Courtesy: Shahid Riaz Islamabad – Pakistan

The Thirteenth Tuesday We Talk About the Perfect Day 
Morrie wanted to be cremated. He had discussed it with Charlotte, and they decided it 
was the best way. The rabbi from Brandeis, Al Axelrad—a longtime friend whom they 
chose to conduct the funeral service—had come to visit Morrie, and Morrie told him of 
his cremation plans. 
“And Al?” 
“Yes?” 
“Make sure they don’t overcook me.” 
The rabbi was stunned. But Morrie was able to joke about his body now. The closer he 
got to the end, the more he saw it as a mere shell, a container of the soul. It was 
withering to useless skin and bones anyhow, which made it easier to let go. 
“We are so afraid of the sight of death,” Morrie told me when I sat down. I adjusted the 
microphone on his collar, but it kept flopping over. Morrie coughed. He was coughing all 
the time now. 
“I read a book the other day. It said as soon as someone dies in a hospital, they pull 

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“Tuesdays with Morrie” By Mitch Albom 
50
the sheets up over their head, and they wheel the body to some chute and push it down. 
They can’t wait to get it out of their sight. People act as if death is contagious.” 
I fumbled with the microphone. Morrie glanced at my hands. 
“It’s not contagious, you know. Death is as natural as life. It’s part of the deal we 
made.” 
He coughed again, and I moved back and waited, always braced for something 
serious. Morrie had been having bad nights lately. Frightening nights. He could sleep 
only a few hours at a time before violent hacking spells woke him. The nurses would 
come into the bedroom, pound him on the back, try to bring up the poison. Even if they 
got him breathing normally again—“normally” meaning with the help of the oxygen 
machine—the fight left him fatigued the whole next day. 
The oxygen tube was up his nose now. I hated the sight of it. To me, it symbolized 
helplessness. I wanted to pull it out. 
“Last night …” Morrie said softly. Yes? Last night? 
“… I had a terrible spell. It went on for hours. And I really wasn’t sure I was going to 
make it. No breath. No end to the choking. At one point, I started to get dizzy 
… and then I felt a certain peace, I felt that I was ready to go.” 
His eyes widened. “Mitch, it was a most incredible feeling. The sensation of accepting 
what was happening, being at peace. I was thinking about a dream I had last week, 
where I was crossing a bridge into something unknown. Being ready to move on to 
whatever is next.” 
But you didn’t. 
Morrie waited a moment. He shook his head slightly. “No, I didn’t. But I felt that I could. 
Do you understand? 
“That’s what we’re all looking for. A certain peace with the idea of dying. If we know, in 
the end, that we can ultimately have that peace with dying, then we can finally do the 
really hard thing.” 
Which is? 
“Make peace with living.” 
He asked to see the hibiscus plant on the ledge behind him. I cupped it in my hand 
and held it up near his eyes. He smiled. 
“It’s natural to die,” he said again. “The fact that we make such a big hullabaloo over it 
is all because we don’t see ourselves as part of nature. We think because we’re human 
we’re something above nature.” 
He smiled at the plant. 
“We’re not. Everything that gets born, dies.” He looked at me. 
“Do you accept that?” Yes. 
“All right,” he whispered, “now here’s the payoff. Here is how we are different from 
these wonderful plants and animals. 
“As long as we can love each other, and remember the feeling of love we had, we can 
die without ever really going away. All the love you created is still there. All the 
memories are still there. You live on—in the hearts of everyone you have touched and 
nurtured while you were here.” 
His voice was raspy, which usually meant he needed to stop for a while. I placed the 
plant back on the ledge and went to shut off the tape recorder. This is the last sentence 
Morrie got out before I did: 
“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” 
There had been a development in the treatment of ALS: an experimental drug that 
was just gaining passage. It was not a cure, but a delay, a slowing of the decay for 
perhaps a few months. Morrie had heard about it, but he was too far gone. Besides, the 
medicine wouldn’t be available for several months. 
“Not for me,” Morrie said, dismissing it. 
In all the time he was sick, Morrie never held out hope he would be cured. He was 
realistic to a fault. One time, I asked if someone were to wave a magic wand and make 

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