My mother insists that I’m hot - The Jewish Chronicle

This summer, I visited my family. There we are in – let’s call it ‘Beigel! Bagel! Bialy!’ – the Jewish heart of my home town, and it’s packed with Jewish women of almost every age (but mostly over 70). At one table, I’m sure I’m looking at a relative of my friend Meira (a twin, if 20 years older), and to my right is a woman who must be the mother of someone I went to school with – or was it camp? They’re babbling away. Yentas, my grandmother would call them. My brother-in-law is lecturing my husband about Bitcoin (“It’s revolutionised the banking industry!”), but I can barely hear him, the din in the restaurant is other level; if I were wearing my mother’s hearing aids, I’d probably turn them off just to give my ears a bit of peace. Meanwhile, it’s August, 27 degrees outside and about twice that inside, and I’m vigorously fanning myself with the menu, scrambled eggs/onion/lox, matzah brei omelette, challah French toast, and cheese blintzes rushing past my eyes in a hot blur.

My mother, catching the waving tuna salads and scoops of white fish, suddenly looks at me suspiciously. “Karen,” she says, “Why are you so hot?”

“Because it’s boiling?” I suggest.

“No. I’m cold.” She reaches for her cardigan. Well, if she’s cold… (Remember that cartoon of a kid in hat, earmuffs, scarf, heavy jacket, gloves, and boots telling a kid dressed for summer: “My mom was cold”?).

Just then, the server passes by, and my mother grabs the back of her shirt to haul her over. She’s been waiting to complain about the eggshell she’s discovered in her shakshuka. “Look!” she says, jabbing the shard with her fork, “Do you see that?” I use her distraction to turn to the conversation between my brother-in-law and husband. “And white flour is the devil!” my brother-in-law, a keto fanatic, is ranting…

Then I feel my mother’s attention on me again. “KAREN!” My mother, never one to modulate her voice, stage whispers, “are you…starting menopause?”

“No,” I respond, wondering how she’s forgotten about my breast cancer. “I’m already menopausal, remember? I’m on a medication that keeps me from ovulating!”

But she’s now – at full volume – shouting: “IS THAT WHY YOU’RE SO FAT????”

I swear the whole restaurant goes silent. You could hear a poppy seed hit the floor. Meira’s long-lost cousin turns her head, as does the harassed server, and the mother of someone I grew up with. My brother-in-law leaves off his speech about fermenting foods. I feel my face grow scarlet, not just from the heat. I can’t even think of a response.

Breast cancer comes with many changes to the body, none of them good. I have scars where I used to have nipples. One of my implants is slightly herniated. My cording – the web of sinewy strings that stem from my axilla – has become so extensive, it’s like an aggressive weed whose roots grow and spin out in every direction, long and fibrous, creating tightness in my arms, ribs, and chest (I have queried the internet and according to the AI-generated answer – true story – the likelihood of developing cording comes from “having more lymph nodes removed”, “having more extensive breast surgery”, and “higher levels of education”. I knew I shouldn’t have got that PhD! I have developed chin acne. My libido is on long-term vacation. And I haven’t actually clocked many pounds on the scale, but aromatase inhibitors– I’m on one called Anastrozole – tend to change the distribution of fat, resulting in higher visceral (over subcutaneous) adipose tissue.

Sorry, mom, not quite my fault.

My mother grows as red as I assume I am. “I meant hot! I meant hot! I meant to ask: is that why you’re so hot?” she insists.

I nod grimly. She probably did. But it reminded me that my body was not what it once was, nonetheless.

The restaurant becomes noisy again. I push my plate away, appetite gone. My brother-in-law is chuckling (“Have I got a story for you,” I can already hear him telling my sister). The server is coming over to show my mother she’s taken the shakshuka off the bill. We’re done here.

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