The Trick is not Minding that it Hurts.

 

I’ve recently finished re-reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom. So much wisdom, therein, even though the author’s many foibles are evident at every stage of the book. A man unsuited to normalcy who found his spiritual home in the desert vastness where a very different way of life exists.

I’m heading for the Sahara, my third visit, and am hoping to see in the New Year miles away from any recognized form of civilization. Reading the book I was reminded of the film version detailing the life of this remarkable man. Hollywood being what it is, there are stark differences in the film. Historical accuracy is paid mere lip service, but after seeing Rob Roy and Braveheart my historian’s desire for accuracy has taken many a battering.

A scene from the film that’s stuck with me is where Lawrence, the striking blue eyes of Peter O’Toole well to the fore, extinguishes a lit match between thumb and forefinger, seemingly without concern. Another character attempts the same feat and receives a painful burn for his trouble.

‘Certainly it hurts,’ Lawrence says.

‘What’s the trick then?’ Lawrence is asked.

‘The trick is not minding that it hurts.’

Brilliant scene. Mind over matter.

A while ago I met a former work colleague and we wiled away the time, reminiscing about times gone by. A mutual friend’s cover had been blown and the result had been a beating so severe it left him paralysed. I visited Danny in Stoke Newington hospital, the spinal injuries unit; watched as the nurses had manipulated his arms and legs while he’d been strapped to a board in order to take up a vertical posture. His mind remained as sharp as ever, as befitted a man with a doctorate in philosophy, and it may have been the nature of his studies had helped his attitude. The broken nose, broken cheekbone, broken arms, all were routine and I’d had injuries of this nature myself in my time.

What set this case apart were the spinal injuries he’d suffered when he’d been thrown from a speeding car, leaving him paralysed from the neck down.

I found the hour or so I spent with him very difficult, not just because I was his replacement and needed to hear every last detail of what had happened. His stoicism, the acceptance of the situation, was hard to take. I couldn’t have been so calm. So composed.

‘The trick is not minding that it hurts.’ No, of course he didn’t say this, but the quotation was apposite.

We talked for an hour or so. I fed him, with a spoon. Like a child. The loss of dignity was ever-present – the elephant in the room – yet he never referred to it, never expressed one iota of self-pity. He was the same Danny I’d stood alongside on the Kop, sank many a pint with, cracking jokes and with a withering scorn for pomposity.

A remarkable man. He died two years later, asphyxiated when his ability to breathe for himself, always at risk, ceased in the middle of the night. By the time I heard the news, far away in North Africa, it was too late to attend the funeral.

I’ll never forget Danny. The bravest man I ever met. RIP, mate.