My Pandemic Paradox: A Memoir

By Lynn Zimmering

This Memoir is an authentic review of our author's life, including her time under her mother's thumb and seeing to the needs of her emotionally handicapped brother. It reveals how she escaped being a frightened little girl whose inner child was suffocating and became a ful

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Penguin Books
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9781637775578

Book preview

My Pandemic Paradox: A MemoirTitle Page

My Pandemic Paradox: Volume Two

Copyright © 2024 by Lynn Zimmering

All rights reserved.

Published by Red Penguin Books

Bellerose Village, NY

ISBN

Digital 978-1-63777-557-8

Print 978-1-63777-558-5

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Dedication

Contents

Preface

Underpinnings

Day Trips to the Beach

The Power of a Sleepover

Are All Flute Players Skinny?

My Impostor Syndrome

No Purple for You

Why Was it So Hard to Say I Love You?

Your Pearly White Choppers

A Friend in Deed

Winning at Whac-A-Mole

Faulty Choices Can Turn Successes into Failures

The Season of Giving and Receiving

Life During World War II

My Love of Light

Time Is of the Essence

To My Great-Aunt Helen

You are Never Alone

I Used to Be Afraid of Dogs

The People Pleaser Genie

Keep Moving

Accepting What Comes Your Way

The Challenges of Yom Kippur

Let’s Take a Walk

The Invisible Me!

My Brother Is Dying

Livin’ the Life

It's Thanksgiving

My Romance with Photography

Tired of Being Dominated and Abused?

It Takes Two to Tangle

Let's Go Shopping

Stop, Look, and Pay Attention

Are You Happy?

Substituting Curiosity for Fear

Embarrassment: A True Story

No One Knows You Better Than You Do

Does Making a Pot of Soup Qualify for Happiness?

Back to the Berkshires

Conversational Clues: What, Where, When, and How

Handling Feelings of Regret or Sorrow

Hold, Please

Packing and Moving Are a Part of Me

Commitment vs. Dilettantism

Mysterious Consequences from a New Shower Curtain

Dreams

Did You Hear What You Said?

Is Saying Thank You Enough?

Rebirth After Hubris

The Most Fun I Had This Week

Is Complexity Controllable?

Being Ignored Is Outrageous

NAPS: Their Value and Function

A Little Scotch Makes My Day

Renewal Is Built into Jewish Observances

Can Your Body Send Messages?

What, Me Worry?

Our Memory Is Not Reliable

Oh, to be Twenty-One Again

Is Reality Real?

Is Being Mindfulness All It is Cracked Up to Be?

Happiness and Joy, What's Your Experience?

Aging and Moving Forward

Nora Efron, My Muse

My Core Beliefs on Aging

The Tyranny of Parenthood

Herby’s Eulogy

Think Back and Evaluate Your Life

Have You Experienced Ageism?

Is it Good or Bad?

Dealing with Electronics at 90

Creative Life Has Benefits

Who Doesn't Love Hugging?

Time to Move to Assisted Living?

My Pandemic Paradox: A surprising development from this calamity,

Retirement Income Is Vital to Our Happiness

Adjusting to City Life as an Oldster

Getting Ready for the Wedding

The Path to Power

Open the Door to New Experiences

If You Need a Change of Scenery, Don’t Pick a hospital

Losing Invested Money Hurts

It Doesn’t Matter Anymore

What's Cooking?

Task Management Is Tough

The Disintegration of a Human Being

Where's My Car?

A New Gadget Came My Way

Make a Decision! There’s No Turning Back

People Are Funny About Money

My Brother Died

I Did It — Moved to Manhattan

What About Coincidences?

You're More Adaptable Than You Think

Feeling Stuck? Allow Change

Dealing with Bureaucracy is Absurd

Back Cover

Acknowledgments

Preface

I always require something to do, but when COVID-19 came along, my activities were all canceled, and I was left with nothing. So, one day, I sat down at my computer and wrote what I was feeling. It felt satisfying.

