My family and I know better than most that life can change in the blink of an eye. You know, burying small children and pulling chisels out of eyes and that sort of thing.

Yet I am constantly surprised and amazed by the fragility and beauty our lives hold, even during our most mundane moments.

The sheer intricacy of our body’s biology working every second of the day to allow us to take our children to badly made comedies or make an arse out of one’s self while proving to a bunch of ten year olds that this momma can bowl just as well as that fat dude two lanes over who throws strike after strike (I sooo totally sucked but at least my ass looked cuter than his as I bent over); is awe-inspiring when you stop to think about it.

I have stopped to think about it. A lot. I don’t know if it’s because I bought the kids a bunch of books about the marvels of the human body, or because I miss my son more than usual or because someone dear to me recently had a severe stroke.

I can’t stop imagining this sweet lady complaining about being tired and going to take a sip of her tea only to drop it down the front of her shirt. I can imagine the frustration and annoyance she would have felt as she looked down and saw what a mess she made and then looked across the room to see the television blaring on as her favorite hockey team, the Edmonton Oilers, skating for their chance to play in the NHL playoffs.

I can see her sigh as she started walking to her room to change her shirt. She would have hated to take any time away from her precious hockey game. She may even have waited for a commercial. I can envision her slowly unbuttoning her shirt while wondering if her headache would ever go away.

What I’m having a hard time with is picturing her sprawled out, face down, half on the bed half on the floor, when her daughter came into to find out what was taking her so long to change her shirt.

I’m having a hard time picturing her being loaded into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital.

I’m having a hard time blocking out the image of her slacken, twisted face as she barely clings to life.

I’m having a hard time coming to terms that I will never hear her laugh again or tease me about my hair or hold me tight and tell me again that God will help me through the pain.

In a blink of an eye, the mere whisper of a breath, her life and those who loved her, has inalterably changed. Forever. Her biology failed her. Like my son’s failed. Like inevitably, yours and mine will fail us.

I had to walk past the floor where Bug spent most of the first couple of years of his life to say goodbye to my friend. Memories of forgotten moments with my son flooded my senses as I drew in the familiar scent of hospital air and viewed the same tired scenery I stared at for more hours of my life than I care to count.

I was at once saddened and overcome with gratitude to have this small sliver of my son’s life back.

Until I had to walk past the same emergency room that took my son and never gave him back.

Then I was just another vacant soul wandering the empty halls of the hospital, trying to keep my grief in check and the tears well held behind my tired eyes.

I had to say goodbye to a dear friend who always had a smile and kind words for everyone. Life has once again changed in the blink of an eye.

The blink of her eye.

I’m taking today to spend with my kids. I’m going to revel in the constant beat of our hearts and other biological wonders pointed out in the books my children like to pore over at the breakfast counter.

I’m going to take the moment to be amazed.

Because life really is amazing. No matter what the next blink brings.