I’m going home today.

Just had the news I’ve waited 4 days for. I’M GOING HOME TODAY!!! So happy, so chuffed. Good bye food, goodbye coughs, plurting, pukey people, goodbye neon lights and scary wards and hello home time. In less than 10 minutes I’ll be discharged. Can not wait at all.

Puts a dampener though on who are staying here. Since I was moved again last night to the respiratory ward, the staff are nicer, speak way better English are are more attentive. The food seems to be nicer too:

A la jacket potato with spinach ravioli and carrots. Tasted quite nice actually. Loved the ice cream. Going to miss out on jelly when I leave tonight -damn. No more jelly and ice cream when I go home. Need proper food to get my energy up. Bah.

But my neighbours will be staying including the teenager opposite. She’s here over Christmas. She’s been here 4 months and I get her attitude. What 19 year old waiting on a pancreas transplant with bad diabetes wants to spend their life in here when only her nan out of all her family can come down to visit? It must be terrifying for her and my views are nothing in what she’s feeling. It took 3 doctors an hour to find a vein in her body before putting it into her ankle. Ouch. She swore, shed a tear then rolled over. Bravery comes in all forms.

What I’ll miss from here:

The cup holders:

These little blue beaker handle things make me feel like a child again. I want one for home. Makes me feel special that I can drink an array of drinks with it. From tea, apple juice, orange juice and hold it….water! Ha ha I know. Who knew?!

My bed:

It moves. Up down, up up down. Down, down, up, down, up, down, up up up up and level.

Jelly and Ice cream:
Who doesn’t like it? A sweet treat every night just cause.

What I won’t miss:

Not being able to sleep:

Neon bright lights, patients making weird noises at night, the wandering patients walking round, the chitter chatter of the nurses at their station.

The food;


The non Christmas Spirit:

Where’s the Christmas cheer? Where’s the mistletoe, Christmas trees?

That’s all folks.

This will be the last time I’ll be writing or moaning about my experience here, so huge sign of relief from you all.

Ciao. 🙂



It’s Monday evening and I’m still here, in the hospital. Still getting served weird concoctions, having a nebuliser shoved onto my face whenever possible and a lot of drugs given every few hours. The time has come for me to dream of my bed, clothes that don’t make me look like a 12th century farmers wife and food that has taste, texture and love put into it. Not sloppy Oliver ‘Please Can I Have Some More’ porridge type meals- enough to make the weakest barf uncontrollably into their cup of tea.

This time I’m in a different ward. My third change since I arrived here. I’ve made some friends and felt like a mini celeb when I left one ward to go to another. The waving, the good byes and merry Christmases whilst Beth giggled uncontrollably behind me in my biddy wheelchair pushed by a guy whose face makes him look like he’s just come our of kindergarten.

I’m in a new ward now. Opposite one hell of a hyperactive Teenager who swears like a little trooper, has a mouth on her and will not STFU egged on by her worryingly thin nan. Lord, I’ve got this for a further 24-48 hours. God help me.

The bed is comfier than the last, longer too and it has these cool awesome buttons that you press and I feel like a kid at Thorpe Park. Up I go. Down I go. Ooooh up and down at the same time. It’s like something out of transformers. Currently I’m in the feet down, knees raised, bum down and upper me up position. Sounds technical but pretty comfy I must say. Could get used to this. Might get one for home.

The hat I have delighted with you all in the past has been a delight to my fellow patients and a talking point too. The polar bear has now gone. Possibly to be exhumed from all germs at home in Mum’s new start-of-the-art washing machine. It provided one fellow patient, my neighbour yesterday to get her son to talk to me about his desire to travel to the North Pole. It’s a hat. I bought it from H&M and believe me a wealth of David Attenborough knowledge did not come with it. But it’s provided everyone with the smiles and chitter chatter so not going to complain.

