Who is Carlo Acutis, the computer prodigy who died at 15 and is to be first millennial saint?
He was a London-born teenager with leukaemia who spread his faith by building websites, later gaining the moniker 'God's influencer'.
And now Carlo Acutis, a computer prodigy who died at the age of 15 in 2006, will become the first millennial canonised by the Catholic church next week, in St Peter's Square.
Acutis used the several computer coding languages he learned in primary school to develop websites for his parish and the wider church, including one that tracked Catholic miracles.
The Vatican has a path towards sainthood, which can only begin five years after a person's death. The Holy See studies the person's life, and keeps watch for the miracles necessary to secure a spot among the beatific.
Acutis was put on the path after Pope Francis approved a miracle attributed to him: a seven-year-old boy from Brazil recovered from a rare pancreatic disorder after coming into contact with one of Acutis's T-shirts. A priest had also prayed to Acutis on behalf of the child.
If a person undergoes an unexpected recovery, it can be classed as a miracle by the Vatican. If two miracles are attributed to a deceased person and approved by the pope, then they qualify for sainthood.
Acutis's sainthood was confirmed when the pope approved the second miracle: a 21-year-old student in Costa Rica made a swift recovery after head trauma from a serious bicycle accident after her mother prayed for her daughter's recovery at Acutis's tomb in the Umbrian town of Assisi.
As part of the pathway, Acutis's body was moved to the hill town of Assisi in central Italy, in line with his last wishes, since he admired Saint Francis.
Acutis was entombed in Santa Maria Maggiore church with a wax mould of his likeness placed over his body, wearing his blue tracksuit top, jeans and trainers.
Ever since, crowds have been gathering at the clear-sided casket. Tens of thousands more are expected to attend the canonisation service on 27 April. Vatican officials hope that the pope, who is still recovering from a serious bout of double pneumonia, will preside.
Out of 912 people canonised by Pope Francis, the most recent birth date was previously 1926.
Acutis was born in London in 1991 before moving to Milan with his Italian parents, Andrea Acutis and Antonia Salzano, as a child.
Salzano previously told the newspaper Corriere della Sera that from the age of three her son would ask to visit churches they passed in Milan and would donate his pocket money to poor people in the city.
She said Acutis would also offer to support classmates whose parents were going through divorces, would defend disabled peers when they were bullied and would take meals and sleeping bags to rough sleepers in Milan.
She told Reuters that he was special, but also shared the same anxieties about fitting in as any other teenager: 'Carlo was an ordinary child like [others]. He used to play, to have friends, and to go to school. But his extraordinary quality was the fact that he opened the door of his heart to Jesus and put Jesus in the first place in his life.'
She said her son lived an ascetic life in which he would not allow himself more than one pair of shoes at a time.
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Advertisement Hide Ad Advertisement Hide Ad Known for his short fuse and dry humour, his trademark phrase during tutorials – 'So far, no marks' – was not so much a criticism as an exhortation to inspire students to expand their ability and think more profoundly. Allan Langlands revolutionised oncology in Australia A swathe of tributes from former students, now successful clinicians, stands testimony to his impact on their learning. Before his birth his parents lived in the United States but his grandfather insisted they return to Scotland to ensure their son was born here, where they remained. Academically brilliant, he attended Edinburgh's Royal High School, going on to Edinburgh University medical school where he graduated with a BSc in physiology in 1953 and MB ChB in 1956, gaining the Gold Medal for his graduating class. He trained as a junior doctor in Edinburgh's teaching hospitals and was called up for National Service in 1958, serving as a captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps stationed at the British Military Hospital in Singapore, where he met his future wife, Helen. They married in 1961 and had two children. Advertisement Hide Ad Advertisement Hide Ad Deciding to specialise in what was then known as radiotherapy, now clinical oncology, he held a research fellowship at the Medical Research Council Clinical Effects of Radiation Research Unit at Edinburgh's Western General Hospital where he was appointed consultant radiation oncologist in 1969. He was responsible for the care of breast cancer patients in the Edinburgh clinics and of those with soft tissue and bone tumours across the region, as well some benign diseases. Gradually he took on the director, Professor Robert McWhirter's, clinical services and applied for his chair when his superior retired. 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‘My daughter only knew hospitals until I had a son whose bone marrow saved her life'
