I remember that phone call as if it happened yesterday. I was in Washington, D.C., for work, on my way to a client meeting, sitting in the car with a co-worker. Suddenly, the pit in my stomach told me something was wrong. Before Kyle even spoke, I knew. Then, in a voice trembling with fear, he said, “Kayla, I have something to tell you… Don’t panic, but it’s cancer.”
I felt like the world stopped. My throat went dry, my stomach churned, and tears began streaming down my face. I was speechless. I should have been the one consoling him, yet Kyle’s role had reversed. He held my hand, squeezing it, and whispered, “Everything is going to be okay. It’s just a little bump in the road. I love you, don’t worry.”
I had a day and a half left on that trip, but I couldn’t get home fast enough. My mind raced with questions, fears, and uncertainties. The routine colonoscopy that was supposed to be nothing more than a check-up had completely changed our lives. At 30 years old, a cancer diagnosis wasn’t supposed to be part of our story.
The moment I arrived home, I hugged Kyle tightly, letting the tears fall freely. The fear of cancer was real, the uncertainty of our future terrifying. Cancer wasn’t just a word—it was a disease that had taken members of my family too soon. I couldn’t imagine losing my soon-to-be husband to this.
We were at a beautiful point in our lives. We had just bought our dream home in the country, and our wedding was six months away. Excitement and joy had filled our days, but in an instant, all of that faded. Our focus shifted entirely: Kyle beating cancer. From the start, the odds felt stacked against us. We were young, scared, and full of questions—some the doctors seemed unprepared for.
Our first appointment was with the surgeon. He explained the plan: a colon surgery to remove the section attached to the tumor, followed by chemotherapy six weeks later. Routine, he said. Simple. But as we soon learned, nothing about this journey would be simple.
Just two weeks after the diagnosis, Kyle went into surgery. Sitting in the hospital waiting room, every minute stretched endlessly. Updates came slowly; a tiny clock on the wall mocked our impatience. After five hours, a nurse came in with news: the surgery was taking longer than expected. The tumor wasn’t contained in the colon as scans suggested. It had spread beyond, possibly attaching to other organs.
After ten agonizing hours, the surgeon finally came to speak with us. He had prayed with us before surgery, promising to do his best with God at his side. Now, his expression said it all. “It’s more involved than the scans showed,” he admitted. They called in other specialists, including a urologist, because the tumor had attached to Kyle’s ureter. They had removed as much as possible, but not all of it. Chemotherapy would have to finish the fight.
That evening, it was just the two of us in the hospital room. Kyle woke slowly, his big brown eyes searching mine. “So, how did it go?” he asked. My heart ached as I explained the truth: 20 inches of colon removed, 20 lymph nodes, and only 90% of the tumor gone. Silence filled the room. Tears threatened, but I held them back, gripping his hand tightly. Kyle simply said, “Huh. So now what?” And I answered, “We fight. Together. I love you.”
The next chapter was 12 rounds of chemotherapy—a terrifying journey of nausea, hair loss, and weakness. I’ll never forget our first day at the local cancer center. Walking past patients, some barely clinging to life, I broke down completely. Kyle, ever my rock, whispered, “What are you crying for, Mama Bear? It’s going to be okay. I got this.” His courage carried us through every treatment, every setback.
We even paused chemo for our wedding. Kyle wanted to feel strong, whole, and vibrant on that day. On February 22, 2014, amidst a snowy Minnesota wonderland, we said “I do.” Surrounded by 400 loved ones, we celebrated love amidst hardship—a beacon of hope in the middle of a storm.
For six months, Kyle was cancer-free—but it returned with a vengeance. Another surgery, another colon resection. Post-surgery, during a conversation with our pastor, Kyle’s words cut through my fear: “I’m not done yet. God doesn’t want me yet.” His faith, courage, and determination became a mantra for our family, a promise to never give up.
The next three years were relentless: over 150 days in hospitals, countless treatments, 14 surgeries. Each time, Kyle refused to surrender. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, the emotional toll, two things never wavered—our love and our faith. Before our wedding, I knew I loved him, and I would follow him through anything. The diagnosis, the devastating news that we couldn’t have children, the prognosis of fewer than six months to live—through it all, we survived. Together, we taught the world what true love looks like.
In his final days, Kyle’s courage shone brighter than ever. He worried not for himself, but for me: “I’m scared I’ll be forgotten. I’m worried about you. I want you to move on, start a family with someone who will treat you like a princess, as you deserve.” I could only cry. How could I move on when my best friend, my soulmate, was leaving this life?
Kyle passed on July 31, 2017. I held his hand as he took his last breath—a moment of profound love, grief, and gratitude. His funeral became a celebration of his incredible life and enduring legacy. At 28, I became a widow, a title I never imagined holding. But I made a promise: Kyle would never be forgotten. His mantra, “I’m Not Done Yet,” became the INDY Foundation, a way to channel grief into action, to honor a life of faith, courage, and love.
Life has never been easy, but I’ve learned that love and faith can carry us through anything. Kyle’s story reminds me—and everyone who hears it—that even in the darkest valleys, light, hope, and love endure. Through every challenge, I have found strength, purpose, and the unshakable belief that anything is possible when guided by faith and love.
