by Bobbi French
Of course, those who record history can take credit for events as they see fit. So it’s tempting for me as the scribe of our life to depict myself as some adventurous heroine bravely forging a new life in France. But the truth is this might be the only time in history when a great man has triumphed without the help of an even greater woman. I think he’s a genius and the most generous person I’ve ever known. And now, this year has given him a shine that threatens to burn the eyes right out of my head. He made it all by himself without a single complaint, then handed it to me, asking nothing in return. No words can describe receiving it but I do have a new certainty: love is too weak a word.
The second thing I was sure of was that I needed to transform my life into something unrecognizable from the one I’d been living; that my daily grind was grinding me straight into the ground. I was so busy looking closely into the lives of others that I had no time for even a passing glance at my own. Granted, I didn’t have to pack up and move to France, desperate times and all that, but I did have to leave my job. I’m well aware that I’m a tad daffy these days but I used to be a very serious psychiatrist, a soldier eye deep in the trenches of the mental health care system. The post I retired from was on a locked child and adolescent psychiatric unit forgotten by the public and government funding; an incredibly busy place where unspeakable and, for me unwriteable, tragedies were revealed on a daily basis. Only now with distance do I fully feel the impact of the horrors those kids survived and, on the really bad days, did not survive.
More than once over the last year I’ve had doubts and fears about what will become of me job wise and I’ve second (and third and fourth) guessed the wisdom of leaving a career I worked so hard to have. I mean who in their right mind spends fifteen years in school and over a hundred grand for a career, only to leave at its peak? But while I was at Madame Geraldine’s place the other night, something happened that set this old brain of mine at ease.
We were chatting at the table after a marvelous dinner when in walked a couple with a child about seven or eight years old. They were friends of the family passing through the area and bedding down at the farmhouse for the night. I started to introduce myself when I noticed the child was suddenly right at my side. He waited for me to stop talking and then without a word he smiled, leaned in and placed a soft and slightly sticky kiss on my right cheek, then another on my left. He walked silently to Neil, did the same then skipped up the stairs to bed. In that moment of sweetness from a seemingly happy child who had no terrible secret to tell, no wounds to be healed, I felt a freedom from my old worries and responsibilities that I need to keep.
Every person who has ever called me Doctor got my very best but I knew then and there I wouldn’t go back. Later that night, I thought about all the kids I’ve cared for who inspired this journey in the first place. I recall being in their company and finding myself quite ordinary. Not much has changed on that front. Sure, I live an unusual life in an out of the ordinary place, but I don’t think I’ll ever come close to discovering the secret of their grace. Instead of the extraordinary life I was seeking, I found one more ordinary than ever before. But somehow I think they’d approve of what I’ve done and that’s good enough for me.
I walked away from a solid career and now I have no idea what’s next for me—scary indeed. I came here with a plan for work that dissolved away into the nothingness of the life I now live, scarier still. But these days I find myself less concerned with the things that used to consume me. Actually, I find myself, well, just less concerned. So as I see it, at least for today, I walked toward something infinitely more valuable. Say what you will about the cliché of a midlife crisis, I highly recommend it. Maybe what I’ve done will inspire someone else to look at their life a little more closely, maybe not. Maybe this next year will be a perfect example of what not to do with your life, who knows? I sure as hell don’t. Here’s what I do know: je ne regrette rien.
To those who thought me impulsive and foolish to run away from the circus, you may be right. When I started all this I said I’d lost my mind and that may also be true. But today, walking through this town I now call home, I found something better. As I slowly made my way over the ancient Pont Pinard and began the climb to my housette, I was overcome with a strange warmth, a bizarre sensation that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. At first I thought I was having my first hot flash or some sort of stroke. So I stopped walking, closed my eyes and then it came to me. It was joy. Who knew I had it in me? Now if I could just find some sour cream.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Saying thank you is one of my favourite things to do. So first and foremost, merci beaucoup to all the fine people of Semur-en-Auxois especially Monsieur le Maire Philippe Guyenot and the staff at la Mairie, Monsieur Francis Gally and Les Gueux, Monsieur Eric Moreau, Monsieur Patrick Dano, Monsieur Sébastien Morvan, Monsieur Serge Bierry, Café Des Arts, Galerie Spiralinthe, Hotel Chassy and Le Choeur des Ambrosiniens. I hope the Semurois feel their town has been given the respect it deserves.
My heartfelt thanks to Donna Francis, Pam Dooley and everyone at Creative Book Publishing for taking a chance on a very new and clueless writer who I am sure nearly drove them right round the bloody bend, for allowing me the opportunity to tell my stories the way I wanted to tell them and for making my first foray into publishing a happy one.
To Jill Hatchette, Michel Devrient, Mary Tod and especially Dam-hnait Monaghan, thank you for suffering through the first draft and for your gentle and helpful counsel. I also want to express my profound gratitude to Vivian Swift for her uncommonly generous guidance, support and enthusiasm.
My stories are true and come from real people whose kindness knows no limits. Michel, Patricia, Gaëtan and Florian, Anne and Michel, Elizabeth, Patricia, Francis, Jacqueline, Ulysse and Eleanor, Geraldine and Michel, Steve, Jean-Claude and Jacqueline, Elodie, merci bien. And to my family and friends, thank you for being so incredibly supportive of this journey and for not once saying (to my face at least) that I was silly to do this.
We live in the age of social media and, good or evil, this book would not exist without it. Tara Bradbury (merci Madame), a reporter who happened to appear on my Twitter account one day, introduced me to my publisher, so really it’s all her fault. And on a Friday night way back when, I emailed my brother-in-law and technical genius Scott to say that I was thinking of starting a blog. By Monday morning it was up and running. I still have no idea how my own website works but he does, and for that and many other things, I thank him. To my blog followers, affectionately known as the Finders, no words could possibly express my gratitude (a special merci to Betsy Lerner for introducing me to many of them). Their relentless encouragement has seen me through this adventure and hopefully they’ll be with me for whatever comes next. They are without a doubt the most wonderful people I’ve never met.
Finally, I’d like to say that marriage is a team sport. So I thank my photographer Neil McCulloch. While some of the pictures in this book are mine, if it’s a great one then it’s his. I also offer him my thanks for designing this book, including the beautiful cover. As for everything else he’s done for me, I’ll say no more. I’m not about to portray him as a saint any more than I already have. Next thing he’ll think he’s got the upper hand and ask me to cook something or take out the garbage. Not a chance buddy.
