This week honestly felt like one long episode of “How Much More Can One Woman Take?”

After two funerals, emotional exhaustion, endless driving, and trying to hold life together with decaf coffee and pure delusion, I then had the Woolwich makeup trip with my daughter, who, at 18 years old, is out there trying to build her CV, gain work experience, and do something positive for her future.

Meanwhile, after I drove to Woolwich (1 hour & 15 min journey), we were just trying to find a toilet before she headed off for her work experience.

We parked at Sainsbury’s thinking surely there would be customer toilets. WRONG. Apparently modern supermarkets now sell absolutely everything except basic human dignity.

We were then directed “just around the corner” to a Tesco. Anyone who says “just around the corner” in London is a liar by the way.

So off we went, huffing and puffing through one road in Woolwich like two exhausted pensioners on a Duke of Edinburgh expedition. My daughter has POTS, I’ve got two arthritic knees and Fibromyalgia, neither of us was built for unexpected cross-country toilet hunts through South East London.

We asked in a nail shop and they told us no, try KFC. So we walked across the road only to discover KFC was CLOSED.

At this point my stress levels were astronomical.

Then I spotted the nail lady crossing the road to talk to another woman in the shop next door to KFC, so I shouted over saying, “But they’re closed!”

And she casually replied, “The toilet is broken.”

OH. I wish she just told us in the first place!

So now we had done a full unnecessary sweaty lap of half a road in Woolwich only to discover that you need to get your nails done to use the toilet. Honestly at this point we were ready to just sit on the pavement and accept our fate.

Defeated, we started walking back to the car when suddenly, like a mirage in the desert, I spotted a restaurant with a sign saying:

“BREAKFAST SERVED HERE.”

We didn’t even care about breakfast. We cared about plumbing.

We walked in and the place was completely empty apart from a cleaner mopping the floor. I asked if we could use the toilet with the desperation of someone applying for political asylum.

Thankfully he let us.

We practically slid across the wet floor, in and out again like contestants on Total Wipeout. But honestly, that toilet saved lives that day.

Relieved beyond words, we headed back to the car park, which was inside this strange council block situation with a lift that absolutely reeked of wee. Not a subtle smell either. The kind of smell that follows you home emotionally.

We couldn’t wait to escape.

So we drove back to the industrial estate where my daughter’s makeup job was meant to be. We sat there for a bit and something just didn’t feel right. Mothers know. We always know.

I said to my daughter, “Take a photo of where we are and send it to them.”

Thank goodess we did.

Because the reply came back saying:

“No, you’re miles away.”

MILES AWAY.

I nearly lost the will to live.

Turns out the venue had changed and nobody had informed her. Nothing. No update. No proper communication. Had we not checked, we genuinely could have sat in that industrial estate for HOURS wondering if she was meant to be there while everyone else was somewhere completely different.

So off we went AGAIN, heading from Woolwich towards the Isle of Dogs and South Quay, when suddenly my daughter started having the sneezing fit from hell.

Honestly I have never heard anything like it.

Sneezing after sneezing after sneezing. I swear she sneezed about TWENTY TIMES in a row.

At first I was saying, “Bless you… bless you… bless you…”

Then eventually I was just counting like we were watching Wimbledon.

By about sneeze number 14 I started wondering whether her soul was trying to leave her body. They must have different pollen in Woolwich.

So I eventually pulled over and gave her an antihistamine while both of us sat there looking traumatised.

Honestly the whole morning felt like one giant allergic reaction to East London.

So off we went AGAIN, ending up in the Isle of Dogs outside this apartment block. I made sure she was okay before she went inside because despite being 18, your child could be 47 and you’d still wait until they got through the door safely.

Then underneath the apartment block I spotted a café called HTO Cafe and honestly it felt like the universe finally throwing me a tiny crumb of kindness.

Perfect.

A place to sit quietly for a few hours while trying to emotionally recover from Woolwich Toiletgate 2026.

And actually, for the first time all week, I got to properly sit down, breathe and completely relax.

The sun was shining, it was warm, people were wandering around the Isle of Dogs looking far more organised than I’ve felt all month, and for a little while I just sat there peacefully drinking my decaf soya cappuccino, thinking:

“This is actually nice.”

No rushing. No hospitals. No funeral clothes. No industrial estates. No panic driving around East London.

Just me, sitting in the sun outside a café having five minutes of peace before reality returned.

Now, because of all my recent food issues, ordering food has become an Olympic sport. I can’t have eggs, smoked salmon, salt beef, pancakes, half the menu basically. I’ve been sticking to this low histamine diet all week, and honestly, it’s been HARD.

At this point, my safe foods are basically chicken and turkey. That’s it. I’m one step away from clucking.

So I ordered a toasted chicken, tomato and cheese wrap and honestly… it was DELICIOUS.

Properly delicious.

One of those meals where you sit there in silence because your body is finally accepting food without launching a full internal protest.

And after the week I’d had, that wrap deserved a Michelin star.

