My jumbo boobs were ruining my life, but things were about to get even worse... By Chloe Rose, 22
Rifling through the clothes rail, I noticed two women sneaking glances at me.
‘Her boobs are huge,’ one whispered.
So embarrassed, I ran out of the shop in tears.
I was used to people commenting on my chest, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Although I was short and curvy, my 36E chest felt out of proportion.
It had drawn attention and rude remarks since my school days.
Men would ogle, and I was known as ‘the girl with the big chest’ in the pub my mum Caroline owned.
I avoided looking at my naked reflection, because all I could see was my supersized bust.
‘It must be lovely having naturally big boobs,’ some clients at the beauty clinic where I worked remarked.
Even my best friend, Rachel, said she was jealous of my knockers.
But I desperately wanted a small, pert pair like hers.
‘Have you thought about surgery?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but the prices are ridiculous in the UK,’ I sighed.
Months later, I lost my partner, tragically young.
It made me realise life was short, and I wanted to be happy.
And I knew with smaller boobs, I’d feel more confident in my skin.
When I felt stronger, I went online and researched clinics in Turkey.
But I wanted to find the right one, because I’d heard horror stories about botched ops.
When I found a clinic on Instagram with glowing reviews, and pics of women with natural-looking boobs after surgery, I knew it was the one.
My mum and sister Collette were concerned, but supportive.
After contacting the clinic, they suggested I book a breast uplift, which would take me down by up to three cup sizes, rather than a reduction, because they said going too small wouldn’t look right on my frame.
Excited that I’d finally have the body I’d dreamt of, I booked the £3,000 op, flights and a hotel in Istanbul.
Rachel came with me, and when we arrived at our hotel, I showed her the new outfits I was going to wear once I had smaller breasts.
Walking into the clinic, everything looked pristine and modern.
Within an hour, my bloods were taken and I was gowned up for surgery.
‘See you when I’ve got small boobies,’ I said.
'Don't you want to lose weight?'
A man who spoke English explained what would happen next.
After he left, I was asked for the money, and then the surgeon arrived.
He couldn’t speak English, so he had a translator on speakerphone.
After marking up my breasts, he turned to me.
‘Why aren’t you getting a gastric sleeve?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you want to lose weight?’
Shocked by his rudeness, I tried not to cry.
I was a healthy size 12!
‘I’m not here about that,’ I said.
When the English-speaking man returned, he said the surgery would last an hour.
That’s not very long, I thought.
I was wheeled away to theatre by two nurses, who put a canula in my arm while we were in a lift.
The next thing I remember, I woke up in a room next to other people in hospital beds.
Paralysed and bruised, I thought I’d been in a car crash.
Looking down, I saw I was wearing a compression bra, and remembered I’d had the op.
Suddenly, I started screaming.
I was shivering, could barely lift my head and was gripped by an intense pain.
‘Something isn’t right,’ I managed to say to the nurses. ‘Please get this bra off, I’m in agony.’
It was so tight, I felt as if someone was sitting on my chest.
When Rachel came in, her face went white.
‘You were gone for over five hours, I was so worried,’ she said, telling me she’d heard my screams.
Medics kept saying everything was fine.
But every few hours, they snapped pictures of my breasts to send to the surgeon.
I caught a glimpse of them and gasped.
My nipples had turned purple and black.
Something was badly wrong.
Working in the beauty industry, I knew I had necrosis, which meant the nipples were dying because of a lack of blood supply.
Please come now, or I’ll lose my nipples, I messaged the surgeon.
I was terrified, but there was no sign of him.
Next morning, I had a raging fever and felt like my body was giving up.
Finally, more than 24 hours after I’d come round, the surgeon arrived with the translator on the phone.
‘Everything is fine,’ he insisted.
I had to plead with him to remove the compression bra.
‘It shouldn’t hurt this much,’ I grimaced.
Then, he opened up my stitches with a blade, with no anaesthetic.
I’d never felt pain like it.
For hours, I was left with open wounds.
My skin was blistering, and both my nipples black.
As night fell, I couldn’t sleep, and hallucinated.
My family were worried sick.
‘I’m ringing the British Embassy and our MP,’ Collette said.
She contacted the Foreign Office, who said they were escalating the matter.
They got in touch with the hospital, and demanded they give me antibiotics to treat my infection.
Rachel turned to social media, and posted about what had happened — including photos — and asking for advice.
We were flooded with comments, and several British cosmetic surgeons wrote, saying they shouldn’t have opened up my stitches without anaesthetic.
I needed to get home, but it was a five-hour flight.
Next morning, the hospital wanted to discharge me, even with my open wounds.
They said I had to pay extra if I wanted to stay.
I just wanted to get out of there, so Rachel and I booked a hotel.
Before I left, they stitched up my breasts and gave me a fit-to-fly letter.
I could barely walk, but they forced me to get up.
At our hotel, I found an English-speaking surgeon in Turkey.
She confirmed I’d suffered necrosis, and said if the surgeon had operated on me an hour after surgery, it could have been reversed.
The following morning, Rachel and I were on a medically-assisted flight with a doctor.
Friends and family had started a GoFundMe appeal to bring me home, raising £8,000.
But I was so poorly, an ambulance was arranged to meet me on the runway, and I was blue-lighted to hospital.
Surgeons were horrified by the state of me.
‘We can’t operate, it’s too risky,’ they said.
There was a chance I’d not only lose my breasts, but my life.
I was given antibiotics through a drip, and monitored for two days.
Back home, district nurses came to change my dressings until I could see a breast surgeon.
He used machines to keep the blood flowing and speed up the healing.
Eight weeks on, I’ve had several infections, and even my good boob has got worse.
But there was a point I didn’t even think I’d be here, so I feel lucky.
The clinic had a duty of care towards me, but it felt as if they left me to die.
I’ve been told my scars will take six months to heal, and then I’ll have reconstructive surgery.
Even though my boobs are smaller, there’s no shape to them and I’ve lost part of my nipples.
I never thought this could happen to me, so I want to warn others about cut-price surgery abroad.
Ask yourself — is it worth it?