Descriptive Essay On The Day With My Grandmother

I could hear the home phone ringing as climbed up the basement stairs, out of breath and sweating; I’d just gotten off the treadmill. It’s nearly 10:00pm, weird time to call, I thought. My parents were at some formal event at the country club. Maybe Dad got a flat on the way home. I answered the phone to hear my Aunt Susie’s voice: “Have you spoken to your grandmother today?”

For the past several days, my grandmother had been sick with “a cold or something,” as my mother described it. As the daughter who lived nearest, it fell to Mom to care for Grandma while she was under the weather. She had been at my grandmother’s consistently for the past two days, getting groceries and aggressively cleaning the house. I made a quick visit on the first

I was on summer vacation with no other responsibility, and reluctantly agreed. After a couple unanswered phone calls to Grandma’s house, I relented to my mother’s nagging and agreed to swing by her house while I was out for lunch. I pulled up her steep driveway, and immediately saw Grandma’s car parked in the carport. Alright, well she’s gotta be home. I ran up the steps to her door. After several ignored doorbells and knocks, I figured, you know, she hasn’t been feeling well, Mom’s been over here bugging her for the past couple days, I bet she’s just taking a nap and doesn’t want to be bothered. I had learned over countless holidays, when all the daughters would visit, and inevitably attempt to clean the house to their standards, that if you cross my grandmother with an unannounced vacuuming session, be prepared for the cold shoulder. I went about my day without giving the matter much more

“Hello? Grandma?” No answer came as I flipped on the kitchen light. My heart was now racing as I moved across the kitchen, through the door into the living room. The TV was mutely flashing colors across the empty sofa and chairs. “Where are you?” I called, more urgently, backing out of the living room and creeping into her bedroom. Again, the lights were out, the bed undisturbed. As I called out a third time, I heard a muffled cooing. Spinning around, I saw her bathroom door, shut. Shaking slightly, I made to open the door, but met resistance.

“Grandma, it’s Jack, are you in the bathroom?” An unintelligible moan came from behind the door. I eased the door open as gently as I could, just enough to poke my head through.

My grandmother was curled up on the floor, her feet pressed against the door. “Oh God, are you okay?” I cried out. As if I needed clarification. With incredibly slurred words, she managed tell me that she had felt faint, and the left side of her face felt numb. A chill ran through my spine as I scrambled for my phone, recalling elements of my mediocre medical knowledge.

“911 operator, what is your address and telephone number?”

“5920 Brookgreen, 678,772,0304,” I