Laura Bradbury's Blog, page 2

The Memory Bucket

How do you fill up your memory bucket?

I didn’t realize how important memories were until I got sick. My memories of my life lived up until that point were a well of strength I dipped into whenever I needed. My memory bucket reminded me of what I had been so lucky to have experienced, and gave me the will to fight so that maybe I could again.

I think part of why I began to write my memoirs - to strengthen and consolidate the contents of my bucket. I had a suspicion I would need those memories to get me through some dark times. I was right.

It wasn’t like I stopped making memories when I got sick. On the contrary, I fought to experience as much as I could for as long as I could and my memories of that time are felt deeply. I traveled until the doctors told me I couldn’t, I wrote, I cherished time with my family, and during every second of that I realized how precious it was.

Franck and me in our 13th century wine cellar under the streets of Beaune. This was taken on a summer trip back to Burgundy just after I’d been diagnosed with PSC in 2012.

It is no coincidence that one of the main ways I remained sane (mostly - an 80% rule applies here) during my battle with PSC was by going back in time and writing my Grape memoirs of some of the most formative moments in my life. It made me realize that even though I had been dealt a crap hand of cards at that juncture in my life, I’d otherwise been so freaking lucky.

Clémentine, Camille and I in the streets of Greece, summer 2018, post-transplant.

So here’s to keeping all of our memory buckets replenished. I always think now in terms of filling up those memory buckets again and again and again.

For me, I fill it up through travel and being with my girls and Franck. For someone else, their memory bucket could be full of entirely different memories.

To get a peek at what’s in MY bucket, you can download a copy of My Grape Year, the first book in my Grape Series, for free. With that, I am now going to leave and watch Clementine’s basketball game after school, and plan our next trip. Maybe I can get my bucket so full it overflows? Here’s dreaming.

Camille, Clémentine and me on our roof terrace in Apricale, Italy.

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SISU - A Fabulous Thing & A Fabulous Word

I’m a massive lover of words. A good thing, seeing as I’m a writer. I stumbled across one recently that I find just sublime. Here it is;

SISU

It’s Finnish and a noun. It means, “extraordinary endurance in the face of adversity * persistence, determination, guts * full of courage, tenacity, resolve, willpower, and an indomitable spirit.”

I know, WOW. I first saw it when my Finnish Aunt Annie (hi Annie! Love you!) posted it on Facebook.

I don’t think there is an equivalent word in English, do you? There’s grit, resolve, tenacity, but somehow these don’t stretch quite as far as SISU.

I don’t aim in life to have perfect hair (lost cause - seriously - dire hair situation over here at the moment) or the right shoes (never have, never will, except Birks of course). However, from my discovery of SISU onwards to eternity I aim to have lots of that.

A few of my friends have Finnish roots or Finnish family and they tell me that the Finnish people are the living definition of SISU.

I know for me, tenacity has been the main reason why have managed to finish many things in life - my law degree at Oxford, my citizenship application for France (nightmare), and every single thing I have ever written.

SISU is worth being cultivated and put to use, so let’s get out there and SISU hard.

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I'm A Writer, and I Have Opinions.

Bonjour! I’m Laura and I have Many Opinions. I’m also a writer, entrepreneur, mother, wife, and PSC & organ donation advocate.

Some folks believe that public people have somehow surrendered their right to express an opinion.

B.S.. In this day and age, everyone should be expressing their opinions LOUDLY and PUBLICLY.

The political events since Trump was elected horrify me to my core. The cruelty, the inhumanity, the worshiping at the altar of money. It is sickening.

I truly believe Trump has all the makings of the next Hitler, and I am terrified that Americans are allowing this to happen. Us Canadians have to watch ourselves too - our treatment of First Nations and Doug Ford anyone?

I mentioned in one of my newsletter how 2018 was a scary year for so many of us as we witnessed the fallout of the Trump administration - the caged, misplaced, and sometimes dead immigrant children, the support of insane gun laws that mean parents have to be frightened sending their children to school, the wholesale lies, corruption, and racism, the discrimination against minorities. it is horrific.

Everyone needs to shout out loud and clear - this is NOT NORMAL. This is a large-scale humanitarian crisis.

The blowback was intense (and I’m sure the blowback to this will be equally as intense).

I was sent irate messages asking me to apologize (nope), telling me to “stay out of politics” (nope, and in my opinion this has gone way beyond mere politics, it’s a question of human rights and freedoms), I was called a “libtard” and “brainwashed” and far, far worse. I was unfollowed many times over. Speaking out perhaps wasn’t the wisest commercial decision, but I don’t care.

