Not for the first time my mother disowned me this week. Well, it was probably the first time this week (that I’m aware of) but over my lifetime I’ve lost count of how many instances she’s pretended I’m no relation of hers. Definitely not her daughter, and absolutely not born from her very own womb. My mother has disowned me more times than I’ve had a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel.
On this occasion, my mother, my niece Kat and I were visiting a Jewish nursing home for the elderly where my parents could have their own flat and all the top-rate care they might ever need. Plus a synagogue and plethora of activities and entertainment in a cosy and kosher establishment where, once upon a time, my mother herself worked as the cook and was much loved.
The manager showed us around. She was Orthodox, very witty, pragmatic, straight-talking and just generally brilliant. She had been expecting my dad as well but he had stubbornly refused to come. First, he doesn’t believe that at 91 he is old enough to go to a care home. Second, he knows a couple of fellows who live there and he’s worried they might bug him all the time with their chatter. Third, he isn’t a sociable or chatty chap, my dad. He just doesn’t like to talk, OK? And if you ask him anything he goes off into deep thought. Silent deep thought. In fact, now I come to think of it, he’s a lot like that computer from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, actually called Deep Thought, taking centuries to come up with answers. I’ve only been waiting for more than half a century already so I suppose I shouldn’t really complain. Seriously, there are questions I asked him as a child for which I’m still awaiting a response.
Anyway, fourth, he needs to be close to his Adeni synagogue. And fifth, and most crucially, he won’t countenance for a moment the possibility of ever being presented with Ashkenazi food again, as happened when he was in hospital and provided with kosher meals. In fact, I think my dad would actually run away if anyone tried to feed him Ashkenazi food again. It’s spice and bizbaz (Adani chillies or schug) with every meal for him.
When my mother suggested moving into a care home together where they’d still have their own kitchenette but most meals would be provided by the care home staff, my dad angrily accused my mother of trying to kill him.
As we were shown around the care home many people remembered my mother from the time when she worked there and were delighted to see her. “This is my granddaughter Katrina,” my mother gushed to each of them. “Such a blessing to me. Always helping her grandparents.”
“Kol hakavod!” and “How wonderful!” they said and then looked quizzically in my direction. “That’s just my carer,” my mother explained dismissively. Ah, I see, they nodded.
OK, so my dress was a few inches above my knees, and my neckline wasn’t right up to my chin and might have hinted at a cleavage but, hello?
It’s not a one-way street, you know. I too have been so embarrassed that I have pretended not to know my mother. But that’s normal, isn’t it? You expect it to be that way round. I’ve been embarrassing my children all their lives. As all parents know, it’s an essential part of the job and one at which I excel.
But how is it that I embarrass both my children and mother?
When we’re out and about, my mother’s decision on whether or not to claim me depends on how I’m dressed and how frum she deems the people into whom we bump. Many a time in Kosher Kingdom, when people politely ask after her children, and I’m right there, holding the wheelchair, ignored and unacknowledged, I’ll chip in with: “Oh, her daughter Misha is truly fantastic.”
Once, though, it backfired deliciously on her. Puzzled at my being called my mother’s carer, a woman who recognised me said, “but this is your daughter!” “I am,” I assured her. Then, quietly, “I’m afraid it’s the dementia.” The woman nodded sympathetically. “Ah, I see.”
