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When I came out of the coma, a month after the accident, I looked at myself with amazement. I had lost 30 lbs. My smoking habit, a pack a day, had been broken. My skin bore graffiti--fine white scars from surgery--and the X rays showed an astonishing clutter of pins, screws, nails, spikes, plates and wires, as though the right side of my body were a reject costume design for RoboCop. My muscles had wasted away from inaction, and I could scarcely move without severe pain. I stank of sweat and urine. And I felt almost crazily happy--partly because of the outpouring of support and affection from friends and family, and partly because I knew I had been to the limit and made it back. Though diminished, I was alive. I had always taken that condition for granted before. I never will again. Blind luck had dealt me a whole new hand. From now on, I wouldn't waste a single card in it. Though, if possible, I wouldn't drive in Australia again either.