The Hotel Nausea Incident (AKA: Why Chemo + Sex = Chaos)

 

Right.

Strap in.

Because this story is one of the biggest “I cannot believe that actually happened” moments of my entire cancer journey.

 

So… I was in a hotel with Ryan.

 

Chemo week.

 

Nausea creeping in like an uninvited guest I really didn’t have the energy for.

Every five minutes my stomach would whisper:

 

“Hi.”

 

And I kept whispering back:

 

“No. Stay down.”

 

We’d gone out near the hotel earlier and smoked some wacky baccy to help with the nausea (which, honestly, did help).

So I thought I’d be fine.

 

HAHAHAHAHA.

Chaos said otherwise.

 

We Begin… Doing the Business

 

We got back to the room and things started heating up.

Clothes off, kisses, all that good stuff.

 

I ended up on top — doing my thing, feeling myself, thinking:

 

“Yes, girl, chemo hasn’t killed your sex life yet!”

 

Then suddenly…

 

My stomach said:

 

“HELLO AGAIN, BESTIE.”

 

And not in a cute way.

In a “I’m about to violently betray you” way.

 

Blind + Naked + Nauseous = Disaster

 

Now here’s the important part:

 

I did NOT have my glasses on.

And I am BLIND without them.

 

I mean “could walk into a wardrobe and apologise” level of blind.

 

But I knew where the bathroom was.

So what did I do?

 

I launched myself off Ryan like an Olympic athlete.

I’m talking Usain Bolt on steroids.

That man probably didn’t even see me move — just felt the whoosh of air and saw a blur of panic.

 

I sprinted to the bathroom door, flung it open, and—

 

EVERYTHING WENT BLACK

 

The door shut behind me.

Pitch black.

No light.

No glasses.

No vision.

 

Just me, naked, nauseous, and guessing where my mouth should aim.

 

I didn’t have time to find the light switch.

My body was like:

 

“WE’RE GOING NOW.”

 

So I leaned over and prayed — PRAYED — that the toilet lid was open and I was pointing in the right direction.

 

I let it out.

 

The Damage Report

 

When I finally finished dying dramatically into the void, I fumbled for the light switch like a drunk raccoon.

 

Light on.

Survey the crime scene.

 

A miracle:

 

90% of it made it into the bowl.

The other 10%… well, that was between me and God.

 

So there I was, naked, freezing, cleaning up vomit in a hotel bathroom like some tragic, feral Cinderella.

 

Then I brushed my teeth because the taste?

HELL.

 

Mortified didn’t even cover it.

 

The Cold Hits HARD

 

By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, the chemo cold hit me like a freight train.

 

Shivering.

Teeth chattering.

Nipples ready to cut diamonds.

 

And Ryan…

Ryan was a sweetheart.

 

He wrapped me up in covers — literally tucked me in like a burrito — and pulled me into him to warm me up.

 

No judgement.

No disgust.

Just kindness.

 

He held me while I shivered, stroking my back, whispering:

 

 

 

Funny Reflection: Chemo, Sex & Bathroom Sprints — A Love Story

 

Looking back on that night now…

I have to laugh.

Because honestly?

 

Who else but ME would end up vomiting naked in a pitch-black hotel bathroom mid-sex with a man I fancied the absolute arse off?

 

Not Instagram-influencer cancer.

Not brave Hollywood cancer.

No.

 

Chaotic, feral-energy, tripping-over-my-own-boobs cancer.

 

And of course it happened when I was on top.

Of course it did.

Chemo really said:

 

“Let’s humble her.”

 

The comedic timing was immaculate.

 

Stomach churning? ✔️

 

No glasses? ✔️

 

Door shuts behind me? ✔️

 

Darkness? ✔️

 

Naked, panicking, praying over a toilet like a drunk uni student? ✔️

 

A man in the next room wondering if I’d died or teleported? ✔️✔️✔️

 

 

If someone had filmed it, I would’ve won a BAFTA for Best Unplanned Comedy.

 

And bless Ryan — he handled it like an absolute champ.

Wrapped me up, cuddled me, warmed me up, didn’t even laugh until I laughed first.

 

Meanwhile I’m sat there after the whole fiasco thinking:

 

“Wow… I’m the sexiest woman alive.”

 

Nothing says romance like:

 

running away mid-riding,

 

projectile vomiting in the dark,

 

returning wrapped in a towel like a shameful ghost, and

 

whispering, “Sorry… chemo.”

 

 

Honestly, if a man still touches you after seeing THAT?

 

Marry him.

Or at least send him a thank-you card.

 

Final Thought?

 

Chemo tries to steal your dignity.

 

But sometimes?

It just gives you bloody brilliant stories.

 

Like:

 

“Remember that time I almost died mid-shag but made it to the toilet like an Olympic sprinter in the dark?”

 

Most people’s funniest relationship stories involve:

 

awkward first kisses

 

meeting the parents

 

mismatched sex drives

 

 

Mine involve aggressively waddling at full speed to avoid vomiting on someone’s son.

 

I wouldn’t recommend it…

But it does make one hell of a blog post.

 

 

“You’re okay. It’s alright.”

 

And honestly?

 

In that moment, I fell for him even more.

Because there’s nothing sexier than a man who comforts you AFTER you’ve sprinted naked into a bathroom and vomited in the dark.