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.
Blog 15
With each visit, Morrie is only getting worse. His legs need constant tending, and even though he can feel the pain, he can't move them. He cannot move his head either. Morrie just seems to melt into his chair. Yet he still insists on being lifted from his bed each morning, and wheeled into his study. "When you're in bed, you're dead," he told me.
"I decided what I want on my tombstone," Morrie had said to me. It gave me chills just thinking about it, but I asked anyways. "I was thinking this: A Teacher to the Last."
Morrie always had a way of making people feel good. Whenever I enter the room, he would say, "Ahhhh, it's my buddy." And whenever Morrie was with me, he was really with me, He would look me straight in the eye, listening as if you were the only person in the world. "I believe in being fully present," he told me.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Blog 14
I held up the newspaper right in front of Morrie's eyes. It read:
'I don't want my tombstone to read "I never owned a network."
The quote was from the billionaire media founder of television network CNN, Ted Turner. Who would
ever say 'I never want my tombstone to read, I never owned a network?' Morrie and I agreed that our culture had become obsessed with money and materialistic things.
"It's all part of the same problem, Mitch. We put our values in the wrong things," he told me.
He looked out the window at the hibiscus plant on the window sill. "We've got a form of brainwashing
going on in our country. Do you know how they brainwash people? They repeat something over and over. That's what we do in this country. We believe that owning things is good. More property is good. More money is good. More is good, more is good. The average person is so fogged up on all this, he has
no perspective on what's really important anymore."
I was listening to Morrie like a little kid was to his parent who was reading him an intriguing story. Morrie had that gift. When he was talking, everyone would want to listen because he had so
much knowledge. So much knowledge of things we never thought about half the time.
Morrie told me how 'money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness.' I look around Morrie's study. I see stacks of books on the shelves and papers piled like a mountain on his desk. Not much had changed since the first day I came. And then I started thinking. Why are people so caught up in things that don't really matter? Like phones, the latest iPad or the coolest car that they're always hearing about. In Morrie's case, he was dying, but he was enjoying every day of his life as if it was his last day on Earth. He had never cared about electronics or sports cars or anything that all of us students thought were the most important things.
'The truth is, you don't get satisfaction from those things. You know what really gives you satisfaction?"
What? I asked him.
"Offering others what you have to give. Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.
You notice," he added, smiling widely, "there's nothing in there about a salary."
'I don't want my tombstone to read "I never owned a network."
The quote was from the billionaire media founder of television network CNN, Ted Turner. Who would
ever say 'I never want my tombstone to read, I never owned a network?' Morrie and I agreed that our culture had become obsessed with money and materialistic things.
"It's all part of the same problem, Mitch. We put our values in the wrong things," he told me.
He looked out the window at the hibiscus plant on the window sill. "We've got a form of brainwashing
going on in our country. Do you know how they brainwash people? They repeat something over and over. That's what we do in this country. We believe that owning things is good. More property is good. More money is good. More is good, more is good. The average person is so fogged up on all this, he has
no perspective on what's really important anymore."
I was listening to Morrie like a little kid was to his parent who was reading him an intriguing story. Morrie had that gift. When he was talking, everyone would want to listen because he had so
much knowledge. So much knowledge of things we never thought about half the time.
Morrie told me how 'money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness.' I look around Morrie's study. I see stacks of books on the shelves and papers piled like a mountain on his desk. Not much had changed since the first day I came. And then I started thinking. Why are people so caught up in things that don't really matter? Like phones, the latest iPad or the coolest car that they're always hearing about. In Morrie's case, he was dying, but he was enjoying every day of his life as if it was his last day on Earth. He had never cared about electronics or sports cars or anything that all of us students thought were the most important things.
'The truth is, you don't get satisfaction from those things. You know what really gives you satisfaction?"
What? I asked him.
"Offering others what you have to give. Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.
You notice," he added, smiling widely, "there's nothing in there about a salary."
Blog 13
The Morrie I knew, the Morrie so many others knew, would have not been the man he was without the years he spent working at a mental hospital. This was one of Morrie's first jobs after a master's degree and a Ph.D. from University of Chicago. Morrie was given a grant to observe the patients and record their treatments. Morrie saw patients who would scram all day. Patients who would cry all night, soil their underwear, refused to eat, having to be held down, and medicated.Morrie would watch in horror, when one patient who was a middle-aged woman, would come out of her room everyday and lye face down on the tile floor. She would stay there for hours as doctor and nurses would step around her. Morrie took notes which he was there to do. Every day she would do this. It saddened Morrie. He began to sit with her, even lay down alongside her. What she mostly wanted was for someone to notice that she was there. He would befriended some of the patients. One of the lessons Morrie would never forget was that the patients were well-off, from rich families, so their wealth did not buy them happiness or contentment.