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Before that hospital trip in 2019, looking after Vida had been a struggle. Despite her frequent crying and pallor – people complimented her porcelain skin – the couple had no real idea anything was wrong. She wasn't an easy baby: a fussy feeder and an erratic sleeper. But they were first-time parents – what did they know? When they were first told about Vida's haemoglobin levels, they assumed it meant she was severely anaemic. But it soon became clear that it was more serious than that. Vida received a blood transfusion over four days – there's only so much you can give at once – and after just one instalment, the change was remarkable: her colour returned and she fed with gusto. The family took her home and tests began to investigate the cause of her anaemia, which could have stemmed from a number of things. They were vastly relieved to learn it wasn't blood cancer – but unsettled by the emerging discussions around 'bone marrow'. The effects of the transfusion soon wore off. Four weeks later, Vida's haemoglobin levels had dropped again, and her symptoms – poor appetite, restlessness, pallor – had returned. Holland was floored, watching her baby decline. But as a journalist, she threw herself into the research, typing in symptoms and exploring every possible avenue in search of a cause. She was becoming desperate. One condition Holland came across was extremely rare – but it seemed to match all of Vida's symptoms: Diamond-Blackfan anaemia (DBA), a genetic blood disorder in which the bone marrow fails to produce enough red blood cells. DBA affects only five to seven children in a million. But that's what it turned out to be, as the family discovered on a bleak day in July, when Vida was five months old. Neither Holland nor Freddie carry the gene for DBA, they would later learn, and the odds of Vida having it were infinitesimal. It felt like a life sentence of anxiety and grief. As well as an inability to produce sufficient red blood cells, DBA is associated with a predisposition to certain cancers and the risk of other abnormalities. Treatment pathways vary – a lifelong course of steroids or a bone marrow transplant were possibilities for the future – but in the short term, it meant regular blood transfusions, roughly every three weeks. Each time, a cannula had to be inserted into the arm of a screaming baby – often requiring both parents and three nurses – followed by a painstaking effort to keep her still for the next three hours. Holland has now written a book about these early years, called Lifeblood, which gives a visceral impression of the emotions they went through at the time; firstly the worry and uncertainty, followed by incomprehension, then the fear and grief at what they – and Vida – were facing for the rest of their lives. 'I'm really lucky in that we had a very favourable set-up,' she says today. 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'A geneticist would say that because we already had a child with it, yes, the chances were higher, but actually based on probability it was a very low chance that he would have it as well. But obviously we were still scared.' A month later she and Freddie were informed that, should a transplant be warranted, Gabriel was a match for Vida. They were cautiously euphoric. 'When we found out that he was a match, it became a bit of a no-brainer. It was a big decision to go ahead with the transplant, because it's high-risk, but around that time the advice was changing: when she was diagnosed as a tiny baby, what we were hearing from the other parents in the DBA community and from her doctor, was this is not a decision you take lightly – it's dangerous, it's a year out of mainstream life, and there are a lot of things that could go wrong. Two years later, new research showed much better outcomes, both from donors who are related and not, and that the quality of life outcomes for kids who had had transplants were quite favourable compared to living on blood transfusions. 'I feel apprehensive about saying this because I know that there are lots of parents with children who are on transfusions, who are leading rich lives, but I know it's not easy.' In March 2023, Vida had her transplant, with bone marrow donated by her brother. Their parents did not underestimate the emotional implications of this. 'We have told Vida that Gabriel is 'sharing some of his blood with her',' Holland writes in Lifeblood. 'She is concerned about him 'going to sleep'; having his blood removed; we tell her that he has lots of it and that he won't remember […] Until now, Freddie and I have minimised the significance of what he will have to endure – the many blood tests, the general anaesthetic, the soreness in his lower back where the bone marrow will be taken, and the consequent anaemia which will require months of iron supplementation […] we are signing up our baby for the possibility of pain and distress. This doesn't sit comfortably.' In anticipation of the transplant, Vida had spent weeks in hospital, and had a Hickman line fitted through which to administer her 'conditioning treatment' – a cocktail of meds, including the chemotherapy, which inevitably made her ill, and caused her to lose her hair. But the transplant was a success. Gabriel's stem cell donation was 'abundant', her doctor informed them, and the new cells established successfully. She remained in hospital for five-and-a-half weeks as her immune system was non-existent, whereas Gabriel was sent home the following day and made a very quick recovery. When Vida returned home, there were restrictions. She had to take nine different medications four times a day; she had a controlled diet and could only drink boiled water. 