BEEP, beep, snore, buzz... as I lay in my bed at Queen Alexandra Hospital this month, it was hard to get any rest. 

In amongst the constant beeps of a slightly wonky intravenous drip, which was determined to let everyone know it was not working properly every time the lady opposite me moved her arm, and the shouts for help or the cries of pain from others, or the constant buzzing pressing of one very demanding patient, the noises were enough to slightly distract from the pain. 

I suffer from Ulcerative Colitis, a condition I was diagnosed with shortly after giving birth to my son. I'm not sure if I had it before pregnancy, maybe, or whether it was triggered by a rather complicated birth, but anyway, I was diagnosed in 2018 after a series of tests including a colonoscopy. 

Since then, I have been able to manage the condition mainly through medication, diet choices (I had to give up dairy - which is a travesty as I love ice cream) and attempting to do some exercise every now and again. 

Work has been rather busy of late, as has juggling two young kids, so the exercise part has slipped down the list of importance. 

I signed up to do a Couch to 5K in Swanmore, but after a few weeks, work commitments and then this latest hospital trip got in the way, so I had to stop. No doubt making my symptoms worse. 

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I started to feel like I was in labour all over again. Shooting stomach pains, contraction-like cramps, such intense waves of pain. 

Plus not to mention everything else that comes with having Ulcerative colitis, I won't share the gory details here but I am sure Google could enlighten you if you are interested.

The pains started on Sunday night, and I hobbled through a promised trip to Chessington World of Adventures with two kids, stopping every now and then to take a strong painkiller, rush to the loo or double over and shout muffled swear words through a clenched jaw. 

Luckily the kids did not seem to notice, or care.

On Tuesday, I woke still feeling terrible so I rang my GP at Wickham Surgery who rang me back within an hour (they are a brilliant surgery). 

She got me to go into the surgery, where she checked me over and immediately booked me into a bed at QA. Armed with a letter in hand, I arrived at QA, bypassing A&E (small mercies) and was put in a mixed-sex ward for assessment. 

This is where the fun starts. I was very grateful for the bed, and for the IV drip and painkillers they administered, but mixed-sex wards are truly something else. 

Let me tell you, six people on a ward, separated by thin curtains, does not give privacy. 

The stories and things I heard will stay with me my whole life. 

Luckily someone somewhere took pity and I was eventually moved to a ladies' ward before tests came back to show that I was infectious with Campolybacter, which upgraded my status to a private room and bathroom. 

I was in there three nights in total, one night in my own room, before persuading doctors that I really would be better at home. 

The one thing that struck me throughout my time is just how stretched everyone was. One nurse Dame was so well organised amid the chaos. She exuded an air of calm that meant everything worked. 

One night, it sounded like hell was breaking loose. Someone was kicking off and had assaulted someone, there was blood, a locked door got broken. All nurses were called to deal with the chaos. Security was summoned. 

Meanwhile, people lay in their beds, pressing their buzzers to get the nurses' attention. 

The intravenous drip was beeping but no one dared turn it off. 

One man, fed up with feeling ignored, wheeled himself up to the duty nurse to ask for something - I heard her reply, exasperated, "Please, I am just one person!" 

And that is where the problem lies, our NHS is so overwhelmed. It's certainly opened my eyes, something needs to be done before it breaks entirely.