Morrie, who could no longer dance, swim, bathe, or walk; Morrie, who could no longer answer his own door,
dry himself after a shower, or even roll over in bed. How could he be so accepting?
I watched him struggle with his fork, picking at a piece of tomato, missing it the first two times—a pathetic scene,
and yet I could not deny that sitting in his presence was almost magically serene, the same calm breeze that soothed me back in college.
I shot a glance at my watch—force of habit—it was getting late, and I thought about changing my plane reservation home.
Then Morrie did something that haunts me to this day. “You know how I’m going to die?” he said.
I raised my eyebrows.I’m going to suffocate. Yes. My lungs, because of my asthma, can’t handle the disease.
It’s moving up my body, this ALS. It’s already got my legs. Pretty soon it’ll get my arms and hands.
And when it hits my lungs...” He shrugged his shoulders. “... I’m sunk.”
I had no idea what to say, so I said, “Well, you know, I mean... you never know.”
Morrie closed his eyes.I know, Mitch. You mustn’t be afraid of my dying.
I’ve had a good life, and we all know it’s going to happen. I maybe have four or five months.
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