Author / Gabrielle McLean

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Posts by Gabrielle McLean

Writer of poetry and fiction
by Gabrielle McLean

Lowercase Infertility

Is your life today what you pictured a year ago?

You’re so young, yet you’re running out of time. You’re so young, until you’re not. Until you labor over getting the timing just right, and realize that Life doesn’t work that way. Until you feel your proverbial biological clock ticking like a time bomb in utero.

You’re so young, unless you want children.

Infertility is a secret word – a whisper between women trying to be decent – until it’s your word, and suddenly it’s the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. Suddenly, you want to scream it. Over and over and over and over.

Before the big scary “I” word ever looms over you, your expectations are probably akin to the famous intro of the movie Up: you meet a boy, fall in love, receive devastating news from a heartfelt doctor, and you make the best of the rest of your life with the love of your life, just a little emptier than planned.

But no one tells you that it can be a word casually thrown around between potential diagnoses underplayed by a tired surgeon. No one tells you that different opinions will rattle around in your periphery 24/7 – one doctor will tell you to give up and have a hysterectomy while another laughs at the prospect of anything being wrong at all. No one tells you that the word may never come up. Not directly. You figure it out, slowly, after hospital visits and failed attempts and a body that feels 30 years its senior. No one warns you that it’s rarely a one-and-done diagnosis, but a long rollercoaster until something either works, or you get off the ride. You might have infertility or you might have INFERTILITY. Wait and see.

You expect to decide, in equal measures of excitement and terror, to have a baby and then you just…have one. 9 or so months later. Maybe, more likely, it just happens. Uh-oh, we’re going to have a baby, and then you figure it out all the same. But sometimes, a uterus goes from being just a body part to morphing into your biggest enemy. How dare you backstab me now? We were supposed to work on this thing together.

How did I get stuck with this angry, angsty, broken thing, when everyone around me got perfectly normal, happy, cooperative bellies?

The reality is that no one wants to hear about it, because it’s one of those uncomfortable topics in the grander societal sense. Taboo, or whatever. It’s not anyone else’s fault that it feels wrong or dirty or too hard to navigate. It just exists, simply. Even though it’s the farthest thing from simple.

I’ve realized that time heals the wound for everyone else. Again, it’s not their fault. What else is there to say? Let’s move on, collectively, because it’s uncomfortable to remember awful things. And it is awful. And you are uncomfortable and I am uncomfortable and it’s better to just not go there. So, we play pretend. Or, I do, mostly.

I pretend not to mind that I don’t get wished a happy Mother’s Day anymore, because it really is a bummer. Loss, no matter how infinitesimal, sticks to your insides and just stays there. Forever. I pretend not to mind when mothers complain about their children, because they’re not living my life. Everyone should be able to complain, just as I can think, “But what a beautiful thing you have.” I pretend not to mind when my own girlhood disappears, because everyone else’s went straight toward their children. That’s the way the world works, but damn, it’s lonely. And damn, it makes you feel like an ant as mothers watch you with either pity or jealousy. I live in a world where I get to be selfish and I get to do whatever I want, except the one thing I really, really want. So on, I pretend not to mind as my friends lose interest in me, because I am no longer interesting on my own. With no child at my hip, my likes and my quirks and my own self are simply not enough. I wonder if they ever were, or if we were all playing a game, waiting for the appropriate childbearing years in order to become interesting to one another. But I was interested, and I miss being on the same playing field. I miss commonality. Community less tied to the one thing I am incapable of, temporary or not.

A year ago, I was in the hospital. And a year ago, I thought I’d have my own health disaster wrapped up in a neat bow. Not so much fixed, but dealt with. Handled enough to move on and join the kid club. But so quickly does that door start to close. So quickly, does everyone rush inside. So quickly, do you resign yourself to watching it close, imagining a life on this side, forever.

It’s still happy, just a little emptier than you planned.

by Gabrielle McLean

Cursed

When generational tithes come to a close, 
Death would be the kinder option... 
But death did not come in time 
For the willow to wilt
And the remains of my patience to disintegrate. 

It was not death that took her. 
Rather, it was the will to no longer pay 
A debt never owed. 
It was not lessons taught from love and care, 
But the lessons I earned out of spite. 

I would rather spend my remaining life knowing what it’s like 
To be whole, 
Even as I become this year’s gossip. 
I’ll be deemed cruel for letting her fend alone; 
My behavior unusual. 
Call me selfish because it’s all so unfortunate
That I couldn’t see clearly. 

I can endure it - 
That distant hatred  
Born of ignorance. 

I can, because no one looked 
As she floated to the surface 
With my head still underwater. 
No one saw the hand that held me there. 
Hunters, gatherers, onlookers; 
All they saw was the thrashing. 
The big gasp for air
That only arrived because the neighbors tilted their heads. 

They didn’t - they won’t - know what happened. 
Moments pass and the little things get forgotten 
As I get called dramatic for reacting, 
Or a liar for bringing it up again. 
 
I am the daughter
Of the least favorite daughter 
Of a forgotten daughter. 
There are things we simply don’t mention. 

At least my children will never know 
The beast all my mothers neglected.
by Gabrielle McLean

Disney, Mid-July

by Gabrielle McLean

Beach Town

A day in Jensen Beach, FL.

