Last week I had a near-death-experience.

It had been a tough day. I was on my way home after twelve hours of babysitting my three granddaughters–whom I adore, by the way, but they’re all still in diapers and two of the three were fussy pretty much the entire day.

Anyway, I was driving home and it was dark. I was tired. My back hurt; my knees ached and I was looking forward to getting home and maybe taking a nice, long, relaxing soak in the tub.

For now though, I was stopped at a red light and I knew it would be a long light, so I reached down and inserted a new CD into the player: The Eagles’ “Desperado,” one of my all-time favorites–extraordinary vocal harmonies, and I just love that banjo in “Doolin-Dalton (Instrumental)”. That’s what I was thinking as I hit the play button, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark-colored minivan run up the embankment to my right (I was in the right lane), its headlights suddenly blasting into my windshield, the van itself tilted at such an angle that I was surprised it wasn’t tipping over onto its side and into the car ahead of me. My first thought was “What are they doing? I guess they must have overshot the turn!” (A silly thought to have at a time like that.) But I quickly realized that the minivan’s front panel was dangling from the car, the passenger side was all smashed in and smoke was billowing from under the hood.

Reaching for my cell phone, I quickly dialed 911 to report the accident. People were jumping out of their cars all around me and running to check on the occupants of the van. It was all happening so fast!

After completing my phone call, I got out of my car, walked toward the minivan and asked if everyone was okay. A middle-aged man said, “Yes, everyone’s okay.” So not wanting to get in the way, I got back into my car and proceeded to merge with the now-bunching-up traffic to my left. It felt like time was standing still. I could not even make myself turn my music back on. I needed it quiet. It was similar to how I felt when I got the phone call that my dad had died–but nowhere near the intensity of that moment–shock, I guess you’d call it and an attempt to process the reality of something unexpected and horrible.

By the time I was able to move and I passed through the intersection, that’s when I saw the other car–a silver sedan smashed up pretty bad and sitting diagonally in the middle of the intersection. I said a silent prayer for all those involved, hoping that no one was seriously hurt. From the looks of both cars, it could have gone either way.

As I proceeded home, I had to pull over several times in order to allow firetrucks, ambulances and police cars to get through, and as I waited for them to pass, I realized that my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. I was shook up for those who were involved in that wreck, and grateful that I was the third car back at that intersection, instead of the first. Had I been in the first car, I would have been hit. Maybe killed.

When I got home, I tried to pretend that it was just another day and that that accident didn’t really affect me, so I logged onto my computer and was instantly inundated with the problems of other people that had somehow suddenly become my responsibility. It was too much.

I got up, poured myself a glass of merlot, then closed my eyes and just breathed. And in that moment, all those problems and the 80 gazillion other critical things I needed to deal with RIGHT NOW suddenly became insignificant. I was alive. I was still breathing. What did it matter if so-and-so might think me rude because I’d forgotten to return his or her phone call or email? Or that that businessperson whom I had hoped would give me an interview turned me down because I was not a writer for People Magazine? And so what if there was still chocolate ground into the carpet from Halloween because I hadn’t had time to clean the house this week?

I sat back in my chair, and felt the wine slide down my throat–smooth and warm, and I thought about how lucky I was to have such beautiful grandchildren. Even though they’re fussy sometimes, I am so blessed to be able to see them often and to have a family and friends who love me, a roof over my head, food to eat and everything else I have. Because like life for those people involved in that accident, everything can change in an instant. You can be going about your day the way you’ve done for the past 20 years or more and all of a sudden something unexpected happens and changes everything in ways you never could have prepared for. What then? You deal with it. You have to. But maybe next time you’ll be a little more patient with that eldery woman who took forever to get through the line at the grocery store last week when you were in a hurry to get that special dinner on the table for your sweetie. Or maybe next time you won’t be quite so quick to judge your neighbor because he has tattooes or because he dresses differently than you, or has too many kids or not enough kids or believes in a different god or no god but is still doing his best to be a good person just the same.

Because maybe, just maybe, there won’t be a next time.