Sickness - what a bitch
Chemo nausea
+
a metastasis sitting in your stomach
HELL.**
Pure, unfiltered, body-melting hell.
People who haven’t lived it think nausea is just “feeling a bit sick.”
No.
This is nausea on steroids.
Nausea with a personal vendetta.
Nausea that wakes up and chooses violence.
And when you’ve got cancer actually in your stomach?
Your whole digestive system basically goes:
“We’re done.
Shutting down.
Respectfully, fuck you.”
The War Inside You
Every time chemo hits your bloodstream, it’s like your stomach and the tumour start gossiping about you:
“Shall we ruin her day?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shall we ruin her entire existence?”
“Oh definitely.”
Chemo irritates the stomach.
The tumour irritates the stomach.
Stress irritates the stomach.
Water irritates the stomach.
The idea of food irritates the stomach.
You’re basically living inside a blender you didn’t ask to be in.
The Nausea That Comes Out of Nowhere
Chemo nausea does NOT follow rules.
You could be:
lying down
sitting still
eating nothing
thinking about nothing
minding your own business
and suddenly your stomach says:
“SURPRISE, BITCH.”
And you’re gagging like a cat coughing up a hairball.
It’s violent.
It’s sudden.
It’s embarrassing.
It’s exhausting.
Chemo Says “Eat Something” — Stomach Says “Try It and I Will End You”
The nurses tell you to eat small meals.
Cute advice.
Precious, really.
Because with a stomach metastasis you look at a piece of toast and your body goes:
“Absolutely not.”
One whiff of warm bread?
Dead.
One sip of tea?
Dead.
A cracker?
Still dead.
And if you DO manage to eat…
brace yourself.
Because the tumour, the chemo, and your poor stomach will all team up like:
“RETURN TO SENDER.”
Living in Fear of Your Own Stomach
It’s humiliating how unpredictable it is.
You can’t trust anything.
One minute you’re fine.
The next minute you’re sprinting to the bathroom like you’re competing in a survival challenge.
Your mouth waters.
Your skin prickles.
Your stomach churns.
And you think:
“Am I going to puke or give birth to my own organs?”
The Psychological Side No One Talks About
Nausea messes with your head too.
You start to fear food.
You fear smells.
You fear eating too little AND too much.
You fear going out in case you throw up in public.
You fear lying down in case the reflux kicks off like fireworks.
And when you have a tumour in the stomach, even the idea of eating becomes emotional.
You feel betrayed by your own body.
Angry at it.
Disgusted with it.
And yet you still need to keep going.
And Yet… Somehow… You Carry On
You sit up slowly.
You take your anti-sickness tablets.
You breathe through the nausea.
You nibble a cracker like it’s a 5-course meal.
You gag.
You rest.
You try again.
You survive each wave.
Even when it feels impossible.
Because cancer attacks your body,
but chemo attacks your entire being.
Mind, stomach, dignity and all.
The Truth?
A metastasis in your stomach doesn’t just “affect digestion.”
It fucks with everything:
your hunger
your gag reflex
your taste buds
your emotions
your mental health
your sleep
your confidence
your happiness
your entire daily routine
But you still get up.
Still go to treatment.
Still fight.
Still laugh (even when it’s dark humour).
Still tell your story.
Because nausea might knock you down,
but it hasn’t beaten you.
TRAUMA story
**The Nausea Attack at the Worst Possible Moment
(+ The Pelvic Floor Betrayal)**
Let me give you another moment where chemo nausea decided to ruin my life for entertainment.
I was in the kitchen with Mum, minding my business.
Tea brewing.
Toast on.
Nothing dramatic.
Then Mum opened the fridge.
Not wide.
Not dramatically.
Just opened it to get the milk.
But the SECOND that cold fridge air hit my face — mixed with leftover curry, ham, and whatever mystery science experiment had died in the back of the salad drawer — my stomach said:
“ABORT MISSION. WE ARE GOING DOWN.”
No warning.
No build-up.
Just instant, violent betrayal.
The Panic Mode
My mouth filled with saliva — you know the one: the “you’ve got 1.4 seconds before you’re sick” warning.
I shouted:
“MUM—”
And she looked at me holding the milk like:
“What? What have I done now?!”
But all I could say was:
“I’m gonna— I’m gonna—”
Then I gagged so loudly the Queen probably heard it in the afterlife.
The Waddle of Doom (and a Mild Bladder Crisis)
I did the world’s most intense waddle-run to the sink:
Hand over my mouth
Eyes watering
Body folded in half
Toes gripping the floor
Pelvic floor hanging on for dear life
Because let me tell you something:
AFTER YOU’VE HAD THREE KIDS, YOU CAN’T HEAVE OR PUKE
WITHOUT RISKING PISSING YOUR PANTS.
It’s like my stomach and my bladder are in a toxic relationship:
Stomach: “We’re gonna vomit!”
Bladder: “Okay, I’ll join in!”
Me: “ABSOLUTELY NOT— BOTH OF YOU STOP IT!”
So now I’m gagging AND squeezing every muscle I have like I’m trying to keep a family of raccoons from escaping.
Mum’s Absolutely Useless Commentary
While I’m hanging over the sink like a wounded wild animal, Mum stands behind me going:
“Is it the smell?
Is it the curry?
Is it the ham?
Should I throw the ham out?
Do we need a NEW FRIDGE?”
Mother.
Please.
I am fighting for my life and my underwear.
**And Then…
NOTHING.**
Just dry heaving.
Aggressive, dramatic, body-convulsing heaves.
No actual sick.
My stomach basically put on a theatrical performance of Les Misérables with no encore.
The Aftermath
I finally stop gagging, sweating, shaking, and clenching like a Victorian woman trying not to fart in public.
Mum hands me a tissue and goes:
“Well… THAT was dramatic.”
I wipe my mouth
She shrugged.
“Still dramatic.”
And then — without hesitation — she threw the ham in the bin.
And i need a change of underwear cos Yes I pissed my self ffs
Shoot me now
Moral of the Story?
Once you’ve had babies AND chemo, your bladder becomes a feral raccoon.
One cough → leak
One sneeze → leak
One laugh → tsunami
One heave → full evacuation
Dignity?
She left the chat YEARS ago.
But honestly?
If you can’t laugh at it, you’ll cry.
And we’ve done enough crying lately.