By Friday I was so bored of grilled chicken I nearly started resenting poultry entirely, so I went shopping and bought variety like it was some kind of wild rebellion.

Chicken and turkey sausages. Chicken schnitzel. Chicken stir fry strips.

Honestly my fridge currently looks like a support group for anxious birds.

Fish isn’t much easier either. Cod is about the only thing my body tolerates without drama. Anything else and my system behaves like I’ve swallowed poison.

It’s exhausting trying to work out food while also managing stress, grief, hormones, exhaustion, appointments and life in general. People really underestimate how mentally draining food intolerance issues become. Every meal feels like a science experiment mixed with Russian roulette.

But despite all the chaos, the wrong addresses, the industrial estates, the funerals, the toilet hunt and surviving on variations of chicken… my daughter still did the makeup job, gained experience and handled the day brilliantly.

And I survived East London with my arthritic knee and my emotional-support cappuccino. 

Just about.

The reality of repeated seizures, hospital corridors and trying to hold your child together

Wednesday night was another non-epileptic seizure.

But people hear the words “non-epileptic” and sometimes completely misunderstand the severity of what actually happens. There is nothing “minor” about watching your child lose control of their body for hours while you sit there helpless, exhausted and terrified.

Earlier that evening my daughter had been in an aura for at least an hour before the seizure properly started around 9pm. You can always tell something is coming. The atmosphere changes. Her body changes. The anxiety in the room builds slowly while you wait for the inevitable.

I called an ambulance and honestly the paramedics were excellent. Calm, kind, efficient. Within minutes they had her safely out of the house and into the ambulance.

At that point you just switch into survival mode.

We arrived at hospital and it was chaos. Absolutely packed. Corridor care everywhere. Patients lined up in beds around every corner. Staff rushing around trying to manage impossible numbers of people.

She went into resus and weirdly I was relieved to see we were in cubicle one because at least that cubicle has its own toilet. It’s ridiculous the things you become grateful for when hospitals become part of your normal life.

Then came the chair.

The chair was horrific.

Anyone with arthritis, fibro or chronic pain will understand this instantly. Sitting for hours in hospital chairs feels like a punishment designed by medieval kings.

I did my usual speech about my knees and fibro, and thankfully, they found me a better chair before my body completely seized up, too.

The paramedics started handing over to the doctor and he asked:

“Any allergies?”

The paramedic replied, “No.”

And immediately I said, “Yes she does. It’s written on the medical passport I handed you.”

In red.

Bright red.

Clearly nobody had properly read it.

That’s the frightening thing about hospital exhaustion and overload. Staff are stretched, departments are overwhelmed and tiny details can easily be missed unless you constantly advocate for your child every second.

Meanwhile her seizure just kept going on. And on. And on.

Hours.

I kept asking when sedation was going to happen because when seizures go on that long her body becomes completely exhausted afterwards. Eventually, after what felt like forever, they finally gave her some sedation. 

For a brief moment she came around slightly.

Then she went straight back into several prolonged non-epileptic seizures again.

They told us she was going to have an ECG and a chest X-ray because she had also been repeatedly complaining all week about feeling a lump in her throat. But after blood tests came back normal, those investigations never actually happened.

Again, you’re left sitting there wondering what gets forgotten when departments are overloaded.

At one point, she briefly became responsive and catatonic. She could feel her body, but couldn’t move properly. Imagine being trapped inside yourself, aware of everything around you but unable to physically respond properly.

I kept asking for more sedation because I know my daughter. I know the difference between her normal recovery and when her body is completely stuck in neurological shutdown.

Finally around 1:30am additional sedation was given and she became more responsive, but her legs were extremely weak and her left hand had locked.

Even now her wrist and hand still need support and asked for a splint until for her wrist  so it can feel less painful.

And this is all happening while she is in the middle of her A-levels. Although her Art A'level is complete, she still has her make up double UAL to complete. 

That’s the part that breaks me the most sometimes, her worries should be friends, makeup, clothes, driving lessons, normal teenage things. Instead she’s dealing with ambulances, resus, seizures, medications, wheelchairs and recovery.

We finally left hospital around 2:30am.

Because her legs were so weak, I pushed her from the hospital in a wheelchair to the Uber. The Uber driver was really nice and said his daughter was similar to my daughter, uncanny. Then, when we got home, I had to get the wheelchair out of the garage and transfer her from the taxi back into her own wheelchair.

She had to crawl up the stairs.

Crawl.

And then I had to physically help get her into bed.

That’s the reality people don’t see.

To a hospital, it’s another patient in another cubicle on another overwhelming night in the NHS.

To me, it’s my daughter.

My daughter who just wants to be a normal teenager like everyone else.

My daughter who still tries to do work experience, study for A-levels, laugh with friends and plan her future despite living with all of this.

People see the ambulance lights and the hospital wristbands. They don’t see the aftermath at 3am when you’re lifting your exhausted child into bed wondering how much more her body can take.

And somehow the next morning, life still expects you to carry on as normal.