Dr. Shahar Madjar

I have recently read that every story is divided into three parts: a beginning, a middle, and an end.

I found this idea appealing. Looking back, I have always perceived a world of triads. Everything seemed to appear, exist, and disappear in a series of threes. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for example; the components of atoms (electrons, protons, and neutrons); Goldilocks and the Three Bears; and Zigmund Freud’s theory of personality (the mind, he claimed, is divided into three components: id, ego, and superego). No matter the cause and for no particular reason, the number three–from a three-legged stool to The Three Musketeers–has always had an unexplained hold on me.

The analytical me resists the everything-in-threes theory. I remind myself that attempts to divide even the simplest of subjects into threes are superficial and juvenile. The human skeleton contains 206 bones and the body is composed of countless cells, molecules, and atoms. There are 170 billion galaxies in the universe. Even my Subaru is a wonder of multitudes. How can one reduce the complexities of the world, its beauty, its mystery into simple series of threes? Besides, if I embrace the idea that a story has a beginning, a middle and an end, wouldn’t it be prudent to further divide each of these segments into three parts?

Yet, the urge to divide stories into a beginning, a middle and an end lingers. To explore the subject closely, I decide to write a very short life-story about three (yes, three!) subjects I find particularly interesting: love, work, and death. Here it is:

In the beginning of the story: You are born. You are a baby, then a child, then a teenager. A first smile. Little steps. Heartaches. Growing pains. Coming of age. You learn fast and, somehow, manage to survive. You leave home. Mom and dad, if they are still together, are waving goodbye. You go to college, or start working. You are on your own.

You meet someone. Together you two are a bundle of palpitations and butterflies. Later you take a leap of faith and a vow to love and to cherish, until parted by death.

At a job interview, they tell you, “You will be a perfect fit for the organization. Let me introduce you to everyone. Our culture is all inclusive. We care for our employees. We are a big happy family. Can you please sign on the dotted line? There is a signing bonus, you know.”

In the middle of the story: Two jobs, a mortgage, a car loan, 1.94 kids (on average). You live a life of daily routines and taxing errands. Life suddenly seems like a cloudy sky with only an occasional glimpse of sunshine.

At work, long hours that come, at first, with a sense of accomplishment. But later, the promised promotion is finally given, but to someone else. He is your boss now. “Our business plan is to do more with less,” he tells you, as he zooms by on his way to the corner office. You like the people, but the work becomes dull and grinding. You feel that you are paying an emotional toll. You brush up your resume and post it on LinkedIn. You ask yourself, Is this the end of satisfying work? Is greater happiness awaiting elsewhere? You interview at other firms and you are offered a new job. They say that you will be a perfect fit for the organization. It sounds all too familiar but, at the same time, it feels like a honeymoon all over again. When you resign, your boss seem surprised and comes up with an appealing counteroffer. Will you take the counteroffer? Move on? Go fishing?

All along, some people appear to get life better than you do. Most likely, mind you, it’s all appearances.

And, in the end of the story: You are 38, 56, or perhaps 89 (does it matter?) Your doc tells you that he made a diagnosis. There is a 50:50 chance, he says. There is good news and bad news, he says. The treatment isn’t easy, he says. In essence, the doctor gives a name to your fear of death and a narrower range for your time of departure. Will you keep fighting or will you call it a day?

As I was writing this story, I thought: We tell ourselves stories in order to live. We tell ourselves stories in order to identify cause-and-effect, to find patterns, and to draw conclusions from our success and failures. A story is a survival mechanism wrapped in words. As I was writing these stories, I found comfort in dividing the narrative into a beginning, a middle, and an end–as if I was searching for a way to organize the meaning inherent in the narrative.

Which of the three parts (beginning, middle, and ending) of the stories we tell ourselves is taking the central stage in our minds? Should we attempt to change the narrative we compose about our lives? I will try to answer these questions in my next article.