Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a young Man and Life\'s Greatest Lesson pdfdrive com

“I heard a nice little story the other day,” Morrie says. He closes
his eyes for a moment and I wait.
“Okay. The story is about a little wave, bobbing along in the
ocean, having a grand old time. He’s enjoying the wind and the fresh
air—until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against
the shore.
“‘My God, this is terrible,’ the wave says. ‘Look what’s going to

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happen to me!’
“Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking
grim, and it says to him, ‘Why do you look so sad?’
“The first wave says, ‘You don’t understand! We’re all going to
crash! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn’t it terrible?’
“The second wave says, ‘No, you don’t understand. You’re not a
wave, you’re part of the ocean.’”
I smile. Morrie closes his eyes again.
“Part of the ocean,” he says, “part of the ocean. “I watch him
breathe, in and out, in and out.”

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The Fourteenth Tuesday We Say Good-bye
It was cold and damp as I walked up the steps to Morrie’s house. I took in
little details, things I hadn’t noticed for all the times I’d visited. The cut of the
hill. The stone facade of the house. The pachysandra plants, the low shrubs. I
walked slowly, taking my time, stepping on dead wet leaves that flattened
beneath my feet.
Charlotte had called the day before to tell me Morrie was not doing well.”
This was her way of saying the final days had arrived. Morrie had canceled all of
his appointments and had been sleeping much of the time, which was unlike
him. He never cared for sleeping, not when there were people he could talk with.
“He wants you to come visit,” Charlotte said, “but, Mitch …”
Yes?
“He’s very weak.”
The porch steps. The glass in the front door. I absorbed these things in a
slow, observant manner, as if seeing them for the first time. I felt the tape
recorder in the bag on my shoulder, and I unzipped it to make sure I had tapes. I
don’t know why. I always had tapes.
Connie answered the bell. Normally buoyant, she had a drawn look on her
face. Her hello was softly spoken.
“How’s he doing?” I said.
“Not so good.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t like to think about it. He’s
such a sweet man, you know?”
I knew.
“This is such a shame.”
Charlotte came down the hall and hugged me. She said that Morrie was still
sleeping, even though it was 10 A.M. We went into the kitchen. I helped her
straighten up, noticing all the bottles of pills, lined up on the table, a small army
of brown plastic soldiers with white caps. My old professor was taking morphine
now to ease his breathing.
I put the food I had brought with me into the refrigerator—soup, vegetable
cakes, tuna salad. I apologized to Charlotte for bringing it. Morrie hadn’t chewed
food like this in months, we both knew that, but it had become a small tradition.
Sometimes, when you’re losing someone, you hang on to whatever tradition you
can.
I waited in the living room, where Morrie and Ted Koppel had done their
first interview. I read the newspaper that was lying on the table. Two Minnesota

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children had shot each other playing with their fathers’ guns. A baby had been
found buried in a garbage can in an alley in Los Angeles.
I put down the paper and stared into the empty fireplace. I tapped my shoe
lightly on the hardwood floor. Eventually, I heard a door open and close, then
Charlotte’s footsteps coming toward me.
“All right,” she said softly. “He’s ready for you.”
I rose and I turned toward our familiar spot, then saw a strange woman
sitting at the end of the hall in a folding chair, her eyes on a book, her legs
crossed. This was a hospice nurse, part of the twenty-four-hour watch.
Morrie’s study was empty. I was confused. Then I turned back hesitantly to
the bedroom, and there he was, lying in bed, under the sheet. I had seen him like
this only one other time—when he was getting massaged—and the echo of his
aphorism “When you’re in bed, you’re dead” began anew inside my head.
I entered, pushing a smile onto my face. He wore a yellow pajama—like
top, and a blanket covered him from the chest down. The lump of his form was
so withered that I almost thought there was something missing. He was as small
as a child.
Morrie’s mouth was open, and his skin was pale and tight against his
cheekbones. When his eyes rolled toward me, he tried to speak, but I heard only
a soft grunt.
There he is, I said, mustering all the excitement I could find in my empty
till.
He exhaled, shut his eyes, then smiled, the very effort seeming to tire him.
“My … dear friend …” he finally said.
I am your friend, I said.
“I’m not … so good today …” Tomorrow will be better.
He pushed out another breath and forced a nod. He was struggling with
something beneath the sheets, and I realized he was trying to move his hands
toward the opening.
“Hold …” he said.
I pulled the covers down and grasped his fingers. They disappeared inside
my own. I leaned in close, a few inches from his face. It was the first time I had
seen him unshaven, the small white whiskers looking so out of place, as if
someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be
new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else?
Morrie, I said softly. “Coach,” he corrected.
Coach, I said. I felt a shiver. He spoke in short bursts, inhaling air, exhaling
words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of ointment.
“You … are a good soul.” A good soul.

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“Touched me …” he whispered. He moved my hands to his heart. “Here.”
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat. Coach?
“Ahh?”
I don’t know how to say good-bye.
He patted my hand weakly, keeping it on his chest.
“This … is how we say … good-bye …”
He breathed softly, in and out, I could feel his ribcage rise and fall. Then he
looked right at me.
“Love … you,” he rasped.
I love you, too, Coach.
“Know you do … know … something else…”
What else do you know?
“You … always have …
His eyes got small, and then he cried, his face contorting like a baby who
hasn’t figured how his tear ducts work. I held him close for several minutes. I
rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the
bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears, as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing approached normal again, I cleared my throat and said I
knew he was tired, so I would be back next Tuesday, and I expected him to be a
little more alert, thank you. He snorted lightly, as close as he could come to a
laugh. It was a sad sound just the same.
I picked up the unopened bag with the tape recorder. Why had I even
brought this? I knew we would never use it. I leaned in and kissed him closely,
my face against his, whiskers on whiskers, skin on skin, holding it there, longer
than normal, in case it gave him even a split second of pleasure.
Okay, then? I said, pulling away.
I blinked back the tears, and he smacked his lips together and raised his
eyebrows at the sight of my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of
satisfaction for my dear old professor: he had finally made me cry.
“Okay, then,” he whispered.

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