The Woman in the Mirror

A woman stood in front of the mirror, staring blankly at her reflection. It was a familiar face, one she had seen every day, millions of times in her life. Yet, today, she was looking at a stranger. 

She furrowed her brow and tilted her head side to side as if trying to make sense of who she was seeing.

 The woman in the mirror copied her every movement.  

Who is this woman and how had she found her way into my house…and into my bathroom even?  

Deep creases around her mouth and eyes, suggested she was an older woman. Her dark grey hair was unkempt, flat at the back with greasy strings at the front. Her clothes are worn in layers in the wrong order; some with a variety of patterns and seasons. They were all stained and wrinkled, suggesting perhaps she may be homeless.

Suddenly, the woman felt a pang of overwhelming sadness in her chest as she realized this WAS her reflection. This is what she looked like now. She used to be classy and stylish with coiffed hair and shimmering lips – what happened? How did I become this woman in the mirror? 

Looking closer she could see hints of her former self…now just a shadow of who she was.

As she continued to study her reflection, the horror of her reality subsided, but another sense of confusion washed over her. Is this my house? Perhaps, this isn’t my bathroom? 

She couldn’t quite place her whereabouts or how she got here, or what purpose she had here. The green flowered wallpaper was old and torn in areas along the seams, it felt familiar yet vaguely unfamiliar at the same time. The fixtures and furniture appeared to be out of place, as if they didn’t belong to the current occupants. 

Perhaps they belonged to the man in the chair. He sat and spoke to her as though she should know him. 

Sometimes, he looks sad and sometimes he gets angry when I don’t respond. I feel a pressure to know him… but she couldn’t recall him. He must be talking nonsense; how can I be married to him for over 50 years and not know him? I must keep my eye on him, that man in the chair.

She shook her head as if to clear the fog in her brain. Why couldn’t she remember anything anymore? 

Suddenly, as if a light was switched on, she knew instantly she was losing her memory and it frightened her all over again, just like it had frightened her the day before and the day before that and…. 

She’d always prided herself on her sharp mind and quick wit and her ability to remember the smallest of details and the largest of words. But now, words failed her. They disappeared before they left her lips. 

The woman remembered; this IS me! She was looking at herself. She knew that now but couldn’t shake the feeling the woman in the mirror really wasn’t her. She must be an imposter. Snippets of memory popped in and out of her head; the doctor, her kids, the man in the chair, her diagnosis. 

Her memory was fading slowly but fast enough to notice. It was as though someone had found a thread from the tapestry of her mind and memories and was tugged at it, thread by thread, until all her knowledge and memories that were once stitched in perfect focus became a jumbled mess of colored thread on the floor of her mind. 

She tried frantically to remember what she’d been doing before catching a glimpse of the woman in the mirror – but it was like trying to catch and keep a snowflake in the palm of her hand. 

If she stood silent and still enough, perhaps she’d remember who she was and where she belonged. Surely, someone other than the man in the chair could remind her and give her insight into who she was.  

But as she stared, the woman in the reflection was unforgiving, staring back unyielding, and safeguarding her secret thoughts and memories. 

Tears welled up and spilled out of her eyes. The woman in the mirror copied the exact drops spilling out and rolling down her cheeks. 

Both realize they are losing themselves. Their memories, their identities—everything that made them who they were, was slipping away. 

The woman clutched her chest with both hands, one overlapping the other…trying to hold on to something, anything, but it was of no use. Even the woman in the mirror looked tired and defeated. 

With heavy hearts, the women turned away from each other and disappeared from the mirror. As the woman walked slowly out of the room, she didn’t know where she was going, but it didn’t matter. 

She was lost, and there was no going back. 

This piece is dedicated to my mom who lived with Alzheimer’s for almost twenty years.

** Author’s note: please read, The Man in the Chair, an essay on Mom’s progression from my dad’s perspective.   

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