Christmas Cookies

I've always been surprised at how grief can hit out of nowhere. And just how sharply it can come at you with very little warning.

I was sitting around a table with five other coworkers for lunch earlier today. A coworker brought one dozen mini cupcakes and we were all politely declining the offer to take the leftovers home. My pregnant coworker mentioned her sister-in-law recently brought by a batch of Christmas cookies that she devoured. As such, she didn't trust herself to have a half dozen mini cupcakes in her house.

Instantly I was transported back to 22 Winter Street. I could vividly picture one or two days before Christmas when Dr. Eastman would walk over with a platter of Christmas cookies his wife Connie would bake every year. We weren't allowed to eat them. Instead, the expectation was that whoever answered the door brought them right into my father, who was usually set-up in the TV room. He would pick through them thoroughly until all the good ones were gone.

With crumbs and powdered sugar and who knows what else all over his face, my father would take the "bad" cookies and bring them out into the kitchen. And. When no one was looking, he'd put any leftovers that he liked in his secret hiding spot. We never tasted most of the cookies and I can hardly remember which ones my Dad liked so much (Meghan probably knows). Yet I remembered most of the details surrounding Connie Eastman's Christmas cookies like it was yesterday. And as I sat at the lunch table while the conversation continued around me, all I could think was "Do not cry at this table."

My dad was so funny- even if he was maddening (and selfish). And I'm grateful to have these kind of memories that make me smile and shake my head when I think of them. Even if the grief and sadness make it difficult to breathe and remind me just how much I miss this man's strong presence in my life.

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Unexpected Clips of Life

I'm at a bar.

A nothing bar really.

No sentimental attachment.

A place I'm only ever at because someone performing upstairs is someone I know and want to support.

It's Friday pm.

I'm minding my own business.

Drinking a very disappointing Guinness.

When will I learn that there's very little point in ordering a pint outside of Ireland?

I'm distracted by the "Guinness" because suddenly out of nowhere I'm reminded of my Dad.

The overpowering smell of the powder he'd put in his LL Bean slippers is transporting me back to when he was alive. When he'd walk around late at night making sure all the lights were off and the doors were locked. The slapping of his slippers on the brick like linoleum in the dining room. Jesus. I haven't thought about any of this in forever.

But here I am.

In a bar.

On a Friday night.

Smelling powder and thinking of my dead father.

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Crayola Colors- Blue

From Crayola Photo Challenge

Taken on the corner of Wilshire & 3rd Streets in Santa Monica, CA.

What I love about this picture is it reminds me of my father, who worked for the phone company for...I want to say over 30 years. I always think of him when I see a phone company truck. And I'm inspired by him on a daily basis when I'm taking pictures. I long to know what advice he'd give me, what he'd think of my "photographer's eye". I smile thinking of how nice it would have been to find a common hobby that we could both enjoy together. So although there were a few different options for blue, I knew it had to be this one.

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Blah Blah Blah

So much going on right now. All of it making me weepy. All of it leaving me feeling emotionally drained. Most of it good stuff. Some of it sad stuff.

Today my mom had her regular mammogram. The days and hours leading up to her mammo are anxiety filled as we all wonder what will happen. Of course our minds drift to the worst case scenario, hoping we will never have to relive that experience. But something that has always stuck in my mind after my mom's initial diagnosis continues to haunt me, and her, and makes it difficult to not go to dark places in my mind. Years after she had been diagnosed, my mom said "Once your body betrays you like that, it's never the same." She continued to explain that every pain you feel your mind automatically thinks it's cancer. Is every cold a precursor for something much worse? She had pain in her back once and was convinced that her cancer had moved into her bones. I hate that she has to life with that kind of fright everytime something might be wrong with her. It makes me incredibly sad.