As a little girl, I would complain to my grandmother, Grandma, I have nothing to do now? She would say, Go to the corner and stand on your head! Of course, she said it jokingly, but I was looking for a project, not a rebuff. And, at 91, I still need something to do. That’s how Volume 2 came into being. I never expected to write 165 blogs. After the first 50 were off to the publisher for Volume 1, I continued writing a current blog each week because it filled my time and my brain. And I loved it. I had closed many of my childhood hurts as I allowed myself to delve back into taking an honest look at what really happened in my life. I believe Honesty could have been these book titles, instead of My Pandemic Paradox. Right now, I’m in the throes of preparing for the publication of volume 2, and it is difficult. There are no duplications between the two volumes.

My mother was a dominant force in my life, and while she may have loved me, she didn’t like me too much. As a result, I didn’t like me too much either. These writings have exposed what I had hidden throughout my lifetime; living for many years as a timid, passive person denying my innermost wishes to be vibrant and powerful.

Writing my stories frees me, gives me the courage to explore my past, and invites you to look at yours. I hope reading my stories touches a long-forgotten memory you may have buried because reliving it may be too demanding. Hearing a similar experience from another person makes it easier to examine.

Underpinnings

The pursuit of truth and beauty is a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives.

— Albert Einstein

Day Trips image

Day Trips to the Beach

Occasionally, we all piled into the car to spend a sweltering summer day at the beach. In those days, Jones Beach was considered the best beach, and still is, so that was our destination.

My father was the driver and the initiator of the outing. He had the energy and desire to have fun. My baby brother and I sat in the back seat with a beach umbrella, blanket, thermoses of water, a food basket, and several beach chairs. Together we filled half of the back seat, leaving the rest of the space to pile up the equipment for the day.

Jones Beach, the southern end of Nassau County, is on an island connected to the mainland by a causeway Robert Moses built when he built the beach and its structures in the 1920s.

From our apartment in Manhattan to Jones Beach, with no traffic, driving took one hour and 15 minutes. But there was always traffic on days with spectacular weather, so add half an hour. My mother sat in the front passenger seat with her window wide open, exhausted from all the preparations and packing of the car. In those days, cars didn't have seat belts, car seats for children, or air-conditioning. So, driving on a sizzling summer day was not too much fun.

Everybody lived in apartments but not everyone had a car. Enough did, and parking spaces were sometimes hard to find. My father parked our car in any empty spot he could find, sometimes nearby and other times a few blocks away. While he retrieved the car, my mother and I dragged everything to the elevator, (including the baby) loaded it all into the elevator, and then carried it out to the car. Herby was two, and I was around nine. Finally, we were off! I was worn out.

The heat in the car started building up, even with Mom's window open. Most of the air felt like a hot wind blowing directly into my face. My head was down so I could breathe, and Herby cried throughout the trip.

My spirits rose as I could finally see the beach and the Atlantic Ocean ahead. But first, we had to park, looking for a spot closest to the sand, the waves, the bathrooms, and the concession stands, with the most challenging part of this fun day still to come--unloading the car and getting situated on the sand. Other families crowded the beach, but we found a spot. This preamble to our day took more than four hours, including driving time.

No matter how much mom and dad carried, what was left over was my carrying responsibility. I felt the heaviness of two beach chairs and the blanket on my arms, and my shoulders ached. I was shoeless, trying to keep sand out of my shoes, but the sand was so hot it felt like walking barefoot on live coals. Mom and dad didn't seem to notice that I was overburdened. Complaining didn't help; my obedience knew no limits.

I dressed in my bathing suit under my clothing, allowing me to practically jump out of the outer clothing layer and run into the Ocean. The feeling of the sand under my feet as the waves retreated was like walking on cool silk. The next wave to arrive was mine, and my body gave in to its rush as the water flowed over me, head to toe. Lying on my back, I looked up at the intense blue of the sky, dotted with smooth white clouds, and the rest of the world vanished from my brain. It was my totality — the waves rhythmically arriving and the clear sky above.

I loved the world from this view and quickly forgot the trip, schlepping the supplies and the day's heat. My dad joined me in the water to play, which topped everything off.

The Power of a Sleepover image

The Power of a Sleepover

I DISCOVERED AN ESCAPE ROUTE FROM BEING AT HOME.

I loved sleepovers. I remember how it used to be. All I needed was my toothbrush and an invitation, and I was an overnight guest at a friend's house. Of course, both parents' approval was required as well. It was always OK with the friends' moms, but it was a different story with my mom and our unusual home environment.

