Blog 3: To Hell and Back
My intuition was dead on. Within a month, I was about to take a group of 12 women to Thailand for plastic surgery. This was going to be my first trip with Claire for training. She’d teach me everything I needed to know—liaising with travel agents to find the best flights and accommodation, conducting online consultations with surgeons at Bangkok International Hospital, hosting dinners and events during the week. I was pumped. I thought, after this trip, I could branch out on my own, find my own clients, and run the business.
Leading up to the trip, Claire would call me at all hours of the night, on weekends, demanding I contact new leads that had just reached out via our Instagram page. I’d be out drinking with friends on a Friday night, and suddenly the phone would ring at 11 pm—she wanted me to contact a client right then and there. One thing I’ve always maintained at a high standard is my professionalism.
“Claire, there’s no way I’m calling a client at midnight on a Friday. I’ll contact her Monday, or at the very least, tomorrow morning after 9 am—if you insist,”.
Everything was running smoothly as the trip to Thailand approached. The day had finally come—I was about to take my first group of women to Thailand. There were 12 women in total—most from Queensland, one from Newcastle. We all met at Brisbane International Airport, with signs for ‘Cosmetic Holidays International’. Many of us had met over Zoom beforehand, and some had even done in-person consultations. The process to prepare the clients was detailed—the in-depth consultations, the photos, the surgeon meetings online with Bangkok International Hospital’s top surgeons—some American, some Asian, all renowned as some of the best in the world. Once the clients had met their surgeons, their surgery was booked, and they were ready to go.
By the time we assembled at the airport, I felt like I had built a real connection with each of them. Everyone was excited—the women, most of whom wanted to regain their confidence after babies or just feel youthful again for themselves or their partners. There were two young sisters, early 20s, there for the experience, the tattoos, and the desire to get the biggest tits they could. Australian surgeons had denied them because their small frames couldn’t support 800cc implants.
We were buzzing with anticipation as we waited to board. All of us, passports in hand, ready to go—except, suddenly, everyone started asking, “Where’s Claire?” No one had seen her or heard from her. I called her mobile—no answer. Finally, she arrived, disheveled, scattered, completely unfocused. She was wearing an old black dress with holes, her hair looked like she’d just rolled out of bed after a wild night, and she struggled to carry her bags. She looked disoriented and disorganised. The clients immediately picked up on her unusual arrival.
I took control. We checked in, got on the plane, and I tried to keep calm. I had a few Singapore Slings on the flight—Singapore Airlines do the best—they serve the cocktail from water bottles, refill your cup whenever they walk past, and it’s enough to knock you out.
We landed in Phuket and headed straight to our hotel. Everyone checked in, and we had dinner booked for 7 pm—the last night before our final consultations and surgeries. I found the hotel pool and sank into the sunshine, craving some peace before the chaos.
That evening, we all gathered at the hotel restaurant. Claire was on time and looked much more presentable. She brought a friend with her—Rob. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged Italian guy, a businessman from the Coast. Immediately, he took a fancy to me. We sat and talked about surgery, how everyone was feeling, and what their expectations were.
Leading up to this trip, Claire had insisted I get something done. She believed that if I wanted to lead the business, I should have plastic surgery myself—to better relate to the clients. She suggested I get a boob job, last-minute and totally overwhelming. Of course, I’d thought about it over the years, but this trip was about learning how to run a business—not recovering from surgery. I told her, “I’m not ready to get anything done yet.” I was only 26, and deep down, I didn’t want to rush into it and besides, I had no money to have surgery. It’s common among some young women these days, especially on the Gold Coast, but I was a down-to-earth country girl. It wasn’t a necessity, and I knew my parents would have freaked out.
But Claire wasn’t done. She announced she’d be getting liposuction the very next day—scheduled with Dr. Watoon. The entire table’s eyes turned to me—
I could only imagine what everyone was thinking: “How the fuck am I supposed to manage 12 consultations, surgeries, liaising with plastic surgeons and hospital staff, organising hotel transfers, and caring for patients post-surgery—all while she’s lying in bed after liposuction?”
After dinner, a few of us decided to hit some bars on Bangla Road—and, of course, we drank far too much. Especially those of us with surgeries the next day. Rob had come along, and I instantly felt a connection with him. He gave me a sense of support and security I never knew I’d need.
By after midnight, I’d had too many drinks; I headed back to the hotel. It was after 1 am when my hotel room phone started ringing. I answered—it was Claire, calling from her room. She was rambling, something about me socialising with clients, but I couldn’t understand her. I told her to hang up, that I was going to bed.
The next morning, the clients gathered outside our hotel for transfers to Bangkok International Hospital. You could feel the excitement, anticipation, and nerves in the air. Claire arrived, ready for her big day.
The bus took us to the hospital—huge, state-of-the-art, and mind-blowingly impressive. The staff’s professionalism, their care and compassion, the entire cleanliness—it made Australian hospitals look like something from a third-world country. The hospital was sleek white, with marble floors and a level of detail that felt more like a hotel than a medical facility.
