Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.
The fall semester passed quickly. The pills increased. Therapy became a regular routine.
Nurses came to his house to work with Morrie's withering legs, to keep the muscles active,
bending them back and forth as if pumping water from a well.
Massage specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt.
He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts
until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.
One day, using his cane, he stepped onto the curb and fell over into the street. The cane was exchanged for a walker.
As his body weakened, the back and forth to the bathroom became too exhausting, so Morrie began to urinate into a large beaker.
He had to support himself as he did this, meaning someone had to hold the beaker while Morrie filled it.
Most of us would be embarrassed by all this, especially at Morrie's age. But Morrie was not like most of us.
When some of his close colleagues would visit, he would say to them,
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