Stoicism in the Face of Reality
By: Quinn Cooke
Tags: Stoicism, Loss Of A Parent, Philosophy, Loss Of A Child

In a literal instant, three of my family were taken from us.

The car was likely full of laughter and light talk as a grandmother, her cousin, and two adult grandchildren pulled out of a strip mall on a bright December morning. They were running the kinds of errands a family runs in the weeks leading up to the Holidays. They dropped off a pet for grooming and left to continue their day. If they had been a minute faster or a minute slower, had someone dropped their keys or been more terse, life would be different. A family would not have been torn apart.

The cousin was driving. She pulled out of the parking lot, turning left to get onto the road. She either didn’t see the semi or misjudged his speed. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The truck hit them all the same, and the car disintegrated around them. The three passengers, grandmother and grandchildren, were killed instantly. The cousin survived, but will carry survivor’s guilt for the rest of her life.

I can’t imagine the phone call, and yet I can. My cousin had already lost his youngest child a few years ago to a fluke heart incident. His step-father had passed from cancer earlier this year. In a single moment, his mother was gone as was his other two children. The shock of hearing that kind news is tangible. It is a gray slab, like concrete, which descends over your heart and mind. It fills your head with a white-noise of denial and bargaining.

“It’s can’t be true. It’s a mistake. It’s someone else’s car. It’s a sick joke. It’s really not as bad as they say. Please, Jesus, please let it not be true.”

The thing about losing someone, especially so sudden, is that it doesn’t just go away. It’s not a single moment of loss accompanied by the guttural wailing and then over and done with, like in the movies. It is a pain that lingers long after the initial loss. The days immediately after are, in many ways, worse.

Reading my cousin’s Facebook posts are difficult, but hopefully cathartic for him. They alternate between thanking people for their prayers and breaking down because his son’s dog is howling for a master who will never return. Each song that comes on the radio is a reminder of son or mother who will never again share his life.

And I have no idea how to help or even respond.

I am a Taoist and a Stoic. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Every morning I read a verse from the Tao Te Ching and a verse from Meditations. I reflect on my reading and on what is going on in life and write down my thoughts. It is a daily practice that has helped me personally get through some difficult times in recent months.

This tragedy has me reeling.

Granted, this loss is not really mine, though I share a small piece of it. But, trying to apply the tenets of my personal philosophical blend of Taoism and Stoicism has me feeling hollow. How does one stay the course of balance when the world around you changes so fundamentally in the blink of an eye?

When my own mother passed in 2005, we knew it was coming. It still turned life upside down. I dealt with it by being numb for two weeks and then getting shit-faced on scotch one night after seeing her number in my contacts list. A loss like my cousin has suffered is devastating in a way no words can ever portray.

At the end of the day, I think the lesson from the Stoics is to feel what you need to feel without it becoming your identity. Without wallowing in it. Letting yourself be what you need to be, but not making any decisions during that time. In that way, Stoicism is less about being unfeeling and more about allowing yourself to feel it all. Let catharsis happen fully and quickly.

I hold my cousin in my heart and mind as he goes through this tragedy, and I humbly ask you to do the same. Reality has a way of throwing us out of our own worlds of assumption and comfort. I hope they, and you, find a way into a new world of love and hope.