1. The pit in his stomach was cavernous.
As he and Ellen walked back through
the waiting room, past those who were
flipping nonchalantly through Sports
Illustrated, he wanted to scream, “HEY,
I’VE GOT CANCER!”
“You walk through the doors, and
everyone else’s life is just going on,” he
said.
How can that be? How can people
just go about their day when this has
happened? he thought.
“It’s not that I wanted pity; it’s just that
it all seemed so unreal,” Kuker said.
How does a non-smoker in the prime
of his life with no other obvious risk
factors wind up looking down the loaded
barrel of Stage 4 throat cancer? How
does that happen?
Well, there was that incident at age 19
when doctors discovered a tumor in his
chest. But he was 19. Everyone is bullet-
proof at 19.
Kuker’s mother died from cancer, and
absent any other expedient explanation,
he might just be genetically predisposed
to the disease, doctors said.
All well and good, but getting rid of it
was now considerably more important
than how it got there.
And so it started the Monday after
Thanksgiving 2013.
Then, during the procedure, after
huddling around a microscope in the
corner to examine the tissue core, they
came back for more.
“I thought I was in trouble when they
kept going back,” Kuker said. “They’re
double-checking what they’ve seen.”
He really knew he was in trouble when
everyone left the room except the doctor.
The doctor looked down and folded his
hands before delivering the bad news.
“I’m sorry I had to tell you that,” the
doctor said.
“I’m sorry I had to hear it,” Kuker said.
Throat cancer. Stage 4. An advanced,
life-threatening situation with tumors on
his tonsils and at the base of his tongue.
By KRISTY DEER
kdeer@greenfieldreporter.com
I
t’s hard for siblings Amy
and Logan Bender of
Greenfield to remember
how it all unfolded back
in 1992. But one thing is
certain: Amy, now 29, knows
her little brother, 25, helped
save her life when they were
children.
“I knew I was sick,” Amy
said. “I don’t think I knew
the severity of it. I thought
it was like any other normal
sickness: You do what the
doctors tell you, and you
take your medicine, and you
get over it.”
It’s probably good she
didn’t know just how sick
she really was, parents Steve
and Margie Bender said.
Amy was diagnosed with
chronic myeloid leukemia
when she 8 years old.
It was a harrowing time
for the third-grader’s
parents, who knew
something was wrong with
their daughter after she
began to lose weight and
developed bruises all over
her body.
“I had contacted the doctor
on several occasions, but
they kept making excuses
that it was the summer, that
it was just hot outside, but
I was just very persistent,”
Margie said. “We had to
fight to get her looked at.”
That persistence paid off.
After doctors finally
agreed to test Amy’s
blood, the family received
devastating news: Amy’s
white blood cells were
completely out of balance.
“They told us there was
no time to waste; we had to
get her to Riley (Hospital
for Children) immediately,”
Margie said.
WHAT IS CHRONIC
MYELOID LEUKEMIA?
Chronic myeloid leukemia (CML), also
known as chronic myelogenous leukemia,
is a type of cancer that starts in the blood-
forming cells of the bone marrow and
invades the blood. In CML, leukemia cells
tend to build up in the body over time, but
many people don’t have any symptoms
for at least a few years. In time, the cells
can also invade other parts of the body,
including the spleen. CML can also change
into a fast-growing acute leukemia that
invades almost any organ in the body.
Most cases of CML occur in adults, but
rarely it occurs in children, too. In general,
their treatment is the same as for adults.
Leukemia is different from other types
of cancer that start in organs such as the
lungs, colon, or breast and then spread
to the bone marrow. Cancers that start
elsewhere and then spread to the bone
marrow are not leukemia.
Amy Bender’s only
treatment option
was a bone marrow
transplant, and
doctors decided
her brother,
Logan, would be
a good match.
Tom Russo /
Daily ReporterPROFILE
Amy Bender
Age: 29
Diagnosis:
Leukemia when she
was 8 years old.
Treatments:
Brother Logan
Bender provided
a bone marrow
transplant, and
Amy also has
endured radiation
treatments.
Prognosis: After 20
years, Bender still is
cancer-free.
