Trauma with a capital T: Part 1

>Trigger and content warnings<

My son Tommy died ten years ago yesterday, a tragic, accidental, preventable death, on my watch.

Apparently big anniversaries are a real thing. I didn't know; I've never done this before. His death day is July 31st. The emotional storm woke me in the early morning hours of July 30th and wasn't spent until I saw the calendar flip from 11:59 pm on July 31st to 12:00 am on August 1st.

Tommy had spent his life criminally neglected in the same Bulgarian orphanage we adopted Katie from.

Katie was 9 1/2 years of age and weighed 10 1/2 pounds when we brought her home in November, 2011.

Tommy had been admitted to the orphanage in August, 1997, at 5 months of age. We brought him home in June, 2013, at 16 years of age, wearing size 4T clothing. He died 13 1/2 months later, having gained four clothing sizes.

He required total care, and he received special formula through a G-tube, a feeding tube that goes directly into the stomach. Psychological testing showed that he was at an 8 to 11 month old developmental level.

The tests didn't show that he loved the color green, his toy pear, and his tractor. They didn't show that he loved playing in the water. They didn't show that he was bonded to me after about seven months in our family, that he only learned one word, "Mama," and that he kissed me by pressing his tongue on my face. They didn't show his million-dollar smile. They didn't show how he laid his head on my shoulder when he was tired, or how he twinkled when I patted him and ruffled his hair and called him "Tom-tom."

He was the purest soul I have ever known, and my life was changed by his life and death in our family. His life had meaning; the meaning of his life was love.

To be continued…