That was the end of his driving..
That was the end of his walking free..
That was the end of his privacy..
And that was the end of his secret.

Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left?..
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax..
you cannot support yourself standing.. you cannot sit up straight.
By the end, if you are still alive.. your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk.. like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh.

Morrie had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig's disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of the neurological system.
There was no known cure.

Morrie was in a wheelchair full-time now, getting used to helpers lifting him like a heavy sack from the chair to the bed and the bed to the chair.

I watched him now, his hands working gingerly, as if he were learning to use them for the first time. He could not press down hard with a knife. His fingers shook. Each bite was a struggle; he chewed the food finely before swallowing.. The skin from his wrist to his knuckles was dotted with age spots, and it was loose, like skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.