Laura Bradbury's Blog

How to Create a Good Death

Again on the topic of death and life (sorry to those who are groaning right now, but I’m a pathological contemplator of the human condition).

When I went to Edmonton for my transplant it all happened very fast. I had about three days to prepare and leave my girls and family to a possible new life or, as I had been warned many times, a possible death.

Most of my extended family was away, but one thing that struck me was that it seemed completely useless to me at the time to engage in long drawn out good-byes.

I reasoned I would either see them again or I wouldn’t, and nothing that could be said in that last ten minutes would make any difference.

Heartless of me? Probably. But I had hit my limit of what I could emotionally take on board. I knew what I had ahead of me to cope with and I could not deal with one more thing. I knew I was going to have to say good-bye to my daughters and not lose my shit. I could not do any other good-byes besides that. I.just.could.not..

Slowly, it sunk in that we build relationships and indeed a LIFE not in those final few moments but in how we spend every day.

I always have that thought in the back of my head now. We create a good death by creating a good life, and a life can only be created in the present.

So go out there and create quality moments with quality people. Don’t bank on leaving it all for the end.

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Mighty Magic

This is a cool photo Franck took of the cobblestones leading up to the Colosseum in Rome.

As I’ve mentioned before. I have zero chill about old stuff. I paw it and marvel over those Romans who built this thousands of years ago.

Me grinning from ear to ear on the roof of the Vatican.

I know when I started writing my books the day after being diagnosed with PSC, part of my motivation was to leave something behind for my daughters, just like those Romans left behind these cobblestones for all of us.

Rome is just breathtaking history at every step.

I know books are only as immortal as the people left on this earth to read them (side note: global warming is real and we all need to take steps to prevent it from getting worse). Books feel timeless to me though. When I pick up a book written by a deceased writer I instantly feel like they are communicating with me in a way that transcends life and death.

My books aren’t exactly Rome, but they are something. To find all of them (6 and counting…) just go to www.laurabradbury.com .

Many of my readers tell me they consider me as a friend after reading my books, even though they’ve never met me. I truly feel that they are. We have established a friendship via the 26 letters of the alphabet weaved into a story. I don’t know about you, but I see that as some mighty magic I want in my life.

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Almost Fearless

About eight months after my transplant we’d moved into a new house and there were major renovations happening at the house next door. I’ve been around construction sites my whole life, but this was the most poorly run job I’d ever seen.

I didn’t complain about the noise or the huge trucks coming and going, because I am sympathetic re: construction woes. However, the sub trades consistently blocked us in our driveway every day so we couldn’t drop off or pick up our kids from soccer, school, etc. Etc. This pissed me off big time.

One plumber in particular was unrepentant. I’d asked him several times to move his van and not to park in front of our driveway, but he always did.

One day I was running late to pick up Clem from school and I was hedged in by the plumber once again. I lost my shit. He was being an asshole, and I was done.

He began yelling at me, saying I should park down the block, not him, calling me a bitch, etc.. I paused for a beat, then I felt like my incandescent rage made me grow three feet taller.

“I’M NOT AFRAID OF YOU!” I leaned closer and shouted into his face. “I’M NOT AFRAID OF ANYTHING!” It was a roar that came from deep within me. I almost felt the air shake.

The plumber stared at me, his eyes wide. He apologized, then scuttled into his van and parked it a block away. He never parked anywhere near our house again.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized just how much my transplant journey had transformed my relationship with fear and conflict. I had gone from being a person afraid of many things to a person afraid of barely anything.

I’m still frightened of the idea of anything happening to my kids, and getting PSC again, but besides that not much scares me.

Scared of staying up in a remote cabin on my own = nope

Scared of walking in the dark by myself = nope

Scared of bears / cougars in the forest (there are quite a few around here) = nope

Scared of flying in an airplane (I used to be so terrified I had to medicate myself) = nope

Scared of failure = nope

Scared of what people thing of me = nope

Scared my writing sucks = nope

Scared of being scared (aka how anxiety manifested for me) = nope

Once I’d been through my own version of hell (I believe there are as many versions of hell, and heaven, as there all humans on earth), all the things that used to frighten me fell away.

A dear friend made me a necklace I wore often in my journey to transplant with the word “intrépide” engraved on it. It’s one of my favorite french words that doesn’t have an exact equivalent in English. It means many things, but I love how it conveys this idea of moving forward courageously towards daunting things.

It was my goal to be brave, to be fearless, to not back down in front of the threat. Low and behold, going through hell allowed me to achieve it.

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My Disinterested Family

Want to hear something amusing about my memoirs? I wrote these books largely for my daughters, but my girls and Franck have never read them, nor do they have any intention to.

Readers in Victoria often pepper my immediate family with questions about their role in my Grape Series stories. My family always answer the same way - “No idea! Haven’t read them!”.

People tend to be surprised, but I for one have no problem with my family’s loudly expressed disinterest. As they have all explained to me at various times, my books are MY memories and MY version of events. They don’t want their own memories to be obscured by mine. Fair.

Between you and me, I am relieved. If Franck and my girls read my books, they would undoubtedly take issue with my recollections and my portrayal of them. One thing my family has in abundance is OPINIONS.

