It may come as a bit of a surprise that I'm a somewhat superstitious soul. I blame that on my youth and my years as a long-suffering Mets fans. For the entirety of my time growing up in New York, with two rare successful exceptions in 1969 and 1973 when I was 7 and 11 respectively, the Mets were pretty abysmal. So to coax wins out of a team that lost as much or more than it won, there was a need to invoke some help from the baseball gods. And to appease them, you simply needed to follow the established superstition: when the Mets were up, you sat on the floor; when they were in the field, you sat on couch.
Perfectly logical.
I don't know how long I carried on the tradition, but it's probably worth pointing out that the Mets were dead last or second to last from 1977 to 1983. Who knows? Maybe I just had the whole superstition backwards.
I remember watching them win the World Series in 1986 - I was in Vancouver at the time and I swear that I recall sitting on the floor as they rallied to come back from the brink of elimination in game six. So maybe it wasn't backwards, maybe the superstition just took a bit of time to take hold. Either way, I submit that as proof of my irrational superstition bona fides.
This is what makes it hard to celebrate my milestones as success. In the back of my mind is the little superstitious voice saying, "don't jinx it." It is wholly irrational. But it's there.
Wrapped up in this somewhat silly, but to some people very real notion of a jinx, is also the danger of trying to live in the future. I sometimes get caught up in thinking, well, if everything is good at 6 months, or a year or two years, well then, I'm good, right? But the honest truth is that once you've been diagnosed with cancer, for a long time, particularly when you're feeling well, you're going to be looking over your shoulder.
By the time I had reached 10 years of survivorship from follicular lymphoma, I had stopped doing that for the most part -- I had stopped looking at the future with anxiety.
Now that I'm only 8 months out from transplant, it has sort of reset the clock. And it may be some years before I get to that point again. But that's okay. It'd be unnatural for someone who went through what I've gone through
not to think about what comes next. But I think I'm doing that in a somewhat balanced way. Yes, I'm still occasionally anxious about the future and how I will be doing in two months, in two years. But I'm enjoying the moment, the present day.
I'm 8 months out and almost completely off the anti-rejection/anti-GVHD drugs that are immunosuppressive. And, as I said in last post, that means I can have the occasional beer -- like the one I had outside at our favorite little microbrew with Matt before he moved out.
Next month I start on the whole series of childhood vaccines and my immune system takes another step toward normalcy. It's a step in the right direction and it's all good.
But I don't want to jinx it.
