathology whilst continuing their domestic duties. Consequently, when women sought medical attention, their conditions were frequently more advanced than typical male patients.

The treatment protocols required adaptation as well. Women’s medication responses differed – they metabolised certain compounds differently, experienced different side effects, responded better to lower doses administered more frequently. Laudanum, for instance, seemed to provide better pain relief for women when given in smaller, regular doses rather than the large, sporadic dosing recommended for men.

This gender-specific approach fundamentally changed my understanding of medical practice. It became clear that effective medicine required acknowledging biological and social differences between male and female patients – an insight that challenged the very foundations of medical education in our era.

Brandon Hughes, 37, Healthcare Innovation Consultant, São Paulo, Brazil:
What if you had been born fifty years later, entering medicine during the early 20th century rather than the 1860s? Do you think you would have chosen a different medical specialty, perhaps research or surgery, given greater institutional access? Or would you have focused your reform efforts on different aspects of healthcare – perhaps public health policy or medical education curriculum rather than establishing separate women’s institutions?

Mr Hughes, your hypothetical presents a fascinating consideration. Had I entered medicine fifty years later – say, in the 1910s – I believe my path would have been fundamentally different, though perhaps no less challenging.

By that period, women had gained entry to several medical schools, though still faced considerable prejudice. With institutional access secured, I might well have pursued surgery more aggressively. I had always been drawn to operative procedures – the precision, the immediate results, the dramatic nature of surgical intervention. During my career, I performed numerous operations at the New Hospital for Women, including ovariotomies and other abdominal procedures, but social conventions limited my surgical training opportunities.

In the early twentieth century, I suspect I would have specialised in obstetrics and gynaecology with a surgical focus. The field was advancing rapidly – caesarean sections were becoming safer, anaesthesia more refined. I might have contributed to developing techniques for treating puerperal sepsis or advancing surgical approaches to difficult births. The combination of women’s health and surgical intervention would have appealed to both my medical interests and reformist inclinations.

However, I’m not certain I would have abandoned institutional reform entirely. Even fifty years later, women physicians faced discrimination in hospital appointments, professional societies, and private practice. I suspect I would have focused efforts on establishing surgical training programmes for women, perhaps founding a women’s surgical college or advocating for equal access to surgical residencies.

The public health opportunities of that era might have captured my attention as well. The early 1900s saw tremendous advances in understanding infectious disease, maternal mortality, and child welfare. I might have worked to establish community health centres, particularly focused on women’s reproductive health and infant care. The opportunity to combine medical expertise with social policy would have proved irresistible.

One significant difference would have been my approach to professional networking. By the 1910s, women’s professional organisations existed – the Medical Women’s Federation, for instance. I would have leveraged these connections more effectively than I could in my isolated pioneering days.

Yet I wonder whether entering medicine later would have diminished my impact. The extraordinary barriers I faced in the 1860s forced me to develop innovative solutions – the apothecary licence strategy, the women-only hospital model. Perhaps easier institutional access would have led to more conventional achievements, albeit in greater quantity.

The timing of one’s career matters immensely. Sometimes the greatest contributions emerge precisely because the obstacles seem insurmountable.

Haruko Saito, 45, Philosophy of Science Professor, Berlin, Germany:
Your career required you to be both healer and activist – roles that sometimes conflict in terms of public perception and professional focus. How did you navigate the ethical tension between advancing your individual medical career and serving as a representative for all women in medicine? Did you ever feel that the symbolic weight of being ‘the first’ compromised your ability to practice medicine according to your own judgment?

Professor Saito, you have identified the most persistent tension of my professional life – one that haunted me throughout my career and continues to perplex me even now. The burden of representation proved far heavier than I anticipated when I first sought medical qualification.

Every decision carried weight beyond its immediate medical merit. When treating patients, I couldn’t simply focus on their ailments; I was constantly aware that any perceived failure would be attributed not to my individual shortcomings, but to feminine incompetence generally. This created an exhausting hypervigilance – I checked and rechecked diagnoses, sought second opinions more frequently than necessary, maintained obsessively detailed records to defend against potential criticism.

The symbolic weight certainly compromised certain aspects of my practice. I avoided taking on cases where the outcome remained genuinely uncertain, even when my expertise might have benefited the patient. The risk of public failure seemed too great. I recall refusing to treat a gentleman with a complex abdominal condition in 1870 – the family specifically requested my services – because I feared that if he died under my care, the newspapers would attribute his death to feminine medical inadequacy.

