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

Beyond breathing and swallowing food, Morrie is now completely dependent on others to take care of him. He decides not to be ashamed of it, and he finds, strangely, that he enjoys it. It’s a return to infancy, when being loved and cared for is a continuous process.

On his way to Morrie’s from the airport, Albom sees several billboards showing attractive people, none of them over 35. Approaching 40 himself, Albom fears getting older, leaving behind his wunderkind years, and suffering “professional oblivion”.

Morrie says that young people are not wise, often suffer greatly, and get manipulated by their culture into wanting useless things. It’s better, then, to age and gain wisdom: “Aging is not just decay, you know. It’s growth” (135). Morrie has within him every age he’s been, from infancy to age 78. He doesn’t envy Albom or any younger person, since their age is within him, too. 

Albom shows Morrie a headline that quotes media mogul Ted Turner: “I Don’t Want My Tombstone to Read ‘I Never Owned a Network’” (140). Albom wonders whether Turner would care about such things if he were to come down with ALS. Morrie laments that, in America, people are brainwashed into wanting more stuff and miss out on more important values, like love. Aside from some medical equipment, Morrie and Charlotte haven’t bought anything new in years. Their house is filled, though, with friendship and love. 

Morrie believes people can do much better than simply buying things. They can share what they know with others, spend time with lonely people, or just participate in other people’s lives. Self-respect comes from these endeavors. By listening to others, Morrie feels “as close to healthy as I ever feel” (145).

Knowing he has pursued exactly the opposite, Albom hides his eyes by looking down and busying himself with the notes he’s taking.

Morrie becomes more immobile, unable to shift even slightly to ease any discomfort. Nonetheless, he insists on being lifted into his chair in the study so he can continue his conversations with others: “When you’re in bed, you’re dead,” he says (148).

The Nightline show wants to talk with Morrie one last time. Albom thinks it’s gruesome of them to seek a deathbed conversation. Morrie appreciates the concern but admits, “Maybe I’m using them, too” (149): the show does send Morrie’s ideas and insights out to millions. But they should hurry, as Morrie’s lungs and voice won’t last. Albom offers to discontinue their chats to save Morrie’s strength, but Morrie wants him to continue so he can complete this “last thesis.”

Someone asks Morrie if he worries he’ll be forgotten after he dies. Morrie doesn’t think so, because he has made so many strong connections with others, and “love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone” (150).

Morrie has the knack of making each visitor feel especially welcome. He explains that he wants to be fully attentive to each person he’s with. His father, Charlie, had been remote, and Morrie swore he’d be a father who listens to his kids. When Charlie died of a heart attack, Morrie went to identify the body, which lay on a slab in a morgue behind glass. Morrie swore that he’d have his own family at his side when he died.

Albom relates that the Desana are a South American rainforest tribe that believes each death brings forth a birth, and when Desana hunters die, they make new life possible. Morrie likes the idea that his death will replenish life. 

Albom’s wife, Janine, accompanies him to Morrie’s. She’s a singer; on learning this, people often ask her to sing, but she always declines. This time, when Morrie asks her to sing, she does so with an old standard, and Morrie’s eyes fill with tears.

Morrie met Charlotte when they were students; they’ve been married 44 years. They know each other well and work smoothly as a team. She’s a quiet person, and Morrie is solicitous of her privacy, refraining to talk about her life to others. He believes marriages succeed if there is respect, openness, compromise, common values, and dedication to the marriage.

Albom brings up the Bible story in which God tests Job’s faith by taking everything from him, including family, money, and health. He asks Morrie what he thinks of that story: “‘I think,’ he says, smiling, ‘God overdid it’” (169). 

Albom wants to help Morrie loosen the congestion in his lungs, and the physical therapist shows him how. He must rap his fist on Morrie’s back, drumming on his small, withered body in a specific pattern. Morrie jokes that Albom always wanted to hit him for that B he got in one class.

Albom and Morrie often hold hands, something Albom would never have done in the past. He also grows accustomed to the smells, the catheter bag on the floor, and helping Morrie blow his nose: “Things that before would have made me embarrassed or squeamish were now routinely handled” (172).

Morrie believes that, in American society, people feel threatened. Will they keep their job? Are they thin enough? Are they rich enough? This makes them selfish and mean. People should break from this culture, not by going around naked or running red lights or running off to another country—every country has its problems—but by rethinking personal values and not letting the culture determine them.

People separate themselves into groups and become lonely, but at bottom, they’re all basically the same. Morrie advises: “Invest in the human family. Invest in people. Build a little community of those you love and who love you” (175). People need others when they’re infants and when they’re very old; the secret is that, in between those times, they still need each other.

Albom and Connie watch the OJ Simpson trial verdict on TV. He’s adjudged not guilty. Whites are stunned; blacks celebrate. During this momentous event, Morrie is sitting on the toilet.

At a Brandeis basketball game in 1979, the students cheer “We’re number one! We’re number one!” (177). Morrie stands and yells a question: What’s so bad about being number two? The students stop chanting. Morrie smiles and sits.