Remembering Mr. Bjerke

 

That machine was just my type

                                The type writing machine, patented September 26, 1899, No. 633,672.

I’ve had a fascination with typewriters ever since I took Mr. Bjerke’s typewriting class as a sophomore at Hanson High School. Little did I know that learning to use a typewriter would become the most valuable skill I would ever acquire. No offense to Mr. Genandt or Mr. Sayles -- my math and physics teachers, respectively, but I just haven't gotten the mileage from algebra or physics that I have from learning to type. I’ve used my keyboarding skills every day of my life — as a journalist, an administrator, and as a public affairs specialist. Not many high‑school classes can claim that kind of longevity.

My introduction to the typewriter, however, was anything but confident. Those massive, metal Royal typewriters -- grey with green keys -- sat on each desk under Mr. Bjerke's watchful eye like iron beasts. Imposing. Impressive. Intimidating. And to make matters worse, the keys had no letters on them. That’s right — blank keys. You had to know what lived under each fingertip. Put your hands on the wrong home row and you produced instant gobbledegook, the kind that earned you a slow head shake and a “tsk, tsk, tsk” from Mr. Bjerke as he hovered over your shoulder.

But what an accomplishment it was to complete the 60‑second time trial with no (or very few) errors. And here was the tradeoff: go fast and you risked carelessness — an extra letter here, a stray keystroke there — or slow down and produce neat, error‑free lines at the expense of that blessed speed. It was a daily gamble. Still, the thrill of not depending on “hunt and peck” to compose my thoughts was worth every risk. And nothing beat that satisfying ding as my classmates and I reached the end of another line — sometimes inspired prose, sometimes incomprehensible gibberish. Yikes.

My fascination didn’t start in that classroom, though. It began earlier, when my dad — Alexandria’s city auditor — inherited a huge work desk and an ancient Underwood typewriter. That machine looked like it had survived two world wars and a tornado, but to me it was magnificent. Heavy. Mechanical. Important. My fixation only grew from there.

By the time I reached South Dakota State, we budding journalists had graduated to the IBM Selectric. What an improvement. A lighter touch, faster typing, and that magical little typeball that made us feel like we were living in the future. And then, before I graduated, the computer arrived. Typewriting met keyboarding. Goodbye white‑out, eraser shields, and carbon copies. No crumpled up balls for the wastebasket. Hello editing, saving, and printing without smudges.

To this day, I compose my thoughts on a keyboard, and I silently thank the inventor of the typewriter. That clunky Royal in Mr. Bjerke’s classroom set the course for my entire professional life. Not bad for a nervous sophomore staring down a machine with blank keys and a teacher who could spot a misplaced finger from across the room

A Southern Welcome

 Moving to the mid‑South in 2011 was like stepping into a parallel version of America — familiar, but tilted just enough to make me feel like a tourist. As we drove into Millington, Tennessee, just outside of Memphis, a day ahead of the moving van, the landscape shifted from the corn and soybeans of the upper Midwest to endless fields of cotton. White bolls stretched across the horizon like snowdrifts that had somehow survived the August heat. Cotton bales sat in neat rows, wrapped in bright yellow plastic, looking for all the world like giant loaves of bread waiting to be delivered.

The houses fascinated me too — built right on top of the ground, as if the earth were warm enough to trust. No basements. No frost line. Just brick and siding resting on soil. And the roads — narrow, tree‑lined, shaded in a way that made every drive feel like entering a green tunnel.

But what struck me most were the churches and the Waffle Houses. In the Midwest, you'll see a church here and there. In Tennessee, you could find three before you finished a cup of coffee. And Waffle Houses? They multiplied like rabbits. You could practically navigate by them: turn left at the Waffle House, go two blocks past the next Waffle House, and if you reach the third Waffle House, you’ve gone too far.

Big, beautiful churches and sprawling acres of facilities that confirmed the South's claim as "the Bible Belt." And the Waffle Houses are a southern institution. Walk into a Waffle House and step back into the days of the small-town diner, with stools at the counter to sit and kibitz with the waitress, or grab a booth in the cozy confines. Watch the cook make your waffle or eggs behind the counter. You want coffee with that?

And then there was kudzu — the creeping, climbing, smothering vine that looked like it was plotting to take over the county. Trees, telephone poles, abandoned sheds — nothing was safe.

And armadillos — the South’s most confused little mammals. I’d seen them before, back when we lived in Branson, where they loved to wander into our yard at night and forage for grubs. By morning, the lawn looked like it had come down with a case of chickenpox. They never meant any harm; they were just hungry, armored little diggers doing what armadillos do.

