I am crazy superstitious. In high school I wore the same socks, underwear and bra for basketball and softball games, following strict rituals and never straying from my routine. I do not like black cats, sidewalk cracks and I definitely dislike broken mirrors. Friday the 13th always added a little extra fear and caution to my life as I would go through the day careful not to mess with the bad luck gods.
I’m also a date person. People’s birthdays, anniversaries, and other random facts get stuck in my head. Perhaps it is my fascination with numbers or just my need to mark certain milestones in my life and those of others. I remember crazy stuff like the day I got my first period or the day I got pulled over by the cops in high school. (Oops!)
Other more serious events are permanently etched in my mind’s calendar. April 30, 1985 when doctors diagnosed my sister’s leukemia. My grandmother died at 12:51 p.m. on Friday, December 30, 1994. These life benchmarks created a definitive line in the sand, a before and after.
Don’t we all have those events that divide our lives into distinct chapters? My life before such-and-such, whether it be as life altering as a death in the family or just the normal developmental transitions. One of the big hash marks on my life timeline happened on Friday the 13th.
Friday, December 13, 2013
I remember the receptionist reciting the date and time back to me on the phone and I cringed at the realization that it was Friday, the 13th. Not wanting to wait until the following week for the results, I agreed to the appointment time and pushed aside my superstitions and told myself it was a good omen.
Receiving what should be good results on the unluckiest day on the calendar just added to the irony that I was even alive. Not much in my life made much sense or followed a normal pattern anymore so why not throw out the superstitious Friday the 13th idea, too.
My then-fiance, now husband and I went to the doctor’s office and assumed our normal position in the burgundy-colored vinyl chairs in the exam room. I sat by the doctor’s desk and he beside me. Our hands interlocked with the occasional squeeze we sat in silence staring at the sterile walls and the poster describing the various stages of melanoma.
We heard the familiar knock on the door and the doctor walked in and looked at both of us, glancing at our clenched hands and a smile began to spread across his face. “The scans are clear,” he said as he sat down next to me, his eyes now level with mine.
The joy and relief surged through my system threatening to bust out of my pores like a geyser as I smiled and squeezed Alan’s hand, looking back at him and to the doctor again. I wanted to jump up and down and high-five and scream and hug as I’d have done after winning a basketball game.
The doctor excitedly pulled up the scans on his computer screen and we scrolled through my whole body scouring the black and gray images for those familiar pinkish-white spots – the tumors that dotted the screen for so many months. Nothing. Scrolling back and forth over the trouble areas he pointed out the places that had tumors and compared them to the first scan. The images looked to be from a different person. The spots on my liver gone. My spine just bones and no tumors. And the last spots on my spleen now just grayish-black blobs.
What a difference
On our first visit I wasn’t sure my doctor even had the ability to smile, wondering if his cheek muscles had atrophied over the years of dealing with stage four melanoma cases. The average survival was nine months when I was diagnosed. Perhaps his face lost the muscle memory that curved one’s lips up at good news having so few opportunities to deliver positive messages to his patients. I can still see his serious and calm face as he told us that the treatments probably wouldn’t work, but this was our only shot at a home run. He knew the numbers and openly shared the statistics.
That Friday the 13th he smiled and laughed and joked with us as if we were all sitting around a bar having a cocktail telling stories. He took us into the back office where other doctors and nurses sat at their computer stations and proudly presented me, his patient with the complete response to IL-2. I felt like a superstar as they all clapped and voiced their congratulations. The desire to do something other than stand and grin, I asked in front of all his colleagues if I could give him a hug. I couldn’t hold back and not really waiting for an answer I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around him and thanked him profusely – for saving my life. I didn’t care if it was appropriate or professional or if it embarrassed him, I needed a hug.
Overwhelming joy and luck
That day stands out as one of the happiest days of my life. Never truly knowing if that day would come, the day I could be released from the clutches of cancer, the relief overwhelmed me. I wanted to cry, to scream and squeal with delight, run up a mountain and just keep moving. The torturous treatments done and the mental anguish of waiting finally over, I just wanted to move.
Friday the 13th is a lucky day for me. Even if it’s not December, I celebrate and expect it to be a very good day. I guess I have cancer to thank for curing me of that superstition. Maybe our superstitions are only as powerful as we let them be? I wish I could change my mind about wearing the same lucky clothes for sporting events.
Recent Comments