Chapter 26 fourteenth tuesday - farewell

It was cold and wet, and I stepped up the steps of Morrie's house.I noticed little things that I hadn't noticed before.The shape of the mountain.Stone wall of the house.Pachyphylla is an evergreen ground cover.Low bushes.I walked slowly, stepping on the damp dead leaves towards the top. Charlotte had called me the day before to tell me that Morrie was "not doing well".This is her way of expressing it, which means that he is dying.Morrie has canceled all appointments and mostly sleeps.This is very unusual for him.He never liked sleeping, especially when someone could talk to him.

"He wants you to come," Charlotte said on the phone, "but Mitch..." Ok? "He's very weak." Porch steps.Glass on the door.I looked at them all slowly and carefully, as if I were seeing them for the first time.I sensed the tape recorder in my backpack, and I unzipped it to make sure the tape was there.I don't know why this is done.I always have tapes with me. It was Connie who opened the door.Her usually cheerful face looked haggard now.She said hello softly. "How is he?" I asked. "Not so good," she said, biting her lip. "I don't want to think about it, he's so cute, you know."

I know. "It's so sad." Charlotte came into the living room and gave me a hug.She said Morrie was still asleep, even though it was ten o'clock in the morning.We come to the kitchen.I helped her tidy up, and there was a long row of medicine bottles on the table, like a row of brown plastic soldiers in white caps.My old professor now takes coffee to catch his breath. I put in the fridge what I brought—soup, vegetable cakes, tuna salad.I apologized to Charlotte.Morrie hadn't touched such food for several months.Even though we all know it, it's become a little tradition.Sometimes, when you're about to lose someone, you try to keep the tradition going.

I waited in the living room where Murray and Ted Koppel conducted their first interview.I picked up the newspaper that was on the table.In Minnesota, two children were killed while playing with their father's gun.In Los Angeles, a dead baby was found in a dumpster on a street. I put down the newspaper and looked at the empty fireplace.My feet tap the hardwood floor.Finally, I heard the door opening and closing, and then Charlotte came over. "Okay," she said softly. "He's waiting for you." I got up and walked towards a place I was familiar with.Then I saw a strange woman sitting on a camp chair at the other end of the living room, her legs crossed, reading a book.This is a 24-hour shift nurse who specializes in caring for terminally ill patients.

Morrie's study was empty.I'm a little confused.Then I turned, hesitantly, into the bedroom, and there he was, lying on the bed under the blanket.The only time I've seen him before was in bed - he was getting a massage - and I immediately thought of his dictum: "When you're in bed, you're dead." I walked in, forcing a smile on my face.He was wearing a yellow pajamas with a blanket covering his chest.His body had shrunk so badly that I felt for a moment that something was missing in him.He was as small as a child. Morrie's mouth was open, the skin of his face pressed against his cheekbones, bloodless, and when his eyes turned to mine, he tried to say something, but all I heard was a movement in his throat.

You are here, I said with all the strength in me. He exhales, closes his eyes, and smiles, seeming to wear himself out from the effort. "My... dear friend..." he said finally. I am your friend, I said. "I'm...not feeling well today..." Tomorrow will be better. He let out another breath and nodded vigorously.He struggled under the blanket and I realized he was trying to reach out. "Hold..." he said. I removed the blanket and took his fingers.His hand slipped into mine.I get as close to him as possible, within inches of his face.It was the first time I saw him unshaven, his fine white beard sticking out prominently, as if someone had evenly sprinkled salt on his cheeks and chin.While every part of his body was failing, his beard was still alive.

Morrie, I called softly. "Call the coach," he corrected me. Coach, I said.I shuddered.His speech was very short: breathing in oxygen, breathing out words.His voice was thin and harsh.He smelled like ointment. "You are a good person." nice guy. "Touch me..." he whispered.He moved my hand to my chest. "here." I feel like something is stuck in my throat. coach? "Ok?" I don't know how to say goodbye. He patted my hand feebly, still pressing it against his chest. "This...is saying...goodbye..." His breathing was weak, inhaling and exhaling, and I could feel his chest rise and fall.He was looking at me now.

"Love... you," he said. I love you too, coach. "I know you... and..." what do you know? "you are always……" His eyes narrowed, and then he cried.His face was contorted like a baby with no tear ducts yet developed.I hugged him tightly for a few minutes.I stroked his loose skin and stroked his hair.I pressed my palm to his face, feeling the tautness of the skin and the crystal clear tears that seemed to be squeezed from a dropper. After his breathing stabilized, I cleared my throat and said, I know he is tired, I will come back next Tuesday, and I hope he will be in good condition then.Thank you, he hummed softly, which sounded like a laugh, but still sounded sad.

I picked up the bag that contained the tape recorder.Why do you still have to bring this thing?I know we'll never use it again.I leaned over to kiss him, cheek to cheek, beard to beard, skin to skin, and it lasted a long time, longer than usual, I only hoped to give him even a second more happiness. okay?I drew back and said. I blinked back my tears, and he smacked his lips and raised his eyebrows when he saw it.I hope this is a happy moment for the old professor's heart: he finally made me cry. "Okay," he whispered.