Mike Cullinane is a lifelong writer with a passion for storytelling and poetry. His work has been published in The Galway Review, Moonstone Arts Center Anthologies, Sad Girls Diaries, and Failed Haiku, showcasing his ability to capture life’s complexities with authenticity and depth. When he’s not writing, Mike considers himself the “project manager” of his own life—supporting friends and family with love and humor. He finds inspiration in everyday moments and credits his grandson as his mentor, whose wisdom enriches his perspective and creative work. Mike’s poetry invites readers to pause, reflect, and connect with the beauty of ordinary and extraordinary experiences. His voice continues to resonate with those who find meaning in his carefully crafted words.
Outside The Bell Jar
By Mike Cullinane
The medical assistant ushered Stanley McDonough into the examination room where he stepped up and sat on the examination table covered with sanitary paper for his annual health check up. This year it would be with Dr. Crutchfield, as his long time physician Dr. Johnson was ramping down his schedule. Stan had just had his weight taken, which was much better than the prior year. He took a victorious moment by joking with the medical assistant about not shrinking after his height measurement.
All of the vital statistics were much improved from his blood tests which Stan thought was a good sign for a guy edging close to 70. This was shaping up to be a good physical. Then again, at this age the physical exam now stretched into the medical questions about cognition and mental health. Sure there have been some ups and downs in life, but Stan had always felt some innate happiness buoyed him. His confusion was more about why he lived his life outside the bell jar when so many seemed to live within it.
His last employer prior to retiring was an example, like many bad relationships things were great – at first. After awhile, he had never encountered so many broken people at the highest levels of management. They ran the place like warring pirates, pillaging treasure and unaffected by friendly-fire casualties, as the ship slowly sank. Stan managed his own lifeboat by setting a date to leave and sticking to it, but time onboard had a price. Two and half years after leaving, he completed peeling off the layers of toxicity the place painted on him. The last layer, he was able admit to himself, was he drank too much. With that step taken, he was open to accept Dr. Johnson’s direction to change his lifestyle.
After wrapping up the heart rate and blood pressure the medical assistant said, “A technician will arrive soon to administer the cognitive test and then the doctor will see you soon after,” as she exited the room.
He changed position on the table covered with sanitary paper. The crinkling sound made him feel like sliced ham at the deli. Comfortable and left with his thoughts, Stan’s mind wandered to a conversation he had with his old friend Raoul Ostergaard who lives in Denmark.
Hey Raoul! Have you read any good books lately?
Raoul quipped, “That’s a lousy pick up line man. Besides you had me at hello.”
Raoul and Stan shared a laugh which was a common beginning to their phone calls. Stan enjoyed the ebb and flow of their conversations; moving slowly on difficult topics, but mostly very quickly as they made cracks back and forth. After both retired, they formed the International Book Club. When they were younger, they enjoyed science fiction and fantasy: J.R.R Tolkien, Robert Heinlein, Aldous Huxley, etc. Lately they’ve been looking into works that critics and academics acknowledge as having made their mark on literature. Both weren’t afraid to say they didn’t get it sometimes.
“I’ve been wearing out my library card. I’ve gone through a lot of different authors both prose and poetry,” Stan recited much like he had as a school boy.
Raoul replied, “I’ve dived into Hemingway.”
“I haven’t circled back to him yet. My list so far has been eclectic I guess – W.B. Yeats, John Keats, Robert Frost, Wendell Berry, Philip Roth, Sylvia Plath and even Woody Guthrie.”
“I remember Robert Frost being big when I was in elementary school,” Raoul wistfully replied. “Elementary school, good times!”
“Yeah, but when I read his collection I couldn’t help but think, this guy spent far too much time alone in the woods. He leans hard into the melancholy.”
“You’d think a guy from New England would be familiar with “The Man from Nantucket”, Raoul deadpanned.
Stan laughed. “That’s funny! And just so you know I’m saying that with a grin.”
Raoul said, “Well Hemingway drank tons and blew his brains out.”
