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My dearest mother, You will not read this message : you are now so emotive I dare not show it to you. I will come to see you with some flowers ; my sister, with whom you live, will chat with us for some time, and she will leave to do something else. Then, I will tell you again about the list I created for my fellow PWP's and those who care for them. I will explain the new friends, the dialog popping out of our strange machines, the support to those who cannot cope. You will say "I am pleased you make yourself useful" ; your eyes will become brighter, and your smile will light up the room for a while. Then fatigue will overwhelm you, your slim body will shrink back in the armchair you no longer leave, and your face, so beautiful some years ago, will become that of a very old, very tired lady. You were hit first by PD. You arrogantly ignored it, until you were twisted like a question mark and painfully blocked by cramps. When it was my turn, we were already so close to each other, and I was so willing to avoid hurting you, that I pretended to be OK. But I was fighting already, in a better way, more aware of possible errors, determined to serve others before becoming, some day, a very old man in an armchair. Mom, you gave me this life, and I like it. I love you Bernard (with kind help of Teresa Marcy for careful translation)