Chemo Runs - what an experience

Chemo… and the Runs (Let’s Just Be Honest)

You have to laugh cos, treatment is shit Literally 🤣 

Right, let’s talk about something nobody warns you about properly:

Chemo and the runs.

Oh.
My.
God.

I knew chemo came with side effects — nausea, tiredness, hair loss — the usual list they hand you like some kind of cursed bingo card.
But nobody, and I mean nobody, prepared me for what chemo does to your bowels.

You’d think I’d be immune at this point —
IBS girlie, bowel cancer, pain, the whole package.
But oh no.
Chemo said:

“Let me show you something NEW.”

When Your Stomach Declares War

It starts with a rumble.
Not a normal rumble.
Not a “hmm, I could eat something” rumble.

No.
This is the kind of rumble that makes you freeze in place and think:

“Oh shit. Literally.”

Your entire digestive system suddenly activates like a fire alarm.

And you have —
approximately —
4 seconds to get to the toilet.

Not 5.
Not 10.
Four.

It’s like your bowels and chemo made a deal behind your back:

Chemo: “Let’s ruin her life.”
Bowels: “Say no more, bestie.”

The Dash of Doom

The amount of times I’ve sprinted (well, shuffled aggressively) to the bathroom since treatment started is unreal.

I’ve moved faster for chemo diarrhoea than I ever did for P.E. in school.

And then the heat wave hits.
You know the one.
The hot head, cold sweat, “don’t talk to me, don’t breathe near me, I am fighting for my life here” moment.

The Pain? Unreal.

It’s not gentle.
It’s not polite.
It’s not “oh no, my tummy is upset.”

It is:
a demon exiting your soul at high speed.

I swear to God, at one point I thought:

“If I don’t ascend into the afterlife right now, I deserve a medal.”

The Humbling Experience

Chemo diarrhoea humbles you.
It really does.

You could be crying over a man at 10am
— heartbroken, tragic, mascara everywhere —

and by 10:07 you’re running to the toilet like you’re competing in the Olympics.

Let me tell you something:
There is NO heartbreak, no emotional drama, no sad playlist strong enough to survive diarrhoea from chemo.

Your body takes over and says:

“We’re done here. Priorities have shifted.”

And the Aftermath…

Once the battle is over, you sit there on the edge of the bath feeling like you’ve been exorcised.

You’re sweaty.
You’re shaky.
You’re traumatised.
You’re questioning life choices.

And you’re thinking:

“Why was that more emotionally exhausting than my actual cancer diagnosis?”

But Here’s the Thing…

As awful as it is —
as painful, embarrassing, unpredictable, and violent as chemo diarrhoea can be —

you survive it.

You wipe the tears (and the sweat).
You swig some water.
You shuffle back to bed like a little goblin.
You sigh dramatically.

And you carry on. Cos the Runs will be back 

My trauma story 

Alright, buckle up.

Because if I don’t laugh at this, I’ll start crying — and honestly, I’ve done enough of that lately.

So… picture this:

The Afternoon My Bowels Betrayed Me

It was a perfectly normal afternoon.

Well — as normal as life gets when you’re on chemo, traumatised, sleep-deprived, heartbroken, and living in pyjamas.

I’d just made myself a cup of tea.

Feeling quite proud, actually.

Standing in the kitchen like:

“Look at me functioning like a human again.”

Then suddenly…

The rumble.

Not a polite rumble.

Not a “hmm, maybe later” rumble.

No.

This was the biblical rumble — the kind that announces:

“You have approximately THREE SECONDS to sort your shit out.”

My eyes widened.

My soul left my body.

I whispered,

“Oh no.”

The Dash Begins

I put the cup down so fast I nearly launched it into the microwave.

Then I did the world’s most dramatic hobble-run through the house — the kind where your legs are moving but your arse is clenched tighter than a nun's fists.

Halfway down the hallway, Mum shouted something like:

“Do you want biscuits with your—”

And I yelled back:

“MUM, NO, I’M GOING THROUGH SOMETHING!”

The Moment of Pure Terror

I swear on my life, I hit the bathroom door like I was busting into a crime scene.

Nearly ripped the handle off.

And the second — THE SECOND — I sat down?

IT WAS OVER.

My bowels were like:

“Thank you for attending today’s performance.

We hope you enjoyed the show.”

The Aftermath

When I finally emerged (looking like I’d aged 12 years in 4 minutes), Mum looked at me, concerned.

“Are you alright, love?”

And I, with my dignity hanging on by a thread, said:

“Mum… my soul left my body and came back wrong.”

She handed me water like I’d just finished a marathon.

And the Funniest Part?

Five minutes later, I forgot what happened.

Because chemo brain said:

“Delete traumatic bowel event?

→ YES.”

So when Mum asked if I still wanted my tea,

I said:

“Yeah, why not?”

Like nothing had happened.

Walking with gavin today