A sibling to the rescue
At age 8, Amy Bender received gift she will pay forward
Peering into an abyss, Skip Kuker discovered hope
SEE SIBLING, PAGE F5
TYPES OF LEUKEMIA
There are four main types of leukemia:
Acute myeloid (or myelogenous) leukemia (AML)
Chronic myeloid (or myelogenous) leukemia (CML)
Acute lymphocytic (or lymphoblastic) leukemia (ALL)
Chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL)
SOURCE: American Cancer Society
“I’m rebuilding my body,
but I’m also rebuilding my
attitude in a lot of things.”
By JIM MAYFIELD
N
olan “Skip” Kuker anxiously peers through the
glass door outside Dr. Michael Myers’ office in the
Hancock Surgery Center. The talking helps, but
there’s a piano on Kuker’s chest; in a short time,
he’ll find out if the cancer’s returned.
It’s easier to stand out in the hall and wait. It started late last
fall with a sore throat in the middle of cold season. What else
could it be but a simple infection?
The veil of something darker began to drop when doctors
wanted to take a biopsy of his neck with a big spine needle.
PROFILE
Nolan “Skip”
Kuker
Age: 51
Occupation:
Executive director,
Hancock Economic
Development Council
Family: Wife, Ellen,
daughter, Jordan, 9
Diagnosis: Stage
4 throat cancer,
November 8, 2013.
SEE HOPE, PAGE F7
Hell and BACK

2. By JOE HORNADAY
jhornaday@greenfieldreporter.com
W
hen Shelton
Oakes was
diagnosed
with Stage 4
lung cancer, he thought he
was dying from the disease.
With the help and support of
family, friends, doctors – and
perhaps the grace of God –
his perspective has changed.
Now, Oakes says he’s
not dying from
cancer; he’s
living with it.
Oakes’
journey with
lung cancer
began with
another
health issue
when he
had a heart
attack on New
Year’s Day 2011.
He was taken to
the St. Vincent
Heart Center, and
the blockage was
cleared. A few
days later, he had
four bypasses.
When he came
to after surgery,
doctors told him
they had noticed
an abnormality
in his lungs. That
turned out to be
non-small cell
lung cancer, a
disease in which
malignant cancer
cells form in the
tissues of the lung.
“It was relatively small
in size. The largest tumor
was about six centimeters,”
Oakes said.
At first, doctors believed
the cancer cells were
relegated to just one lung.
Oakes would soon find out
that was not the case. The
disease had spread, and
additional tests showed it
had extended into the lymph
node system. Because of that,
Oakes was not a candidate
for surgery and was referred
to an oncologist.
He has received
chemotherapy every other
week for the past 3½ years.
He is now on his fourth
chemo regimen.
“I take them until they quit
working,” Oakes said.
When the tumors start
growing again, the doctors
switch Oakes’
medication. So
far, each drug
has lasted
about one
year.
The
illness
and the
medicines
have
taken their
toll, but
they haven’t
stopped Oakes
from working.
He serves as
inventory
control
manager at
MacAllister
Machinery,
where he has
been employed
for 17 years. He
also served on
the Mt. Vernon
School Board
for almost eight
years before
resigning in
June because of
his health.
He resigned just six months
shy of completing his second
term.
“I would have liked to fill
out my term,” Oakes said.
“It’s something I still care
about.”
Oakes figured those initial
scans were just evidence
of a past illness. He tested
positive for tuberculosis as
a teenager and had taken
medicine then for about a
year. At first, Oakes thought
the doctors were seeing a side
effect of the treatment – not
lung cancer.
“I was told it had calcified
the tuberculosis in my lung
area, (and I told the doctor)
that was probably what they
were seeing.”
But Oakes was wrong.
“I took it pretty hard. I
kind of panicked. I said, ‘I
don’t know how much time
I have left, but I had to get
things in order,’” Oakes said.
He has been married to
his wife, Dianna, for 44
years. Their son, Jeff, lives
in McCordsville; and their
daughter, Susan, lives in
Greenfield. Oakes said
he relied on his family,
especially his wife, to help
get him through those first
few steps.
“No one knows what God
has in store for you or how
much time you have left,
so we’ll just take it as it
comes, one day at a time,”
he remembered his wife
telling him. The doctors’
initial prognosis in early 2011
was that Oakes would live
another 12 to 24 months.
“I told them I’d always
been an overachiever. I guess
it was continuing,” Oakes
said.
