THE MOMENT MY LIFE CHANGED: A REFLECTION
By Carl Nyquist On May 8th, 2024, I was just driving home from work like any other day. There were no warning signs, no indicators that my life was about to completely change. But out of nowhere, a sharp, radiating pain started in my back. It hit hard and fast—deep, relentless, and completely unfamiliar. I tried to tell myself it was probably a kidney stone. I’ve heard of those. They’re painful but manageable. That had to be it.
But deep down, I knew. By 7 p.m., I was in the ER. Alone. Hurting. And scared. I tried not to show it—I’m a dad, a strong person—but the truth was, I was terrified. The pain was so intense I felt physically ill. Still, I clung to hope. Maybe it was just a stone.
The doctor met with me and seemed to agree—it likely looked like a kidney stone. But to be sure, they ordered a CT scan. I walked over to imaging. Every step felt heavier than the last, but I still tried to stay calm. Maybe it’s routine. Maybe it’s nothing.
Then I laid on the table. When the scan was over and I sat up, I caught a moment I’ll never forget—locking eyes with the radiologist and my doctor. The look on their faces said everything. Their posture, their silence—it was all confirmation of what I had already started to feel deep in my gut.
I was walked back to the exam room. That short walk felt like miles. My mind was racing. The images had to be sent to Sioux Falls for reading, and those 30 minutes waiting for results felt like 30 hours. I was alone in the room, consumed by fear, vulnerability, and silence. The nurse came in to check on me, and I said something that stopped her in her tracks: “I think I have cancer.” She tried to comfort me. “Masses like that show up often,” she said. “Many are benign.” But her eyes told me something different. When she walked out of the room, my world shifted.
Her words didn’t deny it— they only confirmed the weight in my chest.
In that moment, something changed in me. I felt fear, yes—but also fight. My mind went straight to my kids. They needed me. I wasn’t going to let this be the end of my story. I had more to give. I had to fight.
When the doctor came back with the official report, it was even more devastating than I imagined: a 10.8 x 7.9 cm mass, with a thrombus growing off of it and impacting vital arteries. My right kidney was completely compromised.
The diagnosis was Renal Cell Carcinoma.
I was referred to a surgeon in Sioux Falls—Dr. Michael Gillette. And I need to give credit where it’s due: my primary care doctor, Stacey, got me into his office. Without her, I might not be here. Dr. Gillette didn’t sugarcoat anything. He told me, “This is big, bad, and scary.” But he also told me something else: “If we go open, I think I can get it.”
Those words sat heavy in my chest. “Open surgery.” I realized then this wouldn’t be a simple operation. I was going to be “quartered,” cut open to save my life. I had already made peace with the diagnosis— but now I had to make peace with the possibility that I might not wake up from the table.
The night before surgery, I wasn’t brave. I was broken. I felt sadness, fear, deep loneliness. I imagined my kids growing up without a father. I even went to my burial plot. I laid down on the grass, looked up at the sky, and whispered, “So this is what eternity feels like.”
I wasn’t giving up—I just needed to face the fear headon.
On Juneteenth, I went in for the open nephrectomy. The thrombus, the kidney, and the tumor—all were removed. Dr. Gillette did exactly what he said he would do. He got everything. The surgery was a success. For the first time in weeks, I exhaled. I was alive. I had a second chance.
But the journey didn’t stop there.
After surgery, my mind switched gears. I wanted to do everything I could to keep this monster from coming back. I overhauled my diet—went low carb, cut sugar, and started focusing on healing my body from the inside out. Recovery wasn’t easy. I’m still living with pain. Every little ache or soreness makes my heart skip a beat.
“Is it back?” That question never leaves. The emotional scars are as real as the ones on my body. My children still ask if I’m going to be okay. I try to reassure them—but the truth is, I don’t always know. After surgery, I reviewed my own medical chart and saw the full weight of what I had been dealing with: End Stage 3 or even early Stage 4. It shook me to my core.
NYQUIST: Cont. from Page 1
I never saw an oncologist before surgery. I didn’t know about support programs. No one walked me through what the American Cancer Society offers until I spoke with Jennifer Evans, who encouraged me to share my story. Ironically, it took surviving cancer to learn how to live through it.
Looking back now, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude - for my kids, for my community. Family, friends, coworkers, neighbors— they showed up. They cared for us. They fed us. They held us up when we couldn’t stand.
And now, it’s my turn. My journey isn’t over. But I’m here. I carry the scars proudly because they mean I’m still standing. I’m committed to giving back, to telling my story, to being that support for someone else sitting alone in an ER, feeling what I felt.
This fight gave me a new lens on life. Every moment matters. Every hug. Every smile. Every pain-free day.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: I’m not done. I’m still here. And I’m still fighting.
