Descriptive Essay About Book Club

The parents came out of Grandma’s room by one by one, bags under their eyes, makeup running down their face, and bright red noses. By that time, I could almost predict what happened. As my mom and dad approached us with their heads down, I prepared myself to hear exactly what I never wanted to hear. “The doctors are turning off the life support machine. She isn’t suffering anymore, and she will be looking over every one of you guys. She said she loves you all so much,” Mom told us while my dad didn’t hide his tears back.

When you think of losing a grandparent in your life, you think of them passing away. You dread the day you will get the call that they are sick. You then begin to cherish all the moments you have with them leading up to their passing. You have time to except their sickness, and come to terms with the outcome that is to come. My PopPop is not here anymore, but do not get confused, for he is alive. I did not have warning. I did not have time to cherish him. I did not have time to say goodbye. My PopPop was on no medication, which was almost uncanny for a 75-year-old. Trying to encompass everything he was boils down to a few things that may not seem like much to someone who didn’t know him. He went on a walk every night after dinner, and would whistle the same tune when he was happy. He played the same little ditty on the piano every time we were all in the living room. He was a simple man who could not harm a fly, and a good man. Unlike the grandchild warned when they are going to lose a grandparent, I did not have this notice. I did not have time to go on one last walk with him, and I did not have time to record him on the piano. I did not have time to replicate his whistling song, or to spend time with the man I knew. My PopPop was the heathiest man I knew, but then he got depression. First slowly, then all at once. The man I knew had slipped from my fingers without any chance to hold on tighter.

“I remember sitting in a room with bright lights. I remember a doctor kept asking me questions. I remember telling him how Aunt Helen was the only one who hugged me”.

With each impingement, he angrily moaned at his assailants. And, there was even one point in the short film… one moment where you could see him clearly… for just a second or two, an image that burrowed its way into my mind. His harrowed face, the jaundice of his skin, and sunken eyes. He reminded me of my grandfather in the last few days of his life before pancreatic cancer had taken him. How he had become a shell of what he had once been, a blackening peel decomposing before our very eyes.

“I don’t feel so well” Jan’s father had suddenly said one morning at breakfast. Her father, a World War II veteran, stood up and went to go lie down. The rest of the family continued with their day. Michael went to see how his father was. When he tried to wake him his father didn’t respond or make a sound. The 11 year old boy was the one who first knew that his father was gone. The memory of her father’s loss is vivid in Jan’s mind. It was a substantial shock after he had survived the horrors of World War II and then just passed away quietly at home one morning. Jan now understands how

I vividly remember that chilly night in March as I walked out of Fifer, the building my father now calls home, for the first time. I had goosebumps, but they were not from the cold I felt hit my skin. Instead, they were from the sickness in my stomach. As I got in the car, I began to cry and had to stop myself from running back inside. My entire world had turned upside-down. How could I go home without my father? How could I leave him in a nursing home, a place where he was too young and mentally fit to be confined? I had to fight the feeling that he didn’t belong. I had to remind myself of why he chose to be there, and I hated it.

“Right this way,” the nurse ahead of me was prompting me to a brightly lit hall that was completely foreign to me. I couldn’t help but be terrified by the sights and sounds around me: people chattering, machines methodically beeping, gurneys rushing past. It was my first time in a hospital and my eyes frantically searched each room looking for any trace of my father. She stopped suddenly and I turned to the bed in front of me but I could not comprehend what I saw. At such a young age, I idolized my father; I had never seen him so vulnerable. Seeing him laying in a hospital bed unconscious, surrounded by wires and tubes was like witnessing Superman encounter kryptonite. My dad’s car accident not only made him a quadriplegic, but also crippled

His deep wrinkles carved a map of his life. His galaxy-blue eyes were jaded. His skin was time ravaged. He was my grandfather. I watched from the balcony, his trying to pick up his home key from the ground.

There was a strong pungent of disinfectants and rubbing alcohol as she was rushed into the lobby. Crying out her last breath to express her agonizing pain as she lied down on the cold gurney. The nurses in a light blue uniform quickly arrived as several doctors in long white gowns rushed to the scene. Her mother was by her side, holding her hands as tight as she could, as the nurses pushed the agitating gurney towards the automatic doors. Soon her visions blurred and as the world turned into a tint of pink and red. As her vision slowly darkened, she solely relied on the touch of her mother’s warm hand and her soothing voice. Notwithstanding the tight grip of her mother’s hands, they was soon torn apart. Fear took over her body as she cried even louder. The sudden yet rhythmic beep was the last memory she could recall. It was March 5th.

Due to the fact that I have many friends in extra curricular classes, I tend to be involved whenever I am able. I enjoy being of assistance as well as a supporter to my busy classmates and teachers. I have had art every year since the 4th grade and I tend to find myself leading others with the instructions given or giving tips taken from my artistic ability.

I found myself in another room too small for the amount of people in it. The stale smell that clung to the latex of medical equipment offered a resurfacing of bitter inconclusive memories. White coats with clipboards shined lights in my eyes and prodded at my body. They rattled off the questions that had become all too familiar to me and I recited the same lines I have been for the past 13 years...

She looked down at the coffee table to see a brown box filled with a few things. On top, she could see some family photos in gold color frames. “Thank you,” she said to him. She walked over to her father’s chair and sat down. She became aware of an uneasy feeling around him and wanted as far away from him as possible. It may have come from her dad complaining about him for a long time. She was now wishing for her uncle to show

Droplets rippled the newly formed puddle, a flurry of mist skimmed down the canvas umbrella as the Bessons reached the steps… and still, he watched. Hands grappled at her arms pulling her urgently into Delivery Room A. Hours later the couple beam over their newborns. “What about names?”, inquired the nurse, “ Eugene after his grandfather, and Myra after my mother.” she replied as the Bessons became locked in each others gaze. The moment was perfect… and still, he watched. The young babies’ hospital stay was prolonged a short while by cause of a small sickness… and he planned. As their time tallied to nearly a week, he took action. Moving swiftly under the dimness of the hour the figure swept in and out of the hospital in a premeditated

Today was funeral day. My mom’s funeral. It was a dark October thursday, the clouds were brewing a storm. A slight breeze disturbed my neck. My uncomfortable suit sleeves bellowed in the cold breeze.. I hadn’t felt any emotions since the day of her death, which was weeks ago, almost as if my emotion is grey. It was warm then, as my mind was too. Nowadays, up until today, my mind has been a dark fog, as if my mind was released into the sky, darkening everyone’s day, arriving at my mom’s funeral or just to cuddle up with their friends and family in front of a warm crackling fire, telling the stories of their childhood and how times were better. Not me, my dad usually ignored me and he only worked on managing my mom’s fortune. Yeah. My mom’s

Both my parents burst through the doors, looking slightly concerned. “Mehak, why are you screaming?” My mom questioned. My eyes started to get watery, thinking of all the terrible possibilities, and I got a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. “Grandpa... H-he...w-were t-talking a-and h-he started c-coughing a-and the l-line w-went d-dead.” I stuttered, not knowing what to think. My dad flew out of the room, probably to contact my grandma about what was going on.