“Come on,” I said nervously. “Nobody can say ‘I can,’” he said softly.
There’s even a little test. A doctor showed me.A test?Inhale a few times.
I did as he said. “Now, once more, but this time, when you exhale, count as many numbers as you can before you take another breath.”
I quickly exhaled the numbers. “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight...” I reached seventy before my breath was gone.
“Good,” Morrie said. “You have healthy lungs. Now. Watch what I do.”
He inhaled, then began his number count in a soft, wobbly voice.
“One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteensixteen-seventeen-eighteen—”
He stopped, gasping for air.When the doctor first asked me to do this, I could reach twenty-three. Now it’s eighteen.
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “My tank is almost empty.”
I tapped my thighs nervously. That was enough for one afternoon.
“Come back and see your old professor,” Morrie said when I hugged him good-bye.
I promised I would, and I tried not to think about the last time I promised this.
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