Echoes From An Unexamined Life

By Steve Sagarra

Friendship, love, regret, history, reflection...how many lives does it take to save just one? This is the question underlying Echoes From An Unexamined Life, a general reflection and personal journey examining the importance of family relations and history, friendships developed over many years and the perseverance of individual spirit. Anecdotes weaved throughout the narrative explore many themes, including family, friendship and personal growth with regard to our existence in relation to and the importance of our earthly associations. Centered around the physical, mental and spiritual aftereffects of a personal trauma, it is no less a journey of spiritual humanism concentrated on the existent presence of our mortal lives and the connections we make over a lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Sagarra
• Release date: Jan 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310812910

Steve Sagarra

Steve Sagarra is a freelance writer, journalist and historian from St. Louis, MO. A former opinion columnist, he is a proud alum of the University of Missouri where he obtained degrees in history. Additionally, he has contributed to several encyclopedic projects, scholarly journals and websites, and his short story fiction and poetry has appeared in various online and print magazines. Over the years, he has held a colorful variety of jobs – dishwasher, delivery driver, substitute teacher, archeology technician and bartender. In his spare time, he enjoys watching movies, sporting events, the company of his dogs and playing golf.

Book preview

Echoes From An Unexamined Life

By Steve Sagarra

Copyright ©2013 Steve Sagarra

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9781310812910

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."

-Carl Jung

Preface

The secret to writing is the same as for making great chili: the correct amount of ingredients, balanced between what to put in and what to leave out. Like recipes too, style guides are exactly that – a guide. A writer should never feel constrained by or fearful to stray from them in finding their own style of writing. Within reason, writers should express themselves using the language and voice they feel most comfortable with in their writing…editors and grammar Nazis be damned!

What do you reveal in a personal narrative and what do you let remain hidden? Can you balance the two in such a way that remains faithful to telling a complete story? These are the two most compelling questions I had to answer. Originally, it began simply as a mere clinical examination of events. Then, I discovered the need to include more probing details – some related, some only part of the overall idea – with the objective to limit overwhelming the story in the curious and the trivial. That is when it really took off as an exploration not only of my life, but also of life in general. Concisely, this book is one of spiritual humanism, concentrated on the existent presence of our mortal lives and the connections we make over a lifetime.

On that note, the story encompasses and intertwines many facets of people and events. To those persons who may not find themselves specifically mentioned, believe me when I say you were, and always have been, part of the story. Unfortunately, a writer must constrain themselves from inserting every avenue of thought that would veer from the focal point. For the others who, by name, found their way into the narrative, and especially those who feature prominently…trust that I tried to protect the (*wink*) innocent as appropriately possible.

Steve Sagarra

Chapter One

Stirring from a disorienting haze, I was unacquainted with the situation into which I awoke. There was no recollection, no recognition. A whitish hue outlined the unfamiliar setting, reminiscent of peering through a frosted window on a frigid winter morning. Opposite me, a striking blonde-haired woman sat positioned to concern herself with something on my face not readily apparent. Though I believed it not to be some hereafter paradise, it held promise as a slender brunette, dressed in green surgical scrubs, passed in the background. Untroubled by her attire, I blearily glanced around the immediate vicinity.

Promptly, a foreign sound echoed in my ears – the voice of the woman sitting before me.

Don’t move, she said.

Through half-dimmed eyes, I turned back to look at her. Framed by blonde hair, her features had a radiant, angelic quality. For a second time, my hope was that the situation correlated.

Wh-Where am I? Wh-What happened? I inquired.

You’re at Barnes-Jewish Hospital. You were in a car accident, she said, reassuringly calm. Her tone equaled her features.

The significance of her statement did not register. Lethargically, I continued my questioning.

Wh-What are you doing?

I’m sewing your lip back together. Try not to move.

Failing once more to comprehend, I faded from the moment as quickly as I had entered.

In what seemed only seconds later, I again awoke into another unrecognizable location in a bed not my own. In the interim, for an indeterminable amount of time, these strangers had stabilized me in the emergency room, transferred me to the trauma unit and given me temporary accommodations on the transplant ward in anticipation of an imminent surgery. For what reason, I did not know. Wearing a neck brace and a breathing apparatus, I noticed both my left arm and right leg were in heavy splints. Again, I was conscious of neither the reason nor the cause for such precautions, and even less concerning the commotion associated with it.

Meantime, the hospital had notified my two older sisters, Sharon and Susan, about the inexplicable situation swirling about me. As my only living immediate family, our parents, Ron and Earlyne Sagarra, had passed away peaceably, yet equally unexpectedly, in their sleep: dad of a cerebral aneurysm – which led directly to a subarachnoid hemorrhagic stroke – at age 49, and mom of congestive heart failure just shy of her 69th birthday. Respectively, I was 16 and 33 years old when I buried my parents.

