The lab report came back suggesting a neurological problem, and Morrie was brought in for yet another series of tests.
In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current
—an electric chair, of sorts—and studied his neurological responses.
“We need to check this further,” the doctors said, looking over his results.
“Why?” Morrie asked. “What is it?” “We're not sure. Your times are slow.” His times were slow? What did that mean?
Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the neurologist's office,
and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease,
a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.
There was no known cure. “How did I get it?” Morrie asked. Nobody knew.
“Is it terminal?” Yes. “So I'm going to die?” Yes, you are, the doctor said. I'm very sorry.
He sat with Morrie and Charlotte for nearly two hours, patiently answering their questions.
When they left, the doctor gave them some information on ALS, little pamphlets, as if they were opening a bank account.
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