After losing his son Chevy to an astrocytoma, aged 34, José Maria Mendes de Abreu (pictured above far right, with partner Rado Dobransky) has written a poignant blog, sharing how he was finally able to step forward into the future…
My son, Chevy, was the picture of health. He loved the discipline of the gym and the freedom of the outdoors, his camera always in his hand. Photography wasn't just his hobby, it was how he saw the world; a way to find beauty in the everyday. He inspired me to see things that way too, and it became a passion we shared.
He was meticulous. Everything had its place. Even opening his sock drawer after he was gone was heartbreaking; seeing the neat, colour-coded rows was a punch to the gut, a reminder of the order he brought to his life. He had a smile that everyone talked about. He was just so full of life.
And then, one day, a diagnosis of an astrocytoma brain tumour shattered everything.
The devastation was… devastating, but Chevy built a wall of hope around himself. When asked, he didn’t want to know his prognosis. He had a strong belief that he would be cured, and his focus was already on others. "No family," he would say, "should ever have to go through what I'm putting you all through." That was my son. Through the relentless cycles of chemo and radiotherapy, that hope and his belief in Archangel Michael were his protectors.
During this journey, his brother bought him Fairy Tale by Stephen King. It became our ritual. I would read to him, and during this time, we would escape into another world; one without pain or tumours. It was our comfort, a place of peace and safety. But when the news came that the tumour had progressed to stage 4, the story felt like a cruelty. The escape was gone – but the hope still remained strong.
Chevy during and at the end of radiotherapy
On the 6th April 2024, Chevy’s journey ended. It was peaceful. He was surrounded by his family, and he just… stopped breathing. No struggle. Just a profound, terrible, deafening silence.
After that, you go into a strange automatic mode. There’s no manual for this. You just do the things. Call the people. Sign the forms.
There's no feeling, just a protective numbness – a fog of administration you have no idea how to navigate. The funeral directors were a godsend, helping with everything. And in that fog, a small piece of practical brilliance such as the Government’s Tell Us Once service, which lets you report a death to multiple departments in one go, feels like a lighthouse.
But nothing prepares you for choosing the clothes for your son’s final journey. It’s a painful, impossible task. We chose the suit, the white shirt and the colourful tie he wore to his brother's wedding. And his favourite red trainers – a small nod to the Man United fan he always was.
After the funeral, the silence gets louder. The world doesn’t stop, but yours has. Friends don't know what to say, so they say nothing. The loneliness is an ache you cannot describe. The world even forgets his birthday. It passes like any other day for everyone else, and it feels like he’s been erased from memory – but he exists so heavily in mine. You feel like standing on a mountain and screaming to the world that it’s his birthday, but you know the sound would just fall on empty ears. At the very moment you need a hug the most, you look around and there is no one.
Chevy believed in Brain Tumour Research and wanted to do everything he could for the Charity. Together with family in the UK, we joined the Walk of Hope, and even in a wheelchair, he was so proud to be there, raising funds. His legacy became my mission. I used to be a runner, but once Chevy passed, I couldn't find the will. I went to a parkrun once but felt like a ghost, as if everyone was staring at the grieving man. Then I saw the Charity’s Route to Research challenge online – 676.2 miles. Without a second thought, I registered.
Just clicking that button, before taking a single step, felt like the first act of defiance against the paralysis of my grief.
In the darkness of my sorrow, getting out of the house was a daily struggle. But the challenge gave me a reason. It forced me back into the world, onto the paths and roads. It gave me a way to take all the restless, painful energy of loss and turn it into forward motion.
The journey was about more than just fundraising; it was how I connected with Chevy. Every time I stopped to take a photo, I felt like I was continuing a conversation we had started; seeing the world through the passion we shared. A few weeks ago, I set myself a pilgrimage. I walked from Blackheath, through Greenwich Park, and all the way along the Thames Path into Central London. My destination was the LEGO store in Leicester Square, a place that held so much of Chevy's joy. It was my longest walk ever – 43,845 steps (21.5 miles). Exhausted, I went into the store to buy a few Star Wars pieces in his memory: C-3P0 and Grogu in his hover pram. The sales assistant asked about them. I heard myself say, "They're for my son," and then, as my eyes watered, I corrected myself: "In memory of my son." I paid and walked away.
As I was walking downstairs, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was her, the sales assistant. She said she felt we had a connection and asked if we could talk. She wanted to know about Chevy, about his illness, about his journey. And then she trusted me with her own story, of a friend she had lost, and the grief that still lived with her. In the middle of a busy LEGO store, surrounded by colourful boxes of joy, death had become our connection. It was only then, as this kind stranger offered me a piece of her own pain, that the tears I'd been holding back finally came, like a flood. And then we hugged. A deep, connective hug between two strangers bonded by loss. For that one moment, it felt like the whole world stood still.
It was an unexpected moment of pure human compassion, an emotional reminder that we are not alone in our sorrow.
The Route to Research challenge was my therapy. It gave me a purpose. It brought physical benefits – my resting heart rate is down to 55 – but, more than that, it gave me a way to carry my son’s hope forward. For anyone reading this who feels lost in that same fog, please know that taking on a challenge like this isn't about forgetting; it's about finding a new way to remember. It's about building a legacy, one step at a time.
My mission for Chevy now has three parts: I will continue to raise funds whenever and however I can; I have committed to a monthly personal donation; and I have left a legacy in my will, ensuring that what I would have left to my son will now be used by Brain Tumour Research to find a cure. The Charity’s team can help make this process easier for anyone considering it.
Every pound raised, every mile walked, is a continuation of Chevy's life and our shared belief that one day, no family will have to endure this. And that hope is the greatest comfort of all.
You can support José's Route to Research challenge and make a donation in memory of Chevy.
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