'Every aspect of her day is monitored, curated, limited somehow,' writes Holland. Vida is six now, and flourishing. She started school midway through her reception year and is doing well, though she still has many hospital appointments. DBA makes her susceptible to certain cancers, so she has to be careful with sun protection, and she'll be on penicillin for life. Gabriel is sometimes jealous of these precautions and asks for medicine too. 'She's the patient, and it's obviously been hardest for her, but it's also been tough on Gabriel – in different ways. After the transplant, she often had to be readmitted, and we'd have to leave at a moment's notice to go to A&E at St Mary's. That was really hard for him; he was only three.' Vida hasn't questioned the constant hospital visits, Holland says. It's all she knows. 'I spent so long grieving that she was not going to have a normal life, that we were missing out on all the school activities and the swimming lessons – I was so worried about all that, but there have been aspects of it that have been quite wonderful, and I don't say that lightly.' Remarkably, Holland says, 'Vida loves going to hospital now. She used to get very frightened about the blood tests, it was traumatic for her and for us, but when I look at it as a whole, hospital has been a place where she gets focused time with one or both of her parents, she gets a lot of adult attention, she gets art therapy, she gets music therapy, she gets lots of presents. There have been rich moments too as well as very long, very empty, uncertain and frightening days. 'I think that how Vida's trauma is expressed will obviously evolve over time, and I feel I need to be quite alert as to how things could come out for her as she gets older.' At Easter, Vida's school put on an 'Eggstravaganza' where all the children were asked to make a diorama featuring hard-boiled eggs. 'I said, we've got to win this – let's make the hospital.' So they created 'Egg-elina Children's Hospital', based on the Evelina, with yolk transfusions and an 'eggs-ray'. And Vida won. The idea of the book came up while Holland was pregnant with Gabriel. 'I wrote it in a very sort of stolen-moments way, over about four years. The original plan was for it to be about Vida's first year, and finding acceptance, accommodating the unexpected. When things feel really bleak, it's hard to see how any good can come of them, but I know a lot of good has come from what happened. 'Even with the transfusions, I am glad those days are over but I look back on them fondly because I felt so held – particularly in the early days when I was always trying to second guess how she was doing, what her blood count was; I was always gazing at her face and ears and lips, trying to work out how anaemic she was. But when she went into hospital, I was sharing the responsibility. Obviously I wish that Vida hadn't had to go through what she has, and we could have been spared it – but it's sort of all I know now. I've been rewired.' In the UK, one in 25 babies is born with a genetic condition of some kind, and Holland's book will resonate with other parents facing similar challenges. Writing down what happened really helped, she says, 'and having a sense of – it sounds like a cliché – but being able to take control of the story. It was good to put it in my own words; I often don't know how I feel about things until I've written them down.' She is full of gratitude for the NHS. 'The biggest takeaway is just how hugely lucky we are to have the NHS, and what a precious thing it is. It's been incredible. I would love to know what Vida's medical bill is after six years of this; even the chelation medicine she had to have while she was on transfusion was well into five figures a year.' What people can do to help, she says, is give blood. Her book is out, inadvertently, just after World Blood Donor Day, which is on 14 June. 'For an hour spent in a blood donor centre you can save up to three lives. And in order to maintain blood supplies, 140,000 first-time donors are needed every year. 'I would just like to convey that it is an easy thing to do – having watched countless needles go into Vida, I've probably become hardened to it – and it has profound benefits for society.' How does she feel about Vida reading about herself in Lifeblood in the future? 'I feel quite guilty about the fact that for her first year I was just so sad, and I've been worried about what she might experience reading that. But I like to think that what comes across is extreme love.'
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