But I'm happy to report that today's mammo came back clean. An email popped into my inbox with the words "Everything's A-OK" in the subject and a huge sigh of relief could be heard around the world. My mom, sisters and I exchanged a few emails back and forth expressing how happy and relieved we were and there may have been mention of my mom getting the biggest glass of white zinfandel she could get her hands on. Her very quick response, "Don't worry- I will."

On Wednesday it'll be five years since my father passed away. Today it hit me and before I knew what was happening, tears were sliding down my face. At one point I glanced at Katie's Facebook status and saw: Katie Corridan knows "Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes a difference." We must count ourselves the lucky ones, for we were with you in your prime. We found that quote among my dad's belongings after he passed away. And we all knew that this quote must have guided him through the last months of his life. It brought us all a lot of comfort and, in fact, we put it on the program to his memorial service.

People say, myself included, that time makes it easier to deal with the death of someone you love. I've always felt, for the most part, that with time you just get used to that person not being around. The pain dulls. The bad memories fade. The sadness doesn't hurt quite as much as before. But what I have also found is that the heaviness in your heart, or the shortness of your breath you get when you think of the people that will never get to meet the loved one you have lost or the experiences you'll never be able to share never ever goes away. And that's a feeling I wish would get better with time- like the rest of 'em.

My sister Kara sent adorable pictures of my nieces from their latest vacation to the shore. For the first time in recent pictures, Lila came alive. Her adorable personality shining through, finally giving Julia a run for her money. I couldn't help but think how impossibly sad it makes me feel that my dad will never get to know them. As a father he was often times grumpy, overworked and annoyed. He craved his alone time since he worked like a dog. But I could picture him being a fun loving grandfather. Someone who would have a lot of fun with his grandchildren. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can see him and Julia giving each other a hard time and Lila staring him down. I can picture him taking them out for ice cream and getting a kick out of how much they love it.

I know that grief comes and goes in waves. And I know I can do nothing else other than to embrace it, deal with it, talk about it, write about it and let myself BE.

Be.

A very dear co-worker of mine, this wonderful woman who I have learned so much from, sent a thank you letter for donating to her 3-Day walk. A walk she did for her sister, who passed away 48 hours after the walk concluded. At the end of the letter she said that her sister would be continuing her good work out of sight. And I found tremendous comfort in this thought. That the people we love continue doing what they do, it's just out of sight.

Wednesday I leave for Denver to participate as a Crew member in the 3-Day and this makes me happy. I know it will be emotional, challenging, tiring and fun. I know the days will be long with early starts. I will probably be cranky sometimes. I will definitely get dirty. Yet at the end of the four days I'll be on event, I know that something inside of me will change. How can it not? Watching women who are currently going through treatment walk 60 miles over the course of three days. Seeing endless pictures of the people we all walk for- some still around, some not. Getting to see children, husbands, friends and other family line the streets and cheer on their loved ones walking. You really do get to see humanity at its best and I'm ready for a big fat does of that. It's what makes the 3-Day so magical.

And I just need to remember that being sad, angry, happy, anxious, whatEVER is fine. This time of year is always a challenge. I just need to be.

Be.

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The Most Horrible Time of the Year

Today's the beginning of the crappiest month. How can it be crappy when it hasn't happened you ask?

Well, it's when I can look back on almost every single day I experienced five years ago to the day (how f'd up that it's already been FIVE years?) and remember how absolutely shitty every single day was for an entire month.

My father was dying and we didn't (really) know it.

Five years ago today my father went in for his surgery to remove the cancer from his esophagus. The surgery lasted for hours. We found out that the cancer had spread to his liver. But the surgeon said, "We got it all." We weren't told until the day before he died that they actually did not "get it all" as we had originally been led to believe and that for the month after the surgery, the cancer was just there, spreading, getting worse and slowly killing him. All while we lived with hope every single day that he was getting closer and closer to being himself and getting the f outta Dartmouth.

I remember leaving the crazy Shaker Village Inn that morning. My father could barely make it down the stairs. This man who had always been larger than life and the strongest person I knew, had very little strength- he could barely move. He had to hold onto the railing in order to make his way down the stairs and out to the car.