It’s also been part of my eccentric exercise routine to keep my legs feeling less like jelly and more my pins. This morning when I waited for a doctor I walked to and from the toilet six times with a bit of a bop in my step, channeling my inner 50 cent. Yo. Whilst listening to my iPod, I channeled my inner star child quality and did a bit of interpretive dance to get the joints moving. Blood has got to keep pumping. Will be walking out of here with a new lease of life in mind, better get on it.

Even though I’ve not eaten much apart from 2 sandwiches from la Tesco and munched on a few cold potatoes, my diet has been mostly based on what I asked my mum to get from the shop. My lunch today was a delightful pork chop, chips and peas served with ice cream but looked like this:

Pretty sure that little piggy went to the market a few minutes before, it looks like it still has a pulse! Gross!

My dinner this evening was supposed to be fish fingers (one of my favourite foods ever) with croquette potatoes and sweetcorn I got this:

Can anyone answer me why I have two types of potato on my plate and no fish fingers?!! To make matters worse, the lady ran out of jelly and ice cream so I’m currently the fruit queen instead. I’m in hospital not a jungle. I want jelly and ice cream godammit. This can make up for the time I didn’t get my tonsils out I so desperately wanted out when I was 8 to be in the chance with jelly and ice cream like everyone else. Urgh.

I hope I’m out soon. Hopefully tomorrow. Liking my new daily updates from inside this gigantic box. I hope I’m not boring you all.

Have a good night!

Until tomorrow xx

Where’s the Christmas spirit?

Good Morning! It’s Monday, the sun is shinning its beautiful light, commuters are long over the slub of their travel this morning and sitting at their desks with their tea and coffee and I’m still in this ward with the coughing, choking, spluttering patients hoping that today is the day I leave.

I’ve been told by endless nurses that a doctor will be round to see me today but I’m sure they just tell us this to be quiet. My neighbours in here are groovy grannies with their colour coordinated dressing gowns and slippers, puzzles and Hello! Magazines. I’m sitting here with a daft polar bear hat on, a hospital gown that does no justice to my butt and over knee socks with colourful triangles on them.

Hopefully today is the day I’m out of here. Hospital’s are depressing places. The wards here are drones of pale blue walls with neon bright blinding lights and windows that tell a story of a different world. Hospitals are places for the sick, but can’t the trusts put happy things in here? Children’s wards get happy colours, pictures on the walls and toys to play with, us adults get beds of motionless souls, emptiness and a fear of being alone. I’m in a ward with groovy grannies, thank god for my iPhone. Without the use of this bad boy, I would have to refer back to the gossip mag’s my Mum brought in and read word for word, page to page until sign of life alerted I’d be on my merry way.

Can I make a suggestion, dear NHS trusts? Here’s a thought, bring a bit of life to these wards, some smiles, some Christmas spirit, a bit of tinsel draped over the windows or place a loosely decorated Christmas tree in the corner if your budget is too tight. Christmas is approaching in a week tomorrow. A week. Most of these patients won’t be out in time or even be with a family this Christmas, so make it feel like the spirit of it is still alive.

Let’s get rid of this:


And make it something more manageable for everyone. Heck if budget is that tight, I’ll come as a Christmas fairy (I don’t have the belly to pass off as Father Christmas) on Christmas Day.

Is this what I pay my taxes for?

Hey all, I’m stepping away from my normal posts on here for this post. I’ve been terribly crap writing anything for the past few weeks or months as my crazy life has taken over everything. But sitting here in a room by myself, on a ward where coughing, splurting, puking and crying patients lay waiting for the words of “you’re going home” to give me a kick up the ass and write a post. Never have I been in hospital for this long by myself and it’s a scary place.

I’ve got asthma. Not the kind that sets me off every second, but the mildness of one that likes to dance on my chest when it feels like a party and scream SURPRISE when it comes by. This has happened more recently when the weather sucks ass and it’s terribly cold. Since developing a cold on Monday throughout my own stupidity of dolly shoes, skinny jeans and a jacket that barely covered my ass, a pitter patter of delicate wheeze started showing its face on Tuesday. Thanks to my sister’s expert diagnosis and my child-like mind of a four year old, I didn’t listen and carried on with my day. Dumb and dumberer springs to mind. The shear stupidity of not listening to my sister who has read every book on illness and good health since having my 11 month old niece, should have sparked a bit of worry that since it’s winter, this is not a good mix at all. It took three days of constant coughing, sleepless nights and severe shortness of breath before my Mum had to drive me to A&E at 1am Yesterday morning.

