Fretting about every cough and twinge is an impulse built into Jewish DNA

It’s something I think lots of us have – a daily concern that the slight niggle in our hip is the first sign of something that’ll have us in the ambulance by teatime and the cemetery by supper. If we’re still alive when the sun goes down, it’s a minor victory … as Woody Allen says in Deconstructing Harry, the most beautiful words in the English language aren’t “I love you”, but “it’s benign”.

Health is, I think, right at the heart of our communities … and consequently illness is one of the three great pillars of Jewish conversation (along with food and Israel). There can be no pleasure quite like settling in shul, turning to your neighbour, and really getting to the bottom of your diverticulitis. Symptoms, prognoses, recommendations … if we weren’t nattering about sickness (“When? Who? How bad?”), the only sound at kiddush would be the rhythmic chewing of a hundred fish balls.

But it can (and often does) go too far. My family had it bad. I grew up in an atmosphere of health terrorism – my early childhood entailed regularly being woken up to check I was still breathing. Where other kids got hugs, I had my lymph nodes squeezed. There was, above all, an absolute terror around cancer … not just the dreaded disease, but the very word itself – always discussed in whispers (as if pronouncing the syllables was somehow carcinogenic).

The consequence of all that means when I’m actually a little unwell, I’m not much troubled by restraint. I don’t do subtle, discreet tiny coughs and a brave face … it’s more Mimi dying of consumption at the end of La Boheme, but with extra breaks for applause.

Even when I am not actually sick, I am in a state of constant preparedness. My medicine cabinet at home could rival most pharmacies – I’m equipped to handle everything from acne to Zika. When I travel to stay in amazing hotels across the world, my luggage mainly consists of pills … it sounds like I’m shipping maracas. More times than I can mention, I’ve been called upon to dispense medications that aren’t available in the country where I’m staying … as a result, the question’s often asked (as I produce another blister pack of something obscure): “Are you a doctor?” … “No no,” I reply, “just Jewish.”

Where does it come from, all this fussing and fretting? I suspect it’s the pessimism we’ve inherited from millennia of trauma … a tough strand of apprehensiveness squatting deep in our DNA. Those who made it to the 21st century were the ones always gazing over the horizon, planning for the next crisis … the same ears trained to listen for approaching hoofbeats, are now perfectly tuned to catch supraventricular tachycardia. Neurotic worriers catch “it” early (whatever “it” turns out to be) … whilst the blithe and the blasé are under the ground.

And yet, surely some of us (myself very much included) are taking it to extremes. Vigilance is all very well (keeping checking, keep poking, keep your GP’s number and home address memorised) but maybe an occasional break from all this suffering would do us a bit of good. As 2025 rolls on, I for one going to try to up the number of carefree days … maybe every few weekends, I’ll stop Googling “unusual discharge” and simply reflect on the extraordinary privilege of actually feeling fine (especially when so many aren’t as lucky).

After all, there’s room to be alert, but also joyful … and worrying yourself to death is a terrible way to go.