I remember going in once he was all prepped for surgery and saying we'd see him later. Scared as hell, but putting all the faith in the world (stupidly) that everything would be fine. I remember sitting at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center as a family, scared and anxious, crying and laughing, judging and eating, waiting and waiting and waiting.

Once my father came out of the surgery, we went into the recovery room for another brief period of time to see that he was doing okay. He talked a little, we talked a little and then he went off to the ICU for post-surgery recovery.

We probably walked out of the hospital feeling relieved and a little excited. We knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, as the doctor told us he'd have to go through chemo again. But we were happy he made it through and that he'd be able to start on the road to living a "normal" life and be able to eat again.

But since that day five years ago so much has happened and my own recovery with this process has taken many twists and turns. In fact, I didn't even remember what today was until my sisters, mother and I had an email exchange going back and forth and Kara wrote, "On a darker note, anyone else thinking about 5 years ago today?"

I hadn't until she wrote that.

And now I can't stop thinking about how much I hate this time of year.

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Four Years Later

Today four years ago my father passed away. The memories of his last day still stay with me. I get now that regardless of how much time has passed, these are the memories that will never leave me or my sisters and mother. I’ve always felt like days like today are the ones that help force me to remember things I try to not think about all year long. Like what he looked like in the hospital bed. How my mom was ultimately put in the shitty situation to say no more. The way I freaked out being in his hospital room- each beep set me off into a ball of nerves and anxiety wondering what the hell was going wrong next. How much he looked like Nana Pearl. How brave my mom was in telling him to let go and that she’d be okay knowing she had me and my sisters to take care of her. How little we knew about what he was going through. How fucked up it was to literally watch him slip away and take his last breaths. How badly I wished Steve had been there. How happy I was for my sisters to have their significant others there. How unbelievably sad it was to walk out of the hospital with my dad’s belongings but without him. Unfortunately, there are endless memories that we experienced that day. And for today, I’m sad.

I’m sad that over the course of the past four years my dad has missed out on my wedding, Meghan’s wedding, one amazing granddaughter (and another grandchild expected any day now), a cross-country move from NYC to Santa Monica, job promotions and changes, all of our successes, the funny stories and jokes that made him laugh to the point of not being able to breathe, family holidays (which let’s face it, were always a little disastrous), endless in-law humor (can you believe he never met Kathy Fast?) and so many other little and big things in between.

I can’t believe that I can’t get him hooked on The Office, 30 Rock or Arrested Development. I hate that he can’t go to Ireland with us in October. I hate that I can’t call him up whenever I want (not that he’d answer the phone but…). I don’t think you ever get used to the fact that you can never ever see or talk to another person again. I know I certainly haven’t gotten used to that yet.

I feel an ache in my heart and a shortness of breath when I think of how short our time together was and how much I truly miss him.

I love you Dad.

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Memories

I'm recognizing that now more than ever I need to take care of myself. I'm getting right into that time of the year that always seems to depress me without fail. I think back to this time, now miraculously four years ago, and my thoughts automatically and without hesitation go to my father. Today four years ago was the last night we spent with my father before he was admitted to the hospital. He never came out of that hospital and my thoughts and memories are just as vivid as if it was last night. I remember how frail and weak he looked leaving the lame ass B&B. How much he struggled to come down the stairs. How oddly skinny and unshapely his legs where. How sad I was just looking at him. We had no idea what hell we were in for in that month ahead.

But today as I'm on the cusp of all those crazy and sad images and memories, I am not looking forward to the memories that will inevitably creep into my head and stay there. From what I've been through in the last three years around this time, I know those sad thoughts will sink down to my heart and just sit there, heavily weighing on me and forcing me to think about a time of my life that I'd just assume forget.

