Tuesday’s with Morrie: An Old Man, A Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson

Morrie has always loved to dance—Lindy, free style, anything. In his sixties, though, he developed asthma, and in his seventies, he came down with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, a terminal neurological illness known informally as Lou Gehrig’s disease. He teaches his final class in 1994. Slowly, the disease takes away his ability to move; in time, he can no longer dress himself or even urinate without assistance.

Instead of fading away uselessly, however, Morrie decides to make his own death the subject of study. He invites people to visit and discuss their problems; he holds informal study groups. He even holds a “living funeral” for family and friends so they can say goodbye. 

After college, Albom struggles in the music business. His favorite uncle contracts pancreatic cancer, and Albom, living in the same building, must watch helplessly as his uncle slowly dies: “It was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life” (33).

Suddenly in a hurry to make the most of his life in case it ends too soon, Albom quits music, earns a graduate degree in journalism, begins a workaholic life, and becomes a fast-rising sports reporter. He loses contact with his college friends. 

As his body weakens, Morrie’s mind stays sharp, and he writes down aphorisms that come to him. He shares them with friends, one of whom sends them to The Boston Globe. ABC’s Ted Koppel reads them and visits Morrie to interview him for television.

Before they begin, Morrie tests Ted with several pointed questions: What is something close to his heart? What of his faith? Ted, taken aback, answers briefly, then counters by asking if Morrie has seen Nightline; Morrie has watched it exactly twice. Ted asks what he thought of it; Morrie responds, “I thought you were a narcissist” (39). Ted bursts out laughing. The TV interview can begin.

Morrie explains that he wants to face death with energy and dignity. Some days, he feels sad or angry, but always he wants to continue living actively. Asked what he fears the most about his slow withering, Morrie quips that “one day soon, someone’s gonna have to wipe my ass” (40).

The Nightline installment airs on a Friday. At home, flipping channels, Albom stumbles onto the interview. He recalls his first day in Morrie’s class, when the professor expressed to him the hope that, someday, they would be friends. The professor had asked if Albom preferred to called Mitch or Mitchell. Albom has never been asked that; he answered, “Mitch.” 

As he approaches Morrie’s house, Albom is busy driving, talking on the phone about a work project, drinking coffee, and searching for Morrie’s address. Morrie waits outside in his wheelchair; he hugs Albom long and hard. Albom knows he isn’t the same nice student the professor remembers.

They go inside and sit in the dining room. An attendant offers some snacks. Morrie is gaunter than Albom remembers, but his smile is just as quick. Morrie says, “Shall I tell you what it’s like?” (47); He means his own death. Class has begun.

Albom remembers feeling defensive as a freshman in college and Morrie gently mentoring him. He came to love Morrie, calling him “Coach,” and was amused by his mealtime habit of talking animatedly with his mouth full: “I have two overwhelming desires: to hug him and to give him a napkin” (49).