It's easy to let yourself get run down when you are jetting around the world from one trade show to the next. Between meals of granola bars and coffee, days on end without enough sleep, and the petri dish of being in close proximity to so many workers, attendees, and other travelers, exhibit managers know that it's not a question of whether they're going to get sick, it's a matter of when and how badly.

This truth caught up to me a few years ago when I was working for a company that sent me out on the road for an average of 15 days a month, usually alone, to manage a 10-by-10-foot display. It was a hectic schedule, but I was a single, young woman, so I didn't mind. Even so, after a particularly long stretch of about four weeks primarily on the road, I was feeling a little bit worn out.

I had one show left in the string of events, a conference and expo in Los Angeles, scheduled to last three days. At the venue, I set up my display and introduced myself to my neighbors, something I make a habit of doing wherever I exhibit. Then I headed out of the facility in search of what I hoped would be a wholesome meal for a change.

The venue was rimmed by neighborhoods full of restaurants, so I just set off on foot until I found one that looked interesting enough and was not too busy. Seated at my usual table for one, I stuffed myself with some delicious seafood washed down with a couple glasses of wine, and cabbed it back to my hotel for a much-needed good night's sleep.

In the morning, I was feeling a little peaked, as if something hadn't quite agreed with me from the night before. I had some antacids in my suitcase, so I popped a couple in my mouth and said a prayer to the exhibiting gods to please let me make it through one more trade show.

By the time I was in a cab headed for the convention center, though, I felt downright green. I didn't know if I had a touch of food poisoning or a bout of the stomach flu coming on, but I knew I only had 30 minutes before the show opened, so I needed to get this under control.

Once inside the exhibit hall, I headed straight for the bathroom and got sick – desperately, violently sick. Kneeling on the floor in a bathroom stall, I pressed my face against the cool stall wall and wondered how in the hell I was going to walk out there and staff my booth.

After a few minutes and thinking the worst had passed, I wobbled my way to my feet and exited the stall. I was so ill that I didn't even care about the curious looks from other women in the restroom as I made my way to the sink. In the mirror, I gave myself an appraising look and realized I pretty much looked like I had lost a brawl. Eye makeup streamed down my cheeks, and my blouse was damp with sweat. Trying my best to pull it together, I splashed a little cool water on my face, swished some mouthwash, and headed for the show floor.

As I walked up to my booth, I smiled weakly at a couple of neighboring exhibitors. A friendly mother type from the space next to mine eyed me with a furrowed brow and asked if I was OK. I told her I wasn't feeling well but would be fine. That was wishful thinking.

An hour into the show, my stomach was churning. I tried deep breaths and sips of water. I was eating antacids like they were candy and doing my best to make pleasant conversation with passersby. But before long, a cold sweat was beading up on my face, and I knew I was in trouble.

I told the motherly neighbor that I had to leave and went to the back of my space to retrieve my purse from behind a small counter. And then, with almost no warning at all in what was hands down the most humiliating moment of my career, I threw up. Thank god I had a small wastebasket behind the counter, because I managed to point myself in the direction of it. But I didn't know how I was going to get myself to the bathroom, so I just hoped for a swift end to my misery.

My neighbor saw what had happened and came over. "Go," she said. "I'll keep an eye on things here." The aisle was full of attendees, and the bathroom was at least 500 yards away. I wasn't sure I could make it, but with my jaw clenched and a wastebasket in hand, I booked it down the aisle.

I sat in the bathroom for quite some time, trying to decide if I could ever show my face back in the exhibit hall. After a while, the woman from the booth next to mine came in and offered me some Pepto-Bismol tablets that someone from another nearby exhibit had, as well as a fresh bottle of water and a little hand towel. The exhibitors on either side of me were inviting people to take my brochures when they wandered into my space, she said, and letting people know I just had to step away for a couple of minutes. I was so grateful that I started to cry, which made me feel even more stupid than I already did.

After about an hour or so of sitting with my head in my hands in a bathroom stall, I felt quite a bit better, so I decided to venture out and make the walk of shame back to my exhibit – with my wastebasket. The aisles were bustling, so I slipped into my booth with nods of appreciation to my neighboring exhibitors, and made it through the rest of the day feeling only occasionally a little queasy.

It was a mortifying experience, but one that taught me a few things about being a trade show manager. The arsenal of medicines in my bag is much more thorough now, and I could probably ward off a case of typhoid fever if I had to. I also make it a point to be nice to my neighbors as often as possible and pay it forward when someone needs help. And I try to take better care of myself on the road, which seems like a better solution than getting a bigger wastebasket.

— Jennifer Kiersteg, director, Kiersteg Consulting, Boca Raton, FL