A test for healthy lungs.

A test?

“Inhale a few times.” I did as he said. 

“Now, once more, but this time, when you exhale, count as many numbers as you can before you take another breath.”

 I quickly exhaled the numbers. “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight …” I reached seventy before my breath was gone. 

“Good,” Morrie said. “You have healthy lungs. Now. Watch what I do.”

He inhaled, then began his number count in a soft, wobbly voice. “One-two-three-four-five-six-seveneight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-eighteen–” 

He stopped, gasping for air . 

“When the doctor first asked me to do this, I could reach twenty-three. Now it's eighteen.” 

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “My tank is almost empty.”

I remembered what Morrie said during our visit: “The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it.” 

Morrie, true to these words, had developed his own culture–long before he got sick. Discussion groups, walks with friends, dancing to his music in the Harvard Square church. He started a project called Greenhouse, where poor people could receive mental health services. He read books to find new ideas for his classes, visited with colleagues, kept up with old students, wrote letters to distant friends. He took more time eating and looking at nature and wasted no time in front of TV sitcoms or “Movies of the Week.” He had created a cocoon of human activities–conversation, interaction, affection–and it filled his life like an overflowing soup bowl. 

“Mitch, you asked about caring for people I don't even know. But can I tell you the thing I'm learning most with this disease?” What's that? “The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in . ” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Let it come in. We think we don't deserve love, we think if we let it in we'll become too soft. But a wise man named Levine said it right. He said, 'Love is the only rational act.'” He repeated it carefully, pausing for effect. “'Love is the only rational act.'” I nodded, like a good student, and he exhaled weakly. I leaned over to give him a hug. And then, although it is not really like me, I kissed him on the cheek. I felt his weakened hands on my arms, the thin stubble of his whiskers brushing my face.  

“Whenever people ask me about having children or not having children, I never tell them what to do,” Morrie said now, looking at a photo of his oldest son. “I simply say, 'There is no experience like having children.' That's all. There is no substitute for it. You cannot do it with a friend. You cannot do it with a lover. If you want the experience of having complete responsibility for another human being, and to learn how to love and bond in the deepest way, then you should have children.

“Money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness. I can tell you, as I'm sitting here dying, when you most need it, neither money nor power will give you the feeling you're looking for, no matter how much of them you have.” 

I glanced around Morrie's study. It was the same today as it had been the first day I arrived. The books held their same places on the shelves. The papers cluttered the same old desk. The outside rooms had not been improved or upgraded. In fact, Morrie really hadn't bought anything new–except medical equipment–in a long, long time, maybe years. The day he learned that he was terminally ill was the day he lost interest in his purchasing power. 

So the TV was the same old model, the car that Charlotte drove was the same old model, the dishes and the silverware and the towels–all the same. And yet the house had changed so drastically. It had filled with love and teaching and communication. It had filled with friendship and family and honesty and tears. It had filled with colleagues and students and meditation teachers and therapists and nurses and a cappella groups. It had become, in a very real way, a wealthy home, even though Morrie's bank account was rapidly depleting. 

“There's a big confusion in this country over what we want versus what we need,” Morrie said. “You need food, you want a chocolate sundae. You have to be honest with yourself. You don't need the latest sports car, you don't need the biggest house. 

“The truth is, you don't get satisfaction from those things. You know what really gives you satisfaction?” What ? 

“Offering others what you have to give.” You sound like a Boy Scout. 

“I don't mean money, Mitch. I mean your time. Your concern. Your storytelling. It's not so hard. There's a senior center that opened near here. Dozens of elderly people come there every day. If you're a young man or young woman and you have a skill, you are asked to come and teach it. Say you know computers. You come there and teach them computers. You are very welcome there. And they are very grateful. This is how you start to get respect, by offering something that you have. 

“There are plenty of places to do this. You don't need to have a big talent. There are lonely people in hospitals and shelters who only want some companionship. You play cards with a lonely older man and  you find new respect for yourself, because you are needed. “Remember what I said about finding a meaningful life? I wrote it down, but now I can recite it: Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning. 

“You notice,” he added, grinning, “there's nothing in there about a salary.”

“Of course I do. But giving to other people is what makes me feel alive. Not my car or my house. Not what I look like in the mirror. When I give my time, when I can make someone smile after they were feeling sad, it's as close to healthy as I ever feel.