Chapter 14 Fourth Tuesday - Talk about Death

"Let's start here," Morrie said. "Everyone knows they are going to die, but no one wants to believe it." This Tuesday, Murray was in full working spirit.The topic of discussion is death, which is the first item on my list.Before my arrival Morrie had made some notes on little slips of paper in case he forgot.His trembling handwriting is now incomprehensible to anyone but himself.It was almost Labor Day, and through my study window I could see the dark green hedges in the back yard and hear the children romping in the street, it was the last week of holiday before they started school.

①The first Monday in September. Over in Detroit, newspaper strikers were preparing to organize a massive festive parade to demonstrate union solidarity to management.On the plane, I read a report of a woman who shot and killed her sleeping husband and two daughters, claiming she was doing it to protect them from "bad guys."In California, lawyers in the O.J. Simpson case are making headlines. In Morrie's study, precious lives are still passing by.We are sitting together right now with a new addition in front of us: an oxygen concentrator.The machine is not big, only reaches knee height, and is portable.Some nights, when he struggled to breathe, he inserted long plastic tubes up his nose, as if the nostrils were pinched by a blood-drawing instrument.I hate to associate Morrie with anything, so I try not to look at that thing when Morrie is talking.

"Everybody knows they're going to die," Morrie repeated, "but no one wants to believe it. If we believed it, we'd react differently." We'll treat death with a sense of humor, I said. "Yes, but there's a better way. Realize that you're going to die and be prepared for it. It's more helpful. You appreciate life more while you're alive." How can one prepare to die? "Like a Buddhist. Every day, put a little bird on your shoulder and ask, Is it today? Am I ready? Can I live without regrets and die without regrets?" He turned his head, and it seemed that there was a little bird resting on his shoulder.

"Is today my deadline?" he asked. Morrie embraced a wide variety of religious ideas.He was born into a Jewish family and became an agnostic when he went to school because of most of the changes he experienced as a child.He is also very interested in some philosophical thoughts of Buddhism and Christianity.But the culture he was closest to was Judaism.He was religiously mixed, which made him all the more acceptable to the students.The words he uttered in his last months seemed to transcend all religious hallmarks.Death enables one to do this. "The truth is, Mitch," he said, "once you learn how to die, you also learn how to live."

I nod. "I'm going to say it again," he said. "Once you learn how to die, you also learn how to live." He laughed.I understood what he meant.He wanted to know if I really understood the point, but he didn't ask directly so as not to embarrass me.This is what makes him different as a teacher. Did you think much about death before you got sick?I asked. "No," Morrie smiled. "I'm like everyone else, I once told a friend I'm going to be the healthiest old man you'll ever meet!" how old were you "Sixties." You are quite optimistic.

"Why not? Like I said, nobody really believes they're going to die." But everybody knows people are dying, I said.Why is it so difficult to think about death? "It's because," says Murray, "most of us are living in a dream. We're not really experiencing the world, we're in a state of nowhere, doing what we think we're supposed to be doing." Can facing death change this situation? "Oh yes. Dust off the exterior and you see life for what it is. When you realize you're going to die, you see things differently." He sighed. "If you learn to die, you learn to live."

I noticed that his hands were shaking a lot.When he put on the spectacles hanging on his chest, they slid down to his temples, as if he were putting on someone else's spectacles in the dark.I reached out to help him move the position. "Thank you," Morrie whispered.He smiled when my hand touched his head.Even the tiniest touch of a human being can bring him joy. "Mitch, can I tell you something?" Of course, I said. "You may not like to hear it." Why? "Well, actually, if you were really listening to the bird, if you could accept that you could die any minute now - you wouldn't be as ambitious as you are now."

