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Alicia A. from West Virginia was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer in 2021. In her story, she recounts the moment she received the life-altering news and the complex emotions that followed. She shares the challenges of undergoing treatment but highlights the profound impact of human connection throughout her journey, and advice she would give to her past self and other cancer thrivers. 

April 21, 2021

It's been two days since I got the call—the one you expect you'll never get. I remember vividly the words: "Your liver and pancreas are failing, and I can't figure it out. Go to the ER now; they'll have to figure it out." I was confused. I didn't feel that bad. Yes, I was a little yellow and in pain, but I didn't feel like I was dying—at least, that's what I told myself. Still, something in the voice of Dr. Khajavi, my family doctor at the time, told me I had to go. I hung up, turned to my husband, and said, "Dr. Khajavi says you have to take me to the ER." With dread, I grabbed my purse, and my husband drove me there.

As this was during COVID times—no visitors were allowed while waiting. Once there, they ran test after test after test. Blood tests and more blood tests. Ultrasounds. Nothing. Finally, a CT scan. The ER doctor came into my room and said, "There's a mass in your pancreas obstructing the biliary ducts. We don't have the equipment here, so we'll transport you by ambulance to Morgantown, where a team is waiting for you. We've spoken with the OR doctor in charge, and they'll make room for you right away."
They told me I'd have to sleep in the ER and that the ambulance would take me the next morning. I said, "My husband can take me—no need for an ambulance." They replied that the ambulance would make things easier and expedite everything once I arrived. In hindsight, I realized that my body hadn't been able to get rid of toxins. They were accumulating, poisoning me from the inside out. And I didn't know it yet, but I was about to face the biggest battle of my life.

As my husband, Per, went home after midnight to take care of the dogs and get some sleep, I was on my own in the darkness of the room. In that still moment, I reflected on my life. I began to consider the possibility that I might be gone from this world sooner than expected. I thought about the things I would miss—hugging my husband, my parents, my family, my brothers, my favorite cousin; petting my dogs and feeling their soft fur; spending time with my horse; saying "I love you" and being next to the people I love in the same space and time. I would miss the physical interactions.
I wasn't thinking about work, my next project, an upcoming meeting, or an argument with colleagues. Suddenly, everything I had once believed defined me—what I thought was my essence—didn't matter anymore. The following morning, during the three-hour ambulance ride to Morgantown, I found myself wondering: Who was Alicia up to this point?

Before April 2021 And Now

Before April 2021, Alicia was living in the corporate world, running her life according to the usual programming: work hard, fight for what you want, stay concerned and fearful of the future because you might be bankrupt at any moment or fired without warning, and—if you grow old—you'll need a lot of money to retire comfortably someday… if retirement even happens or is available.

She used to travel most of the time for work. Did she love what she was doing? Maybe—but she wasn't enjoying it. Instead of seeing every problem as a chance to challenge her mind and take joy in finding answers and solutions, she felt dread. She was fed up, worn down by the personal and professional difficulties she faced day after day. She was burned out, struggling to maintain her energy levels, and sometimes even to find the motivation to get out of bed.

I had been taught that you have to do what you don't enjoy—that's why it's called work; they even have to pay you to do it—to succeed. Then, after 65, you can retire and live the life you truly want. But now there

was a real possibility I might never see retirement. I had to learn to live in the present moment—in the now.

As the famous Bill Keane quote says: "Yesterday's the past, tomorrow's the future, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present." Some days are very challenging, but I now have the most fun at work with amazing, creative, intelligent, and unique human beings, that enrich my life immeasurably. I'm grateful to have regained my full mental capacity and now believe that if a challenge arrives, it's because I have the capacity to solve it—and I don't have to do it alone. This is the beauty of collaboration.

The Diagnosis And Treatment Plan

As the ambulance arrived at the hospital in Morgantown, they took me straight to the oncology wing, and the waiting began. The next morning, I went into the OR, where they inserted a stent and took a biopsy. When it was over, they brought me back to my room, and I clearly remember the moment Dr. Thakkar came in. He sat at the foot of my bed, looked me in the eye, and, with all the kindness and a soft voice, said, "It's pancreatic cancer—adenocarcinoma. The good news is that it seems to be stage 1 and it's resectable." Resectable, they could operate and remove the tumor. He added that the surgeon would come later that day to see me.

I felt numb, but there was so much honesty, kindness, and certainty in his voice that I didn't feel afraid.

Later, Dr. Boone arrived. I remember he repeated that it was resectable and that this was great news. Again, he looked me straight in the eye, his voice certain and without hesitation—pure honesty. I asked why he chose to become a pancreatic oncology surgeon, and he explained there weren't many specialists in the field, so he decided to dedicate his life to it. Right then, I knew—he was the one. He was the surgeon I wanted to perform my Whipple procedure. He also advised, "If you want to do some research, there are great resources through PanCAN, the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network. Please don't Google this." And to this day, Dr. Boone can be proud of me—I have never Googled anything related to pancreatic cancer.

What followed was a more than seven-hour robotic Whipple surgery, with a very challenging recovery. The drain inserted in my abdominal cavity to prevent infection shifted, pressing on my bladder and other organs, making trips to the restroom incredibly difficult. Sometimes the pain was unbearable, but the risk of infection was one none of us were willing to take.

As my digestive system slowly began to find its rhythm again, eating became both a challenge and a torture sometimes. Before every meal, I would ask myself: Will my digestive system be upset? Will I be able to bear the pain?

