"Stanford students are widely know to posses a sense of intellectual vitality. Tell us about an idea or experience you have had that you find intellectually engaging."
I stared keenly into my grandmother's age-wearied eyes, puzzled by the uncommon sense of unfamiliarity I found within her hazel gaze. She feigned a smile to veil her confusion - no, her insecurity. "It's your grandson Spencer!" I loudly vocalized to ensure that I was audible. Instantly, her nearly toothless grin became genuine and the fog clouding her memory dissipated. Recognition had set it in. My grandmother was still in there; I only had to search harder to overcome the gripping effects of Dementia.
At the site of my grandmother's familiar face, I'm instantly reminded of my childhood. I fondly reminisce about visiting her house each day after elementary school and rummaging through a chestnut wicker basket stocked with an assortment of wooden blocks and arches and brass knick-knacks. I'm reminded of the war-worthy fortresses, modern skyscrapers, and grandiose palaces I constructed from the apparent pieces of junk. These are memories that I cherish - memories that I know she can't recall, memories Dementia has stolen from her.
As I look into her eyes, I wonder what she is thinking or trying to think. I consider how she must feel to be the pawn of her own mind at times, eliciting little control over voluntary thought. To be eroded by the natural, uncontrollable ebb and flow of her memories? What causes her brain to slowly shrink, tainting her memory? Dementia's clutch on the brain is truly surreal. It's my grandmother's irrepressible time-machine, transplanting her instantly from her carefree days as a teenager to her plight in today's harsh reality. I'm fearful of my grandmother's disease. Fearful of losing control. Fearful of losing her. Then, she smiles again and I'm reminded that she's not completely gone.
Thanks for reading my essay. I'm unsure if it shows intellectual vitality or if it is just too personal for this prompt
I stared keenly into my grandmother's age-wearied eyes, puzzled by the uncommon sense of unfamiliarity I found within her hazel gaze. She feigned a smile to veil her confusion - no, her insecurity. "It's your grandson Spencer!" I loudly vocalized to ensure that I was audible. Instantly, her nearly toothless grin became genuine and the fog clouding her memory dissipated. Recognition had set it in. My grandmother was still in there; I only had to search harder to overcome the gripping effects of Dementia.
At the site of my grandmother's familiar face, I'm instantly reminded of my childhood. I fondly reminisce about visiting her house each day after elementary school and rummaging through a chestnut wicker basket stocked with an assortment of wooden blocks and arches and brass knick-knacks. I'm reminded of the war-worthy fortresses, modern skyscrapers, and grandiose palaces I constructed from the apparent pieces of junk. These are memories that I cherish - memories that I know she can't recall, memories Dementia has stolen from her.
As I look into her eyes, I wonder what she is thinking or trying to think. I consider how she must feel to be the pawn of her own mind at times, eliciting little control over voluntary thought. To be eroded by the natural, uncontrollable ebb and flow of her memories? What causes her brain to slowly shrink, tainting her memory? Dementia's clutch on the brain is truly surreal. It's my grandmother's irrepressible time-machine, transplanting her instantly from her carefree days as a teenager to her plight in today's harsh reality. I'm fearful of my grandmother's disease. Fearful of losing control. Fearful of losing her. Then, she smiles again and I'm reminded that she's not completely gone.
Thanks for reading my essay. I'm unsure if it shows intellectual vitality or if it is just too personal for this prompt