Newspapers are dying and I may be out of a job in a year or so. Should I be forced to leave after 30 years of telling other people's stories, I will still feel lucky because of the hundreds of amazing men, women and children I've been fortunate to have written about.

And two stand out, a pair that proves the adage, “It's not the money you have, but the people you've met, that enrich life.” Having the privilege of meeting, talking to and getting to know Morris and Mark has certainly made me a rich man.

When I walked into Morris's small apartment in Mesa about 10 years ago, I was amazed at how neat and tidy it was. Figurines, trinkets, photos and more filled almost every square inch of space. A duvet was neatly folded over the couch, and a quilt covered the back of a wooden rocker so precisely, you wondered when someone last sat in it.

Maybe years, because Morris, 74 at the time, lived alone. He talked of his daily rituals, waking with a cup of coffee poured into the same mug, the radio turned to a talk station. Some quality time with a newspaper, then he'd flip on the small TV almost lost in the perfectly arranged clutter.

During this time, he could not help but look at the photos from a very happy and rewarding life. He and his wife smiled from each and every one. On his coffee table was a thick photo book, one he gladly shared with any visitors he might receive (including myself).

The smile never left his face as he told me of his love story, one that echoed others through time and yet was a special as if he had invented such deep feelings. He dated her sister, realizing he had fallen in love with the sibling, the tentative first date, the slow evolving relationship that would become a lifelong bond (a tinge of regret as he spoke of children, as she had been unable to have any, the couple “adopting” the children of the neighborhood). As Morris hunched over the photos, pointing at each one and identifying the faces peering out as if these shots had been taken yesterday rather than 30 years ago, he seemed to be reliving the happiest days of his life, which spread over decades (and I thought what a lucky man he was do be so blessed with a lifelong relationship he cherished as much today as he did on his wedding day).

When the clocked showed 11, he got up and shuffled out the door, me in step beside him. We walked across the courtyard, traveling the same path he'd taken twice a day for three years now. As we entered the antiseptic environs of the care home, the nurses greeted Morris warmly.

“She's in the community room, Morris,” a nurse said. “A good day, so far. Lunch at 11:30.”

Morris nodded, as if this were his first time here and he did not live in the adjoining apartments, where many families of these Alzheimer's patients lived.

We pushed open the swinging doors at the end of the hallway and entered a large white room bathed in fluorescent light. A silent TV bolted high in a far corner flickered with images of a soap opera. Older men and women wearing hospital gowns sat in recliners, none of them turning to look at us as the doors swung shut behind us.

Morris hesitated for just a moment before turning to the right and settling into a chair next to a woman who rhythmically was tapping the armrests. He scooted closer but she continued to stare straight ahead.

“Hello dear, how are you today,” he said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. She leaned away, her hand brushing the cheek he had just kissed.

Morris reached over and took the hand tapping on the armrest, nestling it between his hands. Her other hand continued tapping away.

“Isn't she beautiful?” Morris asked. “Is it any wonder I fell in love with her? How lucky it was she fell in love with me too.”

To me, she looked like any of the other people who suffered from one of life's cruelest diseases. Each had their memories stripped from them slowly, no doubt wanting to cry out in frustration as they remembered less and less. But the disease had progressed to much so for these patients that dwindling memories no longer haunted them. Save for a few brief moments of clarity that could come at any time, they were lost in a world where only the now was real.

Morris's wife had been diagnosed almost a decade ago, slowly succumbing to Alzheimer's inevitability. Now he suffered, silently of course, because how do you come to grips with mourning someone who is still in your life?

His wife had not had a period of lucidity for more than a year, but Morris visited dutifully twice a day, staying the full two hours, helping nurses feed her lunch and dinner, patting her mouth with a napkin after each bite.

This day was like any other. Morris sitting beside her until it was time for lunch, when he would escort her to the dining room, his arm linked in hers, forever the gentleman. They would sit in the same seats at the same table, this kind of repetition having a calming effect on his wife.

He reached over to smooth her hair, a wild sprout of thinning gray, and she pulled away and slapped at his hand.

“What, no, what, what.” she said. “Who, no, go away.” She continued a patter of words, as sentences had eluded her, what, a year now? Two?

An unflustered Morris took his hand away and leaned over for another kiss. “There there, dear, just trying to make you look more beautiful, that's all.”

I stood there stupidly, my pen in my right hand, my notebook in my left, and not writing the one thing that occurred to me – Morris is a stronger man than I will ever be.

Thirty minutes later I left, and did my best to translate Morris's love story, knowing I could never do it justice in a 30-inch newspaper article.

I don't know where Morris is, I only hope that one way or another, he's found the peace he so long deserved.

–

I wasn't sure what to expect before meeting Mark. To make things go more smoothly, I'd emailed him several question beforehand, and he diligently emailed his responses the next day. I wouldn't know until our visit how long it had taken him to type out those responses, and how taking it had been.

Mark suffers from ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), an insidious affliction that steals the body's ability to control its muscles, yet leaving the mind intact – for example, renowned physicist Stephen Hawking suffers from ALS, his thoughts going a million miles an hour, yet communication slowed to a crawl because he can't move or speak.

Mark had noticed something odd a few years ago – arms and legs became slow to respond to his mind's commands. When the diagnosis came, he was of course shocked, for he had been an athlete most of his life. ALS was going to steal away what was most precious from him.

But that was just it, as I was to realize over the next few hours with Mark. ALS didn't steal what was most precious. Mark may have been in a wheelchair and able to move just his eyes and his left big toe. If there was ever a man who could curse life for being unfair, it was the man who could talk to me only by staring at his computer, focusing on a letter until the computer “typed” it, and slowly write a sentence.

One he wrote was, “I will not let ALS define me.”

Mark, married with three four daughters, did not utter one complaint. With the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator that kept him alive (his lungs stopped working about 6 months earlier), he wrote that if he felt sorry for anyone, it was his wife, who had to wake every few hours to turn him in bed. Who had to bathe him, change him, feed him.

I had to remind myself that inside this shell was a man whose mind was as sharp as when he worked in the health field, developing curricula for high schools and colleges (as he still did today, consulting for the company he helped to found).

Mark was surrounded by family and friends, and he certainly did not take this for granted. But the man's determination to not only accept his fate, but to use it to make him stronger, astounded me. He had not sealed himself away in fits of self-pity (and who could blame him if he had?). He didn't waste one second complaining. He continued to embrace life and its rewards, even though is place in all of it was affixed to a wheelchair, staring at a computer.

Morris and Mark are the two most inspirational people I've ever met. One who faced down a disease that robbed the mind, the other who refused to be cowed by a disease that robbed the body.

Just having met them makes me a better person.