This article by Terry Preatchett has saddened me profoundly. What the marvelous mind of this man has given to us all can't be put into words. Well, it can, of course. His words. His brilliant words.

I already knew it, of course, but this illness is something that let me dumbfounded everytime I hear someone has it (whether is Terry or Pascual maragall, or Suarez...).

It's something I fear with all my soul and that I don't really think I can comprehend. I mean, the idea of, somehow, your brain not functioning properly... Well, mine does not work that well, really (this thing Terry comments about misspelling and suddenly forgeting how a word is written, well, this happens to me already), so I don't want to think about what could happen to me if I ever get Dementia.

I'm sad, because a brilliant man has to live with fear of, one day, not being able to dress himself. I'm sad because there's a lot of people in the world living with that fear, a lot of people watching their loved ones falling into it without being able to do anything but help them once the disease has gotten hold of them (please, oh, please, that has to be even worse).

This disease terrifies me. Period.

I wish Mr. Pratchett all the luck in the world.