One time a group of black students took over Ford Hall on the Brandeis campus. Ford Hall had chemistry labs. One of the administration officials worried that the students were making bombs in the basement. Morrie saw right through the core of the problem, was that human beings wanting to feel that they mattered. The standoff lasted for weeks. It might have went on longer if Morrie hadn't been walking by the building and one of the protesters noticed him as one of his favorite teacher. Morrie always made good peace.
The seventh Tuesday. Morrie lost his battle. Someone was now wiping his behind. The most personal and basic things had been taken away from him, washing his private, going to the bathroom and blowing his nose. He was dependent on others for nearly everything. At seventy-eight, he was giving as an adult and taking as a child. We talked about aging and the fear of aging. On my ride form the Boston Airport I saw billboards with beautiful and young people that barely passed the thirty-five. I told Morrie I was already feeling over the hill as much I tried my best to stay on top of it. I worked out constantly, watched what I ate. I had gone from being proud to say my age, to not bringing it up. "Listen. You should know something. All younger people should know something. If you're always battling against getting older, you're always going to be unhappy." Morrie told me.
One time a group of black students took over Ford Hall on the Brandeis campus. Ford Hall had chemistry labs. One of the administration officials worried that the students were making bombs in the basement. Morrie saw right through the core of the problem, was that human beings wanting to feel that they mattered. The standoff lasted for weeks. It might have went on longer if Morrie hadn't been walking by the building and one of the protesters noticed him as one of his favorite teacher. Morrie always made good peace.
The seventh Tuesday. Morrie lost his battle. Someone was now wiping his behind. The most personal and basic things had been taken away from him, washing his private, going to the bathroom and blowing his nose. He was dependent on others for nearly everything. At seventy-eight, he was giving as an adult and taking as a child. We talked about aging and the fear of aging. On my ride form the Boston Airport I saw billboards with beautiful and young people that barely passed the thirty-five. I told Morrie I was already feeling over the hill as much I tried my best to stay on top of it. I worked out constantly, watched what I ate. I had gone from being proud to say my age, to not bringing it up. "Listen. You should know something. All younger people should know something. If you're always battling against getting older, you're always going to be unhappy." Morrie told me.
Blog 12
I came back the following Tuesday to visit Morrie for the sixth time. It was becoming tradition.
After I knocked, Morrie's wife, Charlotte- who often wasn't there due to her job- opened the door. She forced a smile, but didn't look all that happy.
"Morrie's having a pretty hard time today," she tells me.
Oh, I'm sorry.
"No, he'll be very happy to see you," she said. "I'm sure he'll feel better when he knows you're here."
Connie, one of his four home health care workers, wheeled him into the kitchen. He looked tired, but he made a smile once he opened his eyes and saw me.That was one of the reasons why I loved my professor so much.
Today's topic of discussion was emotions.
Morrie's eyes were closed and his head was positioned upwards. "What I'm doing now is detaching myself
from the experience. This is important-not just for someone like me, who is dying, but for someone like you,
who is perfectly healthy. Learn to detach."
It seemed to stick in my head.
"Take any emotion- love for a family member, or grief for a loved one, or what I'm going through, fear and pain from a deadly illness. If you hold back on the emotions-if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through with them- you can never get to being detached, you're too busy being afraid. You're afraid of the pain, you're afraid of the grief."
Morrie paused and looked at me curiously. I was still absorbing everything he had just told me.
"I know you think this is just about dying," he said, "but it's like I keep telling you. When you learn how to die, you learn how to live."
I thought about how this was so true in every day life. For example, if someone in our families have died or if someone you love has a bad disease that's taking them, we can feel so sad to the point of tears. But sometimes we tell ourselves we shouldn't cry because we aren't supposed to. But if we let ourselves cry for a while and let all of the sadness out, we'll feel better. If you let the sadness inside, if you put it on like a familiar shirt, then you can say to yourself, "All right, it's just sadness, I don't have to let it control me. I see it for what it is."
