tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom

              She was with me when the call came in telling her that her father was dead, he would suffer no more, and the grieving began.  Sheryl’s father, Mr. Bray, had struggled long with the muscle disease that left him imprisoned within a body that no longer functioned.  He  bore his illness with courage through the years, only lately begging his daughter to kill him, to end his life.  Mr. Bray had no  stream of visitors clamoring for  words of wisdom, no Ted Koppel from Nightline chomping at the bit for a last gasp of truth, his torturous demise seemed like no long farewell.

               As she hugged me goodbye, sadness dulled the strain at her eyes and Sheryl broke into tears.  She whirled for the door as she pulled on her fox fur coat, leaving the filled wineglasses in her wake.  Mr. Bray’s daughter would handle the details of her father’s death as she had dealt with the ravages of his illness these many years.  With competence, compassion, and respect.    

              As I read this book, tuesdays with Morrie, I was swept back through time to the events of my friend’s father’s illness and death, and I was moved by the parallel’s of Morrie’s and Mr. Bray’s similar physical experiences. But Morrie seemed to have the better death because he found meaning in the dying part of it.  He was  a teacher and he taught the people around him that what was happening to him was a journey.  Morrie found the positive in each new humiliation.  “I get to be a baby again.” he said simply.  I wish Morrie had been around to help Sheryl and her family to deal with the ravages of her father’s death and the long goodbye. 

              That said, I’ve had many mentors, good and bad, through my growing up and living years.  My Aunt Elsie was a nurse, and had great hopes for me and my twin sister’s futures.  She was always bearing books for us - The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore, ...at the Farm,... in the City, these gave way to The American Heritage Encyclopedia, books on nursing, etc.  When we barreled into our teenage years with an eruption of youthful rebellion, she kind of gave up.  Some years later, she got cancer and died.  But she had helped to instill in me a love of books and learning.  A grade school teacher, Mrs. Heffren, nurtured my love of school, and encouraged me in the classroom as I won spelling bee after spelling bee, week after week.  When I competed in the National Spelling Bee, misspelling “raisin” (not “raison” you idiot!)  I remembered seeing her eyes averted as I pushed back my chair in shame.  I don’t remember ever speaking to her again after that.  My beloved teacher.  I felt like such a failure.  Mrs. Webster was my Girl Scout troop leader and taught me how to hand sew a hidden seam, a skill I still use to this day.  It was unfortunate the day she kicked me and several other girls out of the Girl Scouts for being unruly.  Miss Nye, my sixth grade teacher, freaked out when I wrote a story of my best friend Jean, “who is not a virgin.”  I had no idea what a virgin was or was not at that time, I only meant that she was not a sissy.  Because of my story, all of our parents had to sit us down for a talk about the birds and the bees.  I had really admired Miss Nye.  She had been a sergeant in the Army, and she would throw the boys around the coat closet when they misbehaved, but not the girls.

               My husband’s father, Mr. Frye, I admired for his sense of humor and love of fun.  He raised his children to believe that college was a natural progression from high school, not an unreachable goal.  He was strict but fair, and his children and their friends basked in the glow of his personality.  You could feel the love he and his wife, Helen, shared.  They adored each other.  I remember dancing with Mr. Frye at his daughter’s wedding, and he looked into my face, smiling, and said, “you look so pretty”  I will never forget that moment.  Possibly I married his son because of my infatuation with the father.  His son is very much like him, as is now his grandson.  Mr. Frye has been a person I have admired throughout my teenage years and today still, even though he has been dead  for almost ten years. 

              I guess, now that I think about it, most of the role models I have had in the past have ended up disappointing me in some way.  I now feel kind of deprived, I didn’t have that mentoring relationship with any older person really.  I have friends that I admire and who have influenced me positively.  My sister in law Joanne is raising two beautiful teenagers while handling a high stress corporate extremely well paying job in addition to working to complete her masters degree.  This she does as she battles the life threatening effects of Crohn’s Disease.  My friend Sheryl, whose father suffered with the muscle disease, has a beautiful teenager, runs a hardware store and rental property as well as caring for the orphaned children of a former employee and  helping to create our hometown’s new Teen Center.  My husband, Rusty, who struggles daily with the wearing effects of radiation treatments he had when he was nineteen, does so with grace and humility.

              I guess you don’t have to be older to be a mentor.  Have I ever had a teacher like Morrie?  Claude, you are an inspiring teacher.  You cause people to want to be their best and to make their best effort.  Your students love your classes because you put so much of yourself into your teaching. You force people to look inwardly at themselves and their lives and force them to think.  I am sorry that this paper isn’t more professionally written.  It has been difficult for me to travel back in time to visit all these people in my past.  tuesdays with Morrie was an emotional book to read.  I will be happy to move on to other things.  But I will never forget this book.  Or this class.  Or you.