I still miss Morrie. I miss everything about him. I miss hearing his laugh. I have never known anyone who loved to laugh more than Morrie. I miss how he lit up whenever he saw me. But most of all, I miss those Tuesday visits.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Blog 22
I feel as though Morrie has changed me. Made me finally realize what was truly important in life. Not long after Morrie had passed, I reached my brother, Peter, in Spain. I had told him, "I don't want to lose you. I love you." I had never said anything like that to him before. But I think Morrie had made me realize how important family really is.
I still miss Morrie. I miss everything about him. I miss hearing his laugh. I have never known anyone who loved to laugh more than Morrie. I miss how he lit up whenever he saw me. But most of all, I miss those Tuesday visits.
I still miss Morrie. I miss everything about him. I miss hearing his laugh. I have never known anyone who loved to laugh more than Morrie. I miss how he lit up whenever he saw me. But most of all, I miss those Tuesday visits.
Blog 21
He died on a Saturday morning. His family was in the house with him. They slept in shifts around his bed. Two days after my final visit Morrie had fallen into a coma, the doctor had said he might go at any moment. When his loved ones had left the room for just a moment, he took his final breath.
Morrie's funeral was on a damp, windy morning. Hundreds had wanted to attend, but Charlotte made sure it was only a small gathering. "You talk I'll listen," he had once said to me. I did that in my head, and much to my surprise it felt almost...natural. I at my watch and realized why. It was Tuesday.
Blog 20
I knocked on the door of Morrie's house, Connie answered the door. Charlotte came and gave me a hug, telling me he was still asleep, even though it was 10 am. I had brought food again. I don't know why, it wasn't like he could eat it. I guess it was sort of tradition. I waited in the living room. Eventually, Charlotte came and told me he was ready for me. I entered his study. It was empty. I turned hesitantly towards his bedroom, and there he was, lying in his bed. "When you're in bed, you're dead," his words went through my head.
"You...are a good soul," he told me. His voice was thin and raspy. he began to cry. I held him close, feeling his tiny, wet tears fall on the palm of my hand. I pulled away, blinking back years, and i realized that this was my last visit.
"You...are a good soul," he told me. His voice was thin and raspy. he began to cry. I held him close, feeling his tiny, wet tears fall on the palm of my hand. I pulled away, blinking back years, and i realized that this was my last visit.
Blog 19
Morrie wanted to be cremated. He had discussed with Charlotte and decided that it was the best way. Morrie had been having bad nights lately. He could sleep only a few hours at a time before violently hacking woke him. The nurses would come into the bedroom and pound him on the back and try to bring up the 'poison'. Even if they got him breathing again from the help of the oxygen machine, the fight would leave him fatigued the whole next day. The oxygen tube was up his nose this time. To me, it symbolized helplessness. I asked him what he would do if he had one perfectly healthy day.
"I'd get up in the morning , do my exercises, have a lovely breakfast of sweet rolls and tea, go for a swim, then have my friends come over for a nice lunch. Then I'd like to go for a walk, in a garden with some trees, watch their colors, watch the birds, take in the nature that I haven't seen in so long now. In the evening, we'd all go together to a restaurant with some great pasta, maybe some duck-I love duck- and then we'd dance he rest of the night. I'd dance with all the wonderful dance partners out there, until I was exhausted. And then I'd go home and have a deep, wonderful sleep."
It was so simple. Before I left that day Morrie asked if he could bring up a topic. My brother. I felt a shiver. I had been trying to call my brother in Spain for weeks. I saw Peter in my mind when he was eight years old, his curly blond hair puffed into a sweaty ball atop his head. I saw us wrestling. The grass stain soaking into our jeans. And then I saw him as the adult who had drifted away, thin and his face was bony from the chemotherapy treatments. "You've had these special times with your brother, and you no longer have what you had with him. You'll find your way back to your brother," Morrie said. How do you know? Morrie smiled. "You found me, didn't you?"
"I'd get up in the morning , do my exercises, have a lovely breakfast of sweet rolls and tea, go for a swim, then have my friends come over for a nice lunch. Then I'd like to go for a walk, in a garden with some trees, watch their colors, watch the birds, take in the nature that I haven't seen in so long now. In the evening, we'd all go together to a restaurant with some great pasta, maybe some duck-I love duck- and then we'd dance he rest of the night. I'd dance with all the wonderful dance partners out there, until I was exhausted. And then I'd go home and have a deep, wonderful sleep."
It was so simple. Before I left that day Morrie asked if he could bring up a topic. My brother. I felt a shiver. I had been trying to call my brother in Spain for weeks. I saw Peter in my mind when he was eight years old, his curly blond hair puffed into a sweaty ball atop his head. I saw us wrestling. The grass stain soaking into our jeans. And then I saw him as the adult who had drifted away, thin and his face was bony from the chemotherapy treatments. "You've had these special times with your brother, and you no longer have what you had with him. You'll find your way back to your brother," Morrie said. How do you know? Morrie smiled. "You found me, didn't you?"
