Heroes Under a Ghost Moon

I saw a dead woman yesterday.

She was slumped at a kitchen table, surrounded by elderly women sitting at their supper plates.
Behind her, bent over her, Glenda the house aide jerked the woman’s body up and down, administering the Heimlich maneuver over and over again, yelling at her, “Stay with me, Jo! Jo! Jo! Come back!”

Arriving on this scene with my aged, mentally handicapped mother in tow, I was stunned senseless. Glenda yelled at me for help, sweat beading on her face. Jo’s body flopped like a rag doll’s.
In this house my mother lives with five others who are just like her. Jo is her roommate. Three demented women watched quietly as Glenda, her arms around Jo from behind, jerked and jerked and sweated and yelled.
I grabbed the phone, tried to dial, couldn’t operate the phone. In a thick accent Glenda cried out that Jo had had a stroke, and she had already called 911. Minutes passed. I fumbled with Glenda, trying to help.
I was confused. Why was Glenda doing the Heimlich? I felt Jo’s face. It was ice cold. She wasn’t breathing. Why was Glenda yanking at her body? Then I realized Glenda had said Jo had choked.

I took the phone after Glenda paused and dialed 911 for me. “Where are you?” I asked. The woman said they were almost there. A minute or two later, the siren blared to a stop in front of the house. I went out to get them.
The EMTs hustled into the kitchen, pulled Jo’s body to the floor, went to work. I took my mother into her bedroom.
“That is scary,” said my mom. “What’s wrong?”
A loud commotion went on in the kitchen. I explained that Jo was very sick.

The EMTs suctioned Jo’s throat and brought her back to life. Glenda’s unrelenting Heimlich maneuver had kept her alive, just enough. I went back in the kitchen, where Jo was breathing, slightly conscious, on the gurney. Glenda and I threw our arms around each other. “You’re a hero, you’re a champion!” I told her sweaty forehead.
As I drove home later, I was awestruck by the miracle I had witnessed. One woman’s tenacity, another woman’s life. I’m glad I was there to see it.


Ghost Moon

Over the black silhouette of trees against a purple sky
Slung low like the silver buckle of a cowboy’s belt
The moon rose, pale and faint and round, oddly
Opaque, as if with a hand you could wipe it away.

My old mother, with her fading mind, has the same
Translucence. Sitting in the car beside me, nodding
Vaguely at what I say, she waxes paler steadily
As she rises from herself, a ghost impression

Of the woman who raised me up, fierce and strong.
She no longer is substantial, just a wisp of breath
In a wizened body, silhouetted against the sky
Beyond the window of my car, my ghostly mother.

Chris Alba © 2009

Photo courtesy Georgia State University