Implants made my bum explode

Nasrin was determined to get a peachy posterior — by any means necessary…

Looking in the mirror, I admired my new cleavage.

I’d just had a boob job, boosting my chest from a B to a DD cup — and the results were just as impressive as I’d hoped.

The recovery had been smooth and I decided it was the best thing I’d ever done.

When I was out and about, the compliments came flooding in and I felt more confident than ever.

But it wasn’t long before I began to fixate on other parts of my body I was unhappy with.

Insecure, I constantly compared myself to girls I thought were more popular.

How can I look more like them? I pondered.

Years passed and I had two more boob jobs, two nose jobs and liposuction.

I also had fillers and nonsurgical procedures to give my face a more defined appearance.

By 37, I’d worked through my insecurities and felt happier in my own skin.

But I wasn’t about to give up my ‘tweakments’.

I took pride in my appearance and wanted to be fabulous at 40.

I’d even opened my own beauty clinic so knew my stuff.

One day, I was out with a friend who’d recently had bum implants.

As she turned around to show off the results, my eyes widened.

‘Your butt looks brilliant!’ I gasped.

‘Got it done abroad,’ she told me.

I wasn’t surprised.

For me and my pals, getting a nip and tuck was like getting our hair done.

But the ops weren’t cheap, so we often travelled overseas.

We’d always do our research and had always been delighted with the results.

I’d wanted a bigger derriere for a few years now — inspired by celebs like Kim Kardashian — and after seeing my friend’s brand-new bottom, I decided implants were the only solution.

My boyfriend and family supported me. They just wanted me to be happy.

There was just one problem — my backside was already chock-full of filler.

I tapped out a message to a surgeon I’d found online and waited nervously for his response.

When it came, my heart dropped.

I don’t think I can provide the results you’re looking for, he wrote.

But I wasn’t deterred.

On to the next one, I thought to myself.

It wasn’t long before 10 surgeons — all highly recommended — had denied my request, saying the op wasn’t safe because I’d had so much filler injected over the years.

You could have complications, they said.

But eventually I received a message back from a doctor saying he was prepared to do the operation.

I paid a deposit to secure my slot, before he had a chance to change his mind.

A couple of months later. I hopped on a flight and made my way to the clinic, but a doubt niggled at me.

Should I really be doing this when so many surgeons said no?

But I’d already splashed out on the deposit and if I pulled out, I’d lose my money.

So I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

When the day of my surgery came, I made my way to the hospital.

Only when I arrived, it was a dingy medical centre.

From there, it got worse.

Before my arrival, I’d been instructed to get a scan of my breasts and abdomen.

I’d thought it odd at the time, but did as I was told and paid £500 for a private scan.

When I handed over the scan results, the assistant frowned.

‘It was supposed to be your buttocks and abdomen,’ she said.

I showed her the email where she specifically said otherwise and watched as her cheeks flushed crimson.

‘Don’t worry, you can get one here and we can reimburse you,’ she added, clocking my face.

After another set of scans, it was finally time for the operation.

I was terrified but managed to stay calm by imagining the peachy posterior I’d have when it was all over.

Only, as the nurses wheeled me in, my jaw dropped.

I knew what an operating theatre was supposed to look like — and this wasn’t it.

It looked like it had been set up in someone’s cellar!

What if something goes wrong in the operation? I panicked.

As the nurse put a cannula into my arm, I turned to her.

‘What do you do if there’s an emergency?’ I asked. ‘Is there a crash team here?’

‘I’m an ICU nurse,’ she replied.

‘OK, but what if someone needs resuscitating?’ I said.

‘It’s fine, I do this all the time,’ she said impatiently.

Then, everything went dark.

Six hours later, I came round.

But before I could even think about my perky new bum, I was hit by an excruciating wave of pain.

‘Owww,’ I groaned.

Days went by and I felt awful. I was barely able to eat without feeling sick, and couldn’t go to the loo without a nurse escorting me. I felt too faint otherwise.

Plus, my surgeon hadn’t made an appearance yet.

‘How did the surgery go?’ I asked the nurses, but they remained tight-lipped.

Eventually I messaged my surgeon on WhatsApp, telling him how ill I was.

When his response pinged back, my blood ran cold.

You need to eat, you lost a lot of blood during the surgery.

What the hell, I thought. Why am I only finding out about this now?

He tried to assure me that I’d be fine, but I found it hard to trust him.

Luckily, 10 days after the surgery, I began to feel better and was given the all-clear to head home.

I was instructed to make an appointment there to have my stitches removed, and given bags of medication.

When I caught sight of my boyfriend in the arrivals hall, I broke down.

‘I’m in agony,’ I wept.

‘Let’s get you home,’ he said, wrapping his arms around me.

Two weeks later I got my stitches removed.

But when I arrived home, I sat on the toilet and felt a small tear between my cheeks.

Then, I felt a strange, gushing sensation.

‘My bottom’s exploding!’ I cried.

I put a dressing over it and hoped it would heal.

But over the next couple of days, it got worse.

Heart racing, I booked a private GP appointment.

He took a picture of the wound — which looked like a hole in my bottom — and sent it to a plastic surgeon.

When the phone rang later, it was bad news.

‘The surgeon says he can see the implant coming through the wound,’ he said.

‘No way!’ I cried.

‘I expect they’ll want to remove it,’ he said.

Hanging up, I burst into tears.

It wasn’t just the money, it was the time I’d taken off from work and the physical toll of it all.

It felt like such a waste.

A couple of days later I saw a nurse, who confirmed the implant needed to come out.

When I messaged my surgeon he told me to come back and he would make sure I got to keep the implants in, but by that point I was done.

I wanted a rounder rear end but I wasn’t about to risk sepsis for it!

Four weeks after my initial surgery, I had the implants removed.

The surgeon agreed to reimburse some of my money, but I can’t help but feel I was taken advantage of.

Since the removal, I’ve had filler in my bum to round it out and I’m pleased with the results.

I’m not swearing off plastic surgery forever but I’d think twice before getting any more implants.

The whole ordeal was a massive pain in the backside.

Literally.

Nasrin Corfield Smith, 37, Camden, London