I cannot stay silent. I cannot believe in the idea of the “other” (jews in Nazi Germany, Mexicans and other immigrants in Trump’s USA) after going through an experience like transplant. We are all the same, and we are all connected. Most importantly, we all need to care for one another.

As the quote goes “silence helps the oppressor, never the oppressed.”

If I lose followers or readers, FINE. Great, actually, as those are people I don’t want as my followers anyway.

As Winston Churchill said, “You made enemies? Good. It means you stood up for something, sometime in your life.”

Now is a time to stand up and be heard.

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Harry Potter, the Horcruxes, and My Liver Transplant

Image @pottermore

During one of the most difficult months of my life I was reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

That month, I went from functionally sick with my PSC to being scary sick. My bilirubin shot up to over 130, my skin and eyes turned an alluring shade of daffodil, and I couldn't do much more than shuffle between the couch and my bed.

One thing that I could still do though, and it was an absolute life saver, is read. I rocketed through the Harry Potter series for the fourth or fifth time. It is always a source of wonder to me how literature manages to speak to us and to our situation more eloquently and helpfully than a slew of self-help tomes.

I was re-reading Harry Potter with completely different eyes that time around - in particular the last book of the series - Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows.

I remembered in previous readings the first two thirds of The Deathly Hallows seemed slow. I had found myself getting annoyed at Harry for being so lost and overwhelmed for such an extended period of time as he, Hermione, and Ron (when Ron wasn't AWOL) tried to figure out what the remaining Horcruxes were and how to find them.

Harry was the hero after all. Shouldn't he be braver? Shouldn't he...you know...be significantly less confused?

That month, I completely GOT Harry's uncertainty and floundering. Not only could I relate to Harry, but I found his fumbling immensely comforting.

There are several occasions in the book when Hermione and Ron look to Harry for leadership and guidance and, frankly, are let down by Harry's lack of direction and confidence.

I felt exactly like Harry in that moment.

People would ask me questions like, "what is the timeline for transplant? will you qualify? what are they looking for in a donor?" I wish I knew solid, definitive answers to those questions, but I didn't.

The transplant world is a constantly moving target. So many things could happen to derail, delay, or expedite a transplant...honestly, just like Harry I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, except that I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Like Harry, I educated myself to the best of my ability, but I was overwhelmed and scared. I felt woefully unequipped for the fight ahead of me, let alone leading anyone else.

Also like Harry, I was determined to fight anyway.

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Five Tips To Help You Become a Finisher

If I can become a finisher, trust me - you can too.

I’m great at starting things. House builds, paintings, purging my bedroom, writing projects, books, bullet list journals...

Finishing? Doesn’t come so naturally for me. Somewhere around the middle of the process things start to get hard and, to be honest, kinda boring. The shine dulls.

I did this for TEN years with my writing. I started about seven different manuscripts and completed most of them to about 75%. I wanted to write. I wanted to see my books published. The sticking point was I had to finish them first.

It’s not easy to read a story that hasn’t been finished.

A wise writer friend of mine Elizabeth Boyle said, “you learn more in finishing the last 10% of a book than you do in the other 90%.” Crickey - is this true or what? (It is).

Now I have published six books and am soon releasing my seventh. So how did I suddenly go from being a started to a starter AND a finisher? Short answer is I got diagnosed with a terminal disease. Nothing lights a fire under one’s butt with quite the same panache. Trust me.

But how can you become a finisher without the whole terminal disease part? I think I can help. Here are my tips: 

THE END feels so amazing. Always.

1) Pick ONE thing you want to finish. A creative project? A life project? An emotional project? If you put pressure on yourself to finish everything you’re going to fail. Just pick one thing. 

2) Once you have that thing, figure out a plan for finishing it - Break the work into reasonable increments and most importantly make a commitment to yourself to NOT jump to another project until you finish this thing. 

3) Expect it to be hard and feel gross. Resistance is real folks, but it helps if we can anticipate it and fully expect the finishing part to feel unnatural and difficult and just YUCK. The key is to recognize you have to experience the yuck in order to get through it and reach The End.

4) Pick an enticing reward for yourself when you’re done. I do this with every book - usually it’s a pair of shoes I’ve been coveting, The key is the delayed satisfaction of something you truly want. Post a photo of it somewhere visible to keep you slogging when the going gets tough. 