“And Sylvia Plath took her own life too. Dylan Thomas choose death by alcohol,” Stan lamented. There was an audible sigh at both ends of the conversation..
Raoul shouted, “What the fuck?!? This is depressing! Here’s a fun fact. Bob Dylan changed his name to honor Dylan Thomas.”
“I’ve heard that. I’m glad he’s still around. I’m not sure if it’s a choice, but I’m glad he continued to live to create art.
Raoul was confused and asked, “ Not sure about it being a choice?”
“Well for everyone. Sylvia Plath’s point of view was Esther Greenwood was mentally imprisoned within a bell jar.
Still not understanding, Raoul kept it simple, “Huh?”
“In other words, at least my understanding, the bell jar glass bent her perspective of reality. Esther was trapped as everything was warped, refracted, or whatever through the glass. Her perceptions of herself, people and time – all bent by her mind’s eye.”
Raoul started to exit the topic “I don’t think I can read that at this point in my life. Maybe you’re reading too much.”
“Can’t blame you. It’s thought provoking, but I really can’t say I can relate to it. I think you and I have valued our self-determination.
“So some have it, some don’t?” Raoul asked.
“Maybe, but I’m not asking why too much anymore about other people. I’m just sorting out things for myself.”
Raoul cracked, “Ah, you’re a selfish bastard! He laughed loudly and followed with, “I’m saying that with a grin.”
There was a knock at the door breaking the daydream and a new medical technician announced her entrance to conduct the cognitive test. Stan thought she looked bored and decided it was time to have some fun.
“Ok, sir. I’d like you to remember these three words: Banana, chair, sunrise.”
Stan replied mechanically, “Banana, chair, sunrise.”
There was a brief pause as the technician seated herself at the work station beginning her test preparations. Very professional Stan thought, perfect time to break her rhythm.
“I drank a banana sunrise while sitting in a chair.”
The technician looked startled at first and then said, “Oh, yes. That’s a way. Uh, Mr. McDonough can you count backwards from 20?”
“Should I include zero?”
“If you’d like.” She politely replied.
Stan went from twenty to zero in tens seconds flat.
The technician handed a piece of paper and pen to Stan and asked him to draw a clock face with the time set at 10:15.
“Oh wow! An analog clock?” Stan asked confirming the assignment.
“Yes sir”
Stan proceeded to draw the clock and as he wrote in the numbers from one to twelve, he was asked to repeat the three words.
“Banana, chair, sunrise.” he repeated in a blasé manner as he looked down to draw the hands on the clock.
“Very good, Sir. Now can you state the months of the year backwards?”
Stan continued to doodle on his clock as he said the months backwards. But after April he stopped doodling to finish from March to January. There was a millisecond pause where Stan crinkled his face. The technician must have noticed it as she said,
“That was fine sir. Now please write the three words we discussed earlier beneath the clock and hand it to me.”
Stan finished the task and returned the paper and pen. After seeing the words written in cursive the technician said , “You have nice handwriting Sir. Wait, did you label the clock hands indicating which are the big and little hands?”
Stan drew the clock with annotations and arrows to clarify the big hand and the little hand marking 10:15. Smiling he said,
“Yes, I thought I’d give it as a study guide for 20 year olds. I wish I thought of using Roman Numerals, but it should do.”
“Oh, it will do”, she said giggling. “The doctor will be in soon.” as she left with a smile.
After she left, Stan altered his position on the exam table. The crinkling sanitary paper made him think of other deli meats. Hmm, prosciutto, and a new daydream ensued recalling a conversation with another old friend, the pediatrician Dr. Sal Fitzpatrick. They also shared humor and thoughtful conversations.
“Ya know Sal, I read that 98% of Americans think there’s a mental health crisis.”
Sal nodded, saying “It’s real buddy.”
“Well, I think 98% of those people don’t think it’s them.”
They both shared a brief laugh.
“I know it’s real Sal. We’ve both helped each other pull through some personal messes.” Stan said.
“I just listened.“ Sal replied.
“Yeah, but you really listened!
“And you listened too.” Sal graciously replied.
