It always starts the same way. You’re halfway through a night shift. The calls have spaced themselves out. The coffee’s still cold. Then someone, usually a new hire or an optimistic fool, leans back and says it.
“It’s been Quiet tonight.”
Cue the silence and the groan. Maybe someone grabs the radio like it’s a talisman. Then the tones drop, or the phone rings, or the stretcher starts moving for no reason. And just like that, the curse begins.
We laugh about it. We blame the “Q word,” the full moon, or the new guy’s haircut. But underneath the sarcasm, there’s a shared belief. What we say, do, or even think might jinx the shift. And what fascinates me is that the people who believe it are often the smartest people I know.
Paramedics are trained skeptics. We’re taught to challenge assumptions and lean on data. Yet we won’t wash the truck too early. We won’t sit down before a call. We definitely won’t say “Quiet.” Why?
I’ve been chewing on that particular bone for a while. I started asking around. Medics I trust. Some I tolerate. I’ve heard it all. Death omens, death socks, people swearing they can feel a call before it comes. Yes, I’ve rolled my eyes at some of it. But here’s what I’ve realized. Superstition isn’t stupidity but survival.
Michael Shermer, a science writer, coined the term patternicity: our brain’s tendency to find meaningful patterns in meaningless noise.1 It’s built into us. When a bad call follows someone saying “Quiet,” we file that memory away and start connecting the dots. Never mind the ten other times when nothing happened. The brain remembers the chaos. It builds meaning out of the mess.
We hate red lights, but we never appreciate the green ones. That’s how this job wires us. You don’t notice the Quiet until it breaks. And once it does, well all hell breaks loose.
Maybe it runs deeper than that. Pattern recognition is what we do. We walk into a room and scan for sickness. The look test, posture, silence. We’re trained to anticipate what’s coming next. It keeps people alive. So when something random lines up a little too well, of course we notice. It’s not quite a flaw. It’s a function.
In high-stress, unpredictable work, superstition becomes a kind of structure. We can’t control what the next call will be. So we control what we can. Our routines. Our language. Our little rituals. It gives shape to the chaos. It gives us something to blame when everything falls apart.
Sometimes, it gives us something to let go of. This job carries pressure: to catch everything, fix everything, miss nothing. And when it goes sideways, It’s easier to blame the moon, the new hire, or the curse than to blame ourselves. That’s not weakness. It’s protection. We all need a scapegoat big enough to carry the weight we can’t.
Sometimes you need to believe the universe is screwing with you. Because the alternative is that you missed something. And that kind of guilt doesn’t lift easily.
And there’s culture, too. Superstition isn’t just personal. It’s tribal. It’s part of the job’s shared language. When we warn a new medic not to say “Quiet,” we’re half joking and half checking if they get it. Are they one of us yet? Do they respect the flow? These aren’t just beliefs, and they bond us.
I’ve got a supervisor who teases us with the Q word. He grins when he says it. He knows exactly what it means to the crew. He’s testing the water. And somehow, that matters.
But belief can become bias. That’s the danger. I’ve heard medics say, “It’s a full moon. Get ready for psych calls,” and then treat patients like they’re already a problem. That’s where superstition stops being funny. It becomes a lens. And lenses can warp what’s actually in front of us. Awareness doesn’t mean rejecting instinct or intuition. It just means making sure they don’t speak louder than empathy.
The science is not on superstition’s side. Studies on call volume during full moons show little to no difference.2 Researchers have found that even in clinical settings, superstition lingers. Not because it’s valid, but because it gives people something to hold onto when things feel uncertain.3 Carl Sagan warned us in The Demon-Haunted World not to trade critical thinking for comforting delusion.4 But still, we knock on wood. Still flinch at the word “Quiet.”
So where does that leave us?
We hold both truths. That’s the reality of this job. We can know better and still go along with the rituals. We can stay critical without losing the humour. We can believe a little – just not too much.
Because maybe the most dangerous belief isn’t in full moons or cursed words. It’s thinking we’re too rational to fall for anything.
I’ll still wince when someone says it. But I’ll sip my cold coffee, take a breath, and remember what matters: what we know, what we can prove, and what we owe the person we’re about to meet.
And if the next call’s a nightmare, I’ll blame the moon. Then I’ll get back to work.
Footnotes
- Michael Shermer, The Believing Brain: From Ghosts and Gods to Politics and Conspiracies—How We Construct Beliefs and Reinforce Them as Truths (New York: Times Books, 2011).
- Ivan Kelly, James Rotton, and Roger Culver, “The Moon Was Full and Nothing Happened: A Review of Studies on the Moon and Human Behavior,” Psychological Bulletin 97, no. 2 (1985): 286–306. https://centerforinquiry.s3.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/29/1986/01/22165335/p35.pdf
- A. Taher, S. Samreen, and M. Firdosi, “Superstition in Health Beliefs: Concept, Influence and Implications,” Journal of Family Medicine and Primary Care 9, no. 9 (2020): 4762–66. https://journals.lww.com/jfmpc/fulltext/2020/09030/superstition_in_health_beliefs__concept.8.aspx
- Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark (New York: Ballantine Books, 1997).
Ghosts of the Navigator 