From now until the end of August is when I'm at my most emotional about the experience of losing my father. Because truthfully, this time four years ago was the worst time for me and my sisters and my mother. The unknown, the uncertainty, the medicals up and (mostly) downs, resulted in us walking out of the hospital without my father but with the belongings he brought in with him. Those memories don't leave me. I'm certain they never will. Just as the memory of walking into my family's house at 22 Winter Street without my father will always remain one of the saddest experiences in my lifetime.

So for the next month or so, I need to honor this time and this sadness. I'm going to try and do that by asking for help when I need it. By taking time for myself, time away from work, time away from other people. I'm going to try and do it by eating better, spending time outdoors and on my bike (and hopefully on foot soon). But most of all, I hope I do it by being kind to myself. I'm learning everyday what that means and how I can do it on a more consistent basis...but now's as good of a time to start as any, right?

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Missing You, Dad

I love you and miss you every single day.

Love,
Molly

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F'n Root Beer

Last night I was out to dinner with my girls and the waiter brought us our drinks. I took a sip of my diet coke and then continued to completely space out and try and keep my composure for about 10 minutes before I finally broke down crying and told my friends what the f had just happened that caused me to zone out and completely change my mood.

Although I ordered a diet coke, I actually got root beer. Not a big deal normally right?

Right.

Except the last time I had root beer was August 26th, 2004. My mother, sisters, aunt, uncle and my dad's two close friends and I were standing around my father's hospital bed taking turns drinking out of a 16 oz. plastic root beer bottle. We even soaked one of those stupid sad swabs and gave my Dad some. It was one of the first things my Dad requested after his operation and was the catalyst for us realizing that he was not getting better...funny how root beer leaking out of his body, yes actually leaking. out. of. his. body, can make you realize the seriousness of the situation. After the root beer leaking incident, everything went down hill. And he never spoke again either.



I can't even begin to say how caught off guard I was at that stupid f'n root beer. I mean I totally cried at the dinner table in the middle of the restaurant. It was sad.

Today I'm still all blah and crying at times thinking about how horrible that memory is. It's amazing that a friggin' bottle of root beer can do that to me.

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We Did It!

Yesterday my sisters, mother, husband, brother-in-law and I hiked Mt. Lafayette to honor my father's wishes of scattering his ashes off the summit of his favorite of all the White Mountains. I can say without a doubt that it was one of the two hardest physical challenges I've ever put my body through (walking in two Breast Cancer 3-Days was just as difficult). I woke up this morning basically unable to move and am still finding it really difficult (read: impossible) to get up, walk, go up or down stairs, move...you get the point.

So the truth is that yesterday sucked. Initially, when I thought about the hike, I always knew that it would be a difficult physical challenge. But as the time got closer and closer, I was more concerned about the emotional aspect of this hike- thinking about scattering my father's ashes at the top of that mountain was heartbreaking. And as lame as this may sound, after watching My Life on the D-List, I had these ideas of what we would do...gather our own ashes, maybe say a nice memory of our father out loud and then toss them into the wind. Anyway, it was enough to make me cry every time I thought about it. So going into the actual hike, I ignored everything and just knew that I didn't have a choice so that was that.

We started the hike early in the morning. And we were greeted with a really beautiful sight:


It helped remind us why we were doing the hike and also of how f'n beautiful New Hampshire is.

Then we were slapped with a hard cold reminder of what exactly we were about to do when we saw the entrance to the trail. It was 3.7 miles to the top of the mountain and we'd get a rest after 2.6 miles when we reached the hut.



In the first hour alone I thought I was going to die. I had a hard time catching my breath and I really kept thinking "How the f am I going to finish the whole hike?" I realized I hadn't eaten anything so I sat down and ate a Clif Bar while everyone else went ahead. When Steve & I finally caught up with the rest of the gang a few minutes later, I found out they had all been joking that they thought I was on a conference call...very funny. Luckily after the Clif Bar incident I did feel much better and continued to power up the mountain (silently and not so silently cursing the entire way up).

