Star-Journbal Editor
From 7 o'clock Friday evening until 7 o'clock Saturday morning at Marion's Warrior Stadium, charity-minded people from all over the county are expected to walk around the running track, lap after lap, in an event called Relay for Life, to benefit the American Cancer Society.
After 12 hours of doing good, many will be blistered, sore and grouchy from lack of sleep. But no matter how much discomfort they may have to endure, the Relay for Life is a cakewalk compared to the life that many people stricken with cancer, and their caregivers, walk 24 hours a day.
Cancer survivors attending Relay for Life are invited to walk the first lap together, as a tribute, at 7 p.m. Other walkers, participating in teams from church, work, school and other groups, will walk behind them.
To maintain their resolve through the wee hours, some participants will remember specific family members, spouses, or friends who've died or been stricken with cancer.
Others will walk because it's the right thing to do.
Those looking for a specific person to walk for could walk for Lewis Smith of Hillsboro.
If he could walk without a walker or get farther from the restroom, he'd certainly walk for you.
Smith is a survivor of prostate cancer. When he was diagnosed in 1985, there were only two treatment paths from which to choose.
If doctors had known then what they know now, life would have turned out differently for him. He might be walking with the other survivors on Friday.
Smith, 87, has sky-blue eyes that sparkle, cloud over, and rain, all in an hour's time. He lives alone in a condo that was supposed to be lived in by two people. A recent photo of Smith and his wife, Anna, sits on a shelf under the television set, always in view. A victim of Alzheimer's disease, she's been living at Hillsboro Community Medical Center's long-term care unit for several years.
She still needs him, he said, wiping tears.
His daughter, Georgia, of Hutchinson, also is combating cancer. There's a photo of her, also. She takes chemo every Monday, paid for by the American Cancer Society.
Smith speaks to his daughter three times a day without fail.
She needs him, too.
And that makes his walk worth walking.
"I really don't have any complaints," Smith said. "I feel fortunate to even be here. I'm glad I'm here. What would my wife do if I wasn't here? What would my daughter do if I wasn't here?"
The American Cancer Society estimates that 234,460 men in the U.S. will be diagnosed with prostate cancer this year, and 27,350 will die of the disease. Overall, one man in six will be diagnosed with prostate cancer during his lifetime, but only one man in 34 will die of this disease. About 80 percent of men who reach age 80 have prostate cancer.
While the number of men diagnosed with prostate cancer remains high, survival rates also are improving. Nearly 100 percent of men with prostate cancer survive at least five years after their diagnosis, 93 percent survive at least 10 years, and 67 percent survive longer than 15 years.
Today, at least five types of treatment are offered for prostate cancer, depending on the severity of the disease, the patient's age and the potential for quality of life.
But Smith doesn't complain about the wreck prostate cancer has made.
"Life has not been easy," Smith said. "But we don't complain. We just live it."
Smith switched off the television when company came Saturday. He usually watches sports he said — everything but pro basketball and soccer.
He won't watch soccer because he can't see the point of getting excited about all the almosts and might-haves and coulda-beens in the game.
Perhaps that's because he's had so many almosts and might-haves and coulda-beens in his life.
He wheeled his walker to the couch by the living room window and sat down, sun-drenched with light. He made himself as comfortable as he could and told the story of his life.
He was born in 1919 in Oklahoma, he said. His first childhood memory is of being sick and in the dark. Back then children who caught the measles were put in pitch-dark rooms to protect their eyesight.
"I remember pulling back the curtain to look outside one day, and my mother came in and scolded me real good," Smith said. "I was a sick boy all my life."
He came with his family to Marion, where his father worked in the flour mill on the Cottonwood River.
First came the Great Depression.
And then the Dust Bowl.
A short time later, Smith's leg swelled with a rare disease. The doctors wanted to amputate. His father said no. A chiropractor suggested heat lamps. The swelling went away; the limp never did.
"Today they use antibiotics for that condition," Smith said. "Clears it up right away."
When he was 20, he met Anna from Lehigh. He gave her a ring in July, 1939. They were married in October, and soon it will be 64 years. They had two children, Bonnie, and Georgia.
In 1943 Smith was drafted into World War II. The war ended before he went to battle. He came home with the GI Bill to buy a house and a nerve condition that made his toes tuck under and his fingers curl. He started to wear braces on his legs. He wears them still.
The Smiths moved to Wichita. He worked for Railway Express for more than 30 years.
In 1985 he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. That's when life started to get hard.
"I went to the doctor for a regular checkup, and he did an examination and said you've got prostate cancer," Smith said.
"I said, well, what do we do? He checked my medical records and said there was nothing else wrong with me. He said you can either have surgery and remove it, or have radiation treatment.
"I was in my 60s at that time, so he recommended the surgery, because there was no reason for me to get sick from the radiation."
There were problems on the table, and Smith nearly bled to death. They had to abort the surgery, sew him up, leaving the diseased prostate inside.
They went to Plan B.
After 37 radiation treatments, the cancer was gone, they said. Even if wasn't, he'd absorbed as much radiation as allowed.
In 1995, the cancer returned. The walk got harder. Smith couldn't urinate. And when he did, he couldn't stop bleeding. He took a pill that cost $800 for a 90-day supply. He got a shot that cost $2,000.
The cancer went away. But he continued to have urinary problems, so they operated again. In 1996, they took part of his small intestine and replumbed his urinary tract, from his kidneys to a hole in his abdomen.
Today he passes liquid waste into plastic bags, which he must drain every two hours.
It's been like that, every day, day in and day out, for a decade.
"I haven't had any problems since 1995 with my cancer, but it's the other stuff," Smith said. "It's not the cancer that kills you; it's the stuff you have to do to control it. It's the medications.
"If I could have had the surgery and had it taken out, I might have been all right."
The phone rings in his condo. Georgia's on the line. He promises to call her back, after company is gone.
Smith says he spends about $60,000 a year on health care for himself and his wife.
Between Medicare and his pension, he's able to pay the bills for now, but his nest egg is dwindling.
He tries to get up to see Anna at the care unit, but it's becoming more difficult. Loading his electric wheelchair up the ramp and into the van is hard to do alone. And he doesn't feel good about driving himself, because his reflexes aren't what they used to be and he doesn't want to be a hazard on the road.
"She knows who I am when I'm visiting her." Smith said. "But a half an hour after I'm gone, she has forgotten I was there."
It's getting tougher for Smith to get around, but he keeps going.
Since he has a tendency to fall, he walks with a walker all the time.
At the Relay for Life on Friday, the names of cancer victims, living and deceased, will be read at 10 p.m. There will be live entertainment of local talent and drawings throughout the evening. Prizes include two round-trip AirTran Airways tickets to anywhere in the United States, gasoline, power tools, Kansas Speedway tickets, Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center passes, and restaurant gift certificates.
Those still walking in early morning hours may strengthen their resolve by imagining Smith in his condo, near the restroom, looking at television or Anna's picture, and waiting for his daughter, Georgia, to phone.