Upon arrival to the hospital, their frantic shock was candidly palpable. Described over the phone as minor injuries and superficial lacerations, it was contrary to the actuality they saw first-hand. As told to them by hospital personnel, my diagnosed condition made it even worse: a possible broken neck, likely internal bleeding and potential brain damage. Still ignorant and equally uninformed to the extent of that condition, other than the noticeably obvious, I had only a vague, piecemeal understanding concerning the circumstances.

As Sharon continued frenetically searching for a parking spot in the crowded garage, my immediate conversation with Susan made this evident.

Where did the accident happen? Do you know if anyone else was involved, maybe injured? she asked, visibly distraught by my appearance. And do you know where your car is?

Accident? I asked, attempting to form an understanding. My eyelids weighed heavy. I don’t know.

With a grimaced look, she attempted drawing out more details. Okay. Do you remember where you were coming from?

Met Carl in Dogtown, I replied, unable to recall anything further.

Do you think that is where the accident happened? she speculated, taking note.

D-Don’t know. Guess so, maybe.

My conscious awareness again dulled.

Instantly, the unfamiliar yet again roused me. Lying flat on my back, bright light narrowed my scope of vision as it struck my half-opened eyes. Discerning a more sterile environment than before, I perceived it not to be the same place as a moment ago. Or, at least, what I comparably believed; for all I knew, it was hours or even days later. Experiencing no anxiety or unease concerning the matter, I instead felt virtually an opposite, euphoric sensation.

Out of nowhere, a shadowy figure hovered over me from behind.

Mr. Sagarra? We’re prepping you for surgery on your arm. We’ll be giving you some anesthesia to knock you out, okay?

Though recognizably different, the voice, that of a woman, was as reassuringly soothing as earlier.

O-Okay, I responded.

Are you allergic to anything? she asked.

Blearily, I quizzically considered the question for a moment.

Goat cheese, I solemnly stated.

Expecting a more clinical response, a bemused calm fell over the medical staff. Taking it in stride, they continued with preparations.

Suddenly, an irritant affected my left eye, the source immediately identifiable.

B-Before, I started, drawing in a heavy breath, before you do, can you take out my contacts?

There was an unexpected, and bewildered, reaction. You have contacts in?

Y-Yes I do. My l-left one is bothering me. Could you take both out?

An index finger and thumb faintly came into view, tentative in its approach.

I-It’s okay, I encouraged, put your finger right in.

What do you want done with them? she asked, good-naturedly.

They’re d-disposables, I replied, again feeling winded. You can th-throw them away.

To be certain, she inquired once more.

You’re sure?

Conceding to my dazed stupor, I affirmed the point. T-Time to replace them a-anyway.

I faded from the moment, its droll absurdity not immediately realized. Despite only a vague comprehension of a condition requiring surgery, my chief concern was a troublesome contact lens. I was oblivious to anything else, numbed beyond affect by injury or administered exceptional drugs. Perhaps both.

Whatever the case, such composure seemed out of place.

Waking from unconsciousness, morning had turned into night. Six hours removed from the time I had entered surgery, my mind was awash with nothingness. Where thoughts and memories should have been was only a black hole, no less an effect from both trauma and drugs. A blurry image of movement played out before me, again not clearly distinguishable or recognizable. Beeps and blips from unknown sources sounded, the hidden meaning they intoned furthering the confusion.

Seemingly ethereal, a soft female voice drifted into range like a breath of comforting rapture. Belonging to another fair-haired splendor, Nurse Sara Roberts, I was keenly more aware of her than anything or anyone else around me. With hair pulled into a ponytail and sexy-smart glasses that accentuated rather than hid, her ambrosial form seemed elixir enough.

Coming further into view, she gracefully leaned into me.

Mr. Sagarra? You’re fine, surgery went well, she stated, pleasantly serene. The trauma level is pretty full, but we’re bringing you to a room right now. Okay?

Medical personnel chaotically buzzed around us, enhancing my disorientation. I attempted a reaction, able only to rally an affirmative nod. Assisting her was supervisory trauma nurse José Peña. Tall and stout, he demonstrated a kind demeanor.

We’ll take care of you, he assured, flashing a friendly smile. Sorry it took so long to prepare your room. Busy around here today.

Languidly relaxed, my eyelids failed to cooperate. Clearing my throat, I found sound at last.

That’s o-okay. You had n-no idea I was coming, I joked. I d-didn’t even know. Would have made r-reservations otherwise.

To that, both warmly laughed.

