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Copyright 2006 The Wichita Eagle

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The Wichita Eagle (Kansas)

March 26, 2006 Sunday

SECTION: E; Pg. 1

LENGTH: 1126 words

HEADLINE: 'I've been to hell. I'm not afraid now.';

Musician Kirk Rundstrom's life has taken a new direction, but a menacing detour lies ahead.

BYLINE: JILLIAN COHAN, The Wichita Eagle

BODY:
The knot in his chest, the one between his heart and his lungs, brings him pain.
It also brings him back ---- to the daughters he rarely sees, to the woman he always loved.

Best laid plans

Kirk Rundstrom's life was where he wanted it: At age 37 he'd achieved national success for his bluegrass/punk act
Split Lip Rayfield and growing awareness of his new rock group, Grain & Demise.
He had it all planned: Play 10 dates a month with Split Lip, 10 with Grain & Demise, and squeeze in solo shows when
he was in Wichita visiting his daughters.
"I just wanted to tour, tour, tour," he said.
The knot changed that.

Success, then stupidity

In the early 1990s, Wichita didn't have much of a nightlife scene, but it did have hungry young musicians.
Like a lot of guys who played in local bands, Rundstrom drew a paycheck at Tanglewood Signs, but all he wanted was
to play music.
Some days, he'd stop by the park and jam, skipping out on work.
Longtime friend Michael Carmody remembers seeing him like that one day.
"He was loud and brash. Those are the things I love about him now, but I didn't understand him then. I thought he was
a meathead."
The bands ---- Technicolor Headrush and Scroat Belly ---- morphed from punk to alt--country to Split Lip Rayfield.
"It's tough to make it on the national scene coming out of the Midwest, especially from a place like Wichita," said
Barney Byard, a promoter who books national acts at local venues.
"Kirk and the other guys in Split Lip Rayfield have shown that you can do that out of Wichita. You can build a national
fan base and make it happen."
As the band rose from local dudes to regional rock stars, the parties and the gigs became one and the same. The road
called, the record deal came, and Rundstrom embraced it all.
"It was (A) All of the above, that I did. I did drugs and alcohol. Whatever I could get my hands on."
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'I've been to hell. I'm not afraid now.'; Musician K

The knot wouldn't surface for years, but it was starting to grow.

The burning bush

After a while, the parties, the drugs and the women were too much.
"Drugs and alcohol kicked my ass," he says now. "I was the most self--centered, selfish destroyer out there."
About a year and a half ago, he ditched hard living and committed himself to recovery.
"I don't want to glorify it, but I'm a walking miracle. The fact that I'm alive and sober and in front of you, that's a
burning bush. I should have been dead 100 times over."
With sobriety came lifestyle changes. He'd already quit smoking Marlboro Reds.
He joined AA, jogged, bought meals at grocery stores on the road instead of fast--food joints.
But the touring increased, as Split Lip earned fans at bluegrass festivals and clubs.
Under his skin the knot was growing, twining itself around the muscular cord between heart and lung.
Doctors would not say the word "tumor" until later.

The smell of sickness

His back hurt. He had trouble swallowing. Eventually, he couldn't eat solid food.
It was late January and he was in California, touring with Grain & Demise.
He thought the sore throat came from singing every night, and the back pain from picking the guitar five hours a day.
"We were just playing long shows," he said.
Bandmate Bridget Law noticed Rundstrom was ill. She urged him to eat soup, which he could swallow. He'd order a
sandwich instead, leaving most of it on his plate.
"I could smell sickness on him," she said. "Something was tormenting him on the inside."
She called her physician father.
"Are his lymph nodes swollen?" he asked.
No.
"Does he have insurance?"
No. Why?
"There are 800 muscles in the throat. He could have cancer in any one of them."

Sixteen percent
On stage, Rundstrom has an intensity that captivates people. Some call it sex appeal, charisma, otherworldly energy.
After six weeks of radiation and chemotherapy, he is shrunken, tired.
The shadows under his eyes have grown. The muscles under his T--shirt have shriveled.
He often crosses his arms over his breastbone, protecting the knot. It's stage one cancer ---- a T--3 tumor.
That means it hasn't spread to the lymph nodes, but it has grown from the innermost esophagus to the outermost.
About 16 percent of white men with esophageal cancer are still living five years after their diagnosis.

Wildness, times two

Kirk and Lisa were attracted to each other's wild streaks. She was artistic, strong--willed, a risk--taker. He got into
more trouble than he could say.
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'I've been to hell. I'm not afraid now.'; Musician K

Six months after they met, they moved in together.

"He made me feel very normal," she said. "I was like, 'There's someone like me.' "
They were alike in creativity, and in self--destruction.
Lisa liked a drink and had a temper. She was getting noticed as an artist at the same time his musical career was taking
off. On--again, off--again became the routine for a while. Then it was just off.
"We are in recovery from alcoholism," Lisa says now.
It's been almost 12 years since their first daughter, Elle, was born.
Today Elle sits with her younger sister Mollie; two big--eyed elfin girls, playing in the dining room.
Their father sits in the living room of their mother's house, explaining why cancer isn't the worst thing that could
happen to a man.
"Being a drug addict, going through that, has prepared me. I've been to hell. I'm not afraid now."
It's all a question of perspective. Turn the lens to a different angle, and shadow becomes light.
"The fact is that I get another chance with my wife and family. I am so grateful and so thankful to God, and to my
family."
He and Lisa want to remarry, in May. They hope the knot will be gone by then.
The cost of hard living
"Musicians are nearly uninsurable," said Wayne Gottstine, a friend and former Split Lip member.
"Historically, we're a drinking, smoking group of people who are traveling constantly."
If your old lady doesn't put you on her policy, or your record label doesn't have deep pockets, you don't worry about it.
At a coupleof hundred dollars a month, the expense doesn't seems justified.
Musicians are young. Tough.
Rundstrom figured he was no exception. Then the doctors spoke.
Esophageal cancer, they said. Radiation and chemotherapy. Eventually, surgery.
As hospital bills grew, benefit concerts sprouted ---- in California, Texas, Wisconsin.
Friends in Lawrence and Manhattan held shows this month. In his hometown, friends have booked the 1,300--seat
Orpheum Theatre for a benefit on Friday that they hope will make a difference.
There are only four surgeons in the country who can remove the knot.
Treatment could cost more than $250,000.

Doing good
If it's his time, so be it.
"I'm not going to worry about that, because (it's) not here yet.
"What I am gonna worry about is: Did I get my kids fed? Are they clean? Are we on time to get them to school? Are
they happy, and do they love their dad?"
"Is my wife happy with me? Then I'm doing good."
Reach Jillian Cohan at (316) 268--6524 or jcohan@wichitaeagle.com.

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