“I don’t know about you, but back in college I thought everyone would grow in positive ways.”
“Yeah then we grew up and the same pricks back then became worse.” Sal grumped.
“Maybe, but the surprising part for me is there were people who seemed ok, but then later in life chose suicide.”
“Oh I see what you mean. But like you said, dark times…”
“…but we pushed away. I think we’re still pushing away. I hope so.” Stan replied.
“ I am. It’s maintenance. Happiness is a pursuit.”
“When we went to our homecoming a few years ago, there were a few people who didn’t attend that I didn’t miss.”
“Me too. We shared some of those acquaintances.” Stan could almost hear Sal wince on the other end as he said shared acquaintances in his reply.
“There’s that sad point in time in a relationship when you wish you can help that person…
….”but realize they’re unwilling or incapable of helping themselves.” Sal concluded.
“It’s amazing we still finish each other thoughts. But just so you know Doc, I do respect Noami Judd’s daughters when they were mourning their Mother.
“What did they say?”
They said, ‘You really can’t understand mental health issues unless you’ve lived with it.”
Another door knock and another daydream bubble burst. Dr. Crutchfield slowly opened the door and said, “Good morning, Mr. McDonough” as soon as she made eye contact. She was the newest associate in the medical group, but Stan liked her from a previous walk-in treatment for a head cold. She seemed very pragmatic, so he didn’t mind that she was the attending physician for his annual exam.
“Mr. McDonough, the improvement of your lab tests are excellent, especially compared to last year,” Dr. Crutchfield complimented.
“Thanks. All the advice and lab work Dr. Johnson provided over the years finally sank in I guess. Especially after that Heart CT.” Stan confessed.
“I know he’s pleased, as is the cardiologist.”
“I am too.”
Dr. Crutchfield proceeded with the examination. Several ‘Ahs’, deep breaths accompanied by a cold stethoscope, some pokes and probes later, the exam completed. As she was completing her notes, Stan spoke up,
“Doctor? Could you help me with a question about anxiety?”
She turned towards Stan looking concerned, “Sure.”
Well, I think of it as something that’s internally driven, I really don’t feel anxious. I mean I feel stress from external events like that earthquake awhile back. Is it internal or external?
Dr. Crutchfield replied, “Well it’s both.”
“Yeah, I don’t get it. There is so much said of a crisis and sometimes I feel like a stranger in a strange land.”
The doctor tilted her head and looked Stan in the eyes, “Ok, I’ll try to explain by my perception of you. Did the poor CT Heart Scan make you anxious?
“Hell, yeah! And a bit disappointed with myself.”
“Then you did what?”, she asked.
“Well I changed. And by the way I’m not getting cheated. I eat a lot, just different, and I enjoy it”
She shrugged and said, “So why worry? She pointed towards his chest, “Just keep you heart in order. You’re doing fine.”
Stan left the doctor’s office encouraged with his medical results and by Dr. Crutchfield’s conversation. He would share the results with his wife and he also planned to contact friends and share the news when he arrived at home. He knew he was fortunate to have a few good long-time friends. He was also lucky he continued making friends later in life.
Stan opened his car door, sat in the driver’s seat and buckled the seat belt. As he peeked at the side mirror, the glass that made objects appear smaller in the rear view, he thought about how little time he gave to the small handful of hurtful, friendly-fire friends who were a part of his life. He understood that sometimes friendship wasn’t enough of a bridge to the unwilling and incapable to change their view.
As he drove from the parking lot, he thought about Sylvia Plath. Stan had borrowed the 50th Anniversary edition of The Bell Jar from the library, which contained a villanelle poem in the book’s biography section. He had never really taken notice of that style before, but now that he had the epiphany, it was a lovely style of poetry. Now he noticed that many other authors used the same style and Stan found appreciation of its expression of inner self. Much like the friendly-fire relationships in his lifetime, he would never read the story of Esther Greenwood again and was glad to return it to the shelf, while remaining grateful for the gifts given during the experience.
For The Galway Review 13, Printed Edition, April 2025
The Galway Review 