"Detach," Morrie said. "Detach."
"Morrie's having a pretty hard time today," she tells me.
Oh, I'm sorry.
"No, he'll be very happy to see you," she said. "I'm sure he'll feel better when he knows you're here."
Connie, one of his four home health care workers, wheeled him into the kitchen. He looked tired, but he made a smile once he opened his eyes and saw me.That was one of the reasons why I loved my professor so much.
Today's topic of discussion was emotions.
Morrie's eyes were closed and his head was positioned upwards. "What I'm doing now is detaching myself
from the experience. This is important-not just for someone like me, who is dying, but for someone like you,
who is perfectly healthy. Learn to detach."
It seemed to stick in my head.
"Take any emotion- love for a family member, or grief for a loved one, or what I'm going through, fear and pain from a deadly illness. If you hold back on the emotions-if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through with them- you can never get to being detached, you're too busy being afraid. You're afraid of the pain, you're afraid of the grief."
Morrie paused and looked at me curiously. I was still absorbing everything he had just told me.
"I know you think this is just about dying," he said, "but it's like I keep telling you. When you learn how to die, you learn how to live."
I thought about how this was so true in every day life. For example, if someone in our families have died or if someone you love has a bad disease that's taking them, we can feel so sad to the point of tears. But sometimes we tell ourselves we shouldn't cry because we aren't supposed to. But if we let ourselves cry for a while and let all of the sadness out, we'll feel better. If you let the sadness inside, if you put it on like a familiar shirt, then you can say to yourself, "All right, it's just sadness, I don't have to let it control me. I see it for what it is."
"Detach," Morrie said. "Detach."
Blog 11
It is Septemeber now. We switched from the handheld microphones to the clip on kind. It is too difficult for him to hold anything for very long. Each visit, he seemed to be getting worse. We talked about family that day. I remember him telling me, "love each other or perish." I wrote it down, actually. Family is always watching out for you. That was another thing he told me. Nothing else can give you that. Not money, not fame, not work.
Morrie asked me about my brother, Peter. I quickly changed the subject though. Peter is two years younger than me. We had never been particulary close. But when we became adults, we grew even further apart. He was struck with pancreas cancer. It is a rare kind. The kind my uncle died from. I always thought it would be me to get it, not him. It was suppose to be me. Peter moved to Europe, not long after he graduated high school.He stayed there to get treatment. But he didn't want me around. Not me, not anyone else either. Months sometimes passed, without any word from him. I felt so guilty. I should be there for him...but he was the one who pushed me away. Maybe that was why I was drawn to Morrie. He let me be there, unlike Peter. And maybe Morrie knew this.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Blog 10
Tuesday number four, and Morrie is getting worse by the week. When I walked into his house four , I immediately noticed the newest feature of Morrie's house, an oxygen machine. Today's topic of discussion was death, and fear of dying. Morrie explained how everyone knew they were going to die, but nobody really believed it. You never really believe that you won't be in the world one day and that it will just go on spinning with, or without you. "The truth is Mitch," he said, "Is that once you learn how to die, you learn how to live." Rob and Jon, Morrie's sons had the sunday before, to help him. answer fan mail from all of the people who had seen him on "Nightline". Morrie couldn't write the letters himself, because his fingers couldn't handle holding the pen. The ALS continued.
Blog 9
This was the third Tuesday Ive spent with Morrie so far. Today was a little differant though, because I brought a tape recorder with me. I want to still be able to have Morrie's voice with me, even after he's dead. I asked him questions that I had been wanting to ask him since I saw him on that Nightline interview, aboutwhat he regreted never having done before he got sick. He told me that we are all trained not to worry about little things until we know we are going to die, that wwe all have trillions of little tasks going on around us, and that sometimes, while we still can, we have to step back, look at our lives, and say Is anything missing?. Today was also the day that I decided to write down all the topics I wanted to talk to Morrie about on a yellow legal pad.
