On some days, Morrie had a half a dozen visitors, and they were often there when Charlotte returned from work.
She handled it with patience, even though all these outsiders were soaking up her precious minutes with Morrie.
“... a sense of purpose,” she continued. “Yes. That's good, you know.”
“I hope so,” I said. I helped put the new food inside the refrigerator.
The kitchen counter had all kinds of notes, messages, information, medical instructions.
The table held more pill bottles than ever—Selestone for his asthma, Ativan to help him sleep,
naproxen for infections—along with a powdered milk mix and laxatives.
From down the hall, we heard the sound of a door open.
“Maybe he's available now... let me go check.” Charlotte glanced again at my food and I felt suddenly ashamed.
All these reminders of things Morrie would never enjoy.
The small horrors of his illness were growing, and when I finally sat down with Morrie, he was coughing more than usual,
a dry, dusty cough that shook his chest and made his head jerk forward.
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