The rooms were like five-star hotel suites—multiple rooms, queen-sized beds, TVs, and wait staff on demand, serving hotel-quality food. Partners were welcome to stay as long as they wanted, and everything about the place radiated luxury and care.
Each client was assigned to their surgeon, and I made the rounds—ducking in and out of consultations with the clients and surgeons. The plastic surgeons were some of the best in the world—experienced, meticulous, and dedicated to providing the highest level of care. Even now, if someone asks me where to go for plastic surgery, I still recommend Bangkok International Hospital. The care those patients received was next to nothing I’ve seen—even in Australia’s private healthcare system. The staff treated everyone with such compassion, precision, and attention to detail—it truly felt like a luxury experience.
As the clients nervously waited for their first face-to-face meeting with their surgeon, I heard Claire asking the surgeons for scripts for prescription medication. At the time, I didn’t think much of it—she was about to get a full-body liposuction, which is painful, so I figured she needed the meds. But it was a little strange how she kept insisting the surgeons give her the scripts.
Claire went off for her surgery, saying she’d be fine and would check on the clients the next day. I left the clients to rest, then headed back to the hotel to relax. The following morning, I met them early to support and encourage them before their surgeries. I stayed at the hospital all day as each patient woke from anesthesia.
I did the rounds—checking in to make sure everyone was comfortable. Most had undergone significant procedures—breast enlargements, lifts, liposuction, nose jobs. It’s incredible how much a surgery like that impacts not just the body, but your emotions. Waking up in a completely different body, with a new face, is life-changing—sometimes overwhelming.
Many years later, my sister and I got our boobs done in Sydney. We went in for day surgery and stayed overnight in a hotel with a nurse caring for us, bringing food and making sure we were okay. It was a completely different experience from what I’d seen in Thailand.
I’m tall, with a naturally slender frame—an A cup—so I wanted something subtle, natural, and not too noticeable. I didn’t tell anyone except my husband that I was heading to Sydney for surgery.
Post-op, my recovery was quick. I owned a salon at the time, so against doctor’s orders, I was back at work within a week—that’s just how I operate; I had a business to run. But in the months afterward, I experienced waves of anxiety about my new body. I’d known my body the way it was for 30 years. I could wear anything, and although I nicknamed my small, perky breasts “tea bag titties,” I was comfortable with them. At 5’9” and a size 8, I could wear a paper bag and still look good.
Eventually, as I slowly adjusted my wardrobe, I grew to appreciate my fuller shape—and the sexiness of a full cup.
Some patients undergo life-changing surgery—reshaping their entire bodies. One client in particular, Annie, was extremely self-conscious about her body before surgery. She also experienced post-traumatic stress—mentally and physically—dealing with the profound changes she was going through. She had breast augmentation, a lift, and liposuction from her thighs, butt, and tummy. The clients stayed in hospital for a few days, and once they were discharged, they made their way back to the hotel. Claire had been completely MIA the entire time—the patients had barely seen her. No one really asked about her until everyone was back at the hotel. Some patients had tried calling her, but she wouldn’t answer. Karen had even seen a Thai man leaving her room multiple times.
A few days passed, and with no sign of Claire, two of the clients—Karen and Sarah—decided to check on her. They knocked on her door and waited. After a few moments, Claire answered. She looked disoriented, uncoordinated, and completely lost. When she opened the door and tried to stand upright, she collapsed onto the doorframe, hitting her head. Karen and Sarah quickly helped her back into bed. Claire insisted she was fine, begged them to leave, and said she just needed to sleep it off.
The room was a mess—empty prescription drug packets and bottles of minibar alcohol lined the bedside tables. She told the patients she was okay, that she just needed rest.
The next day, I had organised a bus trip to visit the temples. Claire had insisted that everyone dress appropriately—covering minimal skin, wearing enclosed shoes to show respect for Thai culture. But once again, she was late. We waited for 20 minutes before she showed up—disheveled, completely disoriented, barely able to stand straight. She was wearing a long black skirt with holes in it—as if she’d pulled it out of the trash. She had no shoes on and was wearing a bra. Yes, a bra. To the temples.
She’d been texting me about how important it was for everyone to dress respectfully, yet here she was—like this. The group was gobsmacked, and I was mortified. Things only got worse once we arrived at the temples.
Claire knelt at the front of the temple, singing and praying with her arms flailing wildly—bowing up and down to the Thai gods, dribbling on about how she “aligned with the spirituality of the gods.” I watched in disbelief as her crazy antics continued— she was completely unhinged.
By the end of the day, everyone was in shock. I was seriously concerned. Back at the hotel, she called me in a rage—yelling abuse, accusing me of manipulating everything, of turning everyone against her, of making her look bad. She claimed the patients weren’t cared for enough, that it was all my fault.
That night, I cried hysterically in my hotel room. I kept thinking, “What have I done?” I was trapped in a five-year contract with an absolute psychopath—someone addicted to prescription medication. My parents had gone guarantor, risking their home to cover the loan, and I still owed her $30,000. (an amount that felt massive at 26).
I remember standing on the balcony, looking out over the city. The thought crossed my mind—”If I just jump, maybe this will all be over.”