About

Here’s the deal.

On Halloween (2013), the goblins and monsters were out. Halloween was the day my breast donned the cancer costume. And so we dance.

I was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma, which is the most common kind of breast cancer. I mean, not common when you’re in the young group— that’s under 45, folks— and even less so when you’re in the very young group— that’s under 35. I’m young in the very young group. The group that has a 1 in 6,000 chance of getting breast cancer. I beat out 5,999 other people to get here.

Since then, you folks want information. You ask what’s going on and what means what and how Sam and I are faring over here in cancerland. So that’s what this blog is about. I’ve always been a writer, and sometimes I’ve been a photographer, so here, I’ll do that from cancerland.

And yah, that’s Barbara Eirenreich’s word, cancerland. It seems fitting, so I borrow. It is, after all, a land that we move differently in, where we are imperiled by machines and mathematical calculations and an entirely mystifying orientation to the world. So, this is my cancerland.

I finished chemo in March of 2014. I had a mastectomy in May of 2014. And so far, so good. The cancer seems to be at bay, and that rocks. I am currently on hormone therapy to block the estrogen in my body, and, hopefully, keep me healthy for decades to come. I’ll be on these drugs for ten years- so I’ve got about nine more to go! I also work with naturopaths, art therapists, nutritionists, and other healers to make sure I’m as healthy as can be. And I do everything I can to support organizations doing the intensive political work to right our world, and to remove the toxins and other bad, cancer causing shit, from places, people, air, water, and food we are exposed to on a daily basis.

2 thoughts on “About

  1. Chelsey,
    Being a semi-tech savvy dinosaur I am unsure if this is a public or private response. I have been following your blog with interest and recognition. I was diagnosed in 2011 with Wadenstrom’s Macroglobulinemia, a rare, slow moving, incurable, blood cancer ( 3 in a million) It seems I have won some sort of lottery. You are able to articulate so many of the feelings, concerns, and otherwise alien concepts I have, too, endured. Thank you for that. My cancer has now warranted intervention and I have just gotten tx #2. My hair started falling out 2 weeks after #1, so I shaved my lip and head hair off. I look like an overweight Holocaust survivor. My steroid dose has played hell with my emotional state. I am not getting the roid -rage I was promised. Instead I am what Kathy calls PMSing. I cry at the drop of a kind word; I cry when the puppy of the dog food ad runs to the toddler; I cry when a student of Kathy’s sends me a get well card; I am crying now. Any minute I will start laugh uncontrollably at how ridiculous I must seem. Anyway… saw your Mom and Dad the other day. Unusual set-up; but they unusual people and I love them. I better go now that the rant is setting in.

    Love, Thatalguy

    • Hi Al. I’m so sorry to hear of your diagnosis. Me and you, just winning the cancer lottery again and again over here. Bet you didn’t think that you would have this horrific twist of fate in common with me, did you? Well. I must say, the name of your cancer is quite a mouthful to have to explain to everyone. Geez. Chemo effing sucks. That is all there is. I just slept for weeks, and at the very last cycle, all my eyelashes (except for 22 on the left eye) and eyebrows fell out, so strangely, it’s taken till I finished chemo to look like cancer, and become an expert at eye-brow painting. So you may look like an overweight Holocaust survivor, but I look like a hairless alien. So. My email is chelseyhauge@gmail.com. Since you consider yourself a tech dinosaur, I’ll explain: this is a comment on the blog, which is also fine, and email is fine, too. I hope you’re able to enjoy the spring even tho there’s chemo-horrible-ness. And yes, I would agree that my folks’ set-up is REALLY weird…..

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