My cousins lived in the same neighborhood, and I frequently stayed overnight with that family. We secretly stayed up very late and giggled a lot, even though my aunt (my mother's sister) scolded us about going to sleep. We took the sheets off the bed, making a make-believe fort between the bed and the floor, and slept under it all night. We imagined it was a real fort and collected brooms and forks for defense in case we were attacked. We would put folding chairs under the sheets to prevent the roof of the fort from collapsing. I loved waking up in a different place and having different cereals than I had at home. All this took place during my elementary school years.

During high school, I slept at home. My brother, who was seven years younger, suffered a terrible childhood, and my role in the family developed as the peacekeeper. My father and mother sought help from many doctors to find out what was wrong with him, to no avail. His behavior was troubled in so many ways. My parents constantly scolded him, particularly during mealtimes, and he became so upset he frequently upchucked whatever he had eaten. My presence had a calming effect, keeping the ceiling from blowing off our kitchen from the yelling and screaming.

I felt not just needed but required to be at home. So, there were no sleepovers during those years. Every Friday afternoon, you could find me in the Girl's bathroom of my high school, crying about staying at home for the entire upcoming weekend, enduring the anxiety produced by the yelling in the attempts to fix my brother.

Finally, I left for college. It always amazed me that they allowed me to go. But even during college, I felt obligated to stay home until the last possible moment and return immediately after my final exams. This feeling eliminated the possibility of all extracurricular activities, like turning down an invitation to be in Paul Taylor’s start-up dance troupe or trying out for a play I wanted to be in.

The peacekeeper role may have been in my imagination. However, I am sure that since I was an average child, my mom and dad needed me to remind them they were not complete failures as parents. It must have been even more challenging for them than for me to deal with my brother.

It was during college that sleepovers returned. I had great college roommates, all living in the city, as I did, and if we were together late in the evening, I stayed over at their homes without the make-believe forts. I still only needed a toothbrush, and I still needed my mother's approval.

I would call my mother to inform her and ask permission. I dreaded having to make these calls. I felt like I was abandoning my family and was very guilty about it. My mother always said it was OK for me to stay over, but the disappointment in her voice was unmistakable. I always called a second time to allow her to change her mind. But at that point, she sounded annoyed.

After college, I returned home to live and had a full-time job. Not only did I work, but I had a highly active dating life. No sleepovers or sexy weekends allowed. My dates mostly picked me up at home, and they had to meet my brother. It embarrassed me to introduce him. Since dating always had potential marriage outcomes, my dates had to know my brother was part of my life and would remain so. Oh, how I wished he were a normal kid, but there was no disguising his drawbacks. A single conversation with him was all revealing.

I finally married a doctor, partially because I thought he would be understanding about my brother; the other part was I loved him. Marriage allowed me to escape my painful role in my nuclear family as a peacemaker.

My dad passed away when he was young, leaving the care of my brother solely to my mom. I was married with three children and a demanding husband, so I didn't participate in his care during these years.

Mom gave up creating a new life for herself after my father passed because she recognized caring for my brother was paramount. A man asked her to have dinner with him, and she consulted me about going. I encouraged her, but her choice was to turn him down. I’m sure, thinking back, that she felt my brother would suffer if she developed another interest in her life.

My mother was a sturdy, robust woman, but as the years passed, she became increasingly fragile.

My brother, to his credit, took over caring for her. She wore an indwelling bladder catheter and could not change the urine collection bag. So, my brother did it for her. After she broke her leg at age ninety-three, she went from the hospital to a nursing home. She had no interest in eating, so my brother drove to the nursing home to feed her at mealtimes. I lived over a hundred miles away, and I was grateful that he was able not only to assist her but also to take care of himself. Throughout my lifetime, I dreaded what would happen to him after she died. Would he be able to maintain a single life, like paying bills, cooking meals, and keeping a car? This foreboding was with me starting when I was about ten years old.

So now, they are both gone. He managed to live alone (to my profound relief) for the last twenty years, without a wife or family of his own, with no friends and minimal state assistance. He was penniless, having spent all the money my mother left him. I spoke with him weekly and knew I was his only support. A therapist helped me set boundaries to deal with him.