In Tennessee, though, it was not unusual to see armadillos lying belly-up by the roadside. It became part of the Southern landscape, right up there with kudzu and Waffle Houses. Their little, armored bodies weren't enough to withstand the faster, deadlier automobiles. They were everywhere, poor things, and they never seemed to win their battles with traffic.

It was charming, bewildering, and endlessly entertaining — my first real introduction to Southern life.

.

 

Part 5 — Waiting...

All of this — the treadmill in the living room, the stair‑stepper under the desk, the standing platform, the constant awareness of how long I’ve been sitting — is leading toward one date on the calendar. In August, six months after the pulmonary embolism, I’ll meet with the cardiologist again for an echocardiogram and a venous ultrasound.

Those two tests will tell the story of what has (or hasn’t) changed since that February afternoon when everything turned upside down. The echocardiogram will show how well my heart has recovered from the strain of the clots. The ultrasound will check whether anything new has developed in the veins.

I’m not anxious about the appointment, but I’m aware of it. It sits quietly in the back of my mind, like a mile marker on a long run. You don’t stare at it the whole time, but you know it’s coming.

Until then, I keep walking. I keep moving. I keep doing the small things that add up to a healthier routine. And I keep reminding myself that recovery isn’t a finish line — it’s a way of living.

 

Part 4 — Learning to Live Differently

The treadmill has been a fixture in our living room for the two years we’ve lived in Aurora. It’s not exactly a piece of décor Barbara dreamed of showcasing, but she’s been incredibly patient with me. She knows what it represents — not just exercise, but stability, discipline, and a way of life I’ve carried with me since high school.

After the pulmonary embolism, I was home for a week or two before I found my way back to my routine. I was out of rhythm, out of sorts, and frankly a little shaken. But eventually I stepped back onto that treadmill and returned to my three‑miles‑a‑day, six‑days‑a‑week habit. And I’ve stayed with it ever since.

Physically, I haven’t noticed any lingering effects from the blood clots. But mentally? That’s a different story.

The experience made me acutely aware of my own action — and inaction. Barbara wondered whether another medication might have contributed to the clots, but I can’t shake the feeling that my long hours sitting at the computer played a major role. I’d sit down “just for a bit,” and spend an hour or two or three there. No movement. No circulation. Just stillness — the exact thing I now know can be dangerous.

So now, every time I sit down — at the computer, in my recliner, anywhere — a thought flashes through my mind: What am I doing? Am I causing another clot to form? Xarelto helps reduce the risk, but it doesn’t silence the worry.

To counter that, I’ve made changes. I now keep a small stair‑stepper under my desk, and I use it constantly while I work. My desk also has a raised platform, so I can stand while typing, and I do that far more than I ever used to. These aren’t dramatic changes, but they’re meaningful ones — small, steady habits that keep my legs active and my mind at ease.

I’m learning that recovery isn’t just about healing from what happened. It’s about changing how I live so it doesn’t happen again.

 

Part 3 — Life Goes On

Once I settled into the routine of Xarelto, the warnings started feeling like more what they really were:--precautions. Important, yes — but not reasons to live in fear.

I hadn’t had a serious automobile accident in more than twenty years. I don’t use power tools. I’m not out climbing ladders or juggling chainsaws. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that while the risks were real, they were manageable. I just needed to be aware, not afraid.

For a few weeks I stuck with the electric shaver, mostly because the discharge papers made it sound like a single nick from a razor could turn into a crime scene. But after a while, once the initial anxiety faded, I went back to my regular safety razor. And you know what? Nothing dramatic happened. No uncontrolled bleeding. No emergency room visits. Just one or two tiny nicks — the kind anyone gets — and even those barely bled. Not even from shaving either.

Life, as it turns out, does go on.

I was learning that recovery isn’t just about the body healing. It’s about the mind recalibrating. It’s about realizing that you can’t bubble‑wrap yourself forever. You take the warnings seriously, you adjust where needed, and then you get back to living your life.

And that’s exactly what I began to do.

Part 2 -- tThe Wake-Up Call

 

Part 2 — The Wake‑Up Call

If the surgery itself was the shock, what came next was the wake‑up call.

My three daughters from South Dakota drove down the moment Barbara texted them that I was headed into emergency surgery. They didn’t hesitate. They just got in the car and came. Seeing them walk into that hospital room — tired, worried, but there — told me more about the seriousness of the situation than any medical chart could have.

I stayed overnight for close monitoring. Early Saturday morning, before they would even consider releasing me, the team performed an ultrasound to make sure no other clots were lurking. Only after that did they send me home with a prescription for Xarelto, the anticoagulant that would become part of my daily routine.

