I think it’s time that I admit my arachnophobia. I had a reminder of it when I sat down on the couch a few days ago (okay, right before writing this) to watch a movie and eat some pizza. I looked up and saw a large spider on the ceiling right above me. This caused me to think about what I’d do if it dropped down on my plate of food and made me really nervous while I eat. I was hungry, so I tried to focus on the movie and my food, but I couldn’t keep from looking up and hoping the spider hadn’t moved. I also tried to figure out if it was something else and at one point almost convinced myself that it was a moth.

Finally, once I got done eating I grabbed a paper towel and reached up to grab it and smash it. I missed it on my first attempt and freaked out as it dropped down on my couch. I’m glad no one was there to hear the noises I made, deep and manly as they were. I finally reached down and grabbed it and felt it crunch between my fingers and the folds of the paper towel. That should have been satisfying, but it actually just creped me out even more, causing me (deep and manly) noises to come out of me.

To me spiders are a source of chronic pain and a contributing factor to my rather large student loans. As irrational as that sounds, there is a story behind it. I’ve told at least parts of it before, but I’m sure I haven’t covered the deep impact it had on me.

In the spring of 2002, my senior year of high school, I was on a mission trip in Cancun, Mexico. I had been struggling for some time with a growing sense of calling to the ministry, which had started in late September 2001. That’s right, right after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 had convinced me that the end times were at hand. A voice was gnawing at me, telling me that I needed to help get the lost masses ready for Christ’s imminent return.

I went to Mexico with pneumonia, even though I didn’t know it, so I was plenty sick already. Then on the night of March 20/21, 2002 I was bit by a poisonous spider, a brown recluse or something like it. The next morning I had what I thought was a blister. This was unlike any blister I had ever seen before. It was dark, cloudy, and hard. It hurt really bad so I had a friend lance it after we had gotten back from Chitzen Itza. Then we went to the evangelistic meeting and I helped with the children’s program. The pain I felt as little kids stepped on my sore and at this point only slightly swollen toe was agonizing.

The next day we were back at the construction site. I had a bit of a limp by this time, but I kept working. Then the day was cut short due to torrential rains. We walked about a mile through knee high water trying to find a ride back to the hostel we were staying at. Let me repeat that: a mile on dirt roads in the slums of Cancun with an open wound on my toe.

The following day I was in dire need of medical attention (which isn’t very good down there). The combined effect of the poison and the infection were horrible. After appeasing one of the trip sponsors by allowing her to apply some naturopathic treatments I went to a doctor. The things they did to me… They refused to use any local anesthesia out of fear of spreading the infection and they didn’t cut deep enough. There was a large blood clot in the middle of the boil that they left in place so when they started squeezing, trying to release the pressure and drain the wound all most of the fluid was trapped. Infected, poisonous, trapped.

When people ask me to compare pain on a numerical scale to the worst pain I’ve ever experienced or can imagine, I compare it to that. The picture’s on the charts in doctor’s offices have facial expressions. Take a 10 and add clinched teeth, gripping the bed with both hands, kicking with the free leg, and generally writhing uncontrollably, and that’s what I went through. Honestly, I can’t imagine any more severe pain, be cause I’m pretty sure that any more would have been indistinguishable or have rendered me unconscious. It’s kind of like how -30 degrees is really fucking cold and -40 degrees is really fucking cold. You really can’t tell much of a difference (and I know those temperatures very well thanks to our freezers at work).

I had a limp for almost a month while the toe healed and I was on very high does of antibiotics (as high as 2500 mg per day), but I survived and I still have all 10 toes. I’ve had chronic tendinitis in that toe due to the massive build up of scar tissue, but since I broke it in 2004 I have had almost full mobility in it. If you were to look at it, the scar is quite noticeable, after all it’s the entire top of my toe.

For me it was like Jacob wrestling with the angle and Saul on the road to Damascus. My fear was that if I continued to oppose God that he would take the toe, my foot, or maybe my whole leg. So I turned down an Air Force ROTC scholarship, enrolled in Walla Walla College, and majored in Theology.

The strong sense of calling that I had early on is what allowed me, no, compelled me to persevere through so many years of anguish and cognitive dissonance. If it hadn’t been for that spider I would have probably taken the scholarship and I would have left Christianity behind years earlier.

It shouldn’t be surprising that I’ve had arachnophobia ever since. Spiders remind me of pain. They remind me of the since of calling I had. They remind me of my long journey of doubt.

It’s no wonder I wanted to take a shower after I killed the spider. It’s a reminder of all things dirty and vile (and not in a good way).