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A hearty feast of free readings, lectures, presentations, workshops and showcases celebrating our culture, community and the wild blue yonder.
 Where inquiring minds gather.
Okanagan Institute
at Hanna's Lounge
Click here for schedule
and information. |
Arts Council of the Central Okanagan is a resource centre and advocate for the arts in Kelowna and Central Okanagan. Find us at:
8-1304 Ellis Street
Kelowna BC V1Y 1Z8
Phone: 250.861.4123
Fax: 250.861.4155
Email: Click here
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Literary Arts
Cheating Death Vicki Bissillion
I stood in the vestibule at her well-attended funeral, staring at the 8 X 10 memorial photograph of the deceased. My encounters with her had always been dramatic.
I really didn't know the deceased, except as a customer I had met on a quiet Monday at the Credit Union, the last day of winter a few years ago. My co-workers and I were competing over the few customers that straggled in. It threatened to be a long, uneventful day, when suddenly, a young man threw open the door and yelled, "Somebody help! A lady's fainted, out here!"
Through the glass doors I saw a white-haired lady lying on the sidewalk. There was an abandoned aluminium walker nearby. Running towards the door, I hollered back over my shoulder, "Call 911 right away!" Outside, a man was already fielding questions on his cell phone with 911.
I recognized the victim as a charming old client I had served in the past, though I couldn't recall her name. Pushing through the crowd, I announced, "I have first aid training." I bent down to try to rouse her - no luck!
The cell phone man was on his knees and reported, "She's breathing."
Relief washed over me as I rolled her into "recovery position" and accepted a striped, grey car blanket from the growing, curious throng around us, to place under her curly white head. No one said a word.
I recall thinking that Fate had orchestrated this drama with some irony. I had completed the CPR course only 2 weeks previously, so it was still fresh in my mind. "Assess the scene, secure the area Š.," I rehearsed mutely.
Suddenly, my helper announced, "There's no pulse! She's not breathing!"
I rolled the limp lady onto her back, pinched her nose and blew 2 quick puffs into her mouth. I loosened her soft pink coat, and fumbled around to locate the right spot on her chest, "a hand span above the solar plexus". I counted out loud - 15 pumps, "1001, 1002, 1003Š"
Back to her mouth - I listened and watched - nothing! 2 more puffs. She gasped faintly. We rolled her into "recovery position" once again. In the distance I heard the lovely sound of approaching sirens.
It was a relief to turn her over to the professionals.
"Move back. Give us room!" they admonished. The circle around the woman inched outward. The ambulance crew rolled the unconscious woman over and began checking vital signs. Immediately, one of the attendants began the CPR compressions. I found myself counting to myself, "1001, 1002 Š." Then I remembered to breathe.
They strapped on oxygen and efficiently loaded her onto the stretcher. The medical team sounded subdued, sort of grave - as if it didn't look very hopeful. My spirits plummeted. Then they were speeding from the parking lot with the patient.
Feeling stunned, I followed the crowd into the branch, wheeling the abandoned walker, the excitement over for now. Had I helped? Maybe not. Would I ever know?
A co-worker whispered about her grandma needing CPR at a family Christmas dinner the previous year. After a nephew had revived her, the octogenarian gave them all hell and ordered, "Next time just let me go".
Would my 82-year-old victim have the same regret when she woke up, if she woke up? What had I done? I had interfered in a near stranger's fate? My feelings and misgivings mounted. I listened gratefully as another co-worker, who knew the fallen lady on the sidewalk explained that she had recently fought her way back from a slight stroke - a good sign, surely.
Everyone, staff and customers patted me on the back.
"Good job" they said, but I wasn't so sure. We waited in vain to hear.
The next day, the first day of spring and my day off, my boss called to tell me my lady's niece had come in to collect the walker and thank everyone who had helped. She said her aunt's heart had stopped again on the way to hospital. The ambulance guys got it going once more. Mrs. H would be all right! She was sitting up already!
It was close to 90 degrees in the old Armory downtown, on a June evening the following summer, but the old lady was cool and pretty in a soft pink suit that matched her rosy cheeks. She said she felt thrilled and lucky to be there, having survived another heart attack and stroke since the excitement on the chilly asphalt in front of the credit union that day.
An uniformed official read out my award, "The Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem." I proudly accepted the certificate and introduced my guest, the amazing Mrs. Harrison. She came up and stood beside me for a picture. She beamed.
It was this picture of her that greeted me as I signed the guestbook at her funeral today. The photo had been cropped and enlarged from the original I had sent to her in a Christmas card. Both the St. John's uniform and my prettiest summer dress were only slightly visible on either side of Mrs. Harrison. No one except me realized that we'd been edited out of her final picture.
I had the honor of extending her life an extra 30 months. For reasons I shall never know, it was important that she 'stand-up' her maker that day. Now, it seemed she had finally finished the important challenge of living that had been ordained for her.
Goodbye, Mrs. Harrison.
We invite submissions from writers.
» The story or poem should not be over 2000 words and must be your own original work. All submissions must be word processed and emailed to us at our email address.
» Submissions must include your complete contact information: Name, Telephone, Email, Mailing Address.
» Please also include a short biography and if possible a small photo of yourself.
» The anonymity of all that submit a story or poem will be respected. Contact details supplied as part of your submission will not be disclosed to any third party.
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