Colleen Schrappen
ST. LOUIS COUNTY -- Most everything good in Tim Smith's life is connected to his time in the military: His college degrees. His entrepreneurial success. The memoir he just published.
Even his 20-year marriage to an old friend who didn't fall for him until after his 2002 enlistment.
"I would do it all over again. I was glad to do my part," says Smith, who spent four years in the Army. "I wish I could have done it without all the pain."
Smith, 46, is dying.
In 2004, he was deployed to Iraq. His security duties were near burn pits, open-air refuse sites where plastics, metals, fuel and other waste were incinerated.
Burn-pit emissions have been classified as carcinogenic by the World Health Organization and the National Institutes of Health. The PACT Act, passed by Congress in 2022, expanded the list of conditions tied to service in the Middle East to include lung cancer.
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"We were sucking in toxins the entire time we were out there," says Smith, who lives in Creve Coeur.
Smith didn't grow up thinking he'd be a soldier. All he wanted to do was play basketball. As a kid, he would practice for hours a day. He'd write "best in basketball" on the steamy bathroom mirror after his shower.
At Affton High School in south St. Louis County, he spent more time in the gym than in the library. It paid off on the court -- he averaged almost 20 points a game his senior year. And it showed on his report cards.
"My grades were never that great," Smith says. "I just wanted to keep them high enough to play."
He earned a basketball scholarship but didn't finish his bachelor's degree. In his early 20s, Smith rotated through jobs at a hardware store, a trucking company and an Irish pub. He drank a lot.
One evening, he and some buddies were involved in a fight.
"We were being young and stupid," he says.
But it was more than that: Smith was rudderless. He wanted something he could throw his whole self into, like he did when he was on the basketball court. He wanted a team.
'A very violent place'
Smith kept his visit to the enlistment office a secret from everyone.
"He was waiting until there was no turning back to tell us," says his sister, Amy Herbert.
The family found out after their mom spotted Smith's Army bag in his closet.
"We had a lot of emotions but were pretty proud," Herbert says.
As Smith prepared to leave for basic training, he grew closer to a friend of his, Terri Farias. They exchanged long letters while he was away. When he came home on leave, Smith proposed.
There wasn't one particular quality that made Terri fall in love.
"It was everything," she says. His kindness. His humility. His determination.
Smith took to military life. He liked the camaraderie and the regimentation. He even liked the toughness of the drill sergeants.
"It teaches you to look out for your battle buddies," he says. "It makes you grow up."
In late 2003, Smith received his assignment. He would be joining a unit in Baghdad that had already been there for seven months.
Saddam Hussein had recently been captured, and an Iraqi interim government was not yet established. Day after day, protesters swarmed the streets. When troops drove through, they often had to get out of their vehicles to clear a path.
"It was a very violent place," Smith says.
He helped attach sandbags and scrap armor to the Humvees to buffer against the impact of roadside bombs, which were all over.
Almost half of the nearly 5,000 U.S. service member deaths during the Iraq War were attributed to homemade explosives, according to the Congressional Research Service.
Eight of those fatalities were in Smith's unit, killed while on patrol one April day in 2004.
Two decades later, Smith still remembers their names and ranks, the families they left behind, the song -- "American Soldier" by Toby Keith -- that was played at their memorial service.
'Too much time to think'
Smith's unit wrapped up its deployment that summer. He felt lucky to be alive; he felt guilty to be alive.
During a monthlong break in St. Louis, he and Terri were married. Smith spent the rest of his tour in Germany.
The couple's first child, a son named Tim Jr., was born on the Army base there. He was part of the reason Smith decided not to reenlist. He wanted to raise a family back home, to give his baby boy the same roots he had.
But it was a bigger adjustment than he anticipated. The lack of purpose that had dogged him after his basketball days ended was nothing compared to the PTSD he experienced when he returned to civilian life.
"I was isolating myself," Smith says. "I had too much time to think."
Terrors shook him out of deep sleep. Crowds made him claustrophobic. A trash bag sitting on the side of the highway could cause him to break into a sweat.
"I heard fireworks, and I ran down to my basement and locked myself in a room," he says.
Smith made an appointment with a Veterans Affairs counselor. Week by week, his symptoms eased.
He got a job at the post office and completed his bachelor's degree at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Someone at the VA clinic suggested Smith apply to Washington University's master of social work program. His tuition was covered by the VA, and he landed a fellowship offering peer support to other veterans.
He and Terri's second son, Tyler, arrived. And for the first time, Smith was invigorated by school. He formed a student group for veterans at Washington U.
During one of his night classes, a custodian passed by. Smith got an idea about what he would do once he graduated: hire fellow veterans to clean schools and offices. He scribbled "Patriot Commercial Cleaning" into his notebook.
Smith withdrew $2,500 from a retirement account and became Patriot's only employee. Over the years, he hired more than 50 veterans and opened a second company, Patriot Industries, that does roofing. The job gave him enough flexibility to coach his sons' teams and take them on fishing trips.
Then, in 2016, Smith developed a cough he couldn't shake.
'Quality over quantity'
The cancer, a 2-centimeter nodule on his right lung, was caught early. The prognosis was good.
"I was fortunate," Smith says.
But his kids were so young, 10 and 7, that he decided -- just in case -- to jot some things down.
"Life is sure funny how it works out sometimes," he wrote in a composition notebook.
It was days after his diagnosis. He told his story from the beginning, filling in the blanks of his life for Timmy and Tyler to someday read.
The surgery went well, but the cancer recurred a second time, then a third. The family joked that Smith was the "Miracle Man," like his Grandpa Quinn, who had survived multiple heart attacks and a stroke.
They leaned on their faith.
"We were always praying," says Herbert, Smith's sister.
Smith had a habit of watching YouTube during his morning workouts. One day, he Googled "ways to cure cancer."
He found a video of Japanese doctors treating patients. They repeated a phrase that translated to "I am healing." Smith said it over and over on his walks. The mantra made him feel stronger.
But in early 2024, the cancer returned. Nine rounds of chemotherapy took a toll.
"I was a shell of myself," Smith says.
By fall, the cancer had spread. More chemotherapy might buy extra months, his doctors told him, but he would not be cured.
He decided to end his treatments.
"We want quality over quantity," his wife says.
They took a vacation to Belize, held a casino night with friends and cheered at an Affton High basketball game where Smith was honored.
Around Thanksgiving, Smith published his collection of writings, holding a standing-room only signing for "A Patriot's American Dream" at the library.
Dan Curran, of Chapters publishing company, put the book together.
"I knew it would resonate," says Curran. "The cost of war, and the hidden scars that exist."
Smith doesn't know how much time he has left. The doctors told him it might be a month. That was in early November. Most days, he feels at peace. He packed as much as possible, he said, into his 46 years.
More than he ever could have pictured when he was writing his childhood goal on the bathroom mirror.
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