Blog 8
I came back the next Tuesday. I was flying from Detroit to Boston, to go sit alongside a dying man. My visits with Morrie would be more talking. We talked about life and love. We talked about his favorite subject, compassion. I had seen bags from Bread and Circus and figured that Morrie must like the food there. I went to the market to buying fresh food take-away from Bread and Circus. When I entered Morrie's study area, I lifted the bags and showed him what I had gotten. After I put the food down onto the kitchen table, I looked for signs of the disease's progression. Morrie's fingers worked well enough to write or lift his glasses. But he couldn't lift his arms higher than his chest. He spends more time in his study than the kitchen and the living room. He kept a bell near his side, if needed to "go on the commode" he referred to it or when his head needed adjusting. He would shake the bell and Connie, Tony, Bertha, or Amy, his small home care worker would come in. I asked Morrie if he felt sorry for himself. "Sometimes. I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on the good things I still have in my life."
Blog 7
I knocked on the door of Morrie's house. Connie opens it and greets me.
I walk into the house and see Morrie sitting on his wheelchair beside the kitchen table. He smiles at me.
"I got you something," I told him as I unpacked grocery bags full of potato salad, macaroni salad, turkey and bagels.
"Oh my, so much food! You've got to eat it with me, Mitch."
We sat down and began to devour the food as if we hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Mitch, I've been thinking about my dependancy on others. The ultimate sign of dependancy is someone wiping your bottom. But I'm working on it. I'm trying to enjoy the process."
Enjoy it?
"Yes. I can't go shopping. I can't take out the garbage. But I can sit here with my dwindling days and look at what I think is important in life. I have both the time-and the reason- to do that."
And that reminded me why I wanted to visit my professor every Tuesday.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Blog 6
A few weeks after my visit to Morrie, I flew to England to cover Wimbleton, the world's premier tennis competion. Outside the gate of the tennis courts was a newsstand, selling British tabloids. People just devoured those things. And usually I would be the same. But now everytime I read something mindless and silly, I find myself thinking of Morrie. I can see him, in my mind, counting his breaths, a treasering every last second. He would never waste his time on something like that, that had absolutely nothing to do with his own life. "The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it." I remembered Morrie telling me this when I had visited him. And Morrie really did live to his words. He created his own culture. I myself I have developed a culture of my own. Work.
I arrived back home in Detroit, I was shocked to learn that the unions at my newspaper had gone on strike. I was out of a job, a paycheck. Everything I had worked so hard for. The strike continued. One, two, three days passed. There were rumors it could last for months. I just had to hope this wasn't true. After about a week of this, I called Morrie. "You're coming to visit me," he told me. We decided on Tuesday.
I arrived back home in Detroit, I was shocked to learn that the unions at my newspaper had gone on strike. I was out of a job, a paycheck. Everything I had worked so hard for. The strike continued. One, two, three days passed. There were rumors it could last for months. I just had to hope this wasn't true. After about a week of this, I called Morrie. "You're coming to visit me," he told me. We decided on Tuesday.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Blog 5
Morrie and I had our first session of our last class today. The result of is revelation was bittersweet on account of that it was our last class, that Morrie was going to die and we both knew it, but also that I was spending some. time with my favorite professor before the inevitable did happen. The rang multiple times while I was there, but Morrie never once drew his attention away from talking to me, he asked his halper, Connie, to pick it up. Morrie's appearance on TV had made him something of a celebrity, with friends and family and just random prople calling him all the time, but whenever the phone rang,Morrie would say "I'm visiting with an old pal now, let them call back." I must say, I am a little jealous of how many admirers Morrie had. When we were done visiting Morrie told me to come back to visit him, and I promised, trying not to think about the last time i had said those same words.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Blog 4
In my first class with Morrie, I go into his office and see tons of books on many different subjects. There aren't
many students in the classroom, either. I begin to think to myself that this class might be too small for me to
take.. all of the sudden Morrie calls out my full name from the attendance list.
"Mitchell?" I wave my hand so he can see me. "Do you prefer Mitch or Mitchell?"
No teacher has ever asked me this before, I study Morrie for a moment, trying to think of what to say.
Mitch, I tell him. Mitch is what my friends call me.
"Well, Mitch it is then. And, Mitch?"
Yes?
"I hope that one day you will think of me as your friend."
And that was the beginning of my first class with Morrie Schwartz.
I turned my car onto Morrie's street. Morrie's hometown is West Newton, Massachusetts. As I was talking to a TV producer about a project on the phone, I looked at the numbers on the mailbox on the side of the road and came to a complete stop and noticed it was his house. I couldn't believe it. I was about to see Morrie after sixteen years. I suddenly saw a woman and a young man pushing Morrie in a wheelchair. I felt everything around me come to a hault, was this my professor? The Morrie I knew for four years in college? The producer on the other end of the line asks me if I'm still there, and I realize that I was still staring at Morrie. I continued my converstion on the phone and finished up my work.
