I have no shame in admitting that I loved sex.
The intimacy, nakedness, the kissing – oh my god, the kissing!
As a single woman in her early twenties, you’d expect me to be coupled up or out exploring my sexuality.
And, prior to a shock cancer diagnosis, I very much was. However, now I happily plan on staying celibate for the foreseeable.
In February of 2022, I started feeling like I had a constant hangover, despite not drinking any alcohol. I was consistently achy, so I messaged my university’s medical system just to double check my symptoms.
At their recommendation, I booked in for a routine blood test ahead of one of my 9am lectures, but didn’t think too much of it.
That same afternoon, I received a call back with the results – I had a reduced neutrophil count, which meant that my white blood cells were low.
By 4pm, I was headed to the specialist receiving unit at my local hospital, where I checked into a ward. That’s when I was told that it was ‘likely’ blood cancer.
Knowing so little about the diseases, I was distraught. But to make matters worse, I was all alone and my phone battery was depleted so I had to make calls to family and close friends via WhatsApp on my MacBook. As I shared the news, I could feel their pain through the blurry screen.
Within two hours of arriving at the medical facility, it was confirmed. I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML) and I was devastated.
I was a final-year university student at the time, whose undergraduate years had already been marred by Covid-19 – why was this happening to me?
I required immediate treatment and admitted to a Haematology ward on 22 February, then my oral medication began three days later. The latter was the same day as my PICC line surgery – a Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, which travels within your vein in order to give medication – ahead of starting my intravenous chemotherapy on the following Monday.
It was two weeks after starting chemotherapy, that I noticed my sex drive had plummeted. I remember because I texted one of my friends saying, ‘all my pubes are falling out’.
That moment made me realise just how long I hadn’t felt horny. See, normally, shaving was in preparation for having sex, yet when this wasn’t going to happen, it sparked something in me.
As many may be aware, chemotherapy, and the plethora of medications that come with it, welcome an influx of wide-ranging side effects. I was conscious that this could happen, but this repulsion I was feeling was like no other.
In the beginning of my treatment, I was handed almost a library’s worth of documents detailing what I was about to go through. Libido was briefly mentioned, but it’s namely a topic that non-clinical support workers delve into.
Registrars and support workers asked about my relationships – not so much about my sex life – but that was non-existent at the time anyway. It seemed that as I was single, little was queried about how I may go about having sex.
Prior to my diagnosis, I was exploring something with someone. They were amazing when I told them about the whole debacle, but I soon broke the news that I was no longer interested.
Due to the subsequent confinement for ongoing treatment – four lots of chemo every six weeks – I also had no choice but to abstain. Still, I had no yearnings during that time, either.
As the previously horny 22-year-old that I was, I never ever thought there’d be a time that I was worryingly put off by men, sex, and even my own vagina. Which one of my 25 morning pills was it that was making me hate sex?
There were simply no signs of arousal, I rarely thought about stimulation, and raunchy scenes on my hospital TV were watched unphased.
My room was set up for adolescent patients. The decor was off-putting, and the abundance of equipment, glare of fluorescent lighting, and alarming quantity of warning pulleys was no place to ‘set the scene’.
Likewise, the PICC line running through my vein with two lumens hanging out my upper arm wasn’t exactly sexy.
My return to home was overcast by the fear of relapse, suddenly imagining ill health and calculating just how many ‘normal’ activities I could get in before the next round of chemo. The idea of sex didn’t even cross my mind.
initially, I was quite fearful of this sexual suppression. Getting intimate truly does shape a large part of our lives – I mean, god, it literally gives us life.
But the reality is, I’ve not had, it, barely thought about it, and no longer get excited by people I fancy.
Not only has this motivated my move towards celibacy but it matured me.
Pre-cancer me would never think about abstinence, purely because I was young and enjoying sex. Yet, I want to speak up about it because I want to help quash any taboo around these forbidden conversations.
Subconsciously, I could pre-empt the reaction from friends and even strangers. Fears of people asking ‘Why? You’re so young? Don’t you want to find a partner?’ definitely crossed my mind. But I’m not declaring myself celibate for them – I am doing it for me.
Today, I am in remission – it’ll be almost three months as we enter the New Year.
As you start the recovery period, you are still required to continue a mass of medications, of which the large majority hinder your libido. However, I’ve now finished most of these and I’ve seen little to no increase in my sex drive as a result.
I just don’t see myself wanting to have sex for a long time – and I’m fine with that. Generally, because I am so health and career-focused, but also because I want to feel ready. I don’t wish to act on it for the sake of it.
Now that I’m bordering on a year of being ‘sexless’, I’d hope that those close to me understand my decision to delve into celibacy. I’ve been curious about it for several months and mentioned it to a few friends, to which their response was ‘as if’ or ‘Katie, that won’t happen’.
At the end of the day, it’s my life, and celibacy feels right to me for now.
I’d advise those in my position that ‘no matter what you do, do it for you’.
I can’t stress enough that we need to be able to talk about this stuff. That’s why I’m proudly declaring I’m celibate in 2023.
If that changes along my road to recovery, I’m happy to reevaluate it. But, for now, I’m doing this for me because it feels right.’
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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