There was a fanciful, if not fateful, déjà vu-like coincidence in the situation. The previous summer, after an afternoon spent at a St. Louis Cardinals game, my friend Carl Taliaferro – the same with whom I had met up the night of the accident – and I headed as we often did to Paddy O’s, an ideally idiosyncratic drinking establishment next to the newly constructed Busch Stadium. As we rejoiced and toasted the day’s victory, we ran into an old co-worker, Melissa Langel. She, as my assistant manager, had worked with the two of us many years before for Ogden Entertainment at the then-Riverport Amphitheatre in Maryland Heights. Noticeably pregnant, her olive-tan skin aglow with a demeanor to match, she and her husband recently had moved back from New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Notably, fulfilling her desire for a career in the medical field, she was a trauma nurse at a local hospital in Bridgeton.

As Sara and José continued wheeling me down the hall to my waiting room, I reflected on the chance encounter and recalled Melissa’s parting remark that evening: the hope never to see either of us at her hospital, other than to visit. Having obliged the request, I nevertheless now found myself on a trauma ward only a few months later. Albeit, at Barnes-Jewish, a hospital far from lacking its share of caring, attractive nurses. Quite the contrary, as Nurse Roberts exquisitely demonstrated, and something assuredly not to be lost on certain visitors.

Later in the evening, Dr. Charles Goldfarb, having earlier performed the emergency surgery on my injured arm, visited to check on my status. Sporting a shaved head and dressed in aqua scrubs, he obviously kept in shape. In a kindly, steady demeanor, he set about explaining the injury, the extensive procedure used to repair it and his post-operative expectations. All but guaranteeing a full recovery, he cautioned that it would take time to heal with painstaking rehabilitation thereafter. He immediately put me at ease.

Hello, Mr. Sagarra. I’m Dr. Charles Goldfarb. The injury you received was pretty severe, he delicately stated, theorizing on the cause. Your elbow was dislocated at the joint, undoubtedly a result of bracing yourself with the steering wheel at impact.

Though heavily sedated from pain medication, his name seemed surprisingly familiar to me. I mentioned the irrelevancy, stupor making me loosely conversant.

"Goldfarb? B-Believe I read an article about you n-not too long ago. Maybe the Post-Dispatch? M-Maybe a magazine? Forget what it was, s-something medical I’m sure."

Genial, he took my loquaciousness in stride.

Yeah, probably me, he amiably replied, at ease with my superficial familiarity. I put a screw in place to hold the joint, and pins strategically positioned throughout. Your forearm also had multiple fractures to it, so there’s a titanium plate and several pins along it as well.

With eyes barely open, I only half listened. My interest centered on the doctor himself.

Your father, h-he also is a doctor? Both renowned, I confidently stated, as if casually chatting with a friend.

Well, thank you, he humbly offered, again composed as he continued. There has been some nerve damage, but it should heal with time. Nerves heal about an inch a week, so you can imagine having to go from your elbow to your fingertips.

Numbly, I observed as he demonstrated on his own arm, comprehending the words more than the idea.

That aside, I see no reason for you not to make a full recovery, he reassured, finishing his assessment. Figure about six weeks for the structural injuries to your arm and elbow to heal. After that, we’ll get you on a rehab schedule to strengthen muscle and address the nerve damage.

In an encouraging gesture, he tapped the food tray with a fist. You’ll be fine. Okay?

Considering the potential loss of my arm altogether under a different worst-case scenario – either outright in the accident or from necessity to amputate in the aftermath – it was a relieving diagnosis to hear. I gave a slight nod, acknowledging the explanation. Yet, thanking him as he left, I had only a vague understanding of what he had just told me. Surmising from his clinical edification, all I knew was that it seemed I was in capable hands. Dishearteningly, I also now knew that, apparently, I did not have any superhuman healing factor.

Sigh, I thought, c’est la vie.

Though heavily medicated, I felt lucid enough to attempt contacting friends. Strained just in handling my diminutive, lightweight mobile phone, I was mindful of anything beyond quick conversation. Gratefully, Charles Portwood, a Missouri state representative and family friend through Susan, had contacted and apprised Carl of the situation earlier in the day. Vaguely recalling his visit in the late afternoon, Carl’s alarmed reserve and paled dark complexion had evidenced his shock.

Accordingly, reflecting on the intrinsic flux of friends and acquaintances throughout one’s lifetime – some endowed with staying power, others left to the void – my first, and decidedly only, call that night went to my venerable high school buddy, Pete Nassif. At times, I lament people with no long-term friendships. As Aristotle proclaimed, "Without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods." This is not a conceit or boast; only a realization for what occasionally is taken for granted.

Similar