I talk to my mom often. Every day in fact. I didn't always, but I do, now.
Our conversations usually sound something like this:
Mom: How are you?
Me: Good, and you?
Mom: ((heavy sigh)) I guess I'm ok.
Me: What's wrong?
I then get the laundry list of whatever crossed her path that day-or the day before, as she often repeats. This list covers, illnesses, anxieties, brothers, church members, family members, my kids, doctors, doctors and more doctors.
When she is feeling well, she can be quite funny. She, the queen of family gossip, is always quick to give me her take on the latest drama. "She need to get those babies off her chest and get on outside and say to hell with that cheatin' son-of-a-gun." Mom suggests my cousin, (cheatin son-of-a-gun's mom), tell the wife-who had asked the MIL for intervention.
When she's not feeling well, which unfortunately is often, these days, she can be quite, vexing.
"I don't know, I don't think I'm going to see another year. I don't think I want to."
In either case, happy or sad, feeling good or no-I do what I can, to give her what she needs.
I talk to my mom every day. Sometimes, twice. That's the easy part.