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?

The Fallen

I’ve promised the world and my mother that I would do the good and stop smoking. You’ve seen my previous post where I promised and commited myself to give up the tobacco for good to invest in a newer, healthier me. To save all that money usually spent on the fags for something much more worthwhile and something I could keep that isn’t a memory of coughing, hacking and feeling sickly after chain-smoking the night/day before.

Oh how I’ve fallen.

I’d love to jump around with a spring in my step screaming from the roof-tops, that I, Danielle Moon have kicked-in that stinky unhealthy habit and been able to keep up that non smoking. But that would be a lie. Instead I did very well for a whole week (weekends included) until that party. That party changed it all. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know it was going to happen. It always does, well for me anyway. Two weeks ago Saturday I was invited to a friend’s party at the local. It was only supposed to be a few drinks and then offskies but it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. It was going to be one of those nights, where alcohol encourages you to sing kareoke (when you wouldn’t dream of doing so ever before), puts you in some weird dancing mood that makes you dance like a crazy emo-pocessed teenager to an irish love song and lets you drivel on in a conversation that lacks anything good to say to some poor sod you’ve decided to bore at the bar. I had rushed into the pub utterly convinced I would never smoke, coz I’m oh-so-cool, I’ll be able to keep this up. It was fine for like an hour. Until my friend screamed from across the bar he wanted to chat but this could only involve sitting outside in the beer garden trying to breathe in the cloud of smoke. And here is where it went wrong. I could smell it and it wasn’t a nice smell. Not only could you smell the burning cigarette hanging from his mouth but also the smell off his clothes clinging to him like a baby chimp to its mother. He offered me one. I turned my nose up to it but feeling the urge I gave in and said “Oh go on then.” Seriously, where in my mind was I thinking that would make everything better. The taste was rank. Seriously rank. It felt like I licked the inside of an ashtrash. Friggin minging. The stupid thing was I continued after each puff forcing myself to smoke more but enjoying the next pull more and more after (it’s known I am weird). By the end of my 3rd drink of the night I had in fact bought a ten pack of mayfair and smoked my way through 6 whole cigarettes. I kept blaming the alcohol for my giving in. Hoping that the next day when alcohol consumption had ceased I would be able to step away from the fags and be smoke free. But I wasn’t.

Sunday proved to be a nightmare. At home, staying with my mum I don’t smoke. I would be killed by my own mother if I attempted to light up in the surroundings of my mother’s house. I’ve never done it nor would I ever dream to think of it. I had agreed to make lunch for family and on way to ASDA in the morning was fine until I met some friends who all puffed away happily on their fags smiling and looking super-cool. So I started smoking again. I’ve since smoked roughly 4-6 cigarettes a day and probably triple that when alcohol has been involved over the weekends. Something which I’m not proud about. AT ALL.

The worst of it all is I still don’t like it. As much as I hate, and I mean HATE it, I still do it. There’s a part of me that seriously is weird where I think it’s kinda cool to have a fag in my hand. The sort of cool that has graced the likes of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and James Dean in the movie Rebel Without a Cause. Except I look stupid. I’ve not smoked that long and it’s a foul foul foul habit but the younger self claims it’s cool, whilst the older self claims its not. Maybe I should take inspiration from Dean’s movie’s tag line and have this poster above my bed:

Because that’s what can happen. I won’t look cool then. So I’m going to try again and this time I really really need all of your help. I will tell you my reasons non smokers out there and you’ll agree but you must must must help me.

The reasons for wanting to quit in the first place:

They smell bad

They smell as bad or worse than the waste in the bin outside. Cigarettes stink. Really stink and they make you smell. That sickly stale cigarette odour that is like a haze formed around our being. If you’re not a smoker you can smell it on us. If like me, you have stopped for a while and not smoked. You start to notice how other people smell of the rank fume. The haze of smoke around them stands out and makes you fell sickly. No matter how groomed or how much you have spritzed yourself with a tonne of perfume or aftershave you can’t escape the powerful stench of cigarette smoke.

They pollute the earth

What do you do when you put your cigarette out? Escaping the glare of every non-smoker and shying away from the ol’ bill (for fining you if you litter the street), they create mess. An fugly sort of mess overtaking our London streets the same as different colours of chewing/bubble gum.

