Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie 168 words

The Syllabus His death sentence came in the summer of 1994.

Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the neurologist's office, and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.

Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left? he had asked himself.

Finally, when nothing could be found, one doctor ordered a muscle biopsy, taking a small piece out of Morrie's calf.

Study me in my slow and patient demise.

He was intent on proving that the word "dying" was not synonymous with "useless."

He backed the car out of the garage one morning and could barely push the brakes.

Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the neurologist's office, and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.

Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia ..."

At a birthday party for a friend, he stumbled inexplicably.

Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned.

His "living funeral" was a rousing success.

"Is it terminal?"

He has sparkling blue-green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows.

Massage specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt.

When some of his close colleagues would visit, he would say to them, "Listen, I have to pee.

His breathing became labored.

A woman ran to put money in the parking meter.

When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts.

In the locker room, the other swimmers pretended not to stare.

"My friends, I assume you are all here for the Social Psychology class.

He came home depressed.

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.

He would close his eyes and with a blissful smile begin to move to his own sense of rhythm.

They put a scope up his rear end and looked inside his intestines.

When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts.

When they left, the doctor gave them some information on ALS, little pamphlets, as if they were opening a bank account.

When he finished, everyone applauded.

He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.

Finally, when nothing could be found, one doctor ordered a muscle biopsy, taking a small piece out of Morrie's calf.

So he hired his first home care worker--a theology student named Tony--who helped him in and out of the pool, and in and out of his bathing suit.

Before we leave, I hand my professor a present, a tan briefcase with his initials on the front.

Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back--as if someone had once punched them in--when he smiles it's as if you'd just told him the first joke on earth.

I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child.

He came home depressed.

You were expected to respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own.

He twisted and twirled, he waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the middle of his back.

When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts.

You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax.

Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my parents.

"Mitch, you are one of the good ones," he says, admiring the briefcase.

No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death.

Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor.

No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week.

No one there knew he was a prominent doctor of sociology, with years of experience as a college professor and several well-respected books.

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.

The last lecture was brief, only a few words.

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.

"My friends, I assume you are all here for the Social Psychology class.

You lose control of your trunk muscles, so that you cannot sit up straight.

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax.

He was intent on proving that the word "dying" was not synonymous with "useless."

In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current--an electric chair, of sorts--and studied his neurological responses.

In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current--an electric chair, of sorts--and studied his neurological responses.

It was taught from experience.

He kept tripping, so he purchased a cane.

They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that's the music to which he danced.

You were expected to respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own.

I have been teaching this course for twenty years, and this is the first time I can say there is a risk in taking it, because I have a fatal illness.

As his body weakened, the back and forth to the bathroom became too exhausting, so Morrie began to urinate into a large beaker.

He could be research.

You lose control of your thigh muscles, so that you cannot support yourself standing.

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax.

In fact, he entertained a growing stream of visitors.

When the ceremony is over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts.

Massage specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt.

No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death.

He had discussion groups about dying, what it really meant, how societies had always been afraid of it without necessarily understanding it.

Nurses came to his house to work with Morrie's withering legs, to keep the muscles active, bending them back and forth as if pumping water from a well.

They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that's the music to which he danced.

The last lecture was brief, only a few words.

This takes no more than five years from the day you contract the disease.

Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia ..."

You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The Syllabus His death sentence came in the summer of 1994.

They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that's the music to which he danced.

I have been teaching this course for twenty years, and this is the first time I can say there is a risk in taking it, because I have a fatal illness.

Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days.

One day he was walking along the Charles River, and a cold burst of wind left him choking for air.

Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit.

Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days.

You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death.

In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat as they zapped him with electrical current--an electric chair, of sorts--and studied his neurological responses.

Study me in my slow and patient demise.

You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor's head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.

The lab report came back suggesting a neurological problem, and Morrie was brought in for yet another series of tests.

The pills increased.

He developed asthma in his sixties.

Often, to their own surprise, they were.

He was in his seventies by this point, so they whispered "old age" and helped him to his feet.

His breathing became labored.

You lose control of your trunk muscles, so that you cannot sit up straight.

As my old professor searched for answers, the disease took him over, day by day, week by week.

In fact, he entertained a growing stream of visitors.

But the idea of quitting did not occur to Morrie.