Cancer Conqueror, Inspirer, and Community Advocate

Carlos Gonzalez

One year ago, EVERYTHING changed.

One year ago, I landed from Tulum, Mexico feeling off — but I had no idea I was walking into the fight of my life.

I Ubered straight to New Hampshire to get my car and asked Amanda to take me to the hospital. That decision saved my life.

At Exeter Hospital, a CAT scan revealed something devastating — multiple lesions eating away at my bones. Bloodwork showed I had lost more than 70% of my healthy blood volume. I had 12 fractured ribs, 3 collapsed vertebrae, and Stage 5 Chronic Kidney Disease.

They told me to call my pastor.

They gave me the first of what would become eight blood transfusions and rushed me to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center Oncology.

Days later, I learned the name of the enemy: Multiple Myeloma — a rare and aggressive blood cancer.

My plasma cells — meant to fight infection — had mutated and were producing an abnormal protein called M-protein that crowded out healthy blood cells and attacked my body from within.

I tested positive across all four CRAB markers:

C – Calcium elevation (bone breakdown releasing calcium into my blood)

R – Renal failure (my kidneys were shutting down)

A – Anemia (critically low red blood cells)

B – Bone damage (fractures, lesions, collapse)

A bone marrow biopsy confirmed it.

I remember looking at Amanda's face. We had just been married. This wasn't the life we imagined. And yet… there was peace.

Forty Days in the Wilderness

I surrendered to my Highest Authority. I accepted chemotherapy — terrified. I endured radiation to my spine. I spent 40 days in the hospital.

There were tears. There was vomiting. There was anxiety. There was humiliation. There was vulnerability.

I am a man of certainty — and I had no control. And yet, I was steady.

Years before this diagnosis, I had walked a deep spiritual path. I trained with indigenous healers. I studied surrender. I learned how to breathe through pain. Those years of ceremony and discipline became armor I didn't know I would need.

And you carried me too. The prayers. The messages. The meals. The laughter. The visits. The encouragement. You stitched yourselves into my survival.

Norm and Marie Hicks — you took care of Amanda when I couldn't. You fixed our brakes, our camper, and so much more.

Robin — retired nurse, angel in human form — you opened your home so I could recover safely.

Eric — when my truck was in crisis, you handed me yours. Who does that?

Carla — in Arizona — I see you. I know what you did. I carry that gratitude every single day.

The Shift

My lambda light chains were nearly 8,000 at diagnosis — an overwhelming burden of disease. Today, they are near normal. That is not a small improvement. That is a collapse of cancer activity.

Doctors call it deep remission. I call it resurrection.

A stem cell transplant may be next — not because I am losing, but because I am winning. That is not fear driving this decision. That is stewardship.

The Comeback Nobody Saw Coming

I took up bowling for exercise because I was bored. Then I won States in my division. Now I'm representing New Hampshire at Nationals in August.

What. The. Hell. That's not a comeback story. That's a declaration.

Cancer does not become inspirational just because you survive it. Cancer is brutal. It's exhausting. It's unfair. Cancer SUCKS.

But here's what cancer now understands: I am not its victim. I am its opponent. And I am in charge.

One year ago, they told me to call my pastor. Today, I am planning the future.

I love you all. Thank you for being part of this fight. Thank you for being part of this comeback. — Carlos 🦁