Thursday was the day the people came to my parents' house to evaluate the intensity of my mother's decline to see if she qualified for a Medicade waiver. This is complicated and I don't understand all of it and I am very grateful that my sister does and that is all I have to say about the bureaucracy of that.

It is strange to hope that she will be "bad enough" to qualify, and to know that she is bad enough. I was not there when it happened. My father and my sister were. When I asked my sister afterward how it went she said they would point at her and ask Mom "Who is this?" and Mom would babble incoherently. We both felt it was nice that in the middle of Mom's ramblings she squeaked out one of the syllables of my sister's name.

This winter continues to be unkind. I haven't seen my mother in a long time because the roads have been slippery or the wind chill has been as much as -35 below, or because it snows and snows and snows and snows. I called to check on my parents yesterday and my Dad asked if I would like to try to say a few words to Mom. I said yes. I just wanted to hear the sound of my mother's voice, even though I knew connecting with her would be limited. She got on the phone and rambled confusedly about my car breaking down and them having to come get me. And then, clear as a bell, she said "Well Sweetheart, I can hear in your voice that you are working, so I will let you go for now. I love you!"

I was so pleased for a second to have heard her say that, even though when she used to say it, it would cut me to the bone. This was her catchphrase a few years ago when she didn't want to talk on the phone to me anymore. We would be "chatting" and out of the blue she would say that and I would want to yell into the phone "Wait! I have questions about how to be a mother! Or how to be a wife! Or how to do a lot of things that I know you know that you can guide me with! Wait!" But she would have already hung up.

Yesterday when she said it, there was a warm rush of comforting familiarity so I just caught my breath and said "I love you too, Mom."

But she was already gone.