Tuesdays with Morrie

01A Promise Forgotten and a Cruel Diagnosis

Life has a funny way of slowly pulling us away from the people who originally shaped our minds, replacing our deepest values with a frantic, endless race for societal success. We start out with grand ideals, but eventually, the rhythm of the daily grind takes over. This is exactly what happened to Mitch Albom. In the vibrant spring of 1979, Mitch was a young, deeply idealistic college student graduating from Brandeis University. On graduation day, he approached his favorite sociology professor, Morrie Schwartz, a small, energetic man with sparkling eyes and a passion for human connection. Mitch handed Morrie a parting gift: a tan briefcase with Morrie’s initials engraved on the front. As Morrie hugged his beloved student, he asked Mitch a simple question: would he promise to stay in touch? Mitch, feeling the warmth of his mentor's embrace, promised that he absolutely would. But as we all know, promises made in the glow of graduation are often the first casualties of the real world. Over the next sixteen years, Mitch completely lost his way. He initially dreamed of becoming a famous musician, playing the piano in dark, smoky nightclubs, hoping to make a living through art. But the music industry was harsh and unforgiving. The defining turning point in Mitch's life, however, was not his failed music career, but a sudden tragedy. His favorite uncle, a vibrant and commanding man who had taught Mitch how to drive and how to love music, suddenly died of aggressive pancreatic cancer at the age of forty-four. Watching a strong man wither away in a hospital bed terrified Mitch. It flipped a switch in his brain. Convinced that time was a predator stalking him, Mitch abandoned his artistic dreams out of a deep-seated fear of dying broke and unaccomplished. He returned to school, earned a degree in journalism, and threw himself completely into the fast-paced, adrenaline-fueled world of sports reporting. Mitch became a wildly successful sports columnist in Detroit. He traveled frantically from Wimbledon to the Super Bowl, churning out columns, hosting radio shows, and appearing on television. He made a lot of money, bought a nice house, and drove a fast car. Yet, he was essentially running on a treadmill, entirely consumed by deadlines, status, and the superficial drama of professional athletes. He worked so hard that he barely had time for his own wife, let alone a college professor he had promised to call a decade and a half ago. Mitch’s life was packed with activities, but it was fundamentally empty of true meaning. He had unknowingly traded his youthful passions for a lucrative but hollow paycheck. While Mitch was frantically chasing success, Morrie Schwartz was quietly living a beautiful, meaningful life in Massachusetts. Morrie was a man who lived through his senses. He loved to eat, he loved to talk, and most of all, he loved to dance. He would frequently go to a church in Harvard Square for an event called "Dance Free," where he would dance by himself to whatever music was playing—blues, rock, or tango. He didn't care if people stared; he simply closed his eyes and let the rhythm move his aging body. But then, the dancing stopped. It began with subtle, terrifying changes. Morrie developed severe asthma. He started having trouble walking. One day, he inexplicably lost his balance and fell down the steps of a theater. Another time, he struggled to push the brakes on his car. His body was whispering that something was terribly wrong. After months of grueling tests, doctors sitting in sterile rooms finally delivered the devastating news in August 1994. Morrie was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS is a brutal, unforgiving illness. It works like a lit candle placed inside the body, slowly melting the nerves and leaving a puddle of wax in its wake. It usually begins in the legs and mercilessly works its way up. You lose control of your thigh muscles, so you can no longer stand. It moves to your trunk, so you can no longer sit up straight. Eventually, it reaches your lungs, and you slowly suffocate, trapped inside a perfectly functioning mind that is locked in a paralyzed shell. The doctors told Morrie he had roughly two years to live. Most people would completely withdraw from the world upon receiving a death sentence. They would fall into a deep depression, hide behind closed doors, and wait for the inevitable end. But Morrie made a radically different choice. As he walked out of the hospital, he looked at the regular people bustling about their day—people agonizing over parking tickets or complaining about the weather—and he felt a profound sense of isolation. How could the world carry on as if nothing had happened? Yet, in that moment of despair, Morrie made a conscious decision. He would not wither away in a state of self-pity. Instead, he decided to make death his final project. He would become a living textbook on how to die. He decided that he would walk the final bridge between life and death with dignity, courage, and immense openness. He would gather his friends, family, and colleagues around him, transforming his tragic decline into a profound, ongoing seminar on the meaning of human existence.