For Sara, holding space, oil on linen panel, 26 x 31 cm
After deciding to return to Ireland in spite of the pain and attempt to get my life back on track, another turn of fate occurred. One of the procedures I had in 2023 failed and I needed yet another root canal. Sara knew all too well that me being alone in my cabin on the nights following that procedure would be terrible for my mental health. She persuaded me to stay over at her house one night, and I accepted. I requested that she make her famous chickpea burgers, and she laughed because she considers them a humble dish, but that’s what I wanted. We shared ½ a bottle of wine and watched Love is Blind. I went to bed around 10pm, before her. I felt cared for that night in a way I needed. I slept better than I had in weeks. I heard Sara puttering about before she went to bed, and I had comfort knowing she was sharing space with me that night. But the comfort of her friendship over this dark period of my life is something I can’t express through words or through paint; her support during the good and the bad; seeing me and knowing me even at my lowest.
In February of 2024 I spent the night at Deb Baume’s home, (Sara’s mum). At the time I was debating whether or not to visit a dentist in Cork the next day, and ultimately decided not to. I went out for my morning ritual run and came back after going less than 300 meters. I came in and she said, ‘Oh you didn’t go?’ I started crying. I felt so lost in pain; I had no answers and no clear steps to take next. All I knew was that I was going back to my cabin in West Cork in a few hours. Deb sat me down, gave me a cup of coffee, and kindly told me how to go about my days: eat three meals, get outside every day, talk to friends, and make appointments with doctors and a game plan to somehow get out of pain. She made me feel grounded that morning, like it was going to be ok. My whole body was in darkness but that whole room was love and I was so grateful to be in it.
Mollie Douthit, For Dad, oil on linen panel, 27 x 35 cm
I spent most of my days in the basement of my parents’ home when I was in the States hiding from the world. I had no desire to engage with people, life or activities. I quit Instagram, painting, reading and watching films. The only habit I maintained was a daily run, in the dark and possibly a walk alone in the afternoons. Most days my Dad, who worked remotely, would knock on my bedroom door and ask if I wanted to go for a walk. I typically said no. One day the pain wasn’t too bad, and I felt a little hopeful, so I agreed. As we turned a corner, I saw tulips in full bloom against a blue house, a bold choice for this modest middle-class neighbourhood, and it delighted me. Two months later as I drove by, I saw that the owners were painting the house beige.
The house in the centre of the painting is my parents’ home, on Oak Street, in North Dakota they have lived on Oak Street since 1992. The roads around it are the ones I would walk or run daily. On these streets I would voice note Sara. Over the course of those five months, I didn’t see my neighbours often and it was never intentional. Once I accidentally saw my neighbour Courtney, and she asked if I needed a hug, and I said yes. I saw Connie at the grocery store, and she too expressed her concern. Jim gave my parents advice when I needed to go to the ER after an allergic reaction to a medication. Oak Street has been home for them for over 30 years, and mine as a child or when I needed care, such as last summer. My neighbourhood quietly held me last summer. My neighbours cared for my parents as they cared for me. The ghostly dog in the painting is of Olive, my newly adopted dog who at the time of my pain was in Romania on a chain, also in misery. We both were in our own hell waiting for each other.
Mollie Douthit, For Arvid, oil on linen panel, 27 x 22 cm
The months I was in the States my husband Arvid was in Sweden. He took a summer job as a chef on the island of Tjärö. The accommodation they gave him wasn’t great, so he decided to pitch a tent for the summer underneath an oak tree. He called me from the tent, and I would talk to him in my parents’ home. A year before this we had been married in my parents’ backyard with friends and family celebrating us; now I was waking up in pain in this same house. All summer I kept thinking about how peaceful it must be to have a tent by the sea, instead of being locked inside a residential urban home, and at this point I was on IV antibiotics. The year before was so optimistic and the summer of 2024 was the absolute opposite. But the summer of 2025 we were able to be together and even spend a weekend on Tjärö. In celebration of finally being able to visit the actual location of his tent this past summer I reimagined the moon as a disco ball, one of his favorite objects.
