"Groundhog Day"

I called my parents last night. Usually, my mother answers the phone whenever anyone calls. It's as if she doesn't want to 'share' any of her remaining time with me or any of my other siblings. Rarely does my father get to say the first "Hello." I understand. My father does too.

"Hi Honey," my mother says, faintly. "Hi Mom, I miss you!"

Every time I call my mother I'm careful not to say anything that may inadvertently hurt her feelings. For example, I don't want to say the words, "How do you feel?" I already know how she "feels," and it's not good. If anything, she usually feels worse than she did the day before.

I can't say, "What did you do today?" because Mom's day is much like her previous day. Being sick with cancer requires repetition and conformity. Living with it takes away any piece of my Mother's former spontaneity.

The present lives of my parents remind me of the 1993 movie, "Groundhog Day." In it, Bill Murray awakes to discover he is living his life just as he did the day before. In spite of everything he is unable to change it. Sadly, this is not a movie. This is my mother's life. This is my mother's life living with cancer.

I love my mom more than I can say. Thinking of my 'opening line' long before I call her is a simple act of necessity on my part. The act of doing so means that she is still here: still with me. It goes without saying that I'll continue to do this ritual every time I telephone her. Today and tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, if I am lucky. Much like an actor does in a play before he takes center stage.

This is my 'Groundhog Day.'