Mirror, Mirror
Becoming that person who is me

By Les Schwartz

That person in the mirror—that’s not me. I have long, black curly hair and thick eyebrows that need to be plucked. That person has eyes with no definition. I wonder if she can see out. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t see out.

On March 31, I rolled over and played dead. I’ve been on hold since. That person in the mirror has been handling things for me since I checked into the oncology ward. I would cry and whine and scream and throw things. The mirror person is able to handle this disease with a grace I never knew. She has strength—I never have strength. I’ve been babied all my life and it worked for me.

People admire my attitude and fortitude. Fooled them. I called in a stunt double. I could never handle the attention and inspection. I’m practically a loner. That person in the mirror is the socialite. Fending calls. Smiling for visitors. Accepting gifts and even sending thank you notes. I admire how sincere she appears.

I’m always so clumsy when the attention is on me. “Neither a follower nor a leader be” has been my motto. I stay out of the spotlight. Oh, I mouth off on occasion. But I don’t expect anyone to take me seriously. I’m just venting. I’ll calm down and retreat to my private garden to ruminate alone.

But that person in the mirror has a presence about her. She has a following. Dozens of people clamor for her story. They follow intently. They encourage her sincerely. I don’t envy the fuss, but I must say she seems to thrive on it. She answers questions I would just avoid. Over and over again.

I expect family and close friends to “stay in touch,” and casual friends and coworkers to monitor the situation from a distance. But relationships from beyond the grave? People who long ago have moved to a parallel universe are praying for me and sending gifts. It has to be meant for that person in the mirror. Everyone knows my grudge list is as obvious as the scar on my shoulder. Why would anyone cater to me?

Plenty of days, I feel abandoned. I lie still, convalescing, trapped inside a lifeless body worn out by drugs. It is no treat. I’m a human paperweight. But my mind has all sorts of things to say. I imagine conversations I need to have. Things I need to do. Calls I need to return. But all I can do is lie here. Maybe the person in the mirror is off breathing life into someone else or refueling herself to face my next challenge. I’ll rest until she returns.

I look for her in the bathroom mirror. I see a strange face with black freckles and tweed complexion. With no hair or eyebrows, all I see is a blank stare from a blank slate. Not at all an attractive person. Not yet a freak. But certainly no one I know.

I wonder what will happen when the chemo is over and I have to come out of hiding. Will I have learned anything from that person in the mirror? Certainly not hair care. Will I be able to repay all the kindnesses with her grace? Will I be left to my awkward self?

Just opening up and visiting with others in the hospital would be a big departure. It would upset my routine. I might get flashbacks of the chemical smell. I would have to be as gracious and social as others were to me. It isn’t that I don’t see the value—I do. I would pay that person in the mirror to do it for me. Or would I? I’ve always been cheap too. Send flowers? Make a donation in someone else’s name? Go out of my way? Never been my style before. I’m good at having good intentions, but that’s about it.

I’ll have to change. That’s all there is. I owe it to the person in the mirror.

Les Schwartz lives in Charleston, South Carolina.

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