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.

 

Creepy, crawling critters

​A lifetime of critters I never asked to meet

Every place I’ve lived has left its mark on me — not just through people or memories, but through the creatures that decided to share the landscape. Some stayed politely outdoors, others crossed the line entirely, but all of them became part of the story whether I wanted them to or not.

Hartford – A snake in the grass

There's probably nothing I hate more than snakes. Hartford was our introduction to garter snakes, and they made themselves known right away. The west side of town must have been prime real estate for them, because they showed up in the yard, under the deck, and anywhere the sun hit just right. Mowing the lawn became a cautious, zig‑zagging operation. The smart ones scrambled to avoid my sharp mower blades. I never warmed up to them, but I learned to barely tolerate them.

Parkston – More snakes in the grass

When we moved to Parkston years later, I discovered the snakes had already taken up residence there. They turned up around the garden, beside the neighbor’s garage, and sunning themselves at the base of the house like they were posing for a calendar. Once again I tolerated them only because they stayed outside. Had one ever come into the basement, I might have handed over the deed and walked away.

Branson – Scorpions in my boxes?

Branson gave me my first exposure to scorpions. Three of them — all small, all dead — in our storage unit. I never saw a live one, and that’s exactly the number of live scorpions I prefer to encounter. Still, it was enough to make me open every box with the caution of a man defusing a bomb.

Fort Bliss – Tarantulas: Come out, come out, wherever you are

Fort Bliss introduced me to tarantulas, which appeared after desert rainstorms like slow, hairy tumbleweeds. They never bothered us; they were more a curiosity than anything, but seeing one amble across the pavement was enough to make you rethink your life choices. I gave them space, and they returned the favor.

Mississippi Gulf Coast — Respect the ’gators and enjoy the turtle races

Mississippi brought bigger wildlife. Alligators were common enough that you learned to keep a respectful distance. A four-footer was snagged from the pond outside our apartment complex, the same pool where we would throw bread along the shore and watch the box turtles race to get the crumbs.

Rows of genuine alligator heads are for sale at this shop in St. Augustine, Florida. Like any good tourist, I brought one home with me

Unwelcome Guests

Then there were the ones that crossed the line

Outdoor critters are one thing. You see them, you nod politely, you go your separate ways. But every so often, a creature decides to cross the threshold and make itself at home. These are the ones that earned a special category.

🪳 The Fort Bliss Couch Climber

One day in our government‑issued apartment, I spotted a cockroach running up the closet wall. I mentioned it to Barbara, mostly as a “keep an eye out” warning since he was fast and I couldn’t locate him. Later that day, as she sat on the couch, Mr. Cockroach climbed right up the armrest like it wanted to join her. She didn’t scream. She didn’t call for backup. She grabbed a shoe and ended the situation with one clean swing. Problem solved. Marriage strengthened.

🦇 Alexandria Herald – Bats in our belfry

At the newspaper office in Alexandria, we had bats congregating above the false ceiling. Ours was a two‑story concrete block building that clearly needed some patching. We heard their high‑pitched screech upstairs where we lived. Every so often, one would show up in the newsroom like an uninvited intern looking for assignments. We found one hanging in the pantry. I once tried to swat one away with a tennis racket — not my finest hour, but memorable. The kids still talk about the “bat era” of the Herald, which tells you how often those little visitors made themselves known. And then in Branson one showed up, taking up residence above our door. Needless to say, immediately after that we added an entryway to combat the intruder.

🐀 The Mississippi Gray Blur

When we moved into a cheaper apartment in Mississippi — as I was nearing retirement and we looked to “save a few bucks” in our final months there — we lasted about two days. Sitting in the living room, I saw a gray blur streak toward the kitchen. A rat. That was all it took. We grabbed Barbara’s daughter’s poodle (Louie), evacuated to a hotel, and moved out the next morning. Some decisions don’t require discussion.

Closing Rejoinder

So that’s my lifetime roster of critters. Some slithered, some skittered, some flew, and one even tried to join Barbara on the couch. I didn’t invite any of them — but they sure made the journey memorable.

