I am not there, where you are. I try to understand through your eyes. Through your heart. But I am not there, where you are.
Sometimes I think, perhaps, maybe we are experiencing life in multiverse.
I am not convinced it even exists.
But I am not there, where you are. I look at what you look at, but I don’t see what you see. I listen to what you listen to, but I don’t hear what you hear.
And you are not here, where I am. You look at what I look at, but you don’t see what I see. You listen to what I listen to, but you don’t hear what I hear. You are not here, where I am.
We’re back in Red, a cabin we once knew. She was the first to which we came for rest. But then we switched to one we know as Blue. Both feel like home, and neither one is “best.”
Nostalgia here in Red, intense and deep, returns us to our long-forgotten years of risky hikes (both treacherous and steep). Our younger selves don’t hear our future fears.
Inherent wisdom fills her ancient beams. They’ve centuries of stories, as has she. Her cozy manner begs us (so it seems): Speak quiet love, relax, and be carefree.
Surrounded by strong hardwood and soft fir, Red’s presence stirs up thoughts of who we were.
Well, while our government remains shut down and citizens debate who is at fault and billionaires don’t lose one grain of ground, *SNAP benefits are coming to a halt.
Our churches, mosques, and temples work to fill the need our government’s left in its wake. We’ll all step up to compensate — but still, where will we find resources it will take?
We’ll find it in abundance we consume. We’ll find the here and there that we can spare. We’ll set our table, and we’ll make more room. And even those themselves in need will share.
While left and right debate who is at fault, the poor among us feel the full assault.
They come from situations we’ve only read about, and chosen to distance ourselves from. They’ve faced profound persecution, violence, starvation, and unfathomable humanitarian crises. They seek the simple: Clean water, food, education, a roof, a measure of safety, a measure of acceptance, a measure of stability. They listen. They strain. They try to understand us. They study to learn our language, so they might be able to communicate their needs. Desires. Gratitude. Humor. Life.
Some hear broken English. I hear the flawless sound of resilience.
Keith experienced classic heart attack symptoms. Said, “Call 911.”
Very unlike Keith, and so he didn’t have to tell me more than once.
A look and some tests showed no sign of heart attack. Phew! But what happened?
July 31, 2025
Back in the E.R. for STAT echo with contrast. This, our new St. Luke’s?
Medical Test Findings:
He is well nourished. His reproductive organs? * Unremarkable.
August 2, 2025
Gallbadder all along?
Back in the E.R. More tests have resulted in admission. Thankful.
August 3, 2025
6:46 a.m.
Spoke with Keith’s nighttime nurse. He slept well. Still no word on surgery time.
Afternoon
No surgery yet. First will come more heart tests, then gallbladder comes out.
August 4, 2025
9:30 a.m.
Nuclear stress test (a four-hour test) followed by an echo-something
8:00 p.m.
A 30-minute gallbladder removal turns into two hours.
Anterior wall is the only thing removed. The remainder is
too attached to the liver. Apparently they’re inseparable.
August 5, 2025
11:30 a.m.
After not eating since 5 p.m. August 3, Keith is transported
to St. Charle’s to have surgery 2 in two days – needs a bile duct stent:
another 30- minute procedure that took about two hours. Ugh …
5:00 p.m.
Keith is returned to his first hospital in far worse shape than he left.
Suffice it to say, two surgeries in two days: zero of ten stars.
After forty-eight hours of no food or water, and overheated,
there was ice water for his throat, behind his neck, on his head, and chest.
But other than that, he didn’t want to be touched not even by me.
He was beyond hot (take that in every way) and who could blame him?
August 6, 2025
Now his pancreas has become enraged. Numbers have skyrocketed:
Lipase, which should be between zilch and one sixty is at three thousand.
Other lab numbers are also out-of-whack. So, no discharge today.
Clear liquid diet is better than nothing, right? “Nothing” went too long.
August 7, 2025
FINALLY some FOOD! He had flat, unseasoned eggs that he loved, loved, loved!
Improving numbers bring hope again for discharge. Nope. Safer to stay.
August 8, 2025
Finally discharged! Though he is still battling pain and unwell feelings:
He paused at the door and sighed deeply as he stepped inside the kitchen,
slowly walked each room, taking in the sight and scent and feeling of home –
mentioning details, like the way the sun glistens on the wooden floors,
and the beauty of the hydrangea tree that graces our window.
We both recognize how grateful we should be in the midst of hardship.
We have access to a clean, modern hospital filled with good people
who take pride in what they do – from the surgeons, to the NPs, RNs,
doctors, LPNs, those who prepare the food, and those who bring the trays,
the housekeeping staff, the various technicians, and those we don’t see.
The warm smiles and waves. The patience for their patients. The words of comfort.
None of these details went unnoticed, and all were appreciated.
(c) Marie Elena Good 2025
* Keith laughed hysterically over this aspect of his test results report! HA!
This, not really poetic, is an accounting of this event in the lives of my husband and me. I like to write 5/7/5-syllable poems, statements, observations, or feelings that express my day. This is the collection from what began July 29 with classic heart attack symptoms that ended up being a gallbladder attack.
Just for the record: The long, involved surgeries mentioned were through no fault of the surgeons. Keith’s was just a very complicated case.
I may add more to this as the days of recovery continue. This is my way of recording.
Inspired by “ … and the river spoke in a language without words,” from The Dead of Night, a Measure of Rest after Karaoke by Mike Bayles
A River Sighs in Silence
Once the sky emptied itself, moved on to another town, and the swollen river below it stopped chugging trees and gorging children, and the once-bawling waters waned,
the river’s shame released a sigh too soft too late for children’s ears to hear.
pictured words 