We Talked.
I asked Morrie if he felt sorry for himself.
“Sometimes, in the mornings,” he said. “That’s when I mourn. I feel around my body, I move my fingers and my hands – whatever I can still move – and I mourn what I’ve lost. I mourn the slow, insidious way in which I’m dying. But then I stop mourning.”
Just like that?
“I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on all the good things still in my life. On the people who are coming to see me. On the stories I’m going to hear. On you – if it’s Tuesday. Because we’re Tuesday people.”
I grinned. Tuesday people.
“Mitch, I don’t allow myself any more self-pity. Just a few tearful minutes, then on with the day. And if Morrie could do it, with such a horrible disease…
“It’s only horrible if you see it that way,” Morrie said. “It’s horrible to watch my body slowly wilt away to nothing. But it’s also wonderful because of all the time I get to say good-bye.”
He smiled. “Not everyone is so lucky.”
I studied him in his chair, unable to stand, to wash, to pull on his pants. Lucky? Did he really say lucky?