There was also a change in the diagnosis. By then, we knew it wasn't Stage 1—it was Stage 3. The cancer had already spread to my lymph nodes. As Dr. Boone explained, it seemed more aggressive than expected: the tumor was only about 1 cm, yet it had already reached eight lymph nodes, and half of one contaminated lymph node was still in me.

Finally, after four weeks, the drain was removed, and it was time to start chemo. Chemo was led by another fantastic doctor—Dr. Kolodney—and her team: Dr. Heidi, Bethany, and Crystal, an amazing pharmacist. I couldn't complete all 12of chemo rounds as planned—my body just couldn't handle it. I managed six rounds, and it's better not to go into the details. I still remember my conversations with Dr. Kolodney: "There's no right or wrong answer. What do you want to do?" I'm still grateful to her for letting me just be.

Then came Dr. Charles, offering great advice on palliative care, and last but not least, Dr. Kiggundu for radiation.

I can't forget all the amazing nurses and healthcare angels I met on my path to recovery. Their smiles, patience, and compassion as they helped me through those difficult times truly mattered and became part of my healing. Thank you for dedicating your lives to this work—because, in part, it's thanks to all of you that I got a second chance at life. And believe me, I'm not wasting this one.

Looking back at my story I think everyone believed in the possibility of my recovery; therefore, I was able to believe in it too.​​​

Advice For Pancreas Patients And What I Would Tell Myself

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This too shall pass...

Nothing stays the same forever, neither the good nor the bad

If it's good, enjoy it; if it's bad, hang in there — it won't last forever. Look for tools that resonate with you to calm your nervous system and balance your brain. I was lucky to discover Cognomovement, a technique I still use every day. Remember, we are emotional beings—emotion means energy in motion. As Dr. Joe Dispenza mentions in his book Becoming Supernatural: change your energy, change your life.

  • Don't take life so seriously, no one makes it out alive. Did I think I was going to die? Yes, I did — several times. Whipple surgery recovery is no joke, and chemo treatments were tough, with unexpected side effects like losing my eyesight, shaking, and even a seizure between chemo and radiation. Radiation, surprisingly, was the easiest part of the journey. Learn from the process, allow yourself to open your heart, and enjoy every day you have — because it might be the last one.

  • The power of the mind. Talk to survivors — or, as I like to call them (and myself), thrivers. They are alive, they've been through it, and your brain needs to understand that it's possible to overcome this, heal, and dream again about growing old with your loved ones. I was lucky to find two, and I talk frequently with one of them. She is 81 years old and thriving. She runs her own business, works every day, and this year, she went on vacation to Paris. She also had her "big adventure" in her mid-forties.

  • Never doubt the power of the heart, the power of love, the power of human connection. Family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, doctors, nurses, therapists, pharmacists, and many more — through this adventure, I was able to see a side of people I never imagined I could experience: kindness, compassion, and unconditional support. My amazing partner-in-crime, my superhero husband, Per. It was COVID times, so no family could help us. He took it upon himself to fully care for me. I'm in awe of this incredible human being who gave everything to keep me going. Whatever was needed, he was always there — giving me my medications, emptying the drain in my abdominal cavity every few hours to prevent infection after Whipple surgery, feeding me, helping me shower, and never letting me lose faith. He kept working full-time and never took time off. Per, I'm in awe of your strength, kindness, and love. Thank you for existing.

  • Your beliefs are a part of your recovery — you create what you believe. Believe that you are unconditionally loved by God, the universe, or Source — however you choose to call it. Your thoughts and emotions influence your healing, so find a support system that is right for you.

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There were ups and downs every step of the way, with many lessons and challenges. I could bore you to death (pun intended) with all of them. So please allow me to start my conclusion: if cancer hadn't knocked on my door, I am certain I would have never changed. I would have never felt such happiness watching a sunset or sunrise, sharing experiences in person with the people I love, or savoring simple pleasures like a great cup of warm tea on a chilly morning. I would probably have been wasting precious time feeling that the world is a fearful place, believing there is not enough for everyone, living in lack, and probably stuck in victimhood—because we human beings love to think that everything, including our worth and happiness, comes from the outside.

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Remember, there's no cure for human pain, but suffering is optional.

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My new beliefs and guidelines in life are:

  • Follow your excitement to the best of your ability, without expectation of the outcome.

  • Everything happens for a reason; there are no mistakes in the universe.

  • God, Source, the universe — however you choose to refer to it — loves you so unconditionally that it is willing to support any beliefs or experiences you want to have.

  • Everything comes from the inside out. Remember, you are an energy match.

  • Trust the process — there's always a lesson. Everyone you meet is either a teacher or a student.

  • Live in the present moment. Real happiness comes from the inside out. Don't wait for something external to make you happy; you can make yourself happy.

  • I am not a victim of my environment. I know there are three things I can control: my thoughts, my emotions, and my actions.

  • I'm a work in progress, and I learn every day how to be the best version of myself, to forgive myself, and to be kind to myself so I can do the same for the rest of the world. I go by the premise that everyone is doing the best they can — even me. So, start being kind to yourself, forgive yourself every day, love yourself, and remember: every day that you open your eyes is a gift, another opportunity to reinvent yourself and be the best version of yourself.

  • When in doubt, ask your heart: the brain thinks, but the heart knows. As Bill McKenna mentions in his book The Only Lesson: the answer is love. Whatever the question is, I know the answer is love.

In gratitude for being here and for all of you taking the time to read my story. Namaste, the divine light in me honors the divine light in you.

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