The Middle Place

Kelly Corrigan's memoir explores what she calls "the middle place," the sliver of life when childhood and parenthood overlap, when a person is simultaneously raising small children and still instinctively turning to her own parents for comfort and identity. The book alternates between chapters set during Corrigan's cancer diagnosis and treatment in 2004–2005 and chapters reaching back into her childhood and young adulthood, building a portrait of the family she comes from and the family she has made.

Corrigan opens by introducing her father, George Corrigan, known to everyone as Greenie. A devout Catholic, former all-American lacrosse player, and career ad salesman for women's magazines, George was defined by what Corrigan calls his "default setting" of "open delight." He grew up one of six children in a tiny working-class Baltimore house, built a career on personal relationships rather than technology, and retired at 69 by writing "Bye Gang!" in the dust on his computer screen. The memoir's premise emerges quickly: Corrigan called home from a maternity ward to announce the birth of her daughter, Georgia, named after George. Three years later, she called home to say she had cancer.

In August 2004, Corrigan was 36, living in the Bay Area with her husband, Edward Lichty, and their two daughters, Georgia and Claire. While bathing with the girls one evening, she felt something hard under the skin of her breast. Days later, a radiologist told her he was "very concerned" about a mass roughly seven centimeters in size that looked like "an explosion." A biopsy confirmed invasive ductal carcinoma, a form of breast cancer. Corrigan made lunch for the girls with mechanical composure, then apologized to Edward for being "defective." He embraced her, saying he would not trade her body for anything. She called her brothers, then dialed Wooded Lane. Her mother, Mary, listened without interruption and took a problem-solving posture. When George called back, Corrigan could barely hear his words but felt his bottomless conviction that she could handle it. The next day, she sent an upbeat mass email to about 100 people, announcing her diagnosis and inviting everyone to a celebration party in August 2005.

Woven between these medical chapters are flashbacks to Corrigan's childhood on Wooded Lane in suburban Philadelphia. She describes her two older brothers, GT and Booker, and recounts anecdotes that establish the household's noisy, affectionate culture and the contrasting parenting styles of her parents: George, the salesman of optimism, and Mary, the formidable operations manager raised in a strict German household. Corrigan recalls her childhood diving career, where George's encouragement pushed her beyond her comfort zone, and the brutal social dynamics of sixth grade, when a girl orchestrated "Truth Circles," sessions where girls delivered personal criticisms under the guise of honesty. Years later, Corrigan asked Mary what the worst time in her life was. Her mother answered: "Your sixth grade," explaining that watching your child in pain you cannot stop is "hell." Other flashbacks recount Corrigan's year as a nanny in Sydney caring for a family whose mother had died of cancer, and her courtship with Edward, whom George approved of with characteristic directness: "The way he looks at you… I just love the way he looks at you."

George flew to California before Corrigan's first chemotherapy. She picked him up at the airport trembling and crying. He rocked her and promised they would "get it done." At the Infusion Center, a nurse administered Adriamycin, a red drug delivered by hand because it is hard on the heart, and Cytoxan. Corrigan endured cascading side effects, each treated with medications that produced their own complications. In September, a friend shaved her head while the girls watched. When she ventured out in a silk scarf, a friend's three-year-old son said, "You look like a monster." Edward called the toddler "that little fucker," which Corrigan found heroic.

On Thanksgiving Eve 2004, the memoir's crisis doubles. Corrigan's mother called and casually mentioned that George had blood in his urine. A urologist had found cancer in his bladder. Corrigan learned her parents had concealed a similar episode the previous year. Part One closes with a single breathless paragraph of rage and terror.

Part Two traces Corrigan managing her father's care from 3,000 miles away. She researched bladder cancer obsessively, identified Mark Schoenberg at Johns Hopkins as the leading expert, and pushed her parents to see him. The central treatment debate emerged: Schoenberg considered surgical removal of George's bladder impossible because scar tissue from his 1992 prostate surgery had fused the bladder to his pelvis. A local doctor, Dave Ellis, considered surgery the only "definitive" cure. The family ultimately followed Schoenberg's recommendation and chose chemotherapy. Tensions escalated as Corrigan clashed with GT over who would coordinate with doctors, with her mother over medical details, and with Booker, who infuriated her by calmly saying George had had a great life.

Meanwhile, Corrigan underwent a lumpectomy, a breast-conserving surgery to remove the tumor. Seven lymph nodes were removed, all clean, with clear margins. In February, she learned she did not carry the BRCA gene mutation, a hereditary marker linked to elevated breast and ovarian cancer risk, and would not need a double mastectomy. She was elated. But her doctor then explained that hormone therapy would suppress estrogen for at least five years, effectively inducing menopause and ruling out more pregnancies. Corrigan was devastated; she had always planned to have four children, a goal tied to her Corrigan identity. Edward was relieved by the added protection, but Corrigan railed about the unfairness the entire drive over the Bay Bridge.

A recurring tension between Corrigan and Edward runs through the memoir: she craved the exuberant praise George lavished on everyone, while Edward was reserved and logical. After years of prompting him for compliments, Edward said, "I'm not Greenie, Kelly. No one is." When the couple once pursued a move to Philadelphia so Corrigan could be near Wooded Lane, Edward delivered a sobering truth after the opportunity fell through: "Your parents are not your future. This is your future," nodding to Georgia in her crib.

In March 2005, Corrigan completed her final radiation session and celebrated with a party. Georgia asked to see the cancer to confirm it was gone. Corrigan told her to believe her. "So goes our first conversation about faith," she reflects.

One of the memoir's most harrowing moments comes during a funeral Corrigan attended with George for a family friend's father who had died of throat cancer. Holding George's hand in the pew, Corrigan felt a panic attack building. Following her therapist's advice, she let the fear play out, imagining George's funeral in full detail: the packed church, the eulogies, the flight home, making waffles for the girls the next morning. She imagined herself surviving, going on, growing up. The panic passed.

In the epilogue, Corrigan reports that on August 4, 2005, after seven months of treatment, George's bladder showed no discernible signs of cancer. Mary called it "a miracle." A year later, more bloody urine sent him back to treatment, but after 60 sessions in an oxygen tank, his bladder stopped bleeding. Mary called from the Jersey Shore to say George was bodysurfing with college lacrosse players. The memoir closes with Corrigan at home. Georgia asks for a story. "Have I ever told you the story of the Green Flash?" Corrigan begins, invoking George's cherished tale about a flash of light visible on the horizon at sunset, an emblem for the spirit of the man she has spent her life adoring.