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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