5) Remember that you’re gonna die. I know this sounds harsh, but being alive is a terminal condition for all of us. Trust me, when you face the end of your life (I’ve been there) you’re going to feel unhappy that you didn’t go out and create those things or change those things or do those things you dreamed of. Whenever your motivation wanes, remind yourself that you too are heading to the terminal on this bus of life. 

You think starting feels good? Finishing feels even better. The yuck in the middle, not so much, but we can push through that.

 Bonne Chance to all you newbie finishers! Let me know how it goes. 

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Love & Weirdness

This is Franck and I on a mountaintop in Greece.

We thought it would be hilarious to adopt the constipated / deeply philosophical expressions of Greek statues. You know, a combination of contemplating a certain paragraph of Plato and / or suffering the digestive issues created by eating too much baklava.

Why did this pose inspire us? No idea. Did it make us laugh? Definitely. The one thing I know is this - it really is a fine thing to find a partner with a similarly deranged sense of humor.

Here’s another photo of The Weirds. This is inside the grounds of the Vatican in Rome. It was so hot that morning that we tried to move as quickly as we could from patch of shade to patch of shade.

We decided we looked like proper Italian mafia in our sunglasses and our matching linen tops. Very Bella Figura. We started to talk like we imagined mafia members do (we were light years off, I’m sure). My mafia name was Larissima and Franck’s was Francesco.

We found this hilarious (in retrospect, possibly heat stroke) so we took this photo. Because we’re weird like that.

One of the things I love writing the most in my books in that quirky banter between Franck and me, or my fictional characters such as Clovis and Cerise.

Dialogue is where I have the most fun. Those sections feel like they write themselves, whereas description feels like trying to high jump with concrete blocks attached to my legs (or, you know, without concrete blocks, because I am a terrible high-jumper).

Besides making life infinitely more fun, I believe sharing a sense of humor is one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs in existence.

Having someone who is the same kind of weird as you = priceless.

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Winter in the Vineyards of Burgundy

We certainly have fewer guests in the winter at our vacation rentals in Burgundy. Yes, it can get cold. It’s also beautiful though. Here are some photos of winter in Burgundy, taken by me and Franck’s mother, Michèle.

Below is the path that leads to our house La Maison des Chaumes the morning after a good winter frost. It’s like a fairy-land isn’t it?

This is a photo I took from the my daily constitutional around the Mont Saint Victor in wintertime. This is looking out over the valley and vineyards towards Magny-les-Villers. The one below is the view of the path that encircles the Mont Saint Victor (a walk I highly encourage our guests to adopt no matter what the season).

The Roman-era chapel and the neolithic tombs up on the top aren’t too shabby either.

Below is one of our favorite trees on Les Chaumes, the shared grassy area above the village of Villers-la-Faye, directly behind La Maison des Chaumes.

I find Burgundy goes extremely well with the winter season. Winter in Burgundy means wine festivals (Les Trois Glorieuses in November and the Saint-Vincent in January), winetastings in cellars, long, leisurely meals of coq au vin or boeuf bourgignon, quiet vespers services at the nearby monastery of Cîteaux. It’s magical, just like the winter scenes above.

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Terminal Glamour

I have never been on the receiving end of as many gushing compliments on my appearance as I was after being diagnosed with a terminal disease.

Shortly after being diagnosed with PSC, just before my fortieth birthday, my skin became perma-tanned with jaundice. I was, for the first time in my life, able to eat everything I wanted without putting on an ounce. A friend who also suffered from PSC termed this phase as “The Time of the Great Gluttony”.

When my liver got particularly bad I actually - for the first time in my entire life - struggled with losing too much weight too fast. It was terrifying.

There were other physical manifestations of my failing body. My eyes seemed to be sink into my skull. My skin was scaly and fragile. My facial bones became more pronounced as my face thinned out. My rings fell off my fingers and my bracelets slid off my ever-shrinking wrists.

Yet the compliments keep coming. One day I bumped into a person I hadn't seen in a while. She did know, however, about my liver disease.

"You went on vacation!" She punched me on the shoulder. "I wish I had a tan like that!"

"We actually stayed here for the holidays," I said. "It isn't a tan. It's cirrhosis."

"Oh. Well...you look great! You've lost weight too!"

"Same. That's from the sick liver."

"That’s amazing. I mean, it almost makes me want to get a liver disease."

You can fucking have mine I felt like saying, but didn’t.

On that particular day it was actually taking every functioning brain cell in my head to will myself to stay vertical instead of keeling over, so I couldn’t even think up a coherent response.

