Chapter 6 classroom

The sun streamed through the windows in the dining room, illuminating the hardwood floor, where we had been talking for almost two hours.The phone rang again, and Murray called Connie, the servant, to answer it.She kept answering the phone for Murray, noting who was calling in one of his little notepads.A friend, a meditation teacher, a discussion group, a magazine wanted his picture.Obviously, I am not the only one who wants to visit my teacher. The "Nightline" program has made him a little famous, and I can say that I am deeply impressed by Murray's many friends, and even a little appreciative.I thought of the many buddies around me in college, where have they all gone?

You know, Mitch, now that I'm dying, people are getting interested in me instead. You have always been an interesting person. Heh, Murray smiled slightly: You are talking nicely. No, I'm not, I thought. Actually, he said: people see me as a bridge.I'm halfway into the ground, but I'm not dead yet.I'm kind of in the middle. He coughed, then smiled again.I'm on my last expedition right now and people want me to tell them what to pack. The phone rang again. Connie came to ask: Murray, can you take it? Murray replied in a serious manner: I am chatting with old friends and told them to call later.

I really don't know why he entertained me so warmly. I am no longer the promising student he taught sixteen years ago.If it wasn't for "Nightline," Murray would probably never see me again until he died.I have no excuses to excuse myself, except the one everyone has now: I'm too busy.I've lost myself in life. (What the hell is wrong with me?) I asked myself so.Murray's high-pitched and slightly hoarse voice brought me back to my college days. At that time, I thought rich people were bad people. Wearing a suit and tie was like wearing a prison uniform. Life is not life at all if the wind blows in your face, driving in Paris, heading for Tibet. (What's wrong with me now?)

The 80s passed, and the 90s came.Death and disease, fatness and baldness came.I gave up countless dreams for a bigger paycheck, and I didn't even know I was killing them. But here, Murray talks about all the good things about our college days, like I'm just back from a long vacation.He asked me: Have you found someone to share your thoughts with? Do you have a clear conscience about yourself? Are you trying to be the best person you can be? I murmured uneasy and tried to show him that I was always looking for answers to these questions deep inside. (What's wrong with me?) I swore at one point that I would never work for money, that I would join the Peace Corps, that I would look for a Range Rover, and indulge myself in the mountains and rivers.

Instead, I lived in Detroit for ten years, in the same office building, at the same bank, and at the same barber.I am thirty-seven years old, and I am much more capable than I was in college. I cannot do without computers, modems and mobile phones all day long.I write about rich athletes, but most of them dismiss people like me.I am no longer young among my peers, and I no longer wear gray cotton sweaters, and I no longer have an unlit cigarette in my mouth.I no longer sat down with someone to talk about the meaning of life over an egg salad sandwich. My days are full, but I still feel unfulfilled most of the time.

(What's wrong with me?) Coach, I blurted out suddenly, remembering my nickname for him. Murray's face lit up.I'm here, and I'm still your coach. He laughed and started eating again, the meal he had been eating for forty minutes.I watched him, his hands moving carefully, as if this was the first time he was learning to do it.He couldn't cut the table knife hard enough, his fingers trembled, and he struggled with every bite, and had to chew the food carefully before swallowing, and sometimes the food escaped from his mouth, He had to put down what was in his hands and wipe his mouth with a napkin.His skin, from wrist to knuckle, was spotty and saggy, like skinned bones in chicken soup.

We ate like this for a while, a dying old man and a healthy young man, both in silence.It was an awkward silence, I must say, but he didn't seem to feel it. Death, said Murray suddenly, is a sad thing, Mitch.But being unhappy is also sad.Many people who come to see me are unhappy. why? Well, first of all, our culture prevents people from knowing who they are.What we teach is wrong.And you have to be very strong, so that you can reject this wrong culture, find your own way out, and create your own culture.Most people can't do this, they are more unhappy than me, although I am this virtue now.

I'm dying, but I'm surrounded by people who love and care about me.How many people can have this blessing? I was amazed to see no sign of self-pity in him.Murray, he couldn't dance, swim, shower or walk, he couldn't answer the door by himself, he couldn't dry himself off after a shower, he couldn't even turn over in bed, but how could he be so happy with his fate?Watching him struggle with his fork and fail twice to pick up a slice of tomato was unbearable, but I couldn't deny that there was something almost miraculously calm about sitting next to him. Like the breeze that blows my mind in college.

I sneak a glance at my watch (out of habit), it's getting late, and I kind of want to change my flight and fly back later.Then Murray did something that I will never forget. Do you know how I will die? I raised my eyebrows. I will suffocate to death.That's right.My lungs, I have asthma, can't stand the torment of this disease.This ALS comes in from the bottom up of my body, my feet are already sunken, and soon it will reach my hands and arms, and when it hits my lungs He shrugged. I'm done. I didn't know what to say, so I had to hesitate: Well, you know, I mean things are hard to say.

Murray closed his eyes.Mitch, I know that.You do not fear my death.I've had a good life, and we both knew it was going to happen sooner or later.I have maybe four or five months left. Don't say that, I said nervously.no one dares to say I dare, he said softly.There's even a little way to experiment.A doctor told me about it. experiment? You take a few deep breaths. I did. Now take another breath, but this time when you exhale, count from the beginning to see how many you can count before you inhale.As I exhaled, I quickly counted the numbers.One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, I counted to seventy when I couldn't hold on.

Very well, Murray said: Your lungs are healthy, now watch me do it. He took a deep breath and began counting in a slightly trembling voice: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen He stopped, out of breath. When the doctor first taught me to do this, I could count to twenty-three.Now only eighteen. He closed his eyes and shook his head.My lung capacity is almost gone. I patted my thigh, a little uneasy.That's enough for one afternoon. When I hugged him to say goodbye, he said: I want to come back to see your old professor. I promised I would come back, but tried not to think about the last time I promised him the same. ◇◇◇ I was in the bookstore on campus, buying books from Murray's book list.I bought a lot of books that I had never heard of before, such as Youth: Identity and Crisis, I and Thou, The Divided Self, etc. Before I went to college, I didn't know that the study of interpersonal relationship could be regarded as a science; before I met Murray, I didn't believe in it. Yet his enthusiasm for books is genuine and infectious.We started having serious conversations after class, just the two of us in the room.He asked me about some things in my life, and then quoted a few Ehrlich.Fromm (Erich Fromm), Martin.Buber (Martin Buber), Eric.Erik Mrikson's words.He always takes their words as a compass, and adds his own opinions as footnotes from time to time. It is not difficult to see that he and these sages are heroes.At these times, it occurred to me that he was not my uncle or uncle, but a professor.One afternoon, I was telling him about the confusion that people my age often have, about the balance between other people's expectations of me and my own wishes. Did I mention the conflict of opposites to you? Clash of opposites? Life is a series of back and forth.You want to do something but are forced to do something else.Something hurts you, and you know it shouldn't.You take something for granted, but you know nothing for granted. The conflict of opposites is like a stretched rubber band, and most of us live in it. I said it sounded like a wrestling match. Wrestling match, he laughed: Yes, you can describe life like that. I asked, then which side will win? Which side will win? He smiled at me, his eyes creased and his teeth curled inward. Love will prevail.Love always wins.