I’d changed my mind about going under the knife but, before I could stop it, everything went black. By Leanne O’Driscoll, 43
I turned this way and that, pulled in my tummy and pushed back my shoulders.
But it was no good.
No matter what I did, the mirror didn’t lie and nothing was going to change the fact that I was overweight.
I weighed 16st 10lb and it made me feel miserable.
I’d always struggled with my weight and over the years I’d tried all sorts of diets. I’d lose a few pounds but nothing ever stuck for long and I’d always find myself putting it back on again — and then some.
It affected my mental health and, desperate for a change, I did something drastic.
Next time I went to the GP, I said: ‘I’d like to have weight-loss surgery.’
I explained that I’d read about gastric sleeves, which involved a surgeon removing 80 per cent of the stomach so you couldn’t eat as much.
But my face fell as the GP explained: ‘There’s a 10-year waiting list for that.’
I couldn’t wait that long so, back home in Limerick, I went online and began researching private surgery.
My heart sank when I realised it would cost a whopping £14,000.
But then a solution presented itself.
'I want it done too'
Whenever I scrolled through social media, an advert for a hospital in Turkey kept popping up.
Curious, I clicked on it.
Up popped before and after photos of patients who’d had weight-loss surgery there. They were jaw-dropping.
‘Look at this,’ I said to my friend, showing her their website. ‘I’m going.’
‘I want it done too,’ she said.
We told two of our other friends about it and, impressed by the results, they said they were on board as well.
We contacted the clinic to book and, with four of us, we haggled the price down from £3000 each to £2400 each.
My partner Patrick was concerned about me having the operation but he was reassured that at least I was going with my mates.
‘I hope everything goes OK,’ he said as he and our three kids waved me off.
We set off for Turkey and, when we arrived, a private transfer took us from the airport to the hospital, which looked lovely and clean.
We had tests to check we were suitable for surgery and then we handed over our money.
My friends had their procedures on the same day.
Afterwards, I went to see them.
They all seemed to be recovering as planned but, that night, I started to have second thoughts about my own operation.
It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on but I had a bad feeling about it so, next day, when staff arrived to take me to the operating theatre, I said: ‘I don’t want it done.’
But either my pleas went ignored or staff hadn’t been able to translate what I’d said, because next thing I knew I was waking up after the procedure.
I felt sick and, over the next two days, I kept vomiting blood.
‘It’s normal,’ the nurse told me.
But I thought: How is this normal?
After a week in hospital, doctors were satisfied that I was well enough to go home.
On the flight, I was shivering cold.
When I got home, Patrick put his arms around me and said: ‘Thank God you’re home, and you’re OK.’
But I felt so sore and next day something shocking happened.
I planned to have a shower and get into my pyjamas.
‘If you need anything then let me know, I’ll be out the back,’ Patrick said.
But when I stood up, everything went black.
I woke up on the bed but, somehow, half an hour had passed.
I was so dizzy, I couldn’t fetch Patrick so I rang my sister instead.
‘I think I’m dehydrated,’ I told her. ‘Could you come round and get some water and Dioralyte from downstairs and bring it to me.’
'I don't know who you are'
When she arrived and saw me, however, she screamed.
Patrick ran up to the room and said: ‘Ring for an ambulance.’
I was rushed to hospital and lapsed into unconsciousness.
When I came round, Patrick was beside me.
‘You had internal bleeding,’ he explained.
A scan revealed that my spleen had been nicked during my procedure in Turkey.
I’d developed sepsis and gone into septic shock.
A team of doctors cleaned my infected insides of the congealed blood that had collected, then my spleen was removed, and I received 11 pints of blood in a transfusion.
‘Doctors asked me to wait in the hospital in case you died on the operating table,’ Patrick said.
I couldn’t believe what my body had gone through.
When I was discharged, I texted the surgeon from the Turkish hospital and told him what had happened.
But he refused to take any responsibility for it.
Over the next seven months, I lost 6st 3lb. My weight dropped so rapidly I looked like a skeleton and when I started back at work, colleagues struggled to recognise me.
‘Sorry, I don’t know who you are,’ one told me.
But the change in me wasn’t just physical.
Mentally, I felt like a different person too.
I developed what was known as ‘head hunger’. Emotionally I wanted to eat but my body kept telling me I couldn’t. It really affected my mood.
Now I wish I’d never had the operation.
As a result of what happened, I’ll be on antibiotics for the rest of my life because I have no immunity against bacteria. Getting an infection could kill me.
I’m sharing my story as a warning to others not to travel for surgery.
I’m lucky to be alive.