I still mother them….

Here is the corrected cut-and-paste version, with Vincente Jon Tambourelli where his full name belongs and Vincent everywhere you are speaking about him as his mom.

His Name Is Still Here

As we get closer to Vincent’s birthday, I find myself thinking about him even more than I normally do.

That probably sounds strange because there really isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him. Nine years later, he is still woven into everything. A song. A meal. Something funny that happens that I immediately think I need to tell him. A story I’ve heard a hundred times. A memory that comes out of nowhere.

But birthdays are different.

And tonight, after a conversation with Becky, our Face the Facts treasurer, I started thinking about the Vincent Tambourelli Family Assistance Fund and how much time, love, fundraising and heart so many people have poured into something that carries my son’s name.

I also started thinking about how many people probably don’t really know how the fund came to be.

Because I didn’t know what it was supposed to be either.

After Vincent died, I knew I wanted to do something in his name. I knew his life had to mean something beyond the way he died. But I didn’t know exactly what that something was supposed to look like.

And if you know me, you know I believe in the universe.

I believe in signs. I believe that sometimes you put something out there without even knowing exactly what you are asking for, and somehow the answer finds you.

This time, it did.

A very good friend of mine who is a nurse called me one day about one of her patients.

He was on life support, and his mom knew she was going to lose him.

This woman was already struggling just to survive. She was behind on everything. There wasn’t a savings account waiting for an emergency. There certainly wasn’t money sitting somewhere to pay for what happens when your child dies.

She had basically resigned herself to the fact that her son would go to Potter’s Field because she believed she had no other option.

Imagine that for a minute.

Your child is dying, and while you are trying to somehow comprehend that, you are also worrying about what is going to happen to his body because you cannot afford to bury or cremate him.

She asked my friend if she knew anywhere that could help.

My friend called me.

“Do you know anywhere that could help?”

And I said, “Actually, I do.”

I didn’t really know it until I heard myself say it.

But in that moment, I knew.

That was what Vincent’s fund was supposed to do.

That was the moment the Vincent Tambourelli Family Assistance Fund found its mission.

Today, the fund pays for direct cremation for Delaware families when someone dies from an overdose. It is specifically a direct cremation fund. If a family chooses a traditional funeral or services through a funeral home, they are not eligible for this particular assistance.

We don’t receive grant funding for it. Every single dollar we use has been fundraised.

That first phone call was many years ago.

Many fundraisers ago. Many families ago. Many cremations ago. And so many phone calls ago.

When I say phone calls, I also have to talk about Becky.

She takes about half of them.

These are not easy conversations. Nobody calls the Vincent Tambourelli Family Assistance Fund because they are having a good day. They call because someone they love has died, often unexpectedly, and they have absolutely no idea what they are supposed to do next.

Becky listens. She explains what we can do. She walks them through it. And then we figure out how to make it happen.

There are so many pieces of Face the Facts that nobody ever sees.

This is one of them.

We don’t post every cremation we pay for. We don’t take pictures with grieving families. We don’t announce every time we help someone. There is no giant Facebook post saying, “Look what we did today.”

Because I have always believed that when you have loved someone through addiction and then lose them, there is already enough weighing on your soul.

Enough guilt. Enough questions. Enough “what ifs.” Enough wondering what you should have seen, what you should have said or what you could have done differently.

Enough grief.

You don’t need anything else from anyone in that moment.

You just need someone to help you.

So we help.

And when someone thanks me, I am always able to say, “No. Thank YOU for allowing us to be a part of your journey.”

I mean that every single time.

I am grateful that Vincent’s name can make one tiny piece of somebody else’s worst day a little easier.

And that fund is only one piece of what Face the Facts has become.

Sometimes even I look at everything we do and wonder how this little organization that came out of my son’s death grew into all of this.

We find work clothes for people starting over. We find beds for people who finally have somewhere to live but have nothing to sleep on. We have helped furnish recovery houses. We help with IDs, transportation, utilities, small car repairs and household items. We distribute Narcan. We connect people with resources.

Sometimes what someone needs is big. Sometimes it is something most of us wouldn’t think twice about.

But when you have nothing, a bed is not just a bed.

Work clothes aren’t just clothes when you are trying to get your life back.

An ID isn’t just a piece of plastic when you need it to get a job.

A ride isn’t just a ride when it gets you where you need to go to keep moving forward.

And a cremation is not just a cremation when you are a mother standing beside your dying child wondering what is going to happen to him after he takes his last breath.

That is why this work matters.

And there is absolutely no way I could do any of it alone.

There is a board behind Face the Facts that gives an incredible amount of time, energy and love to this organization. And there is an entire community of people who answer when we say somebody needs something.

Someone always seems to know someone. Someone has a bed. Someone has clothes. Someone can make a call. Someone donates. Someone shows up.

Somehow, we figure it out.

I am proud of a lot of things Face the Facts does.

I am proud of every person we have been able to help and every person who has helped us help somebody else. I am proud of the amount of effort, love and time our board puts into every single thing we do.

But the Vincent Tambourelli Family Assistance Fund will always be one of the things I am most proud of.

And maybe I think about all of this even more during August because this entire month we are showing faces.

We are saying names.

We are reminding people over and over again that these are not statistics.

Recently, someone inboxed me after I criticized people for celebrating the fact that overdose deaths have gone down.

I will stand behind what I said every single time.

Am I grateful that fewer people died?

Absolutely.

I am grateful for every single person who is still here.

I am grateful for every mother who didn’t receive that phone call. Every father who didn’t have someone knock on his door. Every child who still has their parent. Every family that was spared that moment that divides your life into everything that happened before and everything that came after.

Of course I am grateful.

But I will not celebrate people dying simply because fewer people died than the year before.

Because if your child was one of those statistics, that percentage wouldn’t mean a damn thing to you.

If your person was one of those numbers, the number going down wouldn’t make your loss any smaller.

The empty chair would still be empty.

The phone would still never ring with their name on it again.

You would still give absolutely anything to have them walk through your door one more time.

If there was even one, it was one too many.

Every number had a name.

Every number had a story.

Every number had people who loved them.

Every number left people behind.

My number had a name.

His name was Vincente Jon Tambourelli.

To me, he was Vincent.

My son.

And as his birthday gets closer, I find myself thinking back to those days when I knew I wanted his life to leave something behind but had absolutely no idea what that was supposed to be.

Now I do.

So maybe this is my thank you to the universe.

Thank you for answering me when I didn’t even really know what I was asking for yet.

Thank you for sending that nurse, that mother and that phone call into my life at exactly the moment they were supposed to arrive.

Thank you for giving Vincent’s fund a mission.

Thank you for taking something that came from one of the worst days of my life and allowing it to make one small piece of somebody else’s worst day a little easier.

And thank you for finding a legacy for my son that I know he is proud of.

Nine years later, his name is still here.

His name is spoken.

His story is told.

His name helps families give someone they love the dignity they deserve at the end of their life.

His name helps people during hours they never imagined they would have to survive.

His life still matters.

His name is still here.

His name is still helping people.

And as his mom, that means more to me than I could ever explain. 💙