pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: THANKFULNESS

In the Midst of Crisis

Perrysburg Mercy Health

Thursday July 29, 2025

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.





DETACHED and EMERGING (2 in Sijo)

Painting by Deanna Marie Metts

DETACHED (sijo)

Member of Mensa Foundation. Former business owner,
Now mindful only that this actual moment in time
Is dreadfully not as real as yesterday’s tomorrows.

© Marie Elena Good 2014

EMERGING (sijo)

Weeding worry stubbornly seized in depths of clay soil perdition.
Bleeding time. Believing her beseeching isn’t reaching the Ear.
Then, breakthroughs and dream-come-trues. Not of fantasy, but of being.

© Marie Elena Good 2024

I wrote Detached in 2014 about my mentally ill daughter. Emerging, written now exactly ten years later. Though she still struggles, the difference is immense. There is so much for which to be thankful!

GIVING THANKS while sick for Thanksgiving


This photo is not a well-focused, balanced, artistic photo. It is just my snapshot
of homemade chicken noodle soup, made by my super caring husband.
It is one thing I have to be thankful for while I am sick on my favorite week of the year.
And there are so many others.
My cozy home, with the Christmas tree up, and a comfortable recliner from which to enjoy it.
My soft lavender robe, and just-as-soft tissues for my nose.
A family member who will be doing a Thanksgiving meal “porch drop” for Keith and me,
and other family members who offered the same
and friends and students who have offered food and help and loving words of encouragement
and who check in on me just because they are selfless souls who care deeply
and a doctor able to see me on the same day I called
and insurance to pay the doctor and the medicine
and a comfortable spare bedroom for Keith to sleep in so I don’t keep him awake with my cough
and WhatsApp to keep in touch for free with my daughter in India
and the amazing, gentle care she is receiving for a herniated disc, from grandmotherly women
and doctors making daily home visits to the room she is renting from these women
and the ease of heart it helps me feel while she is there alone and in pain and without my help
and the Father of All who is no less there than He is here
and the vast array of birds and fun critters outside my huge windows that let in all the light
and loving souls in my life who share their beautiful words and prayers and sentiments and lives
and parents who passed on, but left themselves in unspeakable ways right here in my heart
and children who struggle, but l.o.v.e. in all the ways afforded to them, and who I proudly call my own
and granddaughters who give joy in ways I never could have imagined
and their daddy who is not just an in-law to me
and music
and poetry
and books
and life
and Jesus in the nativity beneath my tree, and His saving cross at the top
and the Word of God
and the Lamb of God
and the love of God
and no period, because there is no end




NO WORDS FOR MY LOVE

Keith Good

My love for you is deep,
yet my words steep in
tepid water.
No flavor; nothing to savor.
They begin, but fade,
delayed by … what?
A depth I can’t reach,
though I beseech them.
A well with no bucket.
A spell I can’t cast.
My tone, a droning bore.
I wish my words would
soar
surprise
rise

revel

to the level of love.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

Thanksgiving, 2020

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

This year’s Thanksgiving
is like a tweaked simile:
two peas in a pot.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Two Sisters in Three Chapters

My big sister and me

Chapter 1.  Rain.

The day I was born,
it rained hard on my sister …
submerging her soul.

Chapter 2. Wombs.

Her first pregnancy’s
uniqueness dimmed, when I found
myself pregnant, too.

Pregnant together
again. A son for me. A
tragic loss for her.

Simultaneous
third pregnancies perhaps seemed
a cruel joke, to her.

Chapter 3.  Lost and Found.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a common heartache.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
shared grief is shared love.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a needed sister.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020


A Memorial Day untitled senryu


His Navy Dress Blues

displayed on the bed, look like
he was ten years old.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

DEAR MOM,

49785991_10156355985593600_4577305840310026240_n

DEAR MOM,

I wonder if you smiled after tucking me in at night, as I yelled, “I love you and I like you,” until I heard you reach the bottom of the stairs.

When I was in high school, you and I would often walk Naples’ beach. I told you how much I enjoyed our beach walks.  You told me I would get a boyfriend, and would no longer choose to walk the beach with you.  I got that boyfriend, and spent a great deal of my waking hours with him.

I wonder if you smiled each time I asked you to walk the beach with me.

Even through my teen years, you made sure you were home when I got home from school.  You didn’t want me coming home to an empty house. You stopped whatever you were doing, and took time to talk.  Even then, I understood the blessing of that.

I wonder if you smiled whenever you remembered me telling you I appreciated coming home to you.

I believe early Alzheimer’s began to separate you from yourself.  I think you recognized that, and feared eventual separation from all of us.  Perhaps that’s why you began saying, “I love you.  You know that.”  You wanted to make sure your love for us was so deeply rooted that there was little risk of it getting lost somewhere in a possible future of unknowingness.  You know that.  That little phrase attached to I love you was part of who you were.  Yes, we knew that. You were kind, and good.  You loved well.

I wonder if you smiled somewhere inside when I whispered, “I love you and I like you,” in those final days when you were growing less responsive.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Finding my poetic voice

74155962_10215481607657707_7027216788664352768_o

A poet and his princess 

In April of 2009,
I shyly met poets online.
But there was one who
would help me break through.
I call him my partner in rhyme.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

I’m thankful for this man I’ve known for 10 years, but have yet to meet.  Without his encouragement, I would never have referred to myself as a “poet.”  I’m not the best poet, and never will be, but I am a poet nonetheless.  Thank you, Walt.  Thank you.

P.S.  This little gal looks like she could brighten the darkest of days!  ❤

 

MOM (a tribute)

27657619_10155628101688600_6004715281279615069_n

I.
You told me of the love in my eyes for you
when you first held me in your arms
the day I was born.
Is it any wonder.
I knew you, and had already experienced
the gentle warmth that was you.

II.
All my friends thought me the luckiest girl
to be able to call you mom,
even though you didn’t tolerate misbehavior
or disrespect. They saw the love right through
the discipline.  I tried to emulate you,
but it seems that isn’t the same as
it being a part of who you are.

III.
I saw how the mention of you
brought warm smiles.
Your gentle demeanor,
laughter, and love
were contagious.

IV.
I understand being an introvert,
and I ponder with amazement
how you dealt with that part of you.
You could have written a “how to,”
I believe. I understand more and more
the sacrifices you made.
The way you encouraged others,
and always had a kind word to offer.
The way you treated everyone
with the same level of respect.
Fiercely loyal to those you were closest to,
in ways that had to have been draining.
But we didn’t see that you were drained.
You would simply go “rest [your] back
for a few minutes,” or “rest [your] eyes.”

V.
You were my moral compass,
and still are.  I feel your nudges.
I hear your gentle voice. I pray
I inherited more of you
than I see in myself.
From womb to death,
and now beyond,
I thank God for the blessing
of you.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019