This caution extended to my hospital management as well. I implemented protocols that were perhaps overly conservative, ensuring our mortality rates compared favourably to male-managed institutions. We sometimes transferred patients to other hospitals when aggressive treatment might have saved them, simply because the political cost of failure outweighed the medical benefit of attempting heroic measures.

Yet I came to understand that this representational role, however burdensome, served essential purposes. My visible success encouraged other women to seek medical careers – letters arrived regularly from young ladies inspired by my example. More importantly, my competent practice gradually shifted public opinion about women’s intellectual capabilities. Each successful surgery, each accurate diagnosis, each grateful patient family contributed to broader social change.

The ethical tension never fully resolved. There were moments when I chose symbolic victories over optimal patient care – accepting speaking engagements that took me away from my practice, maintaining public appearances when I should have been studying new treatments, focusing on political advocacy rather than medical research.

But I’ve concluded that this tension was inevitable, perhaps even necessary. Someone had to bear the burden of proof, to demonstrate that women could excel in medicine despite societal prejudices. Had I focused solely on individual medical achievement without regard for the larger cause, the doors might never have opened for subsequent generations.

The price was considerable, but the alternative – accepting permanent exclusion – was unthinkable.

Reflection

Elizabeth Garrett Anderson died on 17th December 1917, at the age of 81, having lived to see the first stirrings of women’s suffrage but not its full realisation. Our conversation reveals dimensions of her story that formal histories often obscure – the careful calculation behind her seemingly spontaneous challenges to authority, the profound loneliness of being perpetually “the first,” and the exhausting weight of representing an entire gender’s capabilities.

What emerges most powerfully is her scientific ingenuity. Anderson’s exploitation of the apothecaries’ legal loophole wasn’t merely clever opportunism – it demonstrated the kind of creative problem-solving that defines exceptional medical minds. Her early experiments with galvanic therapy for migraine, dismissed by contemporaries as feminine fancy, anticipated modern neurostimulation techniques by over a century. The gender-specific healthcare model she pioneered at the New Hospital for Women prefigured today’s understanding of sex-based medical differences.

Anderson’s voice reveals perspectives that traditional accounts miss – her candid acknowledgment of the compromises forced by her symbolic status, her awareness of how class privilege limited her advocacy for working women, and her strategic patience with militant suffrage tactics. The historical record often presents her as an isolated pioneer, yet she emerges here as deeply collaborative, building networks that sustained her through decades of professional isolation.

Her influence resonates powerfully today. The Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Institute continues her focus on women’s health research, whilst medical schools worldwide grapple with the same questions she confronted about gender bias in clinical training. Modern discussions about healthcare equity, reproductive rights, and women’s representation in surgery echo her nineteenth-century battles.

Perhaps most importantly, Anderson’s story illuminates how progress occurs – not through grand gestures but through persistent, incremental challenges to unjust systems. Each door she opened, each precedent she established, each young woman she mentored created pathways that continue expanding today. Her legacy lives not in monuments but in the countless female physicians who now practice medicine as a matter of course, their achievements built upon foundations she laid through sheer determination and brilliant tactical thinking.

Who have we missed?

This series is all about recovering the voices history left behind – and I’d love your help finding the next one. If there’s a woman in STEM you think deserves to be interviewed in this way – whether a forgotten inventor, unsung technician, or overlooked researcher – please share her story.

Email me at voxmeditantis@gmail.com or leave a comment below with your suggestion – even just a name is a great start. Let’s keep uncovering the women who shaped science and innovation, one conversation at a time.

Editorial Note: This interview represents a dramatised reconstruction based on extensive historical research into Elizabeth Garrett Anderson‘s life, medical practice, and documented writings. While grounded in factual sources including her doctoral thesis, hospital records, correspondence, and contemporary accounts, the conversational format and specific responses are imaginative interpretations of her likely perspectives and voice. Historical figures’ exact thoughts and undocumented experiences remain unknowable, and some details have been contextualised using broader Victorian medical and social history. Readers should understand this as an educational exploration of Anderson’s contributions rather than a verbatim historical document, designed to illuminate her remarkable achievements and enduring relevance to modern medicine and gender equality.

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