Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie

He was rushed to the hospital and injected with Adrenalin.

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.

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

He'd do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix.

Rock and roll, big band, the blues.

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

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

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

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.

I may not live to finish the semester.

Rock and roll, big band, the blues.

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

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.

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

The last class of my old professor's life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves.

He'd do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix.

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.

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.

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

He'd do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix.

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.

Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers.

He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved.

We wear blue nylon robes.

He developed asthma in his sixties.

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.

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.

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

Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.

Study me in my slow and patient demise.

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

He knew it the day he gave up dancing.

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

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.

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

They tested his urine.

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

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.

Therapy became a regular routine.

His "living funeral" was a rousing success.

In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf.

"Is it terminal?"

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

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

Rock and roll, big band, the blues.

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

When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He knew it the day he gave up dancing.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

The music didn't matter.

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.

He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, "Of course."

The last class of my old professor's life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves.

Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers.

Rock and roll, big band, the blues.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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

He used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for something called "Dance Free."

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

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.

Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small crowd of people.

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.

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.

The last lecture was brief, only a few words.

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.

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.

He told his friends that if they really wanted to help him, they would treat him not with sympathy but with visits, phone calls, a sharing of their problems--the way they had always shared their problems, because Morrie had always been a wonderful listener.

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.

He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, "Of course."

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.

Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small crowd of people.

Then he commandeered the floor, shooting back and forth like some hot Latin lover.

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.

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 ..."

He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds.

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.

One woman read a poem: "My dear and loving cousin ...

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.

And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral."

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.

It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon.

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 used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for something called "Dance Free."

He developed asthma in his sixties.

Often, to their own surprise, they were.

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

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.

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.

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

But the idea of quitting did not occur to Morrie.