I still mother them….

Two of My Children Became Statistics

In 2017, there were 70,237 overdose deaths in the United States.

I can tell you one of their names.

Vincent.

My son, Vincent Giovanni Tambourelli, was one of those 70,237 people.

When you see a number that big, it is almost impossible to comprehend. Seventy thousand people. You read it, you shake your head, and maybe you think about how terrible the opioid crisis was in 2017.

But I don’t see 70,237.

I see Vincent.

I see my son.

Vincent died in Florida, so he wasn’t part of Delaware’s overdose statistics that year. He belonged to Florida’s numbers. Such a strange thing to even write about your child. As though where he died determines which column he gets placed into.

Florida’s statistic.

America’s statistic.

My son.

Almost nine years later, I would find myself looking at overdose statistics differently all over again.

Because in 2026, my daughter Gabriella became one of them too.

Gabriella died on April 3, 2026.

Just three days into the second quarter of the year.

Three days.

When the first-quarter overdose numbers for 2026 are discussed, Gabriella isn’t there. She missed becoming part of that statistic by three days.

That is how strange statistics become when they are your children.

We divide these deaths into years, quarters, months, states, genders and substances. We make charts. We compare percentages. We look to see whether the numbers are going up or coming down.

I understand why we do it. I have spent years doing this work. Numbers matter. Data matters. It tells us where we are succeeding and where we are failing.

But there is another side of those numbers that data will never be able to explain.

In 2017, one of those numbers called me Mom.

In 2026, another one did too.

Vincent and Gabriella.

My son and my daughter.

I have now lived long enough to watch two of my children become part of America’s overdose statistics.

There is something incredibly painful about typing that sentence.

Because I knew them before anyone counted them.

I knew Vincent’s laugh. I knew his incredibly long stories where sometimes by the time he finally got to the end, you couldn’t even remember how the story started. I knew the kid who somehow could never manage to have cereal and milk in the house at the same time. He always had one and needed the other.

I knew Gabriella.

I knew her as my daughter long before her name would ever be associated with fentanyl, cocaine or medetomidine. I knew the mother she was. I knew her children. I knew the years when we had her back and the years when we were terrified we were going to lose her.

Those things aren’t included on a death certificate.

Neither is what happens to a family afterward.

There isn’t a box to check for the mother who loses her son and then, almost nine years later, loses her daughter.

There isn’t a column for the grandchildren who have to grow up without people who should have been there.

There isn’t a statistic that measures how many times you pick up your phone because you want to tell your child something and then remember you can’t.

There isn’t a number for how many holidays, birthdays, dinners, ordinary Tuesdays and little family moments will forever have someone missing.

We hear constantly that overdose deaths are declining. And I am grateful for every single person who is alive today because something worked. Narcan worked. Treatment worked. Harm reduction worked. Recovery worked. Someone answered the phone. Someone opened a door. Someone didn’t give up.

Every life saved matters.

But declining numbers don’t mean this is over.

Because somewhere inside the 2026 numbers is Gabriella.

And somewhere inside the 2017 numbers is Vincent.

They weren’t numbers when I gave birth to them.

They weren’t numbers when I watched them grow up.

They weren’t numbers when they made me laugh, made me crazy, worried me, hugged me, called me, needed me or told me stories.

They were my children.

They are still my children.

That is why I will continue talking about overdose. It is why I will continue talking about addiction. It is why I will continue talking about harm reduction, treatment, recovery and the places where our systems still fail people.

I don’t do this work because I learned about the overdose crisis from a report.

I learned about it by burying my children.

So when you hear an overdose statistic, don’t let the number become so big that you stop seeing the people inside of it.

Every single number has a name.

Every number has a story.

Every number has people who loved them before they became part of a dataset.

In 2017, one of them was Vincent.

In 2026, one of them was Gabriella.

And to the rest of the world they may be two numbers separated by almost nine years.

To me, they are my son and my daughter.

They always will be.