I’m asthmatic

That alone should be a reason to quit. Through my youth I thought smoking was rank. I didn’t start till I was at least 18. I never had asthma when I was a child and now I do. Granted I’m not wheezing everyday and relying on tonnes of medication to keep me breathing but my health alone should be enough to kick me up my own backside and stop me doing it. I think my mum’s right when she says asthmatics who smoke shouldn’t complain the NHS don’t do enough to help. Pack in the fags and get healthy.

They’re unsocial

If you’re off to the pub/bar/nightclub with your mates (who most of them don’t smoke) and it’s shite weather outside, you look like a complete loser shivering outside. It’s a known fact. Plenty of times I’ve stood outside by myself looking uncool. Be honest I’m sure some of you have too. Plus it’s really unsocial to blow out a big cloud of smoke into your friend’s faces. As they cough and breathe in your fumes when they say they don’t mind. It’s bullshit. They do.

I don’t want to end up like Edina Monsoon in Ab Fab

The smoking part of Eddie not the drug pushing and alcoholic raver that she is. I don’t want to be an oldie with a taste for fags and walking round puffing away depending on cigarettes as if it were the last thing to do on earth. It’s not going to happen.

So here’s my thing, my note and urge for help. Help me all to stop puffing away and make me healthy again. I want to run for the bus without stopping half way and nearly passing out.  I want to not smell of smoke and miss out of vital bits on convo with mates for stepping out for a fag on a night out. I want to be smoke free.

£6,510.90 I could’ve bought a Mini Cooper with that

I’ve been meaning to do it for a while. I’ve been promising it. Promising myself, friends and family for a oooh, good few years now. I’ve even convinced myself that by not doing it all the time and just at weekends, I shouldn’t be classified as a full-blown addict. But thinking about it, smoking is addictive. I’ve smoked for 6 years now and it’s a truly disgusting habit. Something I should never have started nor continued throughout the years. But, being a naïve teenager and thinking it was super cool to do it, I joined my group of friends and happily smoked as much as I could to my hearts’ content. To calculate it, I’ve smoked on average 15 per day which in a year is a gross 5,475 cigarettes per year. A whopping 32,850 in 6 years. That’s rank. But then, that’s not including the ridiculous amount I’ve smoked socially out and about town with mates or on holiday whilst having a big party.

I’m writing this blog as a way to help me kick the habit and become a super fit (or heck just fit) person where a glass of Pinot doesn’t have to be accompanied by a load of Mayfair cigarettes. I want to quit for my health and my bank balance. My doctor, friends and mainly my mum (with family) all moan at me for smoking whilst having Asthma. Ok yeah, I know what you’re gonna say.. smoking whilst asthmatic is a barmy idea and one that proves rather ridiculous. It’s a death trap. An asthma attack waiting to happen. Believe me, my mum has been going on about it for years. My bank balance has been severely affected. A 10 pack of Mayfair cigarettes in my local newsagent costs £3.11, that’s £21.77 per week or £1,135.15 per year. Over the past 6 years I’ve smoked through a staggering £6,510.90 worth of cigarettes. GROSS. I could’ve bought that mini cooper I desperately wanted for that. So, I’ve decided on a new health pact one I know that doing it by myself won’t work. I don’t have the attention span for it. But bringing in my social networks of friends and followers will give me the power to kick this foul habit up the backside and make me a healthier new me as soon as possible.

I’m going to do it cold turkey. I’ve tried the Nicotine gum and it’s like licking the inside of an ashtray repeatedly until my chest feels like it’s about to cave it. I need the motivation. That’s where all you lovely peeps come in. I want everyone to help me kick it and be smoke free. I’ve tried quitting in the past and my longest without a cigarette was 3 months but a semi-relaxing holiday in Thailand and the fact the cigarettes were only a quid each, I soon quickly started smoking again.  So far I’ve managed to not smoke as much since the weekend. I’ve been saying for bloomin’ ages that I’d quit every Monday for the past year. I even made a ridiculous 5am vow with my best mate on New Years Day that this was it for the tobacco sticks forever. To be honest, it was a vow we both made after we both had celebrated the new year getting a little too jolly with heaps of booze. So far neither of us have done better than a few hours. Pretty crap.

I’m going to document all my days/weeks of my struggles, highs and lows of quitting the stickly buggers to mask a new healthy me. If you see me reach for a cigarette I give you full permission to through a shoe (if you have one spare) at my head.

To hears to the new me. I’m going to start and be brilliant at it. Well I hope. I don’t want to quit being a quitter, but I am looking to see how social media might help me quit.