My father always replied the same way when I called him on the telephone and asked, “How are you today, Dad?” His reply didn’t waiver much, and his tone almost never revealed the tentative quality of his days. Whether he was imagining it or it was real, he would tenderly offer: “It’s a beautiful day.” It was an honest reply for him, in the moment, as I pictured him gazing out the window at one of his favorite scenes. He loved living down by the beach and enjoying the colors in the garden, the birds in the sky, and the gentle gradations of green in the dancing grasses out back.
Even though I persisted in asking the question, I already knew most of the time how Dad’s days were unfolding. His doctor told him his two goals for each day were first, to wake up, and second, to weigh himself. These goals of staying alive and monitoring his water retention were a far cry from those that drove his younger days as the founder and CEO of his own successful engineering and manufacturing firm. He knew how to set serious goals and reach them, proudly and steadily persevering even when times were tough. But these days, the doctor would expect him to simply answer my question with, “I’m still standing, and I weigh 210 lbs.” And that was supposed to be a sufficient reply to, “How are you?”
My father’s esteemed, world-renowned physician, who wished he could do more than predict the next sort of decline, once told me that living with congestive heart disease is like “dangling from a silk thread.”
I often hear the words, “I never imagined this.”
My father never imagined that he would live his later years like the spider in the metaphor. His days were consumed with mounting medical visits, painful and disabling surgeries, and an endless list of indignities that are all too familiar to patients of chronic disease. His losses were many, not the least of which was when diabetes stole from him the simple pleasure of eating the fruits he loved so much.
In my coaching practice, I listen to the stories people tell me about their lives. I’m humbled by our human capacities to endure struggle. It’s astounding that we can still see the beautiful day when the chips are down or when it seems as if they are just plain all used up. With every new client I ask them to tell me a story about themselves. I often hear the words, “I never imagined this.” “Who could ever have imagined?” “If I had only imagined …” These reflections are ways people who are surprised by life’s twisted turns patch together their stories, bridge together the unexpected chapters that form the narratives of their lives. Statements like these highlight the power of surprise, as well as the well-honed psychological tools many of us use to focus on a positive future as we plan ahead.
I was in the best time of life, the kids were in college, we were finally having time to travel and get to know one another again. How could I have imagined I would be diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer?
I never imagined that I would not be able to cook my own dinner. I’ve always been independent.
If I had imagined this, I would have done many things differently before it happened. I wish I had known. Now I’m a caregiver, and life isn’t the same.
I wouldn’t dare to imagine living like this, alone and living in a new place so late in life.
As for one of my personal favorites: “I never imagined that at this point I would be in this situation.” When I was first separated from my husband, still shocked (even though someone else might say it was fairly predictable), I sat with a friend, repeating those words over and over. She humored me, as I recall, by tossing out the idea that I could write a book entitled, The Failure of Imagination.
How do you use your imagination to make this day a good one?
But it’s less about failure than it is about how we choose to use our imagination. Thinking of what could go wrong hardly feels like a healthy way to plan or live a good life. Indeed, those of us who do too much of this are plagued by worry, fear and anxiety about the future. I start the coaching process with an imagination-powered question: “What inspired vision do you have for yourself ?” Few would want to reply with, “Well, if I get diagnosed with a terrible disease in my sixties, then I will …” Rather, we turn our creative minds to the life-affirming well-being we wish for — how we see ourselves flourishing for as long as we have days and dreams. How do you see yourself in the days and years ahead? I ask this question of everyone, even those who know their days are limited by their condition. If you have only six months to live, how do you imagine living them well?
While my father never imagined the beasts he would wrestle in the physical sense as he dangled on the silk thread for more than 15 years, his imagination didn’t fail him as he saw the beauty in each day. He could describe the taste of a pear, just ripe enough to eat but not too much so, in a way that caused my own salivary glands to think I had taken the bite myself. Was it his imagination that the next day would be so beautiful that gave him hope, or was it the hope for another day that allowed him to imagine he could tough out the day in front of him? Could he ever have imagined that I would use his story to inspire others and myself?
How do you use your imagination to make this day a good one? How do you imagine yourself in the days and years ahead? Sick, healthy, alone or with loved ones, how would you describe yourself being the best you can be or having the best day you could have? What small change can you make in that direction today? And last, if you told me your story, could you imagine telling it with a new beginning? Try this as an opening statement: “It’s a beautiful day …”
