Im Frühjahr 1979, nach der Abschlussfeier der Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts, verspricht Mitch Albom seinem Soziologieprofessor Morrie Schwartz, mit ihm in Verbindung zu bleiben.

Mitch spielt Klavier und träumt davon, ein berühmter Musiker zu werden. Nach einiger Zeit ändert er seine Pläne, denn leere Nachtclubs, Band-Auflösungen und andere Misserfolge frustrieren ihn. Er studiert Journalismus und wird ein viel beschäftigter und gut bezahlter Sportreporter.

I traded lots of dreams for a bigger paycheck, and I never ever realized I was doing it.

I stopped renting. I started buying. I bought a house on a hill. I bought cars. I invested in stocks and built a portfolio. I was cranked to a fifth gear, and everthing I did, I did on a deadline. I exercised like a demon. I drove my car at breakneck speed. I made more money than I had ever figured to see. I met a dark-haired woman named Janine who somehow loved me despite my schedule and the constant absences. We married after a seven year courtship. I was back to work a week after the wedding. […]

I had become too wrapped up in the siren song of my own life. I was busy.

Over the years, I had taken labor as my companion and had moved everthing else to the side.

[…] the newspaper had been my lifeline, my oxygen; when I saw my stories in print each morning, I knew that, in at least one way, I was alive.

Längst hat er vergessen, dass er den Kontakt zu Morrie Schwartz aufrechterhalten wollte. Als er an einem Abend im März 1995 erschöpft durchs Fernsehprogramm zappt, stößt er zufällig auf ein Interview, das Ted Koppler in der Sendung „Nightline“ mit Morrie Schwartz führt. Auf diese Weise erfährt er vom Schicksal seines alten Professors, an dessen Freude am Tanzen er sich erinnert.

But then the dancing stopped.
He developed asthma in his sixties. His breathing became labored. One day he was walking along the Charles river, and a cold burst of wind left him choking for air. He was rushed to the hospital and injected with Adrenalin.
A few years later, he began to have trouble walking. At a birthday party for a friend, he stumbled inexplicably. Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small crowd of people.
„Give him air!“ someone yelled.
He was in his seventies by this point, so they whispered „old age“ and helped him to his feet. But Morrie, who was always more in touch with his insides than the rest of us, knew something else was wrong. This was more than old age. […]

Nach einer neurologischen Untersuchung im August 1994 lautete die Diagnose: ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis; amyotrophe Laterialsklerose). Bei dieser unheilbaren Krankheit sterben im Gehirn und im Rückenmark unaufhaltsam Nervenzellen ab, und infolgedessen lassen sich nach und nach die Muskeln nicht mehr steuern. Mit der Lähmung der Atemmuskulatur beginnt die letzte Phase vor dem Tod. Die Patienten sterben in der Regel innerhalb von vier Jahren.
(Stephen Hawking ist eine der wenigen Ausnahmen: Wie durch ein Wunder überlebte er die Erkrankung, wenn auch bewegungsunfähig. Zum Sprechen ist er nur mittels eines computergesteuerten Synthesizers in der Lage.)

Morrie und seine seit 44 Jahren mit ihm verheiratete Ehefrau Charlotte wissen, was die Diagnose bedeutet.

[…] He backed the car out of the garage one morning and could barely push the brakes. That was the end of his driving.
He kept tripping, so he purchased a cane. That was the end of his walking free.
He went for his regular swim at the YMCA, but found he could no longer undress himself. So he hired his first home care worker – a theology student named Tony – who helped him in and out of the pool, and in and out of his bathing suit. In the locker room, the other swimmers pretended not to stare. They stared anyhow. That was the end of his privacy.

Nach sechzehn Jahren nimmt Mitch Albom – er ist inzwischen 36 – den Kontakt zu seinem früheren Professor wieder auf. Von da an fliegt er jeden Dienstag von seinem Wohnort Detroit 700 Meilen weit nach West Newton, einem Vorort von Boston, um ihn zu sehen.

The last class of my old professor’s life took place once a week in his house, by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning of Life. It was taught from experience.
No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week. […]
No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work, community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death. The last lecture was brief, only a few words.
A funeral was held in lieu of graduation.
Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on what was learned. That paper is presented here.
The last class of my old professor’s life had only one student.
I was the student.

An vierzehn Dienstagen beobachtet Mitch Albom nicht nur, wie Morrie von Woche zu Woche dem Tod näher rückt, sondern er lernt in den Gesprächen und durch das Vorbild des Kranken viel über das Leben und sich selbst.

The truth is, once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.

Einmal sagt Morrie zu ihm:

„So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.
[…]
These were people so hungry for love that they were accepting substitutes. They were embracing material things and expecting a sort of hug back. But it never works. You can’t substitute material things for love or for gentleness or for tenderness or for a sense of comradeship.
Money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness. I can tell you, as I’m sitting here dying, when you most need it, neither money nor power will give you the feeling you’re looking for, no matter how much of them you have.“

Während die Krankheit fortschreitet, wird Morrie immer abhängiger von der Hilfe seiner Frau und anderer Menschen.

The most personal and basic things had now been taken from him – going to the bathroom, wiping his nose, washing his private parts. With the expection of breathing and swallowing his food, he was dependent on others for nearly everything.

Aber er lernt, die Hilfe von anderen zu akzeptieren und versteht es sogar, diese Abhängigkeit zu genießen, indem er sich vorstellt, wie ein Säugling sich fühlt, wenn die Mutter sich um ihn kümmert.

Diese Erfahrung bestärkt Morrie in der Einsicht, es komme im Leben vor allem auf die mitmenschlichen Beziehungen an: Ehe, Familie, Freunde. Entscheidend sei es, dass man bereit sei, anderen Menschen Zuwendung zu geben, ihnen zuzuhören, sich um sie zu kümmern, sie zu lieben.

Zwei Tage nach dem letzten Dienstag-Besuch fällt der Fünfundsiebzigjährige ins Koma und am Samstag stirbt er im Beisein seiner Frau Charlotte und seiner Söhne Rob und Job. Rob ist gerade noch rechtzeitig aus Tokio angereist, um sich von seinem sterbenden Vater verabschieden zu können.