Tuesday-with-MorrieWord格式.doc

Tuesday-with-MorrieWord格式.doc

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Acknowledgments

Iwouldliketoacknowledgetheenormoushelpgiventomeincreatingthisbook.Fortheirmemories,theirpatience,andtheirguidance,IwishtothankCharlotte,Rob,andJonathanSchwartz,MaurieStein,CharlieDerber,GordieFellman,DavidSchwartz,RabbiAlAxelrad,andthemultitudeofMorrie‟sfriendsandcolleagues.Also,specialthankstoBillThomas,myeditor,forhandlingthisprojectwithjusttherighttouch.And,asalways,myappreciationtoDavidBlack,whooftenbelievesinmemorethanIdomyself.Mostly,mythankstoMorrie,forwantingtodothislastthesistogether.Haveyoueverhadateacherlikethis?

TheCurriculum

Thelastclassofmyoldprofessor‟slifetookplaceonceaweekinhishouse,byawindowinthestudywherehecouldwatchasmallhibiscusplantsheditspinkleaves.TheclassmetonTuesdays.Itbeganafterbreakfast.ThesubjectwasTheMeaningofLife.Itwastaughtfromexperience.

Nogradesweregiven,buttherewereoralexamseachweek.Youwereexpectedtorespondtoquestions,andyouwereexpectedtoposequestionsofyourown.Youwerealsorequiredtoperformphysicaltasksnowandthen,suchasliftingtheprofessor‟sheadtoa

comfortablespotonthepilloworplacinghisglassesonthebridgeofhisnose.Kissinghimgood-byeearnedyouextracredit.

Nobookswererequired,yetmanytopicswerecovered,includinglove,work,community,family,aging,forgiveness,and,finally,death.Thelastlecturewasbrief,onlyafewwords.

Afuneralwasheldinlieuofgraduation.

Althoughnofinalexamwasgiven,youwereexpectedtoproduceonelongpaperonwhatwaslearned.Thatpaperispresentedhere.

Thelastclassofmyoldprofessor‟slifehadonlyonestudent.Iwasthestudent.

Itisthelatespringof1979,ahot,stickySaturdayafternoon.Hundredsofussittogether,sidebyside,inrowsofwoodenfoldingchairsonthemaincampuslawn.Wewearbluenylonrobes.Welistenimpatientlytolongspeeches.Whentheceremonyisover,wethrowourcapsintheair,andweareofficiallygraduatedfromcollege,theseniorclassofBrandeisUniversityinthecityofWaltham,Massachusetts.Formanyofus,thecurtainhasjustcomedownonchildhood.

Afterward,IfindMorrieSchwartz,myfavoriteprofessor,andintroducehimtomyparents.Heisasmallmanwhotakessmallsteps,asifastrongwindcould,atanytime,whiskhimupintotheclouds.Inhisgraduationdayrobe,helookslikeacrossbetweenabiblicalprophetandaChristmaselfHehassparklingbluegreeneyes,thinningsilverhairthatspillsontohisforehead,bigears,atriangularnose,andtuftsofgrayingeyebrows.Althoughhisteetharecrookedandhisloweronesareslantedback—asifsomeonehadoncepunchedthem

in—whenhesmilesit‟sasifyou‟djusttoldhimthefirstjokeonearth.

HetellsmyparentshowItookeveryclasshetaught.Hetellsthem,“Youhaveaspecialboyhere.“Embarrassed,Ilookatmyfeet.Beforeweleave,Ihandmyprofessorapresent,

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atanbriefcasewithhisinitialsonthefront.Iboughtthisthedaybeforeatashoppingmall.Ididn‟twanttoforgethim.MaybeIdidn‟twanthimtoforgetme.

“Mitch,youareoneofthegoodones,”hesays,admiringthebriefcase.Thenhehugsme.Ifeelhisthinarmsaroundmyback.Iamtallerthanheis,andwhenheholdsme,Ifeelawkward,older,asifIweretheparentandhewerethechild.HeasksifIwillstayintouch,andwithouthesitationIsay,“Ofcourse.”Whenhestepsback,Iseethatheiscrying.

TheSyllabus

Hisdeathsentencecameinthesummerof1994.Lookingback,Morrieknewsomethingbadwascominglongbeforethat.Heknewitthedayhegaveupdancing.Hehadalwaysbeenadancer,myoldprofessor.Themusicdidn‟tmatter.Rockandroll,bigband,theblues.Helovedthemall.Hewouldclosehiseyesandwithablissfulsmilebegintomovetohisownsenseofrhythm.Itwasn‟talwayspretty.Butthen,hedidn‟tworryaboutapartner.Morriedancedbyhimself.

HeusedtogotothischurchinHarvardSquareeveryWednesdaynightforsomethingcalled“DanceFree.”TheyhadflashinglightsandboomingspeakersandMorriewouldwanderinamongthemostlystudentcrowd,wearingawhiteT-shirtandblacksweatpantsandatowelaroundhisneck,andwhatevermusicwasplaying,that‟sthemusictowhichhedanced.He‟ddothelindytoJimiHendrix.Hetwistedandtwirled,hewavedhisarmslikeaconductoronamphetamines,untilsweatwasdrippingdownthemiddleofhisback.Noonethereknewhewasaprominentdoctorofsociology,withyearsofexperienceasacollegeprofessorandseveralwell-respectedbooks.Theyjustthoughthewassomeoldnut.