I have to pause for a second and say for the record what an amazing woman my mom is. (Side note, she will be 56 this October). She did the entire hike. During the times when I didn't think I could go on, I thought of her and how if she could do it, I certainly could. Honestly though, just when I think I couldn't be more amazed and in awe of her bravery and determination, she goes and climbs this goddamned mountain with us.



Anyway, my mom is an absolute rock star and should win the trooper of the year award.

Hiking in the White Mountains is unlike anything I've ever done before. And even though I've hiked Mt. Lafayette before (nine years ago actually), I don't remember anything, certainly not how freaking hard it is. You can't take your eyes off the trail for a second. You need to keep your head down and carefully decide where you're going to place your foot so you don't fall or trip or slide off the mountain. Take a look for yourself.







Hard shit, right? It was, trust me (and every sore body part I have and didn't know I had).

We reached the hut, 2.6 miles into the 3.7 mile hike and stopped briefly to get some water, go to the bathroom, take a seat on something other than a rock or the side of a mountain, and then got back out on the trail just in time for a very brief but wet rain shower. Thank you L.L.Bean for having inexpensive high-quality rain jackets.







After a few pictures, we were on our way again.

The last mile was ridiculous. An entirely challenging terrain filled with big boulders and loose rocks the entire way up to the summit. For that last mile you could see where you were going and it was very deceptive. Just when you thought you were done, you had more to climb. I was, of course, bringing up the rear with my mom. She was adamant about adding a rock to the rock towers or castles or whatever they're called every single time we passed one! (Which had to have been at least 20 times. At one point she asked me to stop, pick up a rock and put it on for her because she was too tired to do it herself.



When we finally made it to the top, it was hard to really enjoy it because
1. we knew we had to go down.
2. it meant it was time to scatter the ashes and
3. we weren't planning on spending too much time up there because of how long it had taken us to get up.
oh and 4. we were all exhausted.
But it was a huge sense of accomplishment as well. We all felt great about reaching the top and although it wasn't clear skies, we were rewarded by the beauty that stretched before us- in all directions.







As I was saying...getting up to the top of the mountain meant it was time to scatter the ashes. Kara ordered a plaque for us to put on a sign post at the top of the mountain. Here's what she had to say about it back in the beginning of July "I had a small plaque made that can go on a tree at the summit (someone remind me to bring my tools). My hope is that it will serve as a more permanent marker of what he wanted and what we will achieve. Personally, I'll feel better knowing that it's there...and let's face it, if it ever falls off or is removed, I'll probably never know." It was a great thought and definitely made us all feel better about what we were doing. We wanted to leave something behind, besides the ashes, and this did the trick.


We decided to put it on the back of one of the summit markers. Since we didn't have much of a choice, it wasn't a hard decision, just a matter of getting it on there. After the sign was hung, we went off the side a little to actually scatter the ashes.

It was one of the most anti-climactic things ever. As we were talking about where we wanted to do this, we heard my mom say "Done. Done with it all." And then watched her walk away from a rock where she poured my father's ashes into.



As you can tell from the picture, me and my sisters had NO clue what my mother was up to! We were all in our own little world, waiting to do it all together I suspect.

Regardless, when we asked if there was anything else she wanted to say, my mother looked up and said "Are you happy now?" Typical Corridan humor and the typical Corridan way of dealing with really sad, shitty situations. If you can't laugh your way through it, then what else can you do?

From there we all did our own thing. Picked a spot, silently thought about my Dad and then let the ashes go right where he wanted them.

First Kara



Then Meghan



Then Katie



And then Me



After a few tears, it was time to head down the mountain.

