Usually I am not afraid of spiders.
My kids will tell you. I am a beast at killing spiders, squashing them with a tissue and tossing them into the toilet before flushing them away forever and all eternity. I have saved screaming children from spiders on many occasions in the past.
This morning I'd gotten up for a brief spell, and was just climbing back into bed to read my Bible for a bit. I placed my cushioned backrest in position and climbed into bed, pulling my covers up over my lap.
A flash of motion caught the corner of my eye, and I looked down. On the top edge of my covers, right where the sheet turns neatly back over the upper edge of my blanket, right where these covers nestled against my body, scuttled a massive, hairy, gray-scaled spider.
I bellowed a primordial scream of death. Usually spiders do not cause me such alarm, but the combined size and proximity of this creature made it something quite fearsome.
As I screamed, the spider twitched and darted creepily into a crevice within my covers, where I couldn't see him. So, obviously, I continued to scream, twisting, thrashing and trying to get away while simultaneously grabbing for a tissue from my nightstand.
The spider emerged from under my covers and ran down the side of my bed to the floor. I was experiencing a strange physical sensation of paralysis, combined with panic and the utmost need to know exactly where the thing was at all times.
When Shawn arrived, I was leaning out over the spider from my bed, tissue in extended hand, as the screams continued to emanate from my throat.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Huge spider," I gasped, gesturing. He saw it--it was far too huge to miss--gulped back an exclamation, snatched the tissue from my fingers and obliterated it. Yes, he saved me.
But then he gave me my coffee, a large mug. Caffeine was not, perhaps, the best thing to follow up an experience like that.
It took me literally four hours to stop trembling.