This was not a mean person. This was not a bad person. However, her reaction does illustrate how completely (pardon my french) fucked up our society's attitudes are towards beauty - particularly female beauty.

Given the daily compliments I received on my weight loss, thinned out face, and tanned skin, I have to conclude that either:

a) people were flummoxed when they saw me and didn't know what to say, so got chronic foot-in-mouth disease (I have complete sympathy with this), or

b) what we consider beautiful for women in North America is actually what we can attain by getting terminally ill. This, needless to say, is worrisome in the extreme.

Losing weight with PSC was not wonderful, it was very, very scary. In PSC patients rapid weight loss is usually either a sign of a decompensating liver (look it up - not a happy state of affairs) or, more ominous still, one of the only outward signs of bile duct cancer.

Same with the tan. People with liver disease pay close attention to skin color. Whereas pre-liver disease I may have lusted after a golden glow, I now look at ghostly pale people and think enviously to myself "their liver function must be so good."  

I now realize how I took my pale Scottish / British complexion for granted when I was healthy, as well as my round face and tendency to pack on weight.

I come from peasant stock. I am built like my ancestors in the Scottish highlands - sturdy legs, round, muscular arms, and a low center of gravity...perfect for scrambling over hedgerows with a sick cow slung over my shoulders.

I was never so appreciative of my solid build as when I got sick. My strong constitution meant that my liver could be as sick as it was and that I was still more or less functioning.

I had bad days and bad weeks, but there was some deep, indefatigable well of energy in my cells that allowed me to rebound even when I became very ill.

It was not an electric kind of energy one finds in frailer folk, but a kind of dogged endurance that comes along with legs like tree trunks and thick upper arms. I was the one, a day after each of my C-sections, making slow, plodding laps of the maternity ward with my IV pole.

Sheer pigheadedness, backed up by thick thighs.

Since my transplant, I have been so grateful to watch my body revert back to its natural physical appearance, even though it doesn’t match up with what is normally considered "beautiful" by most people.

I’m pale in the winter and I’m starting to develop the double chin from my mother’s side of the family. My cheekbones have lost their sharp edge. My body packs on weight and is determined to hang on to every last calorie in case the Englishmen invade my village (sigh, AGAIN).

My abdomen is criss-crossed by C-section scars, a massive Mercedes scar from my transplant, and little scars here and there from the tubes and needles they had in me.

I am finally well. I have never felt more beautiful.

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More French Habits, aka "Frenchitude"

What is “Frenchitude” you may ask?

I coined the word several years ago, and it goes like so: French + Attitude = Frenchitude

Yes, I invented this word. www.laurabradbury.com

To keep the Frenchitude going, I'm picking up the gauntlet again in my blog series "french habits to adopt" with Volume number 4. Here are Volume 1, Volume 2, and Volume 3 if you need to catch up.

I don’t think the french way of doing everything is necessarily better, or that these suggestion work for everyone. They are merely ideas I have picked up in France and felt added value to my life over the years.  On y va!  

1. Live with A Few Pieces of Family Furniture

This is commonplace in France - you go over to someone's house and the entire place is furnished in sleek modern lines, except for one dark, massive, and ornate armoire that has been passed down through generations from their ancestors in Brittany.

Almost everyone in France has family furniture like this. Most importantly, these antiques are not just there to stare at, they are used.

Dishes are stored in the armoire, or the great-great grandmother’s kitchen buffet. The long oak table is eaten upon twice a day, the carved wooden Louis XVIII chair is used and reupholstered every decade or so...

An old buffet that used to serve in a bakery in Chalon which now graces La Maison des Chaumes.

In my house here in Canada I have my great grandmother's old potting table from her shed on Saltspring Island which I painted a teal blue and use as a front table hall. I bought the armoire in the top photo in France. It now lives in La Maison des Chaumes for a future family piece that I hope my girls - one of them anyway - will want to live with. 

Family furniture infuses a feeling of history, continuity, and connection that I believe enriches our environment. Using older things instead of buying particle board pieces from IKEA is also earth-friendly. It’s a welcome counter-point to that generic decorating style that looks like it was lifted verbatim from a furniture showroom or decorating magazine.

Family furniture gives our homes a soul.  

2. Celebrate the Big Things...and the Small Things...and Everything

The French generally have a bottle of bubbly in their fridge. It’s pulled out to celebrate engagements, promotions, divorces, Fridays, or just having friends drop by. This eagerness to celebrate the moments of life - big and small - is probably one of my favorite things about living in France.

