<p>Is there anyway of converting my previous essay into an essay that describes me as a person? heres the essay:</p>
<p>Shocked, I saw the nurses pass by a dying man, wondering if they were unable to help or just unwilling. Silence. I gasp, as if my trachea is held in a death grip. We shuffle around the crammed room, finding no escape. We are conscious of every sound: the high-pitched flat line, the splash of tears as they hit the ground, the careless gossip that escapes the nurses lips. Meanwhile, I am frozen; frozen as if his stare has formed chains entrapping my flimsy body, and I cannot escape. I was fifteen when my grandfather died, when I knew I would become a doctor.
Like a student, I took mental notes making sure to remember key points in the lesson called Life. I learned Helping Others 101 with a daily course of Study or youll be stuck flipping burgers in a classroom that closely resembled our torn, pea-colored couch. Love, however was one class that required no note taking or even lecturing. That lesson mingled in the way he would hug me at night when the boogie monster had attacked or would fuse with the smell of deformed cookies that were praised as if the cracks were signs of beauty not dryness. I had learned to love all things through the eyes of a man who somehow found the eternal charm in a geeky child with coke-bottle rims and colorful assorted braids.
Like time, everything had reached its end, and the life of hard partying and naïve actions had crept up behind him waiting for the bill to be paid. The plates of greasy pork were delicious, but not worth the clogged arteries. The endless bottles of rum and wine had slowly killed his kidneys creating another inefficient worker in his out of business body. The side plates of piles of sugar unexpectedly, gave him diabetes. By the end of spring 2008 his heart had given up on the race and weekly dialysis had become part of our routine. One night stood out to me the most, one of the last times I got to see him breathing. The Bionic man, we joked with him trying to ease the pain we undoubtedly felt but tried our best to deny. The metal tubes seemed cold and painful as they dangled off his dried skin that seemed to crack with every move. Nurses and doctors passed with pointless banter, seemingly indifferent to his slow death. The creed they took had disappeared, along with the promises of curing a broken heart. It had become hard to maintain the lessons I had learned. I had lost kindness and the ability to find love in a world that did nothing for a man that did everything for it. That night I left him sleeping calmly with a letter expressing my gratitude tightly gripped in his wasted hands. I kissed him goodnight and promised to visit the next day.
It was our last class together, in the early morning of May. I sat beside my teacher like I have for the past twelve years taking notes through the heaving coughs and the almost unbearable gasps for air. Half way through the forced conversation I feel a small hand lay upon mine. All you can do is push forward, dont let this stop you. The hand returns to the warmth and safety inside the blanket and his gray eyes slowly shut as an exhausted sigh is released into the air. That was the last lesson my professor taught me. I am applying it now as I stand in the silence, vowing to never give up and help others. In the silence I have found my calling.</p>