Also, some people ask why I stick with a “closed door” sexy times policy in my memoirs. My answer is simple: I don’t have a million+ dollars to pay for the future therapy for my girls if they ever did decide to crack open the books.

But as for my novels? In those, I can do whatever I want. Bwah ha ha.

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Catholicism & The Culture of Pleasure

I had a fascinating conversation with a friend about why Latin countries like France, Italy, Spain, etc. have developed a culture so focused on pleasure whereas other cultures have not.

The roof of St. Peter’s at the Vatican. Laura Bradbury

I shared Franck’s theory on this with her - he argues that it’s the brand of Catholicism widely practiced in these countries that’s at the root of their pleasure-seeking ways.

In France, the Catholic religion, which has greatly influenced the culture over the centuries, expects human beings to screw up ALL THE TIME. That’s what confession is for. Humans are flawed, and the Church for centuries taught its followers that as humans they controlled diddly squat.

Buy your church gear in Rome! Laura Bradbury

As a result the French people are not at all alarmed when they under-perform or screw up. That’s what humans are supposed to do. A human’s job is to squeeze the most pleasure out of life as possible and let God (and the Virgin Mary and the Saints) take care of the responsibility of the Grand Plan.

Canada, to use as contrast, had more of a Protestant ethos once those darned puritans arrived. A person’s relationship with their God (if they choose to have one) was generally direct and immediate. This meant people were accountable to God.

Puritanism comes with the belief that a human can (and should) control their destiny. They need to work hard and be perfect and moral and productive to be worthy of God’s love.

Lourdes, France www.laurabradbury.com

The idea we should be able to control everything doesn’t leave much time for pleasure. It also breeds the black beast of guilt which makes us think while we are enjoying a lazy day of doing nothing that we should be up and probably training for a marathon or something.

In my experience the French feel little (if any) guilt about their real or perceived shortcomings. Their attitude is “Humans are made to make mistakes, so let’s sit down and enjoy this croissant and café au lait while God takes care of us.”

Not such a bad way to live, come to think of it.

One of Rome’s countless sublime churches. www.laurabradbury.com

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Making Friends With Death

It’s true that since my transplant I’ve discovered a new kind of peace. Of course I still get stressed, life gets chaotic, and at times I feel like a wild banshee (not that this is necessarily a bad thing), but still...something profound has shifted.

I know what shifted, but it is an answer that makes many people deeply uncomfortable. It completely breaks away from a script most of us have internalized.

My secret is that when I was really, truly sick and yellow, when I felt nauseous and in pain 24/7 and barely had the strength to stand up, I became friends with death.

I had been terrified of death my whole life. It was the root of my anxiety and panic attacks, the villain, the enemy...When I became gravely ill though, oblivion became the best part of my day. It was the only moment of peace and non-struggle in my existence.

I wanted to get a transplant and LIVE more than anything, but if that didn’t work out, death would be a deliverance. I came to see death could be merciful.

I didn’t want to die. I don’t want to die, but I have become friends with death. That, I believe, is one of the main reasons I can now be so full of life.

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My Vacation Face

Me having lunch in the piazza in Apricale, Italy.

This is my vacation face - happy, fulfilled, inspired...Many moons ago I decided I would no longer try to have the “perfect” trip (almost impossible because we all get tired, disoriented, and my stomach has always been a grumpy travel companion). Instead, I view myself as a collector of perfect moments. On this trip I have already a memory album full.

Taking this trip is definitely not the most financially responsible move, but my perspective on finances and life was completely turned on its head when I was facing death.

Suddenly, saving for retirement seemed like the most ludicrous notion in existence (rationally I know it’s not, but for me, under those circumstances, it was). Those hours before I went into surgery I was so grateful for all those unreasonable leaps we had taken in our life.

Franck and me goofing off on a mountaintop on the island of Paros, Greece.

And as a former PSCer and transplant patient my doctors have harped on and on about how PSC can return, and how now that I have been given life my duty is to go and live it. Writing is one of the ways I do that. And spending time with family and friends. And travelling...oh yes, definitely travelling.

Whatever experiences I have are “in the bank” for good. To me, these days, that is more valuable than any other currency.

Me on top of a lighthouse in Bermuda.

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My Complete Lack of Travel Chill

My sweating and having zero chill in front of the Coliseum.

Is it possible to have less than zero chill when travelling? If so, I have that.

My grandmother Agnes had a friend - let’s call her Ruth - who she traveled to Europe with twice. My grandma always rolled her eyes when she recounted how Ruth would paw the walls of the ancient castles they visited in Scotland, exclaiming, “It’s so ancient! It’s just SO ancient!!!”

My grandmother found Ruth an excruciatingly embarrassing travel companion for her complete lack of chill.

Me pretending to smoke an imaginary cigarette and look like a cool Italian against massive Roman ruins. Failing miserably with the fake-smoking and Italian part, but succeeding beautifully with the zero-chill.

It dawned on me on our trip to Rome that I am Ruth. I don’t glide around Rome in a perfect chiffon dress, espadrilles, and a straw hat and shrug, blasé, when I turn the corner and am confronted with a Roman temple.

