The very first thing that came to my mind after acquiring this publication a year and half ago was that I had never in my entire adult life driven to work. Living in New York City makes commuting very easy—that is, if you didn't mind a messenger bag banged into your body parts or having another person's shoulder give you an early morning facelift. But nonetheless, I settled into my new life as a morning-drive commuter. The drive had its own unique challenges, such as the strange realization that people with bumper stickers reading "Namaste" or "Love Is the Answer" were the ones most likely to flip the bird when passing. But soon, the regular Route 32 drive between my home in New Paltz and my office in Kingston became pretty much routine.

This is all changed in a flash on the night of October 30, 2007. It was about 7pm and the fall dusk had settled into evening. I had the radio on, and I was singing along with Redbone's "Come and Get Your Love," when I saw something run across the street. And before I could say more than Uh-oh, CRUNCH! The windshield of my Saab Wagon went white, and I heard a sound that reminded me of something from a slasher movie. Instincts took over, and I was able to slow down, pull over and switch on the hazard lights. There was glass everywhere, but I somehow found my cell phone and, with shaking hands, called 911. Talking to the operator who answered my call was a "Who's on first?" experience. "Are you on 32 North?" she asked me calmly. I insisted I was on 32 South, because even after owning a home in New Paltz for eight years, I had no idea there was a difference. Then she asked me if I was in Rosendale or New Paltz, and I told her I was south of the bridge that passes over the Esopus. "Which bridge?" she said. "There's two of them."

Unfortunately, orienteering is a challenge when you're inches away from becoming a blubbering mess. I was so panicked, I even forgot about my dog, Millie, in the back seat, who was sitting in a heap of broken glass and, as it turned out, other awful things. Finally, I was able to come to enough to realize that there was now a deer leg in my car. But it was dark and I didn't get the entire picture until the New Paltz police and the paramedics showed up.

In the interim, I called my wife, Cynthia, and left her a message. Luckily, I was also able to contact Lisa, our office manager, who put the entire ScheinMedia group into full alert. While she was herself driving up from New York City, she enlisted Tracey to retrieve Millie, and she called Susan to meet me in Kingston because, according to the paramedics, I was going to Benedictine Hospital. There was soreness in my back, knee, and shoulder, as well as a strange granular sensation in my eyes that turned out to be glass. The police arrived, and from what I can remember, they asked me three questions: "Are you okay, were you wearing your seatbelt, and do you know where the rest of the deer is?" I remember answering, "Not sure, yes, and what the hell are you talking about?" Apparently, the deer came in through the windshield and exited through the passenger side window, leaving behind its leg and head and assorted other fragments of flesh, bone, and blood. If Cynthia had been in the car with me, she would probably have been killed.

The rest of the journey consisted of getting strapped to a board and taking an ambulance ride to the emergency room. The New Paltz Police and Rescue Squad were tremendous to me, even though I couldn't help them find the rest of the deer. The staff at Benedictine was wonderful, especially Dr. Matthew Stupple, who not only cleaned the glass out of my eyes, but added a reassuring presence that helped me get through the night. Luckily, I had no broken bones, just blunt muscle trauma and a sore lower back and shoulder.

My body will heal soon enough, but another kind of healing may take longer. The accident gave rise to so many questions, like, Why was I still alive? and How did I dodge this bullet so cleanly? I'd had a run-in with cancer a decade ago and managed to beat it. I was able to find so much humor in the treatment process that I created a standup comedy routine about it and I performed it in New York City for a few years. I'm usually able to find humor in anything, but this was different. This time, I just couldn't.

A few days later, a very close friend of mine called, and I asked her for anything she could think of to help me with this sudden brush with death. She just said, "Hold on to what's dear." I said, "Are you trying to be funny?" She replied, "No sweetie, you need to hold on to what's dear. That's what's important." Now, the comedian in me wanted to play with this for a while, but this time around, instead of hiding behind humor and not facing the facts, it was very clear that I'd better understand we don't get into too many situations like this, and then emerge so cleanly on the other side.

As more days are passing and the real healing has begun, I do know what is dear to me. There is my wife, Cynthia, who has nursed me back to health before, and has never wavered in her care and love for me (although she did mention that these life-and-death things need to stop now). There's my dog, Millie, who's stayed very close since the accident and played an important role in my healing, and those blessed souls in my family and circle of friends. There are the angels in my office who showered me with such love, patience, and understanding that it makes me realize how important we all are in each other's lives. And then, of course, there is the audience who reads this magazine every month, and who will inspire me to once again drive down Route 32 singing.