Once,hebroughtatangotapeandgotthemtoplayitoverthespeakers.Thenhecommandeeredthefloor,shootingbackandforthlikesomehotLatinlover.Whenhefinished,everyoneapplauded.Hecouldhavestayedinthatmomentforever.

Butthenthedancingstopped.

Hedevelopedasthmainhissixties.Hisbreathingbecamelabored.OnedayhewaswalkingalongtheCharlesRiver,andacoldburstofwindlefthimchokingforair.HewasrushedtothehospitalandinjectedwithAdrenalin.

Afewyearslater,hebegantohavetroublewalking.Atabirthdaypartyforafriend,hestumbledinexplicably.Anothernight,hefelldownthestepsofatheater,startlingasmallcrowdofpeople.

“Givehimair!

”someoneyelled.

Hewasinhisseventiesbythispoint,sotheywhispered“oldage”andhelpedhimtohisfeet.ButMorrie,whowasalwaysmoreintouchwithhisinsidesthantherestofus,knewsomethingelsewaswrong.Thiswasmorethanoldage.Hewaswearyallthetime.Hehadtroublesleeping.Hedreamthewasdying.

Hebegantoseedoctors.Lotsofthem.Theytestedhisblood.Theytestedhisurine.Theyputascopeuphisrearendandlookedinsidehisintestines.Finally,whennothingcouldbefound,onedoctororderedamusclebiopsy,takingasmallpieceoutofMorrie‟scalf.Thelab

reportcamebacksuggestinganeurologicalproblem,andMorriewasbroughtinforyetanotherseriesoftests.Inoneofthosetests,hesatinaspecialseatastheyzappedhimwithelectricalcurrent—anelectricchair,ofsortsandstudiedhisneurologicalresponses.

“Weneedtocheckthisfurther,”thedoctorssaid,lookingoverhisresults.“Why?

”Morrieasked.“Whatisit?

”

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“We‟renotsure.Yourtimesareslow.”Histimeswereslow?

Whatdidthatmean?

Finally,onahot,humiddayinAugust1994,Morrieandhiswife,Charlotte,wenttotheneurologist‟soffice,andheaskedthemtositbeforehebrokethenews:

Morriehadamyotrophiclateralsclerosis（ALS）,LouGehrig‟sdisease,abrutal,unforgivingillnessofthe

neurologicalsystem.

Therewasnoknowncure.

“HowdidIgetit?

”Morrieasked.Nobodyknew.“Isitterminal?

Yes.

“SoI‟mgoingtodie?

Yes,youare,thedoctorsaid.I‟mverysorry.

HesatwithMorrieandCharlottefornearlytwohours,patientlyansweringtheirquestions.Whentheyleft,thedoctorgavethemsomeinformationonALS,littlepamphlets,asiftheywereopeningabankaccount.Outside,thesunwasshiningandpeopleweregoingabouttheirbusiness.Awomanrantoputmoneyintheparkingmeter.Anothercarriedgroceries.Charlottehadamillionthoughtsrunningthroughhermind:

Howmuchtimedowehaveleft?

Howwillwemanage?

Howwillwepaythebills?

Myoldprofessor,meanwhile,wasstunnedbythenormalcyofthedayaroundhim.Shouldn‟ttheworldstop?

Don‟ttheyknowwhathashappenedtome?

Buttheworlddidnotstop,ittooknonoticeatall,andasMorriepulledweaklyonthecardoor,hefeltasifheweredroppingintoahole.

Nowwhat?

hethought.

Asmyoldprofessorsearchedforanswers,thediseasetookhimover,daybyday,weekbyweek.Hebackedthecaroutofthegarageonemorningandcouldbarelypushthebrakes.Thatwastheendofhisdriving.

Hekepttripping,sohepurchasedacane.Thatwastheendofhiswalkingfree.

HewentforhisregularswimattheYMCA,butfoundhecouldnolongerundresshimself.Sohehiredhisfirsthomecareworker—atheologystudentnamedTony—whohelped

himinandoutofthepool,andinandoutofhisbathingsuit.Inthelockerroom,theotherswimmerspretendednottostare.Theystaredanyhow.Thatwastheendofhisprivacy.

Inthefallof1994,MorriecametothehillyBrandeiscampustoteachhisfinalcollegecourse.Hecouldhaveskippedthis,ofcourse.Theuniversitywouldhaveunderstood.Whysufferinfrontofsomanypeople?

Stayathome.Getyouraffairsinorder.ButtheideaofquittingdidnotoccurtoMorrie.

Instead,hehobbledintotheclassroom,hishomeformorethanthirtyyears.Becauseofthecane,hetookawhiletoreachthechair.Finally,hesatdown,droppedhisglassesoffhisnose,andlookedoutattheyoungfaceswhostaredbackinsilence.

“Myfriends,IassumeyouareallherefortheSocialPsychologyclass.Ihavebeenteaching

thiscoursefortwentyyears,andthisisthefirsttimeIcansaythereisariskintakingit,becauseIhaveafatalillness.Imaynotlivetofinishthesemester.

“Ifyoufeelthisisaproblem,Iunderstandifyouwishtodropthecourse.”

Hesmiled.

Andthatwastheendofhissecret.

ALSislikealitcandle:

itmeltsyournervesandleavesyourbodyapileofwax.Often,it

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beginswiththelegsandworksitswayup.Youlosecontrolofyourthighmuscles,sothatyoucannotsupportyourselfstanding.Youlosecontrolofyourtrunkmuscles,sothatyoucannotsitupstraight.Bytheend,ifyouarestillalive,youarebreathingthroughatubeinaholein