By the end, if you are still alive, you are breathing through a tube in a hole in your throat,
while your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk, perhaps able to blink, or cluck a tongue,
like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh.
This takes no more than five years from the day you contract the disease.
Morrie's doctors guessed he had two years left. Morrie knew it was less.
But my old professor had made a profound decision, one he began to construct
the day he came out of the doctor's office with a sword hanging over his head.
Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left?he had asked himself.
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.
Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days.
Since everyone was going to die, he could be of great value, right? He could be research. A human textbook.
Study me in my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me. Learn with me.
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