Race Against the Banana Spider
I am in a park in Ft. Lauderdale, not too far from where I went to high school, back when this whole area was the very edge of the Everglades. The park is how Florida used to be, with oak tree forests mixed with swamps and winding muddy trails that leave evidence of nocturnal raccoons who are now nowhere to be found. The park has soft trails that have been carved out by horses. Those who have not lost their land to large subdivisions centered on man-made lakes and plastic golf courses, those fortunate few trailer horses here to ride. The park is not huge; I can do a few laps in the fenced compound in an hour, but I can escape here.
I only have one memory of this park from my childhood: winning a cross country race during my senior year in high school against a “nothing” school. I do not remember my time or the course or even the details of the race. But I do remember my bright green racing shoes and pivoting carefully around the mud. It’s the only race I have ever won and because it was such a small and unimportant race, there was no awards ceremony. My name was printed in the local newspaper, which I am sure my mom cut out and has stored somewhere in her apartment in a big box full of papers. And while nobody else will remember that specific race, I do.
The flashback has me running, pretending I am in the lead. Cutting the corners tight, sweating, breathing, and pushing as hard as I can. . Somewhere on my run, I take a wrong turn and find myself at the back gate of a row of horse stalls and I am faced with a large red horse who has a white oversized star on his forehead. He looks exactly like my friend’s horse, Memphis. He screams out in a welcoming whinny, wanting me to feed him carrots. I do not stop to pet him, but instead turn around and run back into the park.
His image stays with me, taking me far away from the thoughts of running. I think about my friend Suzi bringing Memphis here and that makes me laugh. I am sure the park rangers would have her banned in a matter of several days. (Big signs in the park say, “Keep your horse under control and your dogs on a leash.) I can picture her on Memphis blazing through the park at 200 mph, half off the saddle, jumping, leaping, and spooking everybody else around her. She would come with a parade of barking dogs. After 2 quick laps in the park, she would decide to ride through the local neighborhoods. The ride would become a steeplechase event, using backyard swimming pools as water jumps and open greens on the golf course as places to make up time across the imaginary course.
And while I enjoy that thought, I am suddenly interrupted. I run through a spider web that takes up most of the trail. The web feels like cotton candy and I cannot seem to escape. I do not see the spider, but I dance like I am on fire. I fling my car keys. It takes me more than a few minutes to calm down, collect my thoughts, and locate my keys. I look carefully around to see if I can find the spider, maybe a large Florida banana spider, but he seems to be hiding like the raccoons.
Now the thoughts of Suzi and of the high school cross country race have all vanished and I find myself thinking back to reality, to the current tragedy: helping my mom decide what to do with her boyfriend who has terminal brain cancer. The last week has been just a series of unfolding events that have gone from bad to worse. I have spent very little time processing what is happening and most of the time just responding to the tasks that need to be done: Get the DNR (do not resuscitate) signed, coordinate with the host of doctors, talk to the nurses, evaluate the hospice program, talk to the insurance, call his friends and family, etc.
Now I seem to think about the magnitude. For the rest of my run, I mull over the questions that you would expect about death and my conclusions amaze me. I do not seem to find death surprising, cruel, or even sad which is always how I have thought I would think of it. I do not find myself begging mercy to some artificial, “call on demand” god that I have created for the moment to comfort me. But instead I just find myself thinking of my mom’s boyfriend, wondering in a curious manner why he’s focused on the things he has left uncompleted in his life.
I think about my own death and I imagine it’s all like this race in the park and the banana spider web. I will be just running along thinking about something else and then it will grab me. I will toss my keys in the air and dance like crazy. My race will be over and I too will be thinking of the things I did not get to finish.
I look for wisdom in my thoughts and I come to this conclusion: I cannot decide the distance of the race, how long I will live. But I can decide my victories, of which races I have won and which ones I have lost. I can also decide to enjoy the bright green racing shoes as I pivot around the mud. And I can decide what kind of article they should write about me in the newspaper, just a little something for the people who love me to cut out and store in a big box full of papers in a closet.