In most cases, asthma is seen as an emergency right? If you’re taken in by an ambulance, they strap you in your seat, shove a plastic thing on your face and wrap you in a blanket whilst one of the paramedics asks you questions before zooming you into A&E writing a few things down before saying ciao and your with Mr Hottie McNottie breathing into a nebuliser. That’s happened before. Hottie McNottie was hot in some light. SOME. Must have been quite a nebuliser to think different. Anyway, I didn’t come in via ambulance this time. After a mini breathless chit chat with NHS Direct, a refusal for an ambulance (let’s not give my neighbourhood gossip and pointy fingers), I asked my Mum to drive me down. Half Miss Daisy like and half Jenson Button. What was promised as ‘being seen in 15’ was hospital speak for 5 hours, I managed to half sleep on a bench in A&E, watch an old man piss himself and a fat guy snore like a rhino as I felt myself slowly deteriorating into a deep black hole. Without the words of my name spoken loudly by my ear, God knows where or what I’d be right now. Thank God for doctor, definitely Mr Hottie in the blue scrubs and Converse (a normal person, hallelujah!) who I’ll call my knight in shining armour who put me on a nebuliser and said my hat was awesome. Go Dr!


After a while I was taken to an observation unit where I sat opposite a dude with a broken jaw, bloody ear and attitude of Mike Tyson whilst I waited for a further 9 hours before actual word I would be moved to a ward. Thank god for my Mum and best friend Beth. Both saviours. One with food ( thanks mummy) and the other, my bestie with hugs and laughs. Definitely what I needed and so grateful for.

The food here is atrocious. Surprised it’s even considered as food, tastes rank and looks nasty. I wouldn’t feed half of it to my cat. It makes me laugh when the assistant comes round and recommends the breaded chicken with chips (which I agreed to) and I’m given this instead:


Have a guess what the above is… Answers on a postcard please!

My lunch today was roast beef and ‘roast’ potatoes or a ball of fluffy smash that resembled a dollop of yellow sick and carrots swimming in water:


My dinner this evening. Definitely five star in the eyes of West Middlesex’s catering department. Fluffy chicken breast served with seasonal vegetables and mash potatoes served in a delicious syrupy sauce perfectly placed on the fine dinning set:


I’m delirious and fed up. Blessed my mum is borderline OCD about cleanliness and healthy eating that half of TESCO is by my bedside in full view of the broken English speaking nurses on the ward.

I just want to know what my taxes go on. My national insurance pays for this right? Or does it? This will be my second full night in here since my arrival.

The stats:
Hours in A&E before being seen by nurse: 4
Hours in A&E before actually going into A&E and being seen by a doctor: further 2 hours
Hours until paracetamol given: 9
Number of nebulisers given since I arrived: 10.
Number of English speaking staff: 4
Number of staff on the grasp of English understanding and speaking: too many to count.
Number of paraceutimol: 8
Number of horrid meals: 3
Number of meals actually eaten: does bread with butter count?
Number of hours slept: overall 6.
Time till discharge: unpredictable.

Hopefully I’ll be out tomorrow, fingers crossed. Will never complain about food again, will appreciate my roof over my head a tonne load more and my health much more. It’s terrifying being in here. I thought I was just on a ward. Didn’t realise they all are wards for certain things. I’m sharing with 4 other ladies; groovy grannies and trendy teens. Tonight sees no sleep on my part as I countdown the hours to the consultant hopefully showing up today. Thank god for this:


Fingers crossed I’m out tomorrow.

Ps, I’m intrigued, has anyone had a bad experience or similar at an NHS hospital?