Tag / creative writing

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

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

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. 

by Gabrielle McLean

Night Owls

Are you more of a night or morning person?

The earth stills after a long day of clatter and movement. There is anticipation in a sunrise, yes, and how exciting that can be…but there is relief in a sunset. The dark is a blanket. A reward, whether you’ve earned one that day or not. The noise is coming to a close and your shoulders can sag. There will be time for worry and rushing around tomorrow.

A sunset, I think, is God’s gift to us everyday. An explosion of color to remind us that life isn’t as mundane as we’d like to believe. There is magic, when you look for it. I see a sunset as both an end to the day and a precursor for life. A celebration of life. A reminder to slow down, no matter where you are or what the day behind you looked like. Something to look forward to, like a promise. Every. Single. Day.

My husband and I often tell stories about a magical society split into two. Impractical, sure. Divisive, unfortunately. But an answer to living in a society designed for only half of its people. Night people can simply choose to be night people, in this world. Night people have night jobs and night hobbies and the streets are safe because they are busy. Maybe that would take away some of the magic – the calm- but I was built for it either way. The morning, as beautiful as it can be, gives me a sense of unease. I wake up early, groggy and grumpy for hours. Sick, even. Unable to eat. By the time I’m full of life, the sun is setting once again. Bed will beckon soon because life demands it that way. Everyday I fight against my natural rhythm and the obnoxious sun for the sake of participating in the world we have built. No one talks about how overwhelming sunlight can be when you’re bustling around.

How much simpler life could be, I wonder, if every day wasn’t a fight against that rhythm, a cup of coffee in hand just to survive. How much more pleasant we could all be if we learned to appreciate one another for what comes naturally, rather than fight about which way is superior. If we could appreciate and make room for what we are all good at/built for, rather than pushing one another into one uniform way of life just because it’s what we’ve been doing for a while.

I’m so glad that there are sunrise people. Early risers. Sunset people. Middle-of-the-night people. Middle-of-the-day people. How beautiful it is that we are so varied, fulfilling and appreciating each part of our existence.

by Gabrielle McLean

One Year of Wesley

Since my husband and I bought a house together, we have gone to the same Dunkin every Saturday morning. As was the tradition with his father to go to Tim Hortons every Saturday, now we carry that on in the wake of his passing. It’s sacred to us both.

Every Saturday, we pick up our order and sit in the parking lot to talk, watch YouTube, and enjoy our morning together. It’s an unwinding from the week and a way to ensure we always get quality time together, just us.

In the parking lot is a gym, a Publix, and a tiny pet store with a chalkboard sitting outside advertising which puppy breeds they had for adoption that week. I always looked as we drove past, out of curiosity. It was almost always the same list: yorkie, toy poodle, shih tzu, chihuahua.

I always imagined myself with a big dog. Something fluffy and sweet and protective. I liked the idea of a pug, but I’d heard how unethical it is to breed them so I wrote off the only small dog I ever wanted. I had no real plans to get any other pet, considering our two cats already felt like a handful. Our life felt complete as it was. But my husband and I suddenly started coming across articles and videos about how sweet, gentle, and intelligent Cavalier King Charles’ are. How they’re often used as emotional support/service dogs and are fiercely loyal, but still friendly. I liked the sound of that, despite having no plans to actually get one anytime soon. We both shoved the idea to the back of our minds. We’re too busy, we thought.

The next Saturday, as we drove past the pet store, I noticed that written in curly light blue letters on the chalkboard was “Cavalier King Charles.” Without thinking, I pulled over. My husband, who was always more of the “We should get a dog,” person out of the two of us said “We’ll just look.” I asked, “What if there’s a dog in there that’s perfect?” He laughed, saying there’s no such thing as perfect, but we still went in together determined not to walk out with a dog. Just looking. As my parents later said, “Famous last words.”

I just knew. Immediately, I knew we were supposed to be there.

There were several spaniels all together in that room, and for a moment I wondered “How could you possibly pick one? They’re all just puppies.” But then my husband pointed to a teeny puppy being smushed beneath a much more lively, bouncy, wild puppy and said “I like that one.”

My husband picked him up and his eyes welled with tears. He tried to act tough, but I think he was remembering my question then. “What if we find one that’s perfect?” I held that sleepy, sweet puppy and didn’t let go of him until we were all in our car, together.

We sat in the car with our Dunkin, going back and forth on what to call him until I suggested Wesley, and we knew it was a perfect fit. Acting Ensign Wesley Crusher, as my husband formally named him. Just Wesley, to everyone else. We still watch Star Trek together and point out Wesley Crusher, determined to teach our pup to recognize his namesake.

He just turned one, and I’ve been reflecting on how lucky we are to have found him at just the right time! That Dunkin closed the next Saturday, so we didn’t drive by the pet store again for months. It was meant to be, right then and there.

Very thankful for the addition to our weekly Dunkin hangout. 💕

by Gabrielle McLean

Unedited Poem #3

When you feel like you’re merely tolerated, but you can’t stop yourself from trying. Just in case.

by Gabrielle McLean

Nov. 29, 2024

I stood stock-still, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror as a wave of pain came and went. 10 seconds, I counted. Only 10. A small miracle, I decided, as the memories of the last time I felt that deep burning in my stomach flashed in the back of my mind. A constant reminder that I’m a ticking time bomb. A constant reminder to be ready at all times, even though there’s no preparing for it. There’s no relief.

Will I survive the next time? Will I be carried out of my home in the hands of an EMT who will scroll on his phone in the ambulance as my eyelids flutter with my failing efforts to stay conscious? Will I once again dig my nails in my poor husband’s skin and beg for death?

How many times do I have to scream, until someone hears me?

Doctors have to hear it all day – the complaints, valid or not. Exaggerated or not. But I don’t ask for help. I don’t like to be a bother. My pain tolerance is high and my disdain for strangers prodding at me keeps me away from their prying hands…it took the little strength I had left, the loss of my pride, the primal desperation to survive despite my verbal pleas otherwise, to ask for help. But my quality of life is rapidly depleting and I have no more answers than the day I started asking questions. I can’t survive hearing “That’s normal,” ever again.

I wonder if I’ll still hear it as I’m lying on my deathbed. I wonder how long I can wait, helpless, for someone to listen long enough to fix me before I’m too far gone. I wonder if I’ll ever be healthy enough to manage normal things like keeping a tidy house and maintaining hobbies and having children. I wonder if it’s too late. I wonder when the constant pain, sickness, and exhaustion will drive me to insanity.

It’s been over a year of loss. My friends, family, my health. It’s been a painful, awful, lonely time in spite of the small joys in between. A lifetime of confusion and endless effort. I’ve thrown my hands to the sky and asked God, “What have I done so wrong?” with no reply. I still have faith, after everything. I still do, because I have so little else left. So I keep trying, despite myself. I take what I can get where I can get it and pray through the tears.

I pray to know what healthy feels like, I pray for a world that makes more sense, I pray for a more empathetic world, I pray to become the kind of person people want to keep around, I pray for those I have lost. I pray, because I need someone to hear me. Because it’s all there’s left to do.