I forced a smile. "The thing you're giving your time and energy to—the work you do—may not seem as important anymore. You may make room for spiritual needs." mentally? "You don't like that word, do you? Spiritual. You think it's sentimental stuff." Well, I'm speechless. He pretended not to see my embarrassment, but failed, and I laughed out loud. "Mitch," he laughed too. "Although I can't say what the spiritual products are, I know that we are indeed flawed in some ways. We pursue material needs too much, but they don't satisfy us. We neglect the mutual love between human beings. relationship, we ignore the world around us."

He turned his head to the sunny window. "You see? You can go outside, any time. You can run like crazy in the street. But I can't. I can't go outside. I can't run. I have to worry about getting sick as soon as I step out the gate. But you know what? I Knows that window better than you." Taste that window? "Yes. I look out of the window every day. I notice the changes in the trees, the size of the wind. I seem to be able to see the time passing on the window sill. This is because my time is running out, and the natural world treats me. The attraction is as strong as when I first saw it."

He stopped.We both looked out the window together.I want to see what he can see.I want to see time and seasons, to see my life slowly passing by.Morrie bowed his head slightly, turning his shoulders. "Is this today, birdie?" he asked. "is it today?" As a result of the "Nightline" show, Morrie continued to receive letters from all over the world.Whenever he had the energy, he would sit up and dictate his responses to friends and family who would ghostwrite for him. One Sunday, his two sons, Rob and Jon, who came home to visit, came into the living room.Morrie sat in a wheelchair with a blanket covering his bony legs.When he was cold, his assistants would come and wrap him in a nylon jacket.

"What was the first letter?" Morrie asked. His colleague read him a letter from a woman named Nancy, whose mother also died of ALS.In the letter she wrote of her grief at losing her mother and said she knew Morrie must have been in pain too. "Okay," Morrie said after Faith finished.He closed his eyes. "Begin it, dear Nancy, I am very saddened by your mother's misfortune. I fully understand what you are going through. This grief and pain is mutual. Sadness is a good thing for me and I hope it is for you too. Also a good thing." "Do you want to change that last sentence?" Rob said. Morrie thought for a moment, then said, "You're right. Write it this way, and I hope you'll find that heartbreak is a healing post. Wouldn't it be better?" Rob nodded. "Plus thanks, Morrie," he said. Another letter was from a woman named Jane thanking him for his inspiration and encouragement on "Nightline," calling him God's voice. "It's a huge compliment," said his colleague. "Advocate for God." Morrie grimaced, clearly disagreeing with the assessment. "Thank you for your kind words. Tell her I'm glad my words spoke to her. "Don't forget to put thank you at the end, Morrie." There is also a letter from a man in England who lost his mother and asks Morrie to help him meet her in the underworld.A couple wrote in saying they wanted to drive to Boston to meet him.A former graduate student wrote a long letter about her life after leaving university.There was a murder-suicide and three stillbirths, and a mother who died of ALS, and the daughter was terrified that she would get the disease too, and the letters blah, blah, blah.Two pages, three pages, four pages. Morrie sat through the long and terrible stories.Then he said softly, "Ah, how should we reply?" No one said anything.Finally Rob said, "Would that work, thanks for the long letter?" Everyone laughed.Morrie looked at his son, beaming. There was a picture of a Boston baseball player in the newspaper next to the chair, and I thought to myself that, of all the diseases, Morrie had the one named after the player. Do you remember Lou Gehrig?I asked. "I remember him saying goodbye to the crowd in the stadium." Then you remember his famous words. "Which sentence?" Really don't remember?Lou Gehrig, "Pride of the Yankees"?His speech echoing through the loudspeaker? "Remind me," Morrie said. "You give a speech." From the open window came the sound of a garbage truck.Although it was hot, Morrie was still wearing long sleeves and a blanket over his legs.His complexion was very pale, and the disease was tormenting him. I raised my voice, imitating Gehrig's tone, so that it seemed to echo off the walls of the gymnasium: "Today, today, day, day... I feel... I am... the luckiest person, person... " Morrie closed his eyes and nodded slowly. "Yeah. Well, I didn't say that."