Morrie's disease was now dangerously close to his surrender spot, his lungs.
He had been predicting he would die from choking, and I could not imagine a more terrible way to go.
Sometimes he would close his eyes and try to draw the air up into his mouth and nostrils, and it seemed as if he were trying to lift an anchor.
Outside, it was jacket weather, early October, the leaves clumped in piles on the lawns around West Newton.
Morrie's physical therapist had come earlier in the day, and I usually excused myself when nurses or specialists had business with him.
But as the weeks passed and our time ran down, I was increasingly less self-conscious about the physical embarrassment.
I wanted to be there. I wanted to observe everything.
This was not like me, but then, neither were a lot of things that had happened these last few months in Morrie's house.
So I watched the therapist work on Morrie in the bed, pounding the back of his ribs,
asking if he could feel the congestion loosening within him.
And when she took a break, she asked if I wanted to try it. I said yes.
Morrie, his face on the pillow, gave a little smile.
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