Blog 18
Ted Koppel had come back for Morrie's last interview. He had called many times before and asked, "Do you think you can handle it?" Morrie was sure he could.
Koppel sat down on the chair in Morrie's study. They started talking about the disease's progression and death. Morrie told Koppel of his latest aphorism: "Don't let go too soon, but don't hang on too long."
Near the end of the interview, the camera zoomed in on Morrie and Ted. It was the last few minutes of
the interview, almost like Morrie's final words. "Be compassionate," Morrie told him. "And take responsibility for each other. If we only learned those lessons, this world would be so much a better place." The interview was over.
"You did a good job," Koppel added, looking close to tears.
"Ted, this disease is knocking at my spirit. But it will not get my spirit. It will get my body. Not my spirit."
"You've done good." Koppel smiled.
A few days after Morrie's "Nightline" interview, we sat in his study on the rainy, dreary day. It was the twelfth Tuesday. How did time fly by so fast?
He started off our conversation by talking about forgiveness. "Mitch, there is no point in keeping vengeance or stubornness. These things I so regret in my life. Pride. Why do we do the things we do?"
Morrie told me a story about his friend, Norman, who made a sculpture of him a few years back. Norman and his wife moved away to Chicago. Not much later, Morrie's wife Charlotte had to have a serious operation, but they never called or sent an email. No contact. They were hurt. Over the next few years, Norman tried to apologize and make contact with us again, but we never responded. Morrie and Charlotte didn't want to accept his apology.
A few years later, Norman died of cancer. They never got to see him. They hadn't really talked with Norman since Charlotte's operation. They felt so sad.
After Morrie told the story, Morrie started crying.
"It's not just other people we need to forgive, Mitch," he said. "We also need to forgive ourselves. For all the things we didn't do. You can't get stuck on the regrets of what should have happened."
Morrie dabbed his tears with a tissue and went on.
Koppel sat down on the chair in Morrie's study. They started talking about the disease's progression and death. Morrie told Koppel of his latest aphorism: "Don't let go too soon, but don't hang on too long."
Near the end of the interview, the camera zoomed in on Morrie and Ted. It was the last few minutes of
the interview, almost like Morrie's final words. "Be compassionate," Morrie told him. "And take responsibility for each other. If we only learned those lessons, this world would be so much a better place." The interview was over.
"You did a good job," Koppel added, looking close to tears.
"Ted, this disease is knocking at my spirit. But it will not get my spirit. It will get my body. Not my spirit."
"You've done good." Koppel smiled.
A few days after Morrie's "Nightline" interview, we sat in his study on the rainy, dreary day. It was the twelfth Tuesday. How did time fly by so fast?
He started off our conversation by talking about forgiveness. "Mitch, there is no point in keeping vengeance or stubornness. These things I so regret in my life. Pride. Why do we do the things we do?"
Morrie told me a story about his friend, Norman, who made a sculpture of him a few years back. Norman and his wife moved away to Chicago. Not much later, Morrie's wife Charlotte had to have a serious operation, but they never called or sent an email. No contact. They were hurt. Over the next few years, Norman tried to apologize and make contact with us again, but we never responded. Morrie and Charlotte didn't want to accept his apology.
A few years later, Norman died of cancer. They never got to see him. They hadn't really talked with Norman since Charlotte's operation. They felt so sad.
After Morrie told the story, Morrie started crying.
"It's not just other people we need to forgive, Mitch," he said. "We also need to forgive ourselves. For all the things we didn't do. You can't get stuck on the regrets of what should have happened."
Morrie dabbed his tears with a tissue and went on.
Blog 17
Today's visit consisted of ,as well as the usual conversations, of me helping with Morrie's therapy. the therapy was basically pounding on Morrie's back to help clear his lungs of the poison that ALS brought. We also talked about how Morrie liked to disregard our culture. He doesn't make money a god, as a lot of people did, but instead pays attention to people. Also today was the last day of the OJ Simpson trial that had been going on in California. The innocent verdict was given and I realized that, during the trial of the century, Morrie had been on the toilet. Talk about defying culture!
Blog 16
Today was the first day that I ever brought my wife, Janine, to see Morrie. She only had to talk to Morrie once over the phone and that was it. She was going next trip. Janine is a professional singer by trait, but she is shy and doesn't like to sing for people on command. Whenever people hear that Janine is a singer they always say "Sing something for us!" She always politely refuses. That is what I expected her to do today, when Morrie asked "Will you sing something for me?" That was also when she started to sing a 1930's standard by Ray Noble. I looked on in surprise as her voice filled the room and Morrie closed his eyes to absorb the notes. When she finished, Morrie opened his eyes to reveal the tears shimmering in them.
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