We wove through all these colorful shops – an art gallery, a jewelry boutique, and a plant nursery to name a few. So tightly packed together that you have to walk on the doorstep of one shop just to get to another. Shared decks with colorful mismatched chairs and tables.

Amidst the chaos of the new over-developed and busy Florida still exists little pockets of old charm. Small colorful beach towns with real people and real hospitality. The kind of Florida people come to Florida for.

This state may be my home – the only one I’ve ever had – but I’m not above playing tourist when I can. It’s one of my favorite hobbies.

We took a few turns into a quiet courtyard and tucked into the far corner, we found the Celtic Creamery. The sweet woman at the counter explained that make their ice cream with Irish cream (it was delicious) and we chatted for a while. In a land of ice cream shops sitting on every corner, it was exciting to find one that’s unique.

I won’t give away my favorite beach spot, but it’s not hard to find. Still full of shells and birds. A pathway of grassy dunes and tangled wild nature that opens into the vast expanse of sand and salt water.

After weeks of summer rain, this was a much needed day of persistent sunshine and a couple new adventures mixed with the familiar ones.

by Gabrielle McLean

Evacuation Route

Hurricane’s coming; 
Mama drives in the dark. 
Black rain, porch lights, a neon sign. 
A bar, packed. Spilling into the street.  

Harley’s line the curb, 
Wolves, salvation. 
Church after church after church - 
White and empty. It’s not praying hours. 

Tragedy arrived in sudden succession, 
But it’s no quick death. 

My life has been prep work; I don’t go down easy. 

The whipping winds, 
The swaying, the shakes, the unbecoming. 
Outrun the worst of it. 

Heavy hands came and went. They claimed us both. 
Ripped the shirt from my back, 
My hair’s come undone. 

Love is a holy thing. 
Brutal to the very end.
by Gabrielle McLean

Junk Journaling (Hawaii)

I’ve been doing “junk journaling” (i.e. collage) since the start of the year and it’s been an incredible creative outlet most days since. I have the luxury of saving all the little sentimental items I naturally collect from a trip or even in day-to-day life and giving them a purpose/place to live. No more indefinitely hoarding useless crafty things with no plan or having to throw away pretty packaging!

I saved a lot of packaging, tickets, etc. from my week in Oahu and filled in empty spaces by cataloging how we spent our time and our favorite memories. These pages turned out to be some of my favorites in the journal. I still have more “junk” from this trip that I haven’t used yet!

by Gabrielle McLean

Easter

Matthew 18:20 says, “For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”

Matthew chapter 18 continues, “Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.’”

We already know the story of Jesus on the cross, but I think someone can hear a story a thousand times before its meaning resonates. Yes, Jesus was crucified. Yes, He died for our sins. However, those sentiments mean so little without personal impact. 

Jesus went to the cross willingly, knowing his fate and still loving his betrayer. He did not die without fear or pain or even doubt. In Matthew chapter 27, it is documented that Jesus yelled, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”. Though his intention in saying this is often debated, I think it’s perfectly clear and illustrates a very important part of His sacrifice. 

Jesus never sinned, and yet he was frightened. He was hurt. He was human. A perfect human, but still human just as we are. He didn’t hang on the cross saying “This is great.” He asked God why He’d give up on his child, even when that child has done nothing wrong. 

Evil persists. Humanity fails. We were given freedom, and therefore we collectively abuse it. But why would anything we do matter if we’re merely puppets? If God simply created life to control it. Eternity is perfect and we are worthy of it when we are gifted the power to choose it. That, to me, is the whole point of this short existence on earth. Evil does not negate God – it’s the absence of Him. God exists whether we choose Him or not, but He gave us that choice because we are intelligent, meaningful creatures. 

God exists when we choose wrong. He exists when someone does wrong to us. He is the reward and the motivation for something better. He leaves clues for us like the petrified wood of Noah’s ark or the blood – still alive – discovered at his crucifixion site…but He is also in us. We were made by Him, from Him, of Him.

In my own words, I have asked, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me?” I have been surrounded by dark and chosen to reach through it because He was right there waiting. That is what made my choice meaningful. Long lasting. I do not believe because it’s safe or easy or because I’m scared of death. I believe because He is there whether I acknowledge Him or not. I have heard His voice, I can hear the ocean, I can smell the grass, I can sit at a table with my beloved family. I don’t need the world to be perfect to know that these things are good and that this is God. Everything. Everywhere.

So Jesus saw the dark surrounding Him and was afraid of it. That’s being human. He knows us, on every level. 

Good Friday isn’t “good” because Jesus died. It was and is good because we are fortunate enough know the other half of the story. Imagine the hope, the doubt, the fear that His followers felt when they saw who they believed to be their salvation die like any other man. Imagine the relief when He turned out to be exactly who He claimed by breathing once again. Rolling away the impossibly heavy stone and walking again. Light and hope personified. A promise fulfilled and a new promise made. He did not cheat death, but defeated it, rendering what we knew of death as an endless nothing or a means of torment into something wholly good. Something eternal. True freedom. All of our existence on earth turned into something that matters. 

I’m so grateful that I get to sit at a table on Easter and celebrate that promise with God’s people.