The Fourth Thing
I don’t remember what the first three things were, but the water cascading down two stories and hitting me in the face—this after we had supposedly fixed the problem in the tower—was the fourth thing, the thing that put me over the edge emotionally.
It was early winter, and my husband and I had just spent the previous summer paying to have the tower replaced on our Queen Anne-style Victorian home. The first tower had burned off in the early 20th century and the replacement tower had some structural issues. Also, Jason had found a photo of the original tower and was able to back solve exactly how to reproduce the original.
It was with awe and trepidation that we had watched the previous summer as the contractors lifted the new tower into place. I had held my son, Anton, then just a little over a year old, and talked to him about what was happening.
The new tower being lifted onto our Victorian home (2008)
It had been an expensive endeavor but one we were convinced would make the house more secure and add value in numerous ways.
And then just a few short months later I was standing on the ground floor with water dripping onto me from two stories up.
I dissolved into tears and shouts of disbelief.
I was furious at the world and anyone near me.
“I hate this house!” I yelled. “I can’t handle this! I don’t want to live here anymore. I’m so sick of fighting a losing battle against an old house.”
Everything felt impossible. Everything felt like too much.
Of course, it wasn’t. Jason called the contractor, who identified the problem—ice dam on a part of the roof where the tower and attic intersected—and this wonderful person went out on our roof with a hair dryer and fixed the problem in the short term. We got better insulation the following summer, fixing the problem for the long term as well.
Certainly, on some level, my reaction was perfectly reasonable. No one likes it when it’s raining on the inside of their house. But also, Jason and I decided upon reflection that it wasn’t just about the leak. It was about everything else before that. We listed the big house-related issues we were dealing with at the time and realized something important. There were four of them.
And so was born in our relationship the code phrase for the stressor that is one too many: “the fourth thing.” We came to realize that like most people, I can handle a fair bit of stress. I can even handle three major problems at once.
But the fourth thing is too much.
I was thinking about this the other day while I was at work in a large meeting, looking around at the faces of colleagues, people who are under my scope of care in the organization and at my teammates. I know some of their stressors, both those at home and those at work, but much of what is worrying them is hidden from me.
That’s normal in most workplaces, even in many personal relationships. We don’t tend to greet each other by saying things like, “Good morning! I’ve got three major stressors in my life at home right now—one financial, one house-related, and one with my kids. The first major stressor at work today is going to be really challenging for me to navigate! How are you?” I suppose we could try that, but I’m not sure it would catch on widely.
And then of course we have the compounding factor of the Midwest nice problem, which means that most people at work, when I meet them and ask, “how ya doin’?” say “Good!” with forced enthusiasm. I’m always secretly pleased when someone says something a touch more honest, like “hangin’ in there” or “been better, but I’ll survive” or “it’s been a Monday.” If we have time, we stop and chat a bit more. Their honesty helps me be there for them. Their honesty helps encourage me to be a bit more honest too.
At work, on my bad days, I can’t even sense anyone else’s stress because I’m trying to navigate my way back to just having three major things on my stressor plate.
On the flipside, when I’m not careful, I can sense everyone else’s stress and I take it on—unnecessarily and without helping them at all.
On my good days, when I enter a meeting, I consider whether someone I encounter is thinking, “Please don’t hand me my fourth thing. I can’t handle it today.”
On my good days, I walk into difficult conversations, agenda-packed meetings, and hectic days and assume everyone else already has three big stressors surrounded by tiny little stresslets that aren’t as cute as they sound like they’d be.
And on my best days, I walk around remembering that probably most people I pass at work came to work that day with their plate overflowing. I think more carefully about how I word comments, watching for ways I can assess and address their stress. On my best days, I ask questions that help establish if they’re at the fourth thing already.
On my best days, I also remember to count my own stressors. When I get to three big ones, I need to pause and think about how I might address one of them. Or I need to take a break or a breath. Sometimes all I need to do is regain some perspective because like many others, much of my stress consists of worries that aren’t real yet.
And if I get to the fourth thing and I start to struggle, I need to reach out for help. I see people give each other support and forgiveness all the time, at work and at home. I know I’m the recipient of a lot of it.
In the moments where it becomes too much, I need to find a colleague and ask for five minutes, find a window and look at a tree blowing in the wind, find a quiet room where I can close my eyes and breathe deeply several times, or find some privacy and listen to music that soothes my spirit. When I emerge from those moments, I’m probably still not ready to meet the world. That’s asking far too much of five minutes. Hopefully, those in my part of the world will be able to approach me knowing that sometimes I’m carrying that fourth thing, ready to dissolve and yell and wail at it all, holding it together the best I can. I’ll try hard to remember it about them as well.