What's in a name? - In the name of Thiago - Day 25
In the name of Thiago
It has just occurred
to me in the couple of seconds that it has taken me to write the words ‘In the
name of Thiago’ again this evening that one of the things that I find most
comforting about writing this blog is the simple act of writing my son’s name
over and over again. Every time I write that beautiful name Thiago, it is like
a little piece of therapy.
Let me tell you about
his name. Thiago is the Brazilian version of James and in Brazil, there is a
saint called Thiago. It is with a mixture of sadness and maybe some appropriateness
that our little man passed away on his saint’s day: 28 November.
I love the beautiful logo
that my good friend Olly Prentice designed. Olly knows me so well and he
instantly – without any real input from me – knew what was needed. It’s me the Brit,
Angelica the Brazilian, with the big man in the middle. Simple and beautiful.
Talking of big men, my
old man has been up to his old tricks today. He suffers from something called
diverticulitis. He’s already had a couple of instances of it since he came back
from Australia in October and the last time he got it bad, he said he was
really sorry for all the trouble he had caused because he knows that it stems
from poor diet.
Up until today I had a
lot of sympathy for him. I got a call from my uncle this afternoon to say that Dad
was pretty bad and Angelica confirmed, (I was in a meeting when the call came
in so Angelica was updated in the meantime), that he wasn’t well enough to
drive home from Chester tomorrow.
It wasn’t pretty to
see him the way he was this evening but my overwhelming feeling as I drove up
the M6 and across to get him was anger. Anger that he could be so fucking stupid
to let this happen again when keeping the effects of this condition in check was
to a great extent within his control.
Anger that my dad’s
lack of responsibility for his own health was impacting on my own drive to get
fit and effecting my ability to stay positive. Today’s events have put me on a
slight downer, it wouldn’t be unfair to say.
And now I feel anger
with myself for not having the more typical overriding emotion of sympathy. Am
I an arsehole? What kind of son am I to think this way? When Thiago died, I
vowed to live my life like his. With vim, with vigour, a spirit unmatched by
any other human being I’d met. To see my Dad be quite the opposite is soul-destroying.
But he is my Dad and
he’s fought my corner many a time when I probably didn’t deserve it, so I guess
this is my time so show humility and kindness. All I can say is that this couldn’t
really happen at a worse time and it will be doubly tough but it is my duty and
I will do it. After all I love the fucking bastard.
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