Rina Wolfson remembered

 

2017: Reporting the jalsa salana meeting

l Imagine if 40,000 Muslims gathered together in the south of England to swear a pledge of allegiance to Isis. Every major news outlet in the world would descend on the gathering and report that story. Now imagine what would happen if 40,000 Muslims gathered to pledge allegiance to a creed of peace to all and hatred to none, while they denounced violence and raised the flag of the UK. How many journalists would report that? I can tell you the answer, and it isn’t many. I know this, because as I sat in the Press and Media tent at just such a gathering, I was completely on my own...

The Caliph read out the pledge of allegiance, line by line, in a variety of languages, and the gathered crowd repeated after him. My guide pointed out that the men closest to the Caliph included those who had most recently converted. He added that he had attended the convention for 23 years and had never managed to get this close to His Holiness. His words reminded me of the mixture of awe and love that Chasidic followers often feel for their Rebbe.

 

2019 On the age gap between her children:

 A large age gap has its advantages. For starters, I was glad to have a mature young person around to help with the odd bit of childcare. (And which 15-year-old boy wouldn’t jump at the chance to interrupt his GCSE revision to mix a bottle of formula?)

But there were challenges too. Firstly, I was a significantly older mum. Having already raised one child, I figured I’d easily be able to do it again. Not so. Staying up all night with a colicky baby in my early 20s was a breeze. Doing it a few months shy of 40 almost broke me.

To compound matters, my friends had moved on to a less frenetic stage of parenting. While they enjoyed babysitter-free Saturday nights out followed by long Sunday morning lie ins, I was on a self-imposed 8pm curfew before the juggernaut of the 5.30 am wake-up scream hit.

Of course, our friends cooed and aahed at our gorgeous babies, snuggling in their Moses basket. But when the visit was over they would skip away, desperate to return to their own, adult, children and their living rooms free of baby clutter.

Oh! The baby clutter! You would not believe how much new stuff was invented in the 14 years since my son was born. Naturally, I ditched all his baby gear long ago, so we had to start again from scratch. I expected to saunter through the John Lewis baby department like a smug expert, glibly pointing at essentials. Instead, I was met with gadgets and gizmos that hadn’t existed first time round. Electric bottle warmers. Video baby monitors. Movement-sensitive cot mobiles…But the new baby gear was nothing compared to the shock of social media. . In 1997 I bought a copy of Parenting for Dummies, called my mum in an emergency and, for everything else, I’d wing it. There was no Mumsnet. No Facebook groups. If he had a rash, I took him to the GP. I wouldn’t feel pressured into posting a photo on Babies Babies Babies so that Sharon in Bushey could sell me some home-made cream made out of aloe vera.

 

2020: On Liverpool winning the premier league

 When I was young, actually for most of my childhood, there was an unbroken rhythm to the year. As day follows night, the cycle of the year was constant and dependable. And for most of my formative years, the annual calendar of fixed celebrations went something like this:

September: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Succot. December: Chanukah. March: Purim. April: Pesach. June: Liverpool win the football.

Liverpool winning the football occurred with such regularity that I honest-to-God believed it was a fixed event in the calendar. An annual fixture, celebrated and observed like clockwork, every year…

I say this to explain that, whilst I don’t follow the ups and downs of the football season with anything like regular interest, and despite the fact that I’ve never actually been to see a live football match, winning the Premier League this week really matters.

It brought back powerful memories of my childhood, of the whole family standing in front of the house, waving and cheering. Of a pride and shared love for a team. Of a pride and love for a city.

Most of all, it brought back memories of Liverpool.…because of my recent cancer diagnosis, I find myself remembering long-forgotten people and places. Suddenly, those formative Liverpool years carry more weight and meaning.

We are probably all of us influenced by the place we were born and raised. For me, Liverpool was the city that raised me…

I don’t know if I’ll ever see Liverpool win the Premier League again. And I don’t say that because I have Stage Four cancer. It’s taken us 30 years to win this title. You might not live to see it again either.

But, like the religious festivals that mark the year, that turn and return with dependable regularity, Liverpool winning the League reminds me that whatever happens, whatever the future holds, there are things in life that are constant and unchanging. And I find that incredibly comforting.

Wherever you are, and whatever you’re doing, you’ll never walk alone.

 

2020:On having cancer in a pandemic year

In more normal times, the oncologist would have delivered the news face to face. But as every political commentator keeps reminding us, these are not normal times. As it was, we took the call in the garden, while the girls were in a zoom Ivrit lesson. Covid-19 has created many unexpected, and unsettling, situations. But I’d hazard a guess that receiving the news of a cancer diagnosis, in the garden, straining to hear the oncologist’s voice over the noise of a Joe Wicks PE lesson blaring out from the neighbour’s patio, is fairly high on the list.

And so, as spring turned to summer, we were knocked off our smug perch by the grotesque prospect of battling cancer during a global pandemic.

The first few weeks post-diagnosis are something of a blur. All I can be sure of is that within days of the diagnosis being confirmed I embarked on a course of chemotherapy that I’ve still not finished. Due to Covid, I have to attend all appointments, scans and procedures on my own. There are no visitors on the wards. If ever I needed to be reminded that, however much we are loved, we’re all of us ultimately alone, this experience has proved it…

In spite of the pain and the worry, this past year has also been nothing short of extraordinary. We have been overwhelmed with love and support from so many, family and friends of course, but also many members of our own New North London Synagogue community. I even have the possibly unparalleled blessing of being on the list of weekly Get Well messages at both Finchley Reform Synagogue and North Hendon Adass.

Friends immediately set up a food rota so that we had a hot meal delivered everyday, for the best part of six months. (At one point, in the peak of Lockdown 1.0, competition for a space on our meals rota was so intense it was easier to get a same-day Ocado delivery slot.) The parents in my daughters’ school, Alma Primary, set up a WhatsApp group to coordinate play dates for them, so they too felt loved and supported. The residents on our street hosted a MacMillan Coffee Morning; 12 households were involved and raised over £5000. Our rabbi visited every Friday with a home baked gift. A psalm reading circle was set up in my name, and is now in its 44th cycle. And we were inundated with cards and messages of love…

Of course, I wouldn’t have chosen this bombshell. But it has opened my eyes to how wonderful and truly extraordinary our community is. Living in a tight-knit Jewish community can be exasperating at times. There is often little scope for privacy. But when you find yourself battling a particularly cruel cancer diagnosis, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

In the truly worst of times, we have experienced community at its very best.


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