Descriptive Essay of a Person
Descriptive Essay of a PersonI sit at the foot of what is to become her bed and glare into her dismal eyes. She seems like such a simple soul, yet full of unused energy. As one gazes deeper, no happiness is shown. The hospital is draining her last emotions. Her world is slowly crumbling and there is nothing she can do about it.
Thelma, my grandmother, has just been admitted to the hospital for the fourth time in less than six months. Doctors do not know how to diagnose her, but they are still trying. She feels alone and scared as she enters a world known to her all too well. She will wake up in a bed that is not hers and a room soon to become home. Nobody knows how to console her or whether she even wants comforting. Every once in a while she speaks of the way things use to be. She was actively involved in her family, her home, and her future, and now those seem to be disappearing.
Thelma turned 76 this year and in the course of her years she has accomplished many things. Thelma was a farmer’s wife and a small town school teacher before deciding to retire. She attended college directly after high school and swore to do better for her family than what her mother had provided her with. She gave birth to six children, all of which grew to become successful adults with children of their own. I can recall her giving me money and commanding, “Now don’t tell anyone because they’ll get jealous and want some also.” I would never ask for the money, but it always appeared. I am sure that she did this for all of her grandchildren, but it made me feel a little more special. She was very good at making others feel as if they were worth more than they actually were.
My parents work opposite shifts at Macomb and Thelma has always helped with my sister and me. Those were the days when we had fun together. She would take me to birthday parties and many after school activities. One such party she gave me a ride to was especially memorable. Grandma was ready to back out of a friends driveway when the mailbox jumped behind her car and begged her to hit it. She answered the prayers of the mailbox and ran right over top of it, sparing nothing in her way. While my friends rushed to her side, I was too embarrassed to move. I hid behind the garage and waited for her departure. I soon regretted this incident and wished that I had an ounce of guts to see if she was okay. She would have rushed to my side, and I wish I could have been there for her then like I am now.
Thelma’s physical appearance has slowly diminished throughout the years. In her younger days she was a slightly plump lady. Maybe she was just a good cook, but one could say there was never a meal she would miss. Her look now is one of despair. She probably weighs no more than 115 pounds and hardly eats. She refuses to even look at food. Her once vibrant curly hair is now short and thin. There is no color to it, seemingly no purpose either. Her teeth are no longer teeth, but dentures. They have faded into a pale yellow shade and have a slight odor to them. Another feature that is quite noticeable is her extremely large glasses. The frames are an oversized brown plastic color with large bifocal lenses. They rest low upon her face and give her a less than distinguished look.
My grandmother has never worn anything but jeans in all my 18 years of knowing her. This reality has changed for the simple fact that she no longer can fit into any of her jeans. She has not changed into the usual hospital attire yet. Her clothing has some potential, but not a lot of desire. Blue plaid pants compliment the basic long-sleeved white cotton shirt. Some would call it boring, but I say it is simple.
Her eyes have become sorrowful. The glimmering bright blue that was present has slipped away and found a home some place else. The eyes she now own tell a different story. They show the obstacles she has overcome, and the battles she has yet to fight. Who knows what struggle comes next?
There have been many occasions when my family, including myself, have come to the realization that Thelma’s health was slowing declining. Although she chose to try and keep it secret, she was fooling nobody. We live with the lessons that she taught us, and maybe we can retain those in hopes of teaching others. The fact that she won’t give up only prolongs her pain. My grandmother is tired of life. There aren’t many things that don’t tire her these days. She now glances at the alarm clock and realizes that another day has passed, and more hopes, more dreams, and more thoughts will enter her head tomorrow. Has she fulfilled her wishes for today? I mutter to myself, “No”, but who does?
I begin to feel a look of depression settle under her eyebrows. As I gently surround her weak body with the coarse blanket, her hair becomes golden, her eyes alive, and her clothing complex. Her views will stay the same, but her imagination will grow. She is now ready to face the world at least one more time. I find myself wondering, is it really worth it?