I Wish I Were Thor

A gift of hope and comfort

Everywhere I look, the children are sick, or sad, or crying. I look into their eyes and I see them. I see how they wish they were somewhere else. I see how they wish they weren’t sick, waiting in a hospital. I see how they wish they were happy. They miss their friends. They miss playing outside. They miss their beds. They miss their homes.

Worst of all, they’re all alone. All of them. Every single one.

While their moms or dads, but rarely both, talk with the nurse or the doctor, the children just play by themselves. Yes, they probably have siblings, but their siblings aren’t sick. Besides, the hospital is boring. Why should they come? Why should THEIR day be ruined? No, this is their free time. Freedom from mom. Freedom from dad. Freedom from their sick little brother or sister.

"We’ll come get you when you’re done," they say. But then they’ll forget to ask you about your day.

There are only two of us left. The other little boy is quiet, but he’s really smart. He plays with the blocks and just thinks thoughts. He's a quiet thinker. A quiet thinker with a sad soul. A sad soul with bad bones, or a bad lung, or a bad heart.

No, not a bad heart. He has a good heart, just not very strong. It needs attention. His mom’s hugs probably feel good, but they’re not enough.

If only they were.

I turn to my mom.

"Can’t we just go home already?" I ask.

"A little longer, mijo. Just a little longer."

My mom’s eyes are loving, but sad. Can’t we just go home already?

She looks around for the other parent. She wants to talk. She wants to share my story.

Eight-hour ambulance ride for heart surgery at five months old. Died but revived on the operating table. A five month stay in the hospital afterward. Annual checkups eight hours away ever since. Doctor after doctor. Nurse after nurse. Test after test.

She wants to share her pain.

But what about my pain?

Don’t share my story. I don’t want that stranger looking at me with those sad eyes. Sad eyes that say, "Oh, dear. You have a sad story."

I have a sad life. I don’t need anyone to tell me. I don’t even want anyone to know. I only feel sad here in the hospital. Waiting.

I walk away from those sad eyes. I shuffle over to her little boy with the sad soul.

"Which one’s your favorite?" I say, pointing to the wall.

He turns around and smiles at the figures painted on the wall. Giant-sized images of Marvel Superheroes.

"The Hulk," he says.

"How come?" I ask.

"Because he’s so strong. And he jumps far. And NOTHING can hurt him. And what about you?" he asks.

"Thor," I say.

"How come?"

"Because he’s really strong, too. And he can fly. He can shoot lightning with his cool hammer, and he’s not afraid of ANYTHING."

We’re both smiling. Looking at the images on the wall and smiling. We both feel so powerful.

"James!" A nurse calls out.

"Come on, James," his mom says. "They’re calling us."

He doesn’t look at me again. He just follows his mom, and I turn slowly and walk back to mine.

My mom watches them disappear behind the door, and then turns to me. Her eyes are sad for him.

"Her little boy, he’s really sick," she says.

"I know," I say.

"Did he tell you?" my mom asks.

I look into her sad eyes with my own, and then I say it.

"He wishes he was the Hulk."

My mom nods. She looks at me for a moment and then gives me a hug. It’s a long hug, and she squeezes me tight. I squeeze her back.

We let each other go, and I sit down in the chair next to her, my feet dangling.

“Arthur!” A nurse calls out.

I wish I were Thor.

Thank you for reading. You can subscribe to my future content here. I share my articles on Leadership and Management and their application to your world on my publication, The Endeavor Perspective. You can also check out my fantasy and fiction publication, A Bit of Madness, as well as its non-fiction counterpart, A Bit of Genius.