I finally made good on a request a friend asked of me. She needed a photo of me holding a sign that read the number of years I have been a cancer survivor. She’s making a video.
I paused as soon as I drew the heart on the exclamation point. Seven years. I wondered if I should actually write seven years. It won’t technically be lucky number seven until October 23rd. Rationalizing that I couldn’t write 6 years, 11 months and 7 days, I drew the number, snapped the picture and buried the sign in a stack of papers.
I wouldn’t consider myself superstitious, though.
I make wishes for safe travels before boarding an airplane and always count an even number of seats from the aisle to where we sit in a movie theater but I think these things are acts of being anxious, not superstitious.
So what’s with being superstitious over 16 days?
For me, it’s about due course. Holding off on celebrating allows me some sense of control that I don’t fully understand.
Though I read an interesting article from the Journal of Clinical Oncology that explains my reluctance to turn the calendar page. It says “superstitions provide people with the sense that they have done one more thing to try to ensure the outcome for which they are looking and may actually result in a placebo effect, relieving anxiety and promoting positive thoughts.”
So I wait for the 23rd and hope the heavens above recognize that I haven’t been boastful or overconfident this year and grant me an eighth.
Maybe I am superstitious after all.