SFGate: Alicia's Story

Some 1.3 million new cancer cases are diagnosed in the United States each year. Sarcomas are a class of rare cancers comprising about 1 percent of new adult cases; they are more common in children. Specific types of sarcomas are even rarer. There are fewer than 200 new cases of alveolar soft part sarcoma each year.

The following organizations offer dozens of links to other sources of information on cancers and their treatment; medical centers that specialize in cancer care; and support services and groups for patients and their families.

• cancer.org
• UCSF Cancer Resource Center
• Sarcoma Alliance
• alveolarspsarcoma.net
• cureasps.org
• sarcomacancer.org
• curesarcoma.org
• Anderson Cancer Center
• National Comprehensive Cancer Network
• Association of Cancer Online Resources

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Contributions in her memory may be sent to the Alicia Parlette Fund for Aspiring Journalists, Reynolds School of Journalism, Mail Stop 310, University of Nevada, Reno, NV 89557. The Chronicle has a limited supply of "Alicia's Story," a paperback compilation of the first installment of the series. All proceeds after tax and shipping will go to the Alicia Parlette Fund for Aspiring Journalists. To order a copy, send a check for $15 to "Alicia's Story," San Francisco Chronicle, 901 Mission St., San Francisco 94103. Order Form

: : : Interviews : : :

Listen to NPR's Alex Chadwick profile the series and Alicia at npr.org

Listen to Chronicle managing editor Robert Rosenthal talk with Alicia about the creation of the series on Chronicle Podcasts (6/29/05).

Take a look back at Alicia's Story in this podcast (12/22/05).

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Alicia's Universal Appeal
More than 2,300 people write to share feelings of commonality with Alicia.

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Originally published Sunday, June 5, 2005

I was also trying to get comfortable with life. Three years earlier, my mom had died of cancer, and I was still learning how to live without her.

I came into The Chronicle building early, at 8 a.m., because it was a Wednesday, deadline day for my department, the Friday section. It was almost 10 o'clock when I grabbed a muffin and some yogurt from the coffee shop downstairs.

I hadn't had time to take a bite when the phone rang.
For once, I didn't look at the number. I just assumed it was someone calling me back about a question I had with a story. On deadline, of course.

"Chronicle. This is Alicia."
"Hi, Alicia, this is Dr. Feldman."
Gary Feldman is my primary care doctor. I wondered why he was calling. Bad news didn't even occur to me. I was too busy for bad news. And bad news doesn't come when you're at work.

"Oh, hi, Dr. Feldman, how are you?."
"I'm fine, I'm fine. ...Listen, we just got your pathology report back from Stanford from your breast biopsy. They're calling it alveolar soft part sarcoma."

I froze. I had no idea what that meant. I didn't even know how to spell it. Things you can't begin to spell are never good.

Dr. Feldman was still talking, but I couldn't understand anything, until I heard him say, "... so it's cause for concern."

"Wait, wait, hold on. I'm not any kind of medical person, so you're going to have to explain. We're talking about cancer, right? Sarcoma is a kind of cancer?"

"Yes, that's right."
I was going to throw up. I started wriggling in my chair, and I wanted to get off the phone, but he was still talking. He told me that I needed a PET scan to determine whether it had spread and that I could probably get one on Friday. Then I'd need another CT scan of my lungs.

My lungs. A year before, when I'd had a bad cough, scans had shown spots on my lungs, but nothing had come of it. In November, I found a lump in my right breast, and on Feb. 15, it was removed – a lumpectomy – for a biopsy. All of a sudden, every bad feeling I'd ever had, every fear that lurked in the back of my brain, seemed to be coming true. The words I'd heard from earlier doctors whispered behind Dr. Feldman's voice:

"You're healthy."
"It's usually nothing."
"You're too young."
All of the nice things the doctors and nurses had said to me now seemed cruel.
Dr. Feldman finished. "So I'll get you set up for that PET scan and call you back, OK?."
I hung up the phone and sat at my desk. I felt the weight of his words being shoved down my throat, and I felt my mouth thicken.

I stared at my screen for a few minutes – two, five, more, I have no idea. I tried to read the story on my computer, but the words didn't make sense. Oh, God, now I couldn't read.

I looked to my right, to my friend Bernadette, but she was on the phone. I looked to my left, to Jan, but her back was to me, and walking two steps over to her seemed too much effort, like I would collapse before I could take a step.

Bernadette was off the phone. But now she was standing up. She was walking away. I knew I had to tell someone, but I couldn't speak. Tears were choking me.

I stared at my computer. I was thinking about talking, but I couldn't even say hi. I tried looking at the picture of my dog, Tasha, and couldn't. It would make me cry.

I could feel pressure building in my head. My shoulders ached from tension, and I knew I would give myself a headache if I didn't let go and cry. But I wasn't going to just cry uncontrollably at my desk, so I told myself I had to get to the bathroom. "Stand up and go," I thought, and I was on my feet, holding onto cubicle walls as I walked past my desk, other people's desks.

Luckily, there was no one in the bathroom. I went into the third stall, thinking, "This is my favorite stall. This is good." I shut the door, locked it with shaking hands and fell to my knees.

I thought I was going to throw up, but instead I spat twice and tears started dripping into the toilet bowl.
I was thinking of my mom, Pam, of how similar this felt to the night she died, when I saw her eyes glaze over and I fell to the hospital floor. And it reminded me of a year after her death, that night when I was working as a summer intern at the Sacramento Bee, when her death finally sank in. I had made at least five trips to the bathroom to pull it together, kneel on the floor and pray.

But now I couldn't even pray. Too many thoughts were running through my head, and I couldn't decipher anything. I could feel each thought pounding to get out, banging against my skull. It hurt.

I worried I might be going crazy. Then a sob took me by surprise, and like that, I was crying. I let myself cry for a couple of minutes until I heard someone coming down the hall. I was surprised but thankful I could hear anything over my wailing. I didn't want to be surprised by someone walking in. I needed privacy, and right then, I also thought that what I needed most was my mom.

I stood up and froze as someone walked in. I looked through the crack in the stall and saw Jan.
She was washing her hands. I opened the door and walked over to her. She looked up, at first with a look of recognition and greeting, then with concern and fear.

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