Looking down at the gunk and gore, Kelly couldn’t believe it had ended up like this…
As I got changed in my bedroom, I turned away from the mirror to quickly whip off my bra.
I hated looking at my naked breasts.
Having two kids and breastfeeding had left them looking like two empty sacks.
I felt self-conscious wearing fitted tops, and dreaded summertime.
‘It’s really getting me down,’
I moaned to my partner of 10 years, Anthony.
‘You look great,’ he said.
He was so sweet, but he could see how unhappy I was with my C-cup boobs.
My self-esteem was in tatters, and it was affecting my mental health. I’d been having panic attacks, and my anxiety and depression were getting worse.
I looked into getting cosmetic surgery, but the £10,000 price tag was eye-watering.
‘I could never afford that,’
I cried.
Then I started to notice
people on social media going
to Turkey for surgery, as it was
so much cheaper.
They seemed very happy with the results, too.
‘Look, it’s less than half the price,’ I told Anthony, showing him a post from Instagram.
‘Well, if you want, I can save up and pay for you to get it done,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, giving him a hug.
He knew how much it would mean to me to feel happy in my body again.
And I knew it would make him happy too, to see me with perky new boobs!
Over the next few months, Anthony put money aside from his job as a plasterer.
I joined some Facebook groups, and chatted with a few different people about which clinic they recommended.
Eventually, I chose one in Istanbul and messaged them on Instagram.
They quoted me £3400 for a breast enlargement and uplift.
That included two nights in the hospital, and a three-night stay at a five-star hotel.
After reading good reviews online, I was happy to go ahead, so Anthony transferred the money to me and I paid the clinic.
As I packed my suitcase, I couldn’t wait to get out there.
Any nerves were replaced by excitement about my new boobs.
A family member looked after the kids while Anthony and I flew out to Istanbul.
We checked in to the hotel
and early the next morning, at 5.30am, a car came to take us to the hospital.
Once we got there, we were shown to my private room.
A while later, the surgeon came in. He spoke good English, and seemed nice enough.
‘We’re going to do an uplift and put in 400cc implants, which will likely bring you up to a double D,’ he explained, marking up my body with a pen.
I nodded, feeling
a mix of excitement and fear.
‘OK, sounds good,’ I replied.
‘It’s less > than half > the price’
I’d had to fast before the operation, which only added to my nerves.
Anthony stayed by my side until they wheeled me into the theatre.
Then everything went black…
About four hours later, I woke up in a recovery room, feeling groggy and very sore.
When I was wheeled back to my room, Anthony was there, looking worried.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘I’m in pain,’ I whispered, tears in my eyes.
The nurses put me on a drip, but Anthony had to keep going out and asking for help because
I was crying and in agony.
‘We’ll be in soon,’ they kept saying, dismissively.
My chest was bandaged up, but there were no drains as I thought there might have been.
Anthony slept on a sofa next to me that night, but I barely slept.
The next morning, I told a nurse that something felt really wrong.
‘It’s very sore,’ I said.
She pointed to the drip and said, ‘That’s morphine.’
But Anthony read the label and said, ‘That’s not morphine, it’s saline.’
The nurse just shrugged.
They weren’t giving me any real pain medication, and I spent the rest of the day lying there, feeling helpless and sore.
The next morning, a nurse came in and said, ‘The transport is outside. You’re going back to the hotel.’
‘But I haven’t seen the surgeon yet, or even seen what my breasts look like,’ I said.
She assured me that she would come to change my dressings at the hotel.
I was in shock, but thought, They know what they’re doing.
I had to keep trusting them.
Back at the hotel, the nurse did come to check on me.
But when she took off my sports bra, green gunk started pouring out from underneath my breasts and down my belly.
There was blood, too.
I was terrified.
‘Don’t worry, it’s normal,’ she said, cleaning it up and putting on new dressings, then replacing my bra.
The next morning, Anthony and I went to see the surgeon.
As I sat on a bed, the surgeon took off my bra and dressings, and gunk started gushing out again, along with blood.
He squeezed my breasts, and more gunk came out.
It felt like my boobs were exploding!
‘Am I OK?’ I asked, as he put on new dressings.
‘We see > this all > the time’
He nodded.
‘This sometimes happens, it’s normal. They’re not infected,’ he replied.
He gave me some antibiotics, though, then told me I was OK to fly home.
But next morning, I felt awful.
‘I really don’t feel well,’ I kept telling Anthony.
I was in pain, felt sick, and was hallucinating on the flight back home.
By the time we landed in Manchester, I was barely coherent.
‘I need to go to the hospital,’
I told Anthony.
He had to stay with the kids while I took a taxi to A&E.
They saw me straightaway, and were horrified at my wounds.
I was so scared that I couldn’t even look down as they removed the bandages.
‘The scars have opened up,’ the nurse said.
I was scared for my life, as
I was taken to urgent care. The plastics team came to see me, and the surgeon was sympathetic.
‘We see this all the time,’ he said. ‘We need to open you back up, clean out the infected tissue and see if we can save the implants.’
They rushed me in for emergency theatre.
When I woke up a few hours later, the surgeon told me that they’d had to remove the implants.
‘The breasts were very badly infected,’ he said.
I sobbed when I looked down and saw my flat chest again.
It had all been for nothing.
I stayed in the hospital for a week, and Anthony and the kids visited me every day.
When I tried to contact the clinic in Turkey to complain, they blocked me.
I felt so helpless and angry.
I came home from hospital with drains in and had to go back several times to have the dressings changed. The pain was manageable with painkillers, but emotionally, I felt broken.
Now, I keep my breasts covered all the time. I hate them even more than I did before, because of the scarring.
Sharing my story is my way of warning others about the dangers of cut-price plastic surgery abroad. I’ve had so many people reach out, saying they’ve had similar experiences.
If I could go back in time, I would have saved up for longer and had it done here in the UK.
The NHS surgeon said that while some cosmetic surgery in Turkey is great, the aftercare is where they often fall short.
I shouldn’t have flown home
so soon, and I definitely should have had drains put in.
Please, if you’re considering having surgery abroad, do your research and think twice. It’s not worth the risk.
By Kelly Donnelly, 35, Preston, Lancashire