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.