（DAY054资源发布+交流讨论）--Tuesdays with Morrie
彩(每日便是一页，用心书写)
DAY054
When I entered Morrie’s study, I lifted the bags as if I’d just robbed a bank. “Food man!”I bellowed. Morrie rolled his eyes and smiled. Meanwhile, I looked for signs of the disease’s progression. His fingers worked well enough to write with a pencil, or hold up his glasses, but he could not lift his arms much higher than his chest. He was spending less and less time in the kitchen or living room and more in his study, where he had a large reclining chair set up with pillows, blankets, and specially cut pieces of foam rubber that held his feet and gave support to his withered legs. He kept a bell near his side, and when his head needed adjusting or he had to “go on the commode,”as he referred to it, he would shake the bell and Connie, Tony, Bertha, or Amy—his small army of home care workers—would come in. It wasn’t always easy for him to lift the bell, and he got frustrated when he couldn’t make it work. I asked Morrie if he felt sorry for himself. “Sometimes, in the mornings,”he said. “That’s when I mourn. I feel around my body, I move my fingers and my hands—whatever I can still move—and I mourn what I’ve lost. I mourn the slow, insidious way in which I’m dying. But then I stop mourning.”