A sentimental journey

 This week I traveled four hours up to South Dakota to watch grandkids' baseball games, visit with the family and doing some reminiscing.  Spending time with the kids and grandkids is always fun and the time is always too short.  The memories are priceless.

Since Barbara was working on a church project, I traveled alone this time -- unusual for us to be apart for more than a day.  It became a sentimental journey since I had a couple days alone to prowl the backroads and places I used to live.

My first stop in Parkson (our home from 2021-2024) was to visit Kristina, who has been ill.  The visit was short to drop off some coffee, meet Cammy (Kristina's English Bulldog) and chat a little.  Then it was off to Mitchell to check in and then attend the first baseball game for Westyn at Emery.

Wednesday morning I met my brother, Terry, in Mitchell at The Mercantile for breakfast and to update each other on our lives.  Upon leaving Mitchell, I discovered the "low-pressure" light on the dashboard, and so after visiting the cemetery in Alex I returned to Mitchell to Graham Tire, where the crew there quickly and efficiently replaced a right rear tire that had picked up a screw somewhere.  

Then I headed east to visit Canistota and Montrose -- towns I lived in after selling the newspapers and before I met and married Barbara.  In Canistota I drove down Main Street to find the former Ortman Hotel gone, with a few new businesses.  Several Amish residents were walking the streets -- still a familiar sight was it was 25 years ago when I lived in Canistota.  The Amish come from various states to seek treatment at the famous Ortman Chiropractic Clinic.  

I drove down the street (Pine) where I lived for about 4 years.  The house was still there but looking rather forlorn and neglected.  Right next to it sat the tiny, decrepit building that looked just the same was it was when I lived in Canistota.  After a few minutes in town I drove east and then north to Montrose, where I lived around 2003-2005.

My former home on State Street was a big, beautiful corner lot with a huge, three-stall garage and a backyard that any kid would have loved.  The tree out front had grown huge.  When I drove around the lot I noticed that the white lilac bush I had planted there so many years ago was gone!  No longer there.  There was an old riding lawnmower sitting there with grass growing up around it, appearing to have been no longer used.  I wondered whether that was the same riding mower I bought and used when I lived there all those years ago.  

Looking at the north side of the house reminded me of how I used to pack hay bales against that side before each winter to try to block the north wind's bite.  Keeping the water pipes was freezing in winter was a continual battle while I lived there.

I continued my drive around Montrose and noticed that the General Store was closed.  How many years ago it closed I had no idea.  Probably not something that happened very recently.

I drove west out of town on Hwy. 38, recalling how I used to jog out of town on this highway.  Passing through Salem, I had extra time so I drove through Spencer (much of which was destroyed by a tornado years ago when I lived in Canistota), and then I drove into Farmer past where I went to school in 1968-69, although the school is no longer there.  Only the quonset hut that held the auditorium is still there, along with a school memorial that lists Farmer High School's graduates.

On my way to Mitchell I also drove through Fulton, where I used to stop during my newspaper days to check on ads at Fulton Elevator.  I also drove past my good friend Barry's house.

After watching Gavin's team play Wednesday night, I drove to Sioux Falls on Thursday to look around at Scheel's, and then walk the bike path that I jogged on for many years.  Getting up on the bike path at Elmwood Park surely brought back memories.  For so many years I jog 6 miles every work day on the path -- three miles north and then three miles back.  

The day was hot with a strong south wind, so the walk out was pleasant with the wind at my back.  Crossing the bridge near the Elmwood Golf Course, I continued north, meeting several bicyclists, one woman on a unicycle, and several bikers with those laid-back tricycle-type trikes.  A couple miles out my back was hurting plenty and, recalling I had no water with me, I decided I may have to cut the trip a bit shorter than I'd planned.  So I walked to the bridge on the path's far northwest corner where the path turns east near the airport and National Guard Armory.  I turned around and headed back against the wind.

A blister was forming on my right foot, I was thirsty and my back hurt plenty.  Finally, at 12:30 I returned to the RAV4, some 2:04 after I'd set foot on the bike trail.