It’s four and half years now I find myself watching the slow and steady decline of my mother. My days are structured by her ingestion and digestion, and the proper preparation of her medication. In between I find some time to work, to read books to enter a universe not ruled by approaching death. Which according to Camus is not feasible as we are all condemned to death. Sure, he’s right and what I’m doing makes no sense at all, still I’m doing it – la femme révoltée.