Last weekend I spent an afternoon with a wonderful friend whose husband works for Genentech. We talked about the advancements in cancer treatment the company has made. I’ve taken the opportunity to investigate Genentech’s web site. I scared myself pretty good.

According to Genentech’s research, more than 192,000 American women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009. More than 40,000 will die from the disease. Women with HER2-positive breast cancer are at a “much higher risk for early recurrence and death as a result of their disease, compared to women with HER2-negative breast cancer.” My HER-2 results came back “undetermined” and have been sent to a San Francisco lab for further analysis. I should know the results one week from today.

There is plenty to worry about, and naturally I’ve been obsessing over every bit of it:
--I worry about the drugs administered before surgery as I have a dysfunction in the liver that prohibits processing alcohol of any kind. Lately my system has reacted badly to the most common cold medicines (anything with Sudafed is out). Even prescription eye drops caused headache, nausea, and rapid heartbeat.
--I’ve spoken with a woman who underwent two surgeries on the same breast, the second one much more radical, because “clear margins” weren’t obtained with the first surgery. Getting clear margins is critical because it means the cancer cells in the tissue surrounding the mass itself have all been removed.
--I’m afraid the surgeon will want to prescribe Tamoxifen, which is standard practice for women with estrogen-positive tumors. Tamoxifen blocks the growth of cancer cells. Its side effects include: blood clots, strokes, uterine cancer, and cataracts. Other than that, piece of cake. Whatever side effects there are, I know I can expect to have them in spades.
--I worry about which treatment method to choose following surgery. I’ve known one individual who had only radiation following her surgery. Her cancer returned, and she passed away within a year. Everyone I know who has had some form of cancer, and chemotherapy thereafter, has survived many years. The very thought of chemotherapy makes me shudder.

My father, who had colon cancer at age 78, is my role model. He is a survivor and will be 82 this December. Everything has to turn out well for me. My father has already signed me up for the breast cancer walkathon in October 2010.