The Petals and my Mother ....

I have been thinking about my mother today.

Mainly one specific event, I don’t know why it has lodged itself in my brain today. It is a weird one, but I cannot really help that now, can I?

I love the marker that I had made for Rachael, I thought that it would be perfect. It is, except for one tiny little thing – people either love it, or they hate it – basically – there is no in between.

Since the episode that I am going to relate, I am always nervous whenever I head to her burial site. Her marker is directly behind a very large bush with a very large “Baby Land” granite marker in the middle of the u-shaped bushes, so I cannot see her marker until I round the bushes and I am almost on top of it.

In general, when I get there to clean it up, to remove the weeds, the overgrown grass, the lime deposits on the marker, I discover that my anonymous angel has already taken care of it. I don’t know who does it, but they do. I always find gifts on it. Small happy meal toys, candles, flowers. For some reason they make me feel odd, so I pick them all up and wander Baby Land and place the items on markers that have nothing adorning them.

These are the people who have ‘taken to’ my Rachael’s marker. This is not always the case.

The incident I was thinking about today was probably the first year after – so Valentine’s Day of 1998. I went up to clean up the marker, sit a spell and well, I don’t really know – I was new at this ‘cemetery’ thing.

As I rounded the corner I realized that something was not computing. Where Rachael’s marker should have been there was a three feet by four feet rectangular pile of shredded, ripped up roses – about two and a half feet high. I am talking a TON of roses, mainly petals, very few stems.

I immediately dropped to my knees and started digging. It is probably the most surreal experience that I have ever had. Digging through piles and piles of shredded rose petals to see if my baby’s marker was still there.

It was.

I looked up and noticed a man in a beige trench coat sitting on a bench rather near me and was watching me. I got up and started to head toward him, to ask him if he had seen anything – but he got up and ran off.

I went back to the petals and was in such a state I was totally in shock. I called my mother. She said hello and I started to sob. All I could do was scream over and over “There are so many petals, I don’t know what to do with the petals.”

Of course this makes ABSOLUTELY no sense whatsoever, but that did not deter my mom. In her calm quiet voice, every time I shouted “There are so many petals, I don’t know what to do with the petals.” she calmly said one word: “Lori”.

After I don’t know how many permutations of this we went through, her calm, quiet, gentle voice permeated my hysteria and I started to explain what had happened.

She then quietly, calmly and gently kept saying “Breathe” and I would take a breath. “Breathe” and I would take a breath. This went on for a bit and she asked me if I was OK? I told her yes, it had been such a shock and I didn’t know what to do.

She told me to go look through the cemetery and see if there was a recent burial with the same color roses, then go and report it at the office. It gave me something to do.

She asked me if I was going to be OK? I told her yes and promised to call her back.

I was now calm and had a purpose. I had needed my mother, she knew exactly what to say.

I did as she told me and when not finding any matching recent burials, went to the office where they looked at me a bit askance and said somebody was just pranking me. I told them it was disturbing – not prankish and insisted they come and see.

They did and were rather disturbed by the site also. They estimated the cost of the roses in the high hundreds and had never seen anything like it. They took photos and started a case on it. They told me the man I saw probably was the ‘culprit’ and was getting his jollies watching a bereaved mother freak out over her babies marker. They also said he was smart – if he had damaged the marker itself, it was a punishable offense – but just piling a truckload of shredded petals on top of it – obliterating it – was not. It was just – and they agreed – rather creepy. Especially since they were not just petals – they were shredded and you could just feel the rage that had gone into doing this.

I thanked them for coming out and starting a file and they left. Then I sat down in the middle of the petals and gently made sure that none were touching my babies marker. As I sat there I vowed that I would never, ever ‘put on a show’ for someone to get their jollies off a bereaved mother – thus the ‘steeling’ myself as I round the corner – because no matter what I find on her marker – I NEVER, EVER react – even if I can see no one in sight.

I called my mother back. Gave her an update and spoke with her as I, armful at a time, gathered up the shredded petals and carried them to a trash can … until not a single speck was left.

I sat back down – told Rachael I was sorry, that I loved her and goodbye. Got up and went home.

I literally don’t know what I would have done if my mother had not answered the phone.


This was not the first time she has calmly ‘talked me down’, nor the last. I might have been the most hysterical, but of course, after the tornado hit our house and I had called Gary and he was on his way home – I called my mother to calm me down.

After being diagnosed with PTSD I suffered severe panic attacks and every time I would call my mother and listen to her calm, quiet, gentle voice until everything was OK again. I am sure none of this was fun for her – but she did it and she was GREAT at it.

She always knew what to say. She knew when to coach me through breathing so that I would not pass out from hyperventilating, she knew when to make me talk something out until I understood the source of my panic, she always knew the exact thing I needed.

Not only was my mom my ‘phone buddy’ – she took on some very, very heavy burdens for me when I just could not do it myself. I will forever be grateful to her for all of the absolutely horribly awful things she did for me, so that I would not have to. A lot of these had to do with Rachael and I was not functioning at 100%. I did hold her – but as my mother held her, I can still hear her quiet whispers to her. It was a healing balm for my soul – and something my soul desperately needed.

She had words when I did not. She had her arms ready when I could not. She made sure everything was perfect in the coffin when I could not. As I said – she did all the heavy lifting.

A mother’s love of a daughter is a profound thing. As is a daughters love of a mother. I cannot imagine life without her, or without my ‘go to guy’ being at the ready when I am hysterical and call. But, even when that is no longer possible – I can REMEMBER. I remember her voice – I can still hear her say to me “Lori”, “Breathe”, “Calm Down”, “Everything will be OK” and she has said all this and more to me today, in my mind – over and over and over.


I will ALWAYS have that.




And I am forever, eternally grateful. I love her more than life itself. She is truly a beautiful angel walking this earth.