When I moved back to West Cork in 2020 after a 14-day quarantine I was introduced to a man named Tich. We became fast friends, and when the pain came on, he held on tighter. Tich talked me through the worst of it, and we have had countless calls and texts while I am laying in various beds in bouts of horrific pain. Tich has also given me lifts to and from clinics and shops. Tich is, most of all, great craic. Even in pain he can make me laugh. This painting is of my bedroom in the basement in North Dakota. I put a wool blanket over the window because I hated the sun so much that summer. At one point I made a painting of a cake I baked for Arvid’s birthday, which I couldn't eat with him. I took too many pills in this bed, I drank too much in this bed, I wept and slept too much in this bed. But eventually because of all the people I painted for in this show, I got out of this bed.
In March of 2024, I flew to Utah to have two teeth pulled and two cavitations cleaned out, believing this was the source of the pain. I vetted eight periodontists and chose one in American Fork, Utah. My mom flew to Salt Lake City and met me, booking a hotel and a rental car, insisting that I no longer had to deal with the pain alone. We arrived in Salt Lake City, then drove to American Fork together, where the office was located. I was becoming acutely aware of the love she had for me to go this great distance and push her own limits, driving in an unknown place on roads she wasn’t used to. We were seeing sides of each other we hadn’t before. I felt held and safe but also guilty for doing this to her. We didn’t talk much as she needed to concentrate on driving. Each road sign we read with diligence not to miss our next turn. Then suddenly one appeared: ‘Las Vegas ↑’ The stress we were holding broke a bit. I turned to her and said ‘Wanna go to Vegas?’. We both laughed and I desperately wanted to be in the position where we could change course, but unfortunately, I had an invisible nail going through my gum. The possibility of pain leaving after this procedure was better than Vegas; sadly that didn’t work out.
January of 2023 I was visiting Arvid in Sweden. He had to leave for four days on a trial job. Again, I was in pain. I got myself dressed for the cold; I needed bread. To keep warm I piled on layers of wool, a balaclava, and topped my ensemble off with Arvid’s vintage rabbit hat. The scarf, which my mom bought me in 2017 and has appeared in a few of my paintings, was wrapped around my neck. I was freezing, and experiencing an acute flare-up of pain, but when I walked into the café, without a second glance my friend Ida said, ‘You look like a Queen’. From that day forward my advice to self is: ‘Even in darkness you can pull off a good look’. Ida has been a good friend to Arvid during my pain, and my first close friend in Malmö. If any painting were to have a second title this would be called ‘Queen’ for Ida and I, the Queens of Malmö that day.
I have three close friends in North Dakota: they came late in life, around 2017. We call ourselves the guild. When I came home after Utah, they all in their own ways tried to reach out, and I refused for the most part. Early on when I was hopeful about my recovery, they invited me to a cookbook club. Once a month they all make dishes from a cookbook and have a dinner party, sampling various recipes from the book. I agreed to go. I was a complete mess. The dinner was not just the guild, but about eight women and I shouldn’t have gone. I was introduced to a woman named Debbie and she unknowingly asked me the wrong questions, and in trying to explain my life, tears started to flow. I felt embarrassed and awkward. This is not what Debbie signed up for. I turned away, wiped my tears and then turned back to her smiling and said ‘Well I brought the eggplant soup! What did you bring?!’ We both laughed and so did my friend Heather, after Debbie had explained her puff pastry I walked away. I then looked down the table and noticed I couldn’t eat anything (except what I brought) as I was still on a restrictive diet due to the operation: nothing crunchy, spicy, and no alcohol. I knew I would have more tears if the night continued. I went to the bathroom, took a deep breath, grabbed my keys, got in the car and drove home weeping. Returning home I texted the three of them, apologising for leaving, hoping I didn’t ruin the night. Heather, in her amazing way, told me I did the best thing in taking care of myself. Then she explained my situation to everyone after I left, they all had great compassion.
