Midlife crisis vs. midlife crisis
Or: a eucatastrophe
I turned 41 last month, and this is normally the point where people my age start having midlife crises. Change of wardrobe, change of lifestyle, change of…shampoo? Change of partner, for some. Change of car for those with means. Thankfully a household of two non-profit salaries and a toddler remove all but the most superficial of temptations. I think (probably to my wife’s relief) the closest I’ve come to a midlife crisis in the traditional sense is reconnecting with a childhood love of sports cards. But I’m not the guy out there with an illustrious career in whatever buying 1952 Mickey Mantle cards for $12.6 million.
Of course, most midlife crises come when someone is facing an existential realization about who they are—or perhaps who they’ve become. They struggle with a sense of identity, a sense of purpose. I’ve heard of plenty of men, in particular, who feel like their whole sense of self is tied up in their family, or kids, and want to “break free”. Sometimes these crises are caused by external factors that result in internal reflection: loss of a job, loss of a relationship, etc. (Side note: in my Canadian Anglican context, I also see many folks turning to ministry as a new career midlife. I don’t have hard data on this—it’s probably out there somewhere—but the average age of the candidate for ordination in the Anglican Church seems to be older than me.).
Health challenges can also spur midlife crises. Elliott Jaques’s original definition from his 1957 presentation to the British Psycho-Analytical Society (which I don’t think was published until 1965) centred on the realization of mortality causing years-long depressive episodes. The funny thing is, I’ve read quite a bit about people facing health “scares” being lumped into this same category. Your mortality is challenged, and so you make some sort of drastic change.
I was talking about this with my wife the other day and trying (and somewhat failing) to articulate how I don’t feel like the feeling of surviving cancer at 41 is the same thing. Maybe it is and I’m just being obtuse—I don’t know. The best way I figured to describe it is that it’s a modified form of survivor guilt. I know too many people ±10 years from my age who’ve not made it. And who knows even what might happen to me ten years from now. Because of all my various treatments, I’m more at risk of difficulties, and even recurrence. Caffeine and alcohol will be mostly verboten the rest of my life. But here’s the truth, at least for right now: I’m still here. I wasn’t sure if I would be, but I’m here. Now what?
There are facets to this existence that seem obvious to me, but bear stating out-loud. I have more time, however much it is, to see my son grow up, to be a part of his life. I have more time, however much it is, to be a good partner to my wife. I have more time, however much it is, to be a friend to my friends. I have more time, however much it is, to serve those I’ve been called to serve in a variety of capacities. Believe me, I’m not taking any of this for granted.
I’m reminded of the scene from John 5, where Jesus heals the man by the pool in Jerusalem. If my son wasn’t currently home sick and napping, I’d go into his room where all my commentaries live and give you some sort of brief homily about the context, background, and even the present discourse on the agency of impaired people presented in the biblical text. But that’s kind of neither here nor there at the moment. What’s key in the passage is that there’s a shift in circumstances: someone who had known a particular way of life for thirty-eight years is rocked by this guy who waltzes up and changes all that. In the narrative, he’s then questioned by religious leaders trying to trap Jesus for working a miracle on the Sabbath (not to mention claiming to be God’s son).
I admittedly have no idea what to do with verse 14 here. When Jesus finds him later, there’s a sort of implication that maybe the man’s sin had led to his disability. Jesus doesn’t usually work miracles in John’s gospel account just for the hell of it, but usually with something spiritual attached. So his parting advice, “Do not sin any more, so that nothing worse happens to you” sounds a bit reproachful. But I don’t think that’s the only way to read that text. I like Helena Martin’s reading, that it’s more about “the eternal consequences of sin” rather than any one particular sin.1
Regardless of how you read that, I’m left wondering: what did he do afterward? Nearly forty years, and then a eucatastrophe.
Interestingly, advice for cancer survivors often includes knocking things off your bucket list you thought you’d never get to, trying new hobbies, volunteering. And there’re further existential commendations:
You have already had cancer. Now it is time to have or do or see or think about something else. You deserve it. We all do.
Life is good, and life truly can get better with time. When I was first diagnosed and in active treatment, life did not feel so good. Side effects, fear, dread and almost endless worry were my new constant companions. I think my cancer has helped me learn to become braver. Life has and will continue to move on, and so will I, and so can you.
Hm. Some of this I like. I was joking with a friend about the possible statute of limitations on blaming things on cancer once you’re in remission. I can’t remember what we settled on. Do I get a year? Cancer brain is thankfully fading, though as I’ve mentioned my immune system is still taking awhile to re-regulate itself. But I’m not sure exactly how you can “have or do or see or think about something else”. I wasn’t in a car accident. My flesh turned against itself.
Braveness might not be completely wrong. You can’t face cancer without fear, at least at first. I recently finished reading Ephraim Radner’s Mortal Goods, and again and again I’m drawn back to the fact that fear is a sort of exercise in trying to hold onto things for too long, and not just holding onto them at all. Life itself is a gift, and the incarnation means that the stuff of our daily lives can be cherished in particular ways. There’s not much of a point in fearing that things will be taken away from you when you did nothing to “deserve” them.
So the first type of midlife crisis is one where that fear gets the better of you. You grasp too tightly onto things, concepts, or concepts that capitalism presents to you as things: youth, vitality, fervour, contentment, pleasure.
The second is being told by Jesus to pick up your mat and get on your way, I suppose.
Helena M. Martin, “In Defense of the Disabled Man at the Bethesda Fountain (John 5.1–15),” Biblical Interpretation 30 (2022): 262. See also Emma Swai, “A Metanarrative Of Disability In John 5,” Journal for Interdisciplinary Biblical Studies 5.3 (2024), https://jibs.hcommons.org/2024/10/24/a-metanarrative-of-disability-in-john-5.
I really love this. Thank you.
I love reading your posts. This is a particularly thoughtful one. Thanks!