stayed there for hours, as doctors and nurses stepped around her.
Morrie watched in horror. He took notes, which is what he was there to do.
Every day, she did the same thing: came out in the morning, lay on the floor, stayed there until the evening,
talking to no one, ignored by everyone. It saddened Morrie.
He began to sit on the floor with her, even lay down alongside her, trying to draw her out of her misery.
Eventually, he got her to sit up, and even to return to her room.
What she mostly wanted, he learned, was the same thing many people want—someone to notice she was there.
Morrie worked at Chestnut Lodge for five years. Although it wasn't encouraged, he befriended some of the patients,
including a woman who joked with him about how lucky she was to be there “because my husband is rich so he can afford it.
Can you imagine if I had to be in one of those cheap mental hospitals?
Another woman—who would spit at everyone else—took to Morrie and called him her friend.
They talked each day, and the staff was at least encouraged that someone had gotten through to her.
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