Over the years, he had become very argumentative and paranoid, so the conversations were stilted; he spoke, and I listened. If I attempted to solve his many problems, he always responded with Yes, but… challenging my ideas.

We started here with sleepovers and building make-believe forts. But paying for Herby's footstone last week prompted these memories. That dark part of my life is now truly over, as is the building of make-believe forts and sleepovers.

These days, if I did sleep over somewhere, I would need much more than a toothbrush. Now, carrying all my necessary equipment would take a small trunk to keep me going.

Flute Players image

Are All Flute Players Skinny?

MY BODY SHAPE INFLUENCED THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT PLAYED.

Let us be clear: Nobody is shaped like a piano. So, this whole concept is faulty, but shape mattered in my mind as a teenager. I was assigned to the brass department when I entered Music & Art High School at thirteen. I had a choice of three instruments to learn: the tuba, the trombone, or the French Horn.

My performance on the piano and my hearing were excellent, so I was accepted into this special school. However, I had to choose a second instrument to study. The school criteria was the size of the student’s hands and whether she had braces on her teeth. Musicality was assumed adequate because we had all passed the entrance exam.

I secretly hoped they would select the flute as my second instrument, but they had enough flute players. I didn’t have braces, and my hands were small, so OK, it was the brass department. The tuba, to me, was not a natural choice; it was too big and bulky, and I thought I would mostly be the Oom-pah-pah part of most classical music.

The trombone, in my mind, was a guy instrument. Very few girls played the trombone, and my arms were too short anyway. I chose the French Horn, a weird-looking spaghetti-like mess of brass tubing with a flared bell and only three keys. After I announced my decision, the teacher who handled the interview said, You know, you look like a French Horn player.

I’m sure he meant this as a compliment, looking back, because the French Horn is a complex instrument to learn, and I guess I looked like I could handle it. But at thirteen, I felt he said that because my shape matched the instrument’s shape. Both it and I were round. I wanted my body to be otherwise!

I learned to play the French Horn, with all its complexities, and soon was advanced to the senior orchestra. Few of us played this instrument, and advancement rested more on a need to fill the chairs for the music’s requirement than it was talent and expertise.

I never owned a French Horn (the school supplied me with one), and after graduating, I returned it and never played the instrument again.

My life went off in different directions, but by the time I was sixty-five, my life needed more music (and I was much more flute-shaped). I couldn’t deny my desire any longer, and I rented a flute from a music store for one year for only seventy-five dollars. Then, I called Juilliard about finding a teacher in New Jersey.

I selected a teacher and was her student for the next twenty-five years — until Covid-19 appeared. In addition to having a student-teacher relationship, she and I became excellent friends. I loved playing the flute, and we would play lots of music for two flutes. I also had a friend who was a pianist, and we played duets. I’d like to be able to tell you that I still play the instrument. I now own a good Yamaha flute so that I can play, but I don’t. Besides laziness, my hands don’t work so well anymore. Neither does anything else, for that matter.

However, my computer keyboard works splendidly, so now I write!

Imposter image

My Impostor Syndrome

I ABANDONED MY HIDING PLACE.

Three female cousins grew up together: the smart one, the creative one, and the pretty one. I was the pretty one. Who created these categories is now a guess, but they stuck with us. It was flattering to be the pretty one. I understood the implication when I was old enough, and my intellectual ability seemed limited. Undiagnosed Dyslexia contributed, but it was only part of the reason I accepted this label.

Once, our uncle, the doctor, decided to teach my cousin and me how to tell the time when we were four years old. My clever cousin picked up the skill immediately; she could glance at the watch face and recite the time. I had to count the clock face tiny bars, once for hours and again for the minutes. Eventually, I counted by five, making the task more manageable. I wasn't disappointed because I knew she was the smart one. But we were both four, could count, and understood the concept of time.

My mother did much to strengthen my acceptance of being intellectually wanting. She was a brilliant woman, and everyone accepted her as one. She told me that everyone in our family had an excellent memory. She named my cousin the smart one, herself, and my eldest son. When I asked, What about me? she said, No, not you; you don’t have a good memory. However, I knew my memory was fine. I was already a grown-married woman when we had this conversation. I