As much as we adore good champagne (but frankly I would rather drink water than bad champagne) our bubble of choice is the wonderful Crémant de Bourgogne. This glorious drink is made from grapes harvested in Burgundy and vinified with exactly the same method used to make Champagne.

Because the grapes are not harvested within the geographic boundaries of the Champagne Region the drink cannot be called Champagne, which means it is just as good (if not better) but less expensive.

It comes in either regular or rosé. Behold below.

Our favorite bubble of choice right now chez Germain.

I think it is an excellent rule of thumb, as the French do, to always have a bottle of your favorite bubbles (and this can be a Pelligrino Spritzer or a St. Croix) on hand in case the need to celebrate arises.  

This achieves two wonderful things. First, it makes you anticipate the next reason to celebrate, so you will find yourself looking for the triumphs in your life both big and small. Secondly, the fact that you have a plan to recognize these celebratory moments and fête them means that they will proliferate exponentially.

Trust me, it’s magique.

3. Start the Day Slow

This one is easy for me. I love my bed and hate getting out of it in the morning. When I do finally emerge, I stumble around like a troglodyte, incapable of forming coherent sentences.

The French tend to start their day slow, and resist going on their computer or their phone immediately. Instead they linger for a while over a coffee and maybe a toasted tartine with some lovely jam.

I’ve found when I avoid technology until I am actually sitting down at my desk to start work, I begin the day less frazzled. I make this easy by keeping my laptop on my desk and my phone plugged in downstairs. I’ve established a rule for myself about no phone in the bedroom. For an alarm, I have an old-school turquoise clock on my bedside table.

This way you can enjoy your coffee (a sacred moment for me) or whatever else you like for breakfast without already stressing about the oppressive to-do list that emails and social media can trigger in your mind.

Starting slow paves the way to a smoother day - always a win in my book.

Photo by Danielle MacInnes on Unsplash

Stay tuned for more Frenchitude ideas on here. In the meantime, profitez-bien!

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Dressing Kind

In Bermuda I basically lived in this bathing suit cover up / dress / tunic made out of pleated white cotton.

After my transplant, I made a big change in my closet. After all my body had been through, I was never again going to make it suffer by wearing anything remotely uncomfortable. I headed to my closet and in an act of self-loving defiance did a mighty purge.

Itchy? OUT
Too small? OUT
Makes me feel like a stuffed sausage? OUT
Looks slightly off? OUT
Yuck colour? OUT
Heels? OUT OUT OUT

At the end I had a massive garbage bag of unkind clothes I took downtown to donate. I hope they were kinder to the people who ended up buying them than they were to me.

Slowly, over the next few months, I began to collect clothes that felt kind to my body.

Soft? IN
Drapey? IN
Stretchy? IN
Tie dye or sequins? IN
White linen tops? IN
Clogs? IN
Birkenstocks? IN
Crystals? IN IN IN

I chose items I loved wearing and that made life feel more fun (sequins and velvet for me).

My author uniform. Stretch jeans (YAS!), suede flats, linen top, velvet jacket, scarf.

Do you have clothes in your closet you bought in hope of a different future you? Will they fit when you lose ten pounds, or start going out to fancy restaurants, or figure out a way to control the insane dog hair situation in your house (my advice will always be to get rid of the clothes, never the dog)?

This kind of aspirational shopping not only clutters up your closet and drawers with things that don’t fit your present, but it interferes with your enjoyment of your present life exactly as it is. Living in an aspirational future seems to be the way North American culture rolls most of the time, but it prevents us from honoring the NOW.

Unkind clothes suck away our power. Their insidious message is that there is something wrong with US. They are mistaken. We are just fine - the something wrong is the unkind clothes.

Get kind. I refuse to let my body endure unkind clothes or shoes anymore. Just...done. So now I am all about cashmere and silk and linen and chenille and kimonos and velvet and - hallelujah! - stretch jeans! One of the best inventions of the last twenty years. Seriously.

I wore this velvet top I found at a consignment shop for my garden party. I love the softness, the beautiful cornflower color, and its tunic length. The V-neck shows off the scar on my chest.

My body has given my three healthy babies and survived a liver transplant. It’s getting nothing but clothing love and kindness from now on. The funny thing is that I’ve never received as many complements on my clothes as I have since dressing kind.

I think it must be because when I wear kind clothes, I’m appreciating my body exactly how it is - battle scars and curves and strong thighs and all.

You are perfect just the way you are. Make sure your clothes reflect that.

At the top of the Vatican in black palazzo pants (excellent for all those stairs), a linen top, and my beloved Birks.

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