Life has pulled some pretty tough punches on my family over the years. When my Uncle Mike got hit by a train two years ago, it seemed like events from the past were repeating themselves, and once again fate had been cruel to the Perry family.

My Uncle Mike is a really special person. He's mentally disabled, but slightly. Before his accident, you would never be able to tell from the way he looked, and only after a while when talking to him. This often caused problems, because people would expect more from Uncle Mike than he was capable of.

Growing up, he took me, Chris and our cousin Tiffany everywhere. We spent countless days of the summer walking, riding the bus, or taking light rail to places all over San Jose and the valley. We'd go bowling and mini-golfing, take train rides all the way to San Francisco and back, the toy store, the mall, San Jose Live, Great America, the park, the movies. Anywhere we wanted to go, as long as it was accessible without a car, he would take us. He had just enough wordily knowledge to make it safe for us to be off on our own with him, and just enough child-likeness in him to make whatever we did together as much fun for him as it was for us. He became "Uncle" Mike to all my cousins, on both sides of the family, and even some of my friends.

But then, one after the other, we realized Uncle Mike was different from our parents. We started to grow up, and he stayed just the same. I didn't know he had a disability until I was around 10...when I realized that I was becoming "smarter" than him. In some ways, we kinda discarded Uncle Mike like we would an old toy. But I realized this was the wrong thing to do pretty early, and continued to treat Uncle Mike with the respect he deserved.

Nevertheless, we made friends our age, and became old enough to go off on our own without him. When we did spend time with him, it became strange because of the role-reversal. Suddenly we were the adults in a lot of situations. He started to withdraw from us, you could sense he felt awkward. I never wanted him to feel like he was in any way inferior to us, but I think as he watched us grow up, he started to feel that way on his own. Especially with Chris, because they had always been best friends with the most in common. As Chris grew older, Uncle Mike lost his last real pal to hang out with. That must have been really hard on him.

But my family made an effort to include him in our lives as much as we could. We'd take him out with my grandma for the day, or go on little trips with him. In summer of 2001, we had him fly by himself for the first time to meet us in Disneyland and spend a week with us there. It's always been fun to have him around.

And then, there was the accident. And our lives went into a tailspin. The thought of life without Uncle Mike is something I never imagined having to deal with so soon. Since he never really changed, it was easy to just think he'd be there forever. It became really clear how much he meant to each of us. How great it was to have someone in our lives that loved us so much and wanted nothing more than to just spend time with us.

The thought of loosing him was shattering. And it seemed like that's what would happen. Or, at best, he might wake from his coma, but be severely disabled, both physically and mentally. The doctors said things didn't look good at all for him, that it was a miracle he even survived getting hit by the train.

Those were very difficult times, and we contemplated taking him off life support. When we had what was to be our final meeting with the doctor, the family was prepared to request this, perhaps some of us more than others. We even met with a priest who was the hospital's Catholic chaplain, and he came to meeting with us and was going to give Uncle Mike the Last Rites. But when the doctor said that Mike was showing a few signs of minor recovery, that his organs were beginning to repair themselves, my brother, myself, and my cousin Tiffany began making eye contact with each other and spoke up. We wanted to give Uncle Mike a chance to fight. The family listened, and the doctors agreed.

My Uncle Mike's initial survival was amazing unto itself. His recovery has been nothing short of a miracle.

Going into his hospital room at Stanford those first few weeks was so hard. With a tracheatomy, dialysis machine, bruises all over, wires and tubes, his head swollen and shaved, stiches everywhere, he was hard to look at without tearing up. We told ourselves to have hope, but not expect too much. We though that at best, he might wake up from his coma.

When he started to show signs of hearing us when we talked to him, we didn't believe it at first, thought it might just be muscle spasms. My grandma stayed with him day and night, and we thought she might be seeing things when he would move his foot in responce to our voices. But then after a few weeks, when we would hold his hand, he would squeeze it in response to questions. We were all amazed.

Then he opened his eyes. We couldn't believe it. But we still didn't know how much he remembered, if those eyes knew who we were or who he was, if his mental disability had been made more severe.

But after a month he started whispering. It became clear that he was still "there" and that one of our greatest fears wasn't true. He did not jump in front of the train on his own. In typical Uncle Mike fashion, he tripped while running to catch the train and fell partially on the tracks so that the train hit his side and threw him across the platform as it came into the station. We were so relieved to hear that.

Over time he regained control of his limbs. He gained the strength to sit up. He was transferred out of Stanford to another hospital, and then to a nursing home where he received physical therapy. We'd visit him often there, and he proudly show us his progress. He could throw a ball. Then he could ride a stationary bike. Before long he could stand on his own, and finally he could walk again.

He's been home for over a year now. And yes, the accident still affects his life every day. He can no longer work at his old job as a busboy at SCU, and is a lot more dependent than he used to be. He has "some good days, and some bad days" as he puts it. But he's recovered more than anyone, even the doctors, ever thought he could.

My family took him out on Saturday and spent the day with him. We went to a Saint Francis Basketball game, dinner at Kapp's, watched the Cal game on tv, and just talked. Every time I see him now, I can't help but look at him and be in awe. He fought so hard to come back to us, to recover, to live. He's so appreciative of the little things, so grateful for just spending the time to talk to him. Even more than he was before the accident.

When my dad and I dropped him off late Saturday night, I told him that I had a lot of fun hanging out with him that day. We said goodbye and I walked towards the car. Just before I shut the door he yelled out from the porch "I love you Nick!"

And it really hit me then, more than it ever has before, how very lucky I am to have him in my life. He is a living reminder to have hope and strength even when times look really bad. He gives me faith that while yes, life can often be very trying and unfair, it can also be extremely rewarding and beautiful.