Now let me take some time to tell you a little bit about this hike and my Dad. He didn't do this so we would have a nice bonding experience. He didn't do this because he thought we would enjoy it. He didn't do it because he thought it was something we would ever want to do. He did it because he knew we would all hate to do this. Wherever he is, he has gotten one hell of a kick out of this whole thing. Anyway, he did this to make us suffer. He did this because he knew we'd be miserable and in pain and we'd hate every single part of it. And while all of that isn't true, by the time we finished this god forsaken hike, we were cursing him out, rolling our eyes at the thought of him and hating every step we had to take in his honor. In other words, it all went exactly according to his master plan. We were suffering. We were miserable. And we were stuck. The only way to be done with this ridiculous task was to complete the hike. There was no stopping halfway. There was no quitting when you felt like it. The only choice was to climb up and climb all the way down.

Going down was more terrible than going up. My mom was using the hiking poles basically as crutches. We were tired and not as steady with our footing. We slipped more. We did the almost fall thing way more too. We were cranky, hot, tired, hungry, sore and completely over the hike.

We were under the (false/stupid) impression that going down would be much easier than going up. Boy were we wrong! Going down took just as much time. We barely recognized anything that we had done before so we kept wondering if we had gone the wrong way. We thought we would have finished much sooner than we did, so we all kept wondering aloud if we were "almost done."

At some point on the way down, all the sentimentality of what we were doing was lost. My mom was on the verge of tears, but couldn't even cry "because it would take up too much energy." Katie and Steve flew past the rest of us and finished a good hour before the rest of us because it would have been too painful to slow down and hike with the rest of us. (Who cares about obligation, right?). Kara's shirt which declared "No Whiners" was ignored, "we all earned it" she said about eight hours into the 10-11 hour day. Meghan was carrying my mom's bag. Steve had taken off with my bag which had my water, sunblock, food, etc. Our legs were beyond tired- they were shot. We were all fried. And it seriously felt like the neverending hike.

You get the idea- we hated it. In the end, it was just like old times; being put through some ridiculous physical challenge all at the hand of our torturous father- I say that lovingly, sort of.

I am amazed that we all did it- proud that we climbed that friggin' mountain and scattered the ashes. We gave our father the resting place that he wanted and it definitely feels wonderful having that behind us. Who cares that I can't walk today right? Who cares that I'm having nightmares thinking about how everyone says "you really start to feel it two days later." How could my body possibly feel worse than it already does? In the end, I'm even more proud of my own father, knowing that he hiked that mountain at least three times and was part of the AMC White Mountain 4000-Footer Club.

By the time we got down the mountain, dehydration, exhaustion and borderline delirium had set in and all we were focused on was getting back to the hotel to shower and eat.

When I woke up this morning, I looked up at the mountains we had been hiking just the day before and it all felt a little different. I was in awe of what we accomplished and I guess in a weird way, it was a nice feeling to know my father was up there- his body and spirit and his girls' sweat and tears.

As we left New Hampshire this morning, today on the 3-year anniversary of my father's death, I was really sad. Ever since he died, I feel like we've been going through these important milestones in small steps and stages. It's been hard to drag out all these sad things- selling the house, meeting with the team of doctors from Dartmouth, mom moving to Alexandria, scattering his ashes, etc. This one marked the last tie and task we had to take care of in New Hampshire. And while it was really strange to drive up to New Hampshire and not have a house to go home to, it felt just as awkward and sad to be leaving there today without any clear idea on when I'd return. I left knowing that there was nothing else bringing us back to New Hampshire.

Being in Lancaster and among the White Mountains was an amazing experience. I have always felt lucky to grow up in such a beautiful part of the country and as we were driving away today, I felt like I was looking at all of this with a different set of eyes- ones that knew I needed to take it all in and remember the beauty that I once took for granted.

I thought of my Dad and the life we shared together in New Hampshire, the life he wanted for all of us, and the life he gave to us too. I realized that the pain we experienced in hiking up Mt. Lafayette was totally worth it. It was my way of saying thank you to my Dad for all the experiences he shared with us and provided for us. And it was my way of doing what we said we were going to do. Cause as my Dad always said, "Corridan's aren't quitters."

Dad- I love you very much and I think of you everyday and miss you. I really do hope you enjoy the view.

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