The Mighty Thor

Close your eyes and try to envision the following moment in time. It is 1967 and there are six people standing next to an overturned sled at the bottom of a snow covered hill. The group consists of two families. There are two fathers, Hughie and Tom and each of their two sons. Just before the six had assembled at the bottom of the hill there had been a crash of the sled. Five of the people were now staring down at the youngest boy. His face is bleeding but there is not a single tear. That little boy is me. 

As I looked up at the different faces I could see my father cringe as he asked me what I wanted to do. I could tell from his expression that he was sure I was going to start crying and ask to go home. In my brief exchange with the five sets of investigating eyes I recognized the gravity of the moment. I selected my words carefully. Disregarding the pain or the blood, I turned away from the others and looked directly into my father’s eyes and said three words that I knew would please him, “Let’s go again”. My father smiled his approval as Hughie broke into laughter and proclaimed, “You are the toughest kid…you are the Mighty Thor!” In that instant my relationship with pain changed. From that day forward I became the toughest kid. 

The positive reinforcement that I gained from my demonstration of stength began my strange relationship with physical pain. I realized in that moment that people admired those who are tough. I learned as a six year old boy that the silent endurance of pain and the disregard for physical hardship were opportunities to garner love and admiration. So I became the toughest kid. I did not seek out painful experiences but in quietly held satisfaction I perversely enjoyed their arrival. I stood up to bullies and the beating they would give me. I played sports with an aggressive posture of reckless abandoned. Battered and sometimes bleeding, I would play on without uttering a word. My childhood conversations with adults regarding my toughness were filled with their smiles and nods of approval. My father would beam with pride when I would confront larger opponents or endure pain with a smile on my face. Coaches elevated me to captain based on my willingness to sacrifice my body to win. I received trophies in recognition of my inspirational toughness. Friends and teammates quietly admired my sacrificial spirit and followed my lead. In every aspect of life, my ability to endure pain offered me a chance to acquire positive attention and accolades from others.

As I became a young man the chances to demonstrate my toughness began to decline. It was then that I expanded my possibilities by becoming confrontational. As my reputation as a fighter grew the bullies disappeared so I began to see every slight as a personal assault that needed to be immediately addressed. I would not only fight my own personal battles but I would challenge those who threaten others. I saw superiors as adversaries to my masculinity and so I disrespected them. I refused to be lorded-over or told what to do by my teachers, bosses, or the police. These clashes with authority caused not only physical pain but mental and financial consequences. Still I would hunger for the chances to show people that I was tough while secretly hoping that they would admire me for being fearless. I needed to regularly validate my position as the toughest kid.

Fifty years have passed since the pivotal moment at the bottom of that snowy hill. All the bullies are gone and there are no more fans to impress. At the awards dinners I attend now as a coach I am passing out trophies not receiving them. My father has passed away and with him those precious moments of feeling the warmth of his pride. I am not the toughest kid anymore I am a middle aged man. Each day from the moment I rise to the second I lay down at night I am physically reminded of the pain I endured in my youth. My nose is a little off center, my body is scarred, my back not so straight, my medical file chronicles all my surgeries and stays in the hospital, and my clashes with authority are well documented. Now I sit and wonder if my threshold for pain has lessoned over the years. Injuries seem to hurt more now that I am older. Perhaps the reason the pain seems worse is that the severity reducing properties of love and admiration are now long gone.

Looking back it all seems so silly now. In the contemplative moments in which I remember my youth I now try to picture myself as an evolved man who does not use the silent endurance of pain as a portal to validation from others; but every so often I realize that in part I will always be that little boy. Just the other day I had a doctor’s appointment with a dermatologist to diagnose some skin anomalies. Biopsies were taken which required various techniques. I was poked with needles, cut, scrapped, burned, and frozen. There was blood and of course pain. As the doctor performed the different procedures she advised me to look away but I watched; smiling through it all and diverting the pain away as I had done so many times before. I could tell that she was surprised by my demeanor and did not quite understand why I seemed to be so unfazed by the pain the procedures were obviously causing. I however, completely understood the reasons for her confusion. She simply did not realize that I used to be the toughest kid. She had no way of knowing that, once upon a time, I was the Mighty Thor.