He lived with a hole in his throat, spoke through a computer synthesizer, typed words by batting his eyes as a sensor picked up the movement.
This was admirable, but it was not the way Morrie wanted to live. He told Koppel he knew when it would be time to say good-bye.
“For me, Ted, living means I can be responsive to the other person.
It means I can show my emotions and my feelings. Talk to them. Feel with them...”
He exhaled. “When that is gone, Morrie is gone.” They talked like friends.
As he had in the previous two interviews, Koppel asked about the “old ass wipe test”—hoping, perhaps, for a humorous response.
But Morrie was too tired even to grin. He shook his head. “When I sit on the commode, I can no longer sit up straight.
I'm listing all the time, so they have to hold me. When I'm done they have to wipe me. That is how far it's gotten.”
He told Koppel he wanted to die with serenity. He shared his latest aphorism: “Don't let go too soon, but don't hang on too long.”
Koppel nodded painfully. Only six months had passed between the first “Nightline” show and this one,
but Morrie Schwartz was clearly a collapsed form. He had decayed before a national TV audience, a miniseries of a death.
But as his body rotted, his character shone even more brightly.
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