We drove the twenty miles back to Aurora, thinking the worst was behind us. But by Saturday night, I still couldn’t sleep. The dry, hacking cough that had been my constant companion for months was still there, relentless. After midnight, exhausted and frustrated, Barbara and I drove back to the Grand Island emergency room.

The ER doctor listened to my lungs, reviewed my chart, and then said something that changed everything: a persistent, dry cough is a well‑known side effect of lisinopril — the blood‑pressure medication I’d been taking for years. The only major change? My dosage had been increased the previous May. Nothing else had explained the cough. But this did.

And he was right. Once I stopped taking lisinopril, the cough began to ease. Within two to three weeks, it was gone completely.

Meanwhile, I was learning the new rules of life on Xarelto. The protocol was straightforward: 15 mg twice a day for 15 days, then 20 mg once daily. The warnings were less comforting. Slower clotting. Longer bleeding. More bruising. The suggestion to switch to an electric shaver. It all sounded like a simple fender‑bender could turn into a catastrophe.

I bought the electric shaver. I read the warnings. And then, after a few days of letting the fear settle, I reminded myself of something important: I don’t use power tools. I don’t make a habit of cutting myself shaving. I’m not exactly a thrill‑seeker. Life on Xarelto required caution, yes — but not panic.

It was the beginning of a new routine, one built not on miles run but on awareness, patience, and the slow rebuilding of trust in my own body.

Part I -- A Lifetime in Motion

 

Part 1 — A Lifetime in Motion

I’ve never had what people call a “runner’s body.” I’m built on the husky side, the kind of frame more suited for blocking a linebacker than gliding through a 10K. But from the time I was a kid, movement was simply part of who I was. As the youngest of six kids — and the only one who played all the sports — I lived on the baseball diamond, the basketball court, the football field, and the track. If there was a season, I was in it.

That rhythm carried into my Army years. Twice a year, like clockwork, I had to take a physical fitness test. At first, I treated it like a school exam: cram for three months, take the test, then forget about it until the next one rolled around. Eventually I realized it was easier — and far less painful — to stay in shape year‑round than to keep repeating the three‑month-on, three‑month-off cycle. That’s when I became a dedicated jogger.

And once I started, I didn’t stop.

I got hooked on the "runner’s high" — that strange feeling of contentment when the body stops complaining and the mind lifts off. When I wasn’t mobilized, I ran six miles a day, five days a week. At Fort Carson, Colorado, I pushed it even further: six miles a day during the week and ten miles on Saturdays. Later, when I worked in Sioux Falls for the Army Reserve, I’d slip out over the noon hour and run six miles on the bike trail. If the weather was bad — and in South Dakota, it often was — I’d put in the same miles on a treadmill. Sun, wind, cold, or fluorescent lights, it didn’t matter. I loved the movement, the fresh air, the routine.

I kept that up until 2016, when back surgery ended my jogging days. Two lower vertebrae connected with a rod and two screws — the kind of hardware that doesn’t negotiate with high‑impact exercise. That October surgery was the only one I’d ever had.

Until Friday the 13th -- February 13, 2026.

It started quietly, with a nagging dry cough that hung around for four months. Nothing dramatic, just persistent. Then came the palpitations — my heart racing for no reason — and the sudden breathlessness. Getting up from a chair and crossing the room felt like climbing a hill with a sandbag on my chest. Those were the signs that finally pushed me to make a doctor’s appointment.

The doctor ordered bloodwork, an EKG, and an X‑ray. She sent us home for lunch, but the phone rang soon after. She wanted us back for a CT scan. When the scan was done, she asked to speak with us privately. That’s when she told us there appeared to be blood clots in my lungs — and they needed to come out immediately.

She coordinated with a cardiologist in Grand Island who agreed to perform the surgery that very day. We drove to the Aurora Hospital emergency room, where I was put on Heparin and prepped for transfer. An ambulance took me to Grand Island Regional Medical Center. When I arrived, a team of four nurses and aides were already waiting in my room. They prepped me, wheeled me to the operating room, and got to work.

My wife, our pastor, our neighbors and a close friend drove separately and waited in my room while the procedure took place. My three daughters from South Dakota arrived soon after. I was awake the entire time. A massive clot was removed from my right lung and a smaller one from my left.

The mass of blood clots removed from my lungs. The nurse showed me this picture while I was still on the gurney. She said, "Do you have a strong stomach? Want to see what we removed?"

That was the beginning of the story — the moment everything changed.