Jonathan Freedland
Nearly 11 years have passed since I last broke my own rule and wrote in this place about something deeply personal. Then, in the summer of 2001, it was the birth of my first child and the article was a hymn of praise for the National Health Service that had ushered my son into the world.
Today I write about my mother, who died 10 days ago. Once again – though this is not my only aim – I want to record my praise, even awe, for the people who looked after her. It was not so straightforward this time. Yes, the NHS funded it all, but my mother was tended to – at home in Bournemouth – by a variety of agencies, some public, some voluntary and one private. I confess that before this experience, I would have been wary of such an arrangement. But my prejudices were confounded. The team worked together with perfect efficiency, a coalition of Macmillan and Marie Curie nurses, agency staff, NHS district nurses and care assistants and the local GP. Not once did any information slip through the cracks. It meant we could fulfil our promise to my mother that she would spend her last weeks not in hospital or in a hospice, but at home.
At no point, despite all the equipment and expertise that came through the front door, was money so much as mentioned. Never were we confronted with a choice of a cheaper option or a limit to our “cover”. My mother got all the care she needed and no one presented her or us with a bill. That is the glory of our national health system, one we take for granted too easily. It is a treasure to be cherished.
And yet what will stay with me is a thought not about systems or organisations, but about people. Perhaps two dozen different women helped my mother in those last days. They were gentle and sensitive, speaking softly and with great care. Several of them, it turned out, were motivated by past experience of caring for their own, terminally ill relatives. On the last full day of my mother’s life, I noticed that the eyes of one nurse, Sue, were welling with tears. She had been watching me talk to my mother and had, I think, been reminded of her own farewell to her father. When she said goodbye to me, she said something I shall never forget. “Thank you for letting me in.”
I never asked what any of these remarkable people are paid, but I don’t imagine it’s very much. And yet they do work that is tough, exhausting and priceless. I know the explanation for that paradox but, in truth, it is inexplicable.
Still, what I’ve been thinking about most during these last 10 days is my mother. She won no prizes, she built no monuments – and yet her life was extraordinary. When I wrote a memoir of three generations of my family, including the lives of relatives involved in some of the epic political events of their era, it was nevertheless her story that touched people most.
She was born Sara Hocherman in 1936, in the small town of Petach Tikva in what was then Palestine. She was two months premature: the doctors warned that her life was “hanging by a thread”. Her father was an ultra-orthodox Jew who showed his children what might politely be called distracted neglect. He did not provide for them or his wife and, after an older sister died through malnutrition, my mother’s mother returned to her native London with her two surviving children.
By the time she was five, in 1942, Sara was an evacuee in the Bedfordshire countryside, taken in by a kindly unmarried lady who took a shine to the little girl. But Sara missed her mother terribly. In the spring of 1945, the war’s end approaching, a reunion seemed only weeks away. Then one of the very last V2 rockets to fall on London hit Hughes Mansions in the East End, killing 134 people; 120 of them were Jews, my mother’s 33-year-old mother among them. When everyone else was celebrating VE Day, eight-year-old Sara was in mourning.
What followed were hard years in the post-war East End, and in 1949 a return to what was now Israel, to witness the earliest years of the state. That period was hard too: my teenage mother had to contend with poverty, family estrangement and disease. In 1955, Sara returned to England where she eventually met and found happiness with my father. Illness would strike again when my mother was 43; once more the doctors would say her life was hanging by a thread. But somehow she survived.
There is so much to say about all of this, and one way or another I will spend the rest of my life saying it. But three points stand out.
The first is that my mother’s experience made her much more hawkish than me on matters relating to Israel. To lose her mother (and an aunt) along with so many other Jews to one of Hitler’s bombs meant she had felt the breath of the Shoah on her neck: it entrenched a yearning that she felt as a desperate need, the craving for a place the Jews could call their own. She was not the only one to feel it. Whatever view you ultimately take on the Israel-Palestine question, you cannot hope to understand that conflict unless you also understand this need.
Second, whenever one contemplates war or military intervention anywhere, one needs to contemplate this unbending fact: that every bomb or rocket that falls, no matter where in the world it lands, is destined to create another Sara Hocherman – a child who has lost a parent. And the pain of that act will live on through the decades and through the generations, as it did in my family.
Lastly, my mother’s life was proof of the power of love. She was rescued first by her aunt, Yiddi, who took her in, and next by my father, who was with her for 52 years and with her at the very end. Their love ensured that, though my mother was unfathomably strong, she was never hard. She contained next to no bitterness, only oceans of empathy.
So this weekend, do yourself this favour, if you can. As my mother would have put it, deploying the idiosyncratic grammar that was part Yiddish, part passive-aggressive self-deprecation, “Phone your mother: she’s also a person.”
Jonathan Freedland has set up a Just Giving page in his mother’s name, for Macmillan Cancer Support
Twitter: @j_freedland
-
Share - Tweet this