Not much longer, Morrie was right in front of me. Smiling at me and hugging me. He had thin white hair, and he smelled sour.
"My old friend," he whispered, "you've come back at last."
He gave me a long hug. He had never given me this much affection in the long time that I had known him.
We went inside the house and sat at his dining room table. He asked if he could feed me lunch. I said all right. One of his home healthcare workers, Connie, brought in fresh containers of chicken salad, hummus, tabouli, bread and tomatoes.
He looked at me. "Mitch, you know that I'm dying."
Yes, I knew.
"Well, shall I tell you what it's like?"
To die?
"Yes," he said.
I didn't know it until a while later. Our next class had just begun.
"Mitchell?" I wave my hand so he can see me. "Do you prefer Mitch or Mitchell?"
No teacher has ever asked me this before, I study Morrie for a moment, trying to think of what to say.
Mitch, I tell him. Mitch is what my friends call me.
"Well, Mitch it is then. And, Mitch?"
Yes?
"I hope that one day you will think of me as your friend."
And that was the beginning of my first class with Morrie Schwartz.
I turned my car onto Morrie's street. Morrie's hometown is West Newton, Massachusetts. As I was talking to a TV producer about a project on the phone, I looked at the numbers on the mailbox on the side of the road and came to a complete stop and noticed it was his house. I couldn't believe it. I was about to see Morrie after sixteen years. I suddenly saw a woman and a young man pushing Morrie in a wheelchair. I felt everything around me come to a hault, was this my professor? The Morrie I knew for four years in college? The producer on the other end of the line asks me if I'm still there, and I realize that I was still staring at Morrie. I continued my converstion on the phone and finished up my work.
Not much longer, Morrie was right in front of me. Smiling at me and hugging me. He had thin white hair, and he smelled sour.
"My old friend," he whispered, "you've come back at last."
He gave me a long hug. He had never given me this much affection in the long time that I had known him.
We went inside the house and sat at his dining room table. He asked if he could feed me lunch. I said all right. One of his home healthcare workers, Connie, brought in fresh containers of chicken salad, hummus, tabouli, bread and tomatoes.
He looked at me. "Mitch, you know that I'm dying."
Yes, I knew.
"Well, shall I tell you what it's like?"
To die?
"Yes," he said.
I didn't know it until a while later. Our next class had just begun.
Blog 3
One night, a few days ago, I was watching TV. I was just flipping through the channels, trying to find something good to watch. Then i heard it. Four words that made my hands go numb, my heart race a little faster. "Who is Morrie Schwartz?"
Blog 2
In my younger days, I dreamt of being a musician, a famous piano player. nothing went as planned though, and for the first time in my life I felt as though I had failed. The drastic change in my life started when my favorite uncle contracted pancreotic cancer. When I was a kid, I had always looked up to my uncle, saying "thats who I want to be when I grow up." I remember the helpless feeling;there was nothing I could do to relieve him from his pain. I could only watch as his life slowly came to an end. After his funeral I saw the world in a new light. I could no longer take time for granted, I had to use every second of it, before it slipped away. I returned to school and earned my masters degree in journalism. I became a sports writer, eventually taking a job as a columnist for the Detroit Free Press. Work became my life. I made more money than I would ever need. I fell in love withna womaN named Janine, and seven years later we got married. I made a promise to her that one day we would start a family-but that day still hasn't come. I didn't want to end up like my uncle.
Blog 1
I think of Morrie sometimes. The first time I met him, it was 1976 at Brandeis University. He made an impression, with his blue-green eyes and thinning silver hair. I took every one of his classes throughout college. The last time I saw Morrie was at my college graduation ceremony. That day, I gave him a gift. It was a tan briefcase with his initials on the front. I did this in hopes that he would never forget me, for he was my favorite professor. I hugged him and promised to stay in touch. I'm ashamed that I never did.
Morrie always stood out in the sense that he was young at heart. He loved to dance. The type of music didn't matter, every Wednesday night he went to Harvard Square for "Dance free". It was mostly a student crowd, but Morrie didn't care, he twisted and twirled around the crowds with everyone else. That was one of the things I loved most about him, he didn't care what other people thought. He was a free spirit.
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