A few weeks later, I got back a short message saying everything was okay,
but he was sorry, he really didn’t feel like talking about being sick.
For my old professor, it was not the talk of being sick but the being sick itself that was sinking him.
Since my last visit, a nurse had inserted a catheter into his penis,
which drew the urine out through a tube and into a bag that sat at the foot of his chair.
His legs needed constant tending (he could still feel pain, even though he could not move them, another one of ALS’s cruel little ironies),
and unless his feet dangled just the right number of inches off the foam pads, it felt as if someone were poking him with a fork.
In the middle of conversations, Morrie would have to ask visitors to lift his foot and move it just an inch,
or to adjust his head so that it fit more easily into the palm of the colored pillows.
Can you imagine being unable to move your own head?
With each visit, Morrie seemed to be melting into his chair, his spine taking on its shape.
Still, every morning he insisted on being lifted from his bed and wheeled to his study,
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