Stoicism Has Borders

I am the rock upon which my household sits.  While I don’t usually boast in these pages, it’s important I make an exception today.  Last time I was sick, I was not nearly as pathetic as I usually am.  The Man Flu is real, and when it comes for me, my body shuts down in protest.  With two kids and a host of uncovered outlets in the house, however, I don’t have the luxury of tapping out for the day anymore. 

So when illness last struck, I rose to the occasion.  I got out of bed multiple times so I could curl up on the couch, staring at a child so we could truthfully say in a court of law that they weren’t unattended.  I got my own water, something immobile trees manage every day.  I even managed to do the dishes while only making three self-pitying comments to my wife.

In sum, I was a hero.

My wife is blessed with a strong immune system.  Generally, that means only I catch whatever lab leaked biowarfare agents my children bring home from daycare.  However, it also means that when she goes down, she goes down hard.

She was hit by what appeared to be plague recently, and it took her out of commission.  We’re talking fever shakes, body aches, and a longing for the comfort of the grave level of sick.  Finally, I thought, my moment to shine.  I would handle the kids, she would have the opportunity to rest, and all parties involved would award me with a sincere and unironic “World’s Best Dad” mug. 

Unfortunately, no one told my wife the plan.  As I sat wrangling increasingly feral children, she shambled out of the bedroom like a plague victim looking for a dark corner to curl up in and die.  She looked at me, blinked slowly, then held out her arms to our children who immediately abandoned me in favor of the walking corpse.

I sat there on the ground, now without purpose.  But at least I had my health.

In our relationship, I’m considered the stoic one.  My keels are even and my pace is steady.  My cucumber cool runs the show almost everywhere—everywhere except when it comes to illness. 

For whatever reason, sickness short circuits my rational side.  It doesn’t matter if it’s my own or someone in the family, sickness makes me catastrophize like a citizen of Pompeii when the nearby hills start to smoke.  What’s worse is I know this is happening.  I can walk through the logic in my head, but the end result is still a certainty that if we don’t go to the ER right now, everyone is going to die. 

As I watched my wife man up better than I ever have, it struck me how our roles reverse when it comes to sickness.  She becomes Cool Hand Luke, while I’m the manic hypochondriac doomscrolling WebMD articles on all the reasons why our children having a 99.5-degree fever means they now have cancer-lupus.

The gap here isn’t the philosophy—it’s the practitioner.  Stoicism has borders.  Like spreading cold butter over rough bread, the spread isn’t even.  I’m great when it comes to finances, crisis moments at work, and dealing with bad drivers.  Not so much when it comes to physical vulnerability. 

My wife serves as a useful counterpoint.  As evidenced by her ability to drag herself out from a shallow grave to help with the children without a word of complaint, she clearly has stoicism in spades when it comes to handling illness.  But if she gets cut off in traffic, she starts eyeing matchboxes and considering arson.  I keep my head when the world falls apart.  She keeps hers when our bodies do.

Too often, self-reflection ends up as self-congratulation.  When I sat on the living room floor left behind by my children, however, I learned something new about myself.  Turns out I’ve had an incomplete self-assessment, but that’s an important thing to recognize.  Finding the edge is the prerequisite for the work.

Everyone has a boundary.  The question isn’t whether you have one—it’s where does yours stop?