Conferring with his
minister, Larry Bush, Oakes
said he realized he had been
given a gift and that his
diagnosis could be viewed in
a positive light. Many people
die without knowing the end
is near.
“They don’t get a chance to
do the things they’ve always
wanted to do or say the
things they’ve always wanted
to say,” Oakes said.
Through it all, Oakes said
that one important lesson
made itself clear early on.
“I’ve learned to have more
appreciation for what I have
than regret over things I
don’t have,” Oakes said.
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PROFILE
Shelton Oakes
Age: 63
Family: wife Dianna;
children Jeff and Susan
Occupation: Inventory
control manager at
MacAllister Machinery
Diagnosis: Non-small
cell lung cancer
Treatment:
Chemotherapy
Still overachieving
Nearly 4 years after diagnosis, Shelton Oakes battles on
A quarter-sized port was
punched into his left shoulder.
A feeding tube funneled food
while radiation treatments
seared the tumors in his throat,
making muscles there too weak
to swallow.
“My radiation oncologist told
me, ‘Skip, I’m going to take you
to hell, but I’m going to bring
you back.’ She did, and so far,
she’s brought me back,” he said.
For months, Kuker slogged,
dragged and wretched through
treatment but stayed abreast of
his work as executive director
of the Hancock Economic
Development Council.
“He tried to respect what the
doctors said and dotted his I’s
and crossed his T’s” said HEDC
executive assistant Connie
Schmidt. “But he’s the kind of
person that doesn’t like to be
down. We persevered.”
Kuker tells his story just so
people can hear it. He wants
others who might be in a
similar fight to know he’s still
standing and see that as an
encouragement – a bit of good
news in their barren landscape
of radiation and chemicals.
He doesn’t pass a chance to
walk smack through the middle
of the waiting room after his
oncology checkups so those
in the middle of their own
struggles get to see a survivor
walk out.
He likes to stop off at infusion
chairs, pat shoulders, smile,
wink and speak with those
dragging themselves through
chemo.
He doesn’t want them to see
Skip Kuker, per se; he wants
them to see hope. And gratitude.
“I would crawl across cut glass
for this community,” he said.
During the worst of it,
there was always help. People
bringing food. People the
Kukers didn’t know coming to
clear the driveway in the dead
of winter.
Neither Skip nor Ellen can
finish the sentence they start
when they begin talking
about the flood of support they
received. It’s too overwhelming.
Ellen allowed people to
help, but it wasn’t her natural
reaction, initially.
“Because I’ve gone through it
as a caregiver, I can say if people
ask to help, don’t be afraid to say
yes. When it all started, I said,
‘Ha! I got this.’ But I at some
point found out I don’t got it.
“It was so scary when he
was diagnosed, and we were
so new to Greenfield. But this
community has embraced
us; people came out of the
woodwork to….”
She can’t finish the sentence.
Now seven months after
treatment, Kuker is back
to answering requests for
proposals, conducting site visits
and giving business prospects
“windshield tours” through the
community he’s grown to love.
He’s back to his quick wit
and the smile that never quite
signals for sure what’s coming
next.
But he’s also a man looking
over his shoulder.
Every 30 days, he checks in
to see if the word he heard in
disbelief last year has returned
to become more than just a
word. If he has to dig back in for
another fight.
“Every month you go in,
praying I’m OK, just waiting for
someone to tell you.”
So Kuker waits. It’s been
an hour and change since he
arrived for his appointment,
alternately talking animatedly,
going quiet, crossing his arms,
shifting his stance.
Waiting.
Myers snakes the long scope
along the floor of Kuker’s right
nostril, down the back of his
throat to just above his vocal
chords.
“Looks good,” the doctor says.
“I’m happy to hear that,”
Kuker says, a smile creasing his
face and his shoulders relaxing
a bit.
In five years, if his tests
remain clean, he’ll be declared
cancer-free, but for now Kuker’s
horizon is eminently closer.
“It sure was a pain… It sure
sucked a lot. But… I’m here.”
Continued from Page F1
Hope
Once a month, Skip Kuker
steels himself for a visit with his
physician, Dr. Michael Myers,
who checks for a recurrence of
the tumors in Kuker’s throat.
Tom Russo / Daily Reporter
“I’ve learned to have more appreciation for what
I have than regret over things I don’t have.”