Nope. Not me. I’m all sweaty and my feet hurt and I’m frantically taking photos. I happen upon a sole Roman column and shriek “HOLY CRAP THAT’S AN ACTUAL ROMAN COLUMN!!!!!” And then I’m like, “I need to go closer! I must TOUCH IT”. I found myself pawing ancient things constantly on this trip à la Ruth.

Then there’s also the aspect of “I can’t believe I am still alive to paw ancient Roman things!”.

Roman arches? I must pose for a picture here. “Take a photo of me Franck! Take a photo of me!”.

I have decided to embrace having no travel chill. I realized that the most annoying tourists in France are those who act completely unimpressed by everything. Have they lost their sense of wonder (which I find so terribly tragic that I pity them)? Or are they trying to act cool to impress...who exactly? It’s not a lot of fun being chill. It’s definitely not fun being around someone like that.

I believe the main requirement for being a writer is wonder. My books are full of the wonder of living in France (not to mention living with a Frenchman). If I was blasé about life in France, there wouldn’t be much for me to write about.

As Roald Dahl wrote, “Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” It’s only now I realize Ruth nailed that shit down long ago.

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The OR Litmus Test

I often refer in an offhand manner to my “OR Litmus Test”. My longtime readers, who accompanied me on my journey to and through transplant, know what this means, but for my newer followers (welcome!!!!) I thought it would be good just to re-clarify what that means.

Here goes:

Before I got sick I was overwhelmed with the need to build and acquire. Every time we visited a new place I would pick up real estate flyers and make a loose plan to start operating a vacation rental there. It was like I couldn’t fully enjoy a place without feeling like I could potentially own part of it.

I no longer have any desire to build a real estate empire or own twenty houses throughout the world.

I realized as I lay on that hard, cold metal table in the OR, that if I didn’t wake up from my transplant - a possibility tons of doctors warned me about - this was it. I wasn’t going out with my houses, or money in the bank. It felt to me at that moment that all I could take with me was love and memories (I know whether memories can be taken with us is a matter of debate, but it’s what I feel is true). All I could leave behind was the impact I had on others, and my writing.

That hour before my transplant everything became crystal clear for the first time in my life.

Love = the most important thing

Family = everything

Helping = sign of a good life

Creating = leaving something of meaning behind

Memories & Experiences = the only wealth we truly possess IMHO

***

Money = can’t take with us

Prestige = irrelevant

Property = means nothing to the point of seeming ridiculous when faced with death

Material possessions, except those of a sentimental nature that can be passed on = Nada

This “OR table” litmus test continues to inform my decisions and inspire my dreams.

I now feel a strong, surprising call to the vagabond life.The ideas of failure, disgrace, criticism, what other people think - all of that seems unimportant in light of my drive to create.

Things that I deemed unimportant on the OR table are not where I waste my time and energy.

I am still reeling with this new clarity that was gifted to me along with my new liver.

Me being rolled out of my room en route for the OR for my transplant surgery. March 22, 2017.

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Making Room for Creativity

When people ask where I am with my writing and I tell them I just handed my A Vineyard for Two manuscript to my editor, they often exclaim “you write so fast!”.

Um. NOPE.

I think traditionally published authors can often afford to write at a leisurely pace, but many self-published authors I know publish four novels a year, if not more.

I know...demented, right? Yes, I’m green with jealousy over here. I thought that post-transplant I would be able to put out two or maybe three books a year but, nope, I seem to still be a book-a-year writer.

Even for my modest creative output, people often ask how I “do it” i.e. publish about a book a year.

Truth? I let a LOT of things slide.

I would love to be the type of person who loftily decides they will forgo their evening Netflix in order to buckle down and create, but I am not so disciplined. I love crashing in front of the TV, and I love watching movies and series (hello? Derry Girls, Sex Education, and Lovesick?). I reason that it’s an excellent study in plot and storytelling, but truthfully I am a slacker at heart.

Instead, I have jettisoned the things I dislike or am not particularly interested in doing. I’m not the most domestic person to begin with, but when I’m trying to finish a book my lack of tidying, folding laundry, etc. becomes truly alarming. If we didn’t pay for a cleaner I’d be concerned for our health & safety.

I don’t volunteer at my kids’ schools. I don’t answer the phone when I’m working and often I don’t answer the door either. I don’t iron (I don’t even own an iron). I drop all my clothes on my “floordrobe” before climbing into bed. I don’t garden. I don’t do two hour long yoga classes. My “fuck-it radius” is extremely wide. This is how I make time to create.

I’m a big believer that none of us can do it all, so we have to figure out our priorities. Writing and FINISHING books is one of mine, so that means a lot of other stuff has to NOT get done to make room for creation.

One of my readers’ favorite lines in My Grape Escape comes from the hilarious French car dealer and foodie, Jackie. In the book, he says to me after we “waste” an entire day at the Louhans market and bistros instead of finding a much-needed car to buy, “Never confuse what is urgent and what is truly important.”

I have decided that even though the ringing phone and the dog hair on the floor may be urgent, creating is what’s truly important.

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