To my daughter Melanie (September 2025)

 01/09 Chapter 441 A Thousand Needles Later

My sister had to take me to the appointment because my mom had a commitment. I even tried to reschedule for Wednesday—just two days later—since I’d have to go back then anyway to have the drain removed. But the secretary insisted the doctor wanted to see me today no matter what.

So off we went. Thank God for my support system; without them, this whole phase would have been so much harder.

I felt nauseous the entire way there, though I didn’t think it was related to the surgery anymore. After all, the day before I’d felt fine, so I blamed the glass of milk I’d had earlier. Maybe my body just wasn’t ready for that yet.

When the doctor walked in, he wasn’t angry. Or maybe he was pretending to be, in a playful way—telling my sister that I hadn’t let him sleep all weekend, and that he’d called me in mostly to calm my anxiety so I could leave feeling more at ease.

Despite bracing myself for a scolding, he was actually attentive. He checked my incisions, said everything looked fine, and just told me to keep applying ointment on the red areas of my abdomen.

I mentioned the nausea, and they explained the clinic had something called a post-surgery protocol—an IV drip with vitamins and iron that supposedly helped with symptoms like that. For a moment, I assumed it was complimentary. Still, I politely declined. I was pretty sure it was the milk—something the doctor agreed with—and besides, I’ve always hated needles. My blood pressure drops, I panic, and after all the poking and prodding of the last few days, I figured I’d had enough needles to last me the next five years.

On the way back home, the nausea never left. It lingered from the moment I drank that glass of milk until the moment I went to bed.

As if that weren’t enough, I now had a whole new battle to fight—with your dad. We were arguing about the vaccine.

After your last hospitalization, I’ve been desperately searching for alternatives—anything that might keep you from ending up in the hospital again. We’ve already seen the pulmonologist, you had all nine doses of the injections last year, and every time you start getting sick, we follow the whole routine: steroids, inhalers, nasal washes. You’ve had surgery, I’ve bought imported immune-boosting candies—literally everything within my reach, I’ve done.

Then a friend mentioned salt therapy. Curious, I started researching.

To my surprise, it looked incredible for people with respiratory problems. Halotherapy, as it’s officially called, uses environments with high concentrations of tiny salt particles in the air to help the respiratory system and even the skin. It originated in Europe, after noticing that workers in salt mines had fewer respiratory illnesses than the general population.

These salt rooms—known as halotherapy chambers—are designed to mimic those mines. The air is saturated with microscopic salt particles, which have antiseptic, anti-inflammatory, and mucus-clearing properties. Supposedly, they can:

• Reduce inflammation in the airways

• Help clear out mucus

• Decrease microorganisms that worsen infections

During each session, a device called a halogenerator grinds the salt into fine particles and disperses it into the room, creating the same environment as a natural salt cave.

Studies—and countless personal stories—suggest it can help people with asthma, bronchitis, sinusitis, allergies, even COPD. Many report relief from coughing, wheezing, congestion, and difficulty breathing.

I was so excited I immediately searched for clinics here in São Paulo. And guess what? Both of them had shut down.

I found one in Campinas—about an hour and a half away—and thought maybe we could go there for the recommended sessions. But then I discovered they had closed too.

The only place left in the entire country was in Brasília. And that would mean a plane trip.

I contacted the clinic, and they said the full treatment lasts four weeks—an entire month living in Brasília to attend the sessions. I’m seriously considering it because it really does seem amazing. It’s such a shame it doesn’t exist widely in Brazil. But apparently, in countries like ours, you can’t have too many good things—things that actually improve people’s health.

If it works so well, why isn’t it everywhere? Why isn’t it common knowledge? Could it be because healthier people mean fewer hospitalizations… fewer medications… less profit for the industry?

If it were just once in a lifetime, or a few occasional sessions, I’d be ready to go. But if it’s something that has to be repeated regularly, then flying to Brasília over and over wouldn’t be possible.

Anyway, back to the vaccine. We also spoke with our longtime family doctor, the one who’s treated all of us, and he strongly recommended a vaccine called VERIC. It’s a six-month treatment, but results are seen almost immediately after the first doses.

He said it greatly boosts immunity and has been around since the 1980s. The only downside? Weekly injections. I hate it for you—I really do—but I also know hospitalizations are so much worse than a few seconds of pain once a week. I get it because I went through the same thing—weekly injections for my bronchitis. I still remember: every Tuesday.

But as soon as the idea came from me, your dad started digging into it, and I knew right away he’d be against it. Lately, he’s been leaning anti-vaccine in general.

And so, the fight began.

He doesn’t want me to give it; I, along with my entire family, am in favor. But I’ve made up my mind: I will follow medical advice, not his opinion. I will do everything necessary—and safe—for you, no matter what it takes.

 02-03/09 Chapter 442 Sick of It All

Tuesday came, and I was still feeling nauseous. Honestly, I was getting sick of feeling this way, but I kept pushing through.

By Wednesday, it was time to have the drain removed. The whole point was to start getting rid of things, little by little, until life slowly felt normal again. First the drain, then the compression board inside the girdle, then the surgical girdle itself, then the stitches dissolving one by one as my body absorbed them. Baby steps.

But the drain… that was the one I was counting down for. Such a relief it would be. It was this little tube attached right above my crotch, collecting leftover blood and all the junk that needed to come out after liposuction. The worst part? You had to carry it everywhere, this weird little bulb dangling by a cord. More than once, I forgot it was even there, stepped on the cord, and nearly yanked the whole thing out.

So yes, finally getting rid of it felt like a small victory.

The next day, my mom made me a giant glass of orange juice—about 500 ml. She’s desperate because I’m barely eating, so she keeps trying everything she can think of to get some food in me. She basically forced me to drink the juice and eat a piece of bread. But again, as soon as I finished the juice, the nausea hit.

The worst part was that I was heading to the apartment to unpack the luggage that had just arrived from the U.S. and start getting some packages ready. Luckily, my grandma came along to help while my mom ran some errands.

I tried to get as much done as I could, but it wasn’t much at all. All I managed was to check the luggage, make a list of everything that had arrived, and then tell my grandma I needed to lie down because I felt so sick. I lay there with my feet up, hoping it would help, but nothing seemed to work. And time kept ticking by and soon the delivery guy would be coming to pick up the packages, and I was completely out of commission.

There was no way around it, I had to get up and finish the packages, even though I still felt awful.
The moment I stood up, I felt like I was going to throw up. My grandma was close by and held my hand. I lay back down right away, but the nausea rose all the way to my throat, and I knew it was coming. I told her to help me up because I wanted to be standing when it happened.

And sure enough, as soon as I got up, I threw up all the orange juice.

My grandma made an interesting observation: the vomit was only orange juice, no bread at all. I had only eaten bread and orange juice, so clearly, I had digested the bread, but not the juice. Once again, I blamed the liquid—this time the orange juice, just like I’d blamed the milk a few days earlier. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t really about the juice.

After throwing up, I felt a little better, but that relief lasted only a few miserable seconds before the nausea crept back in. While I was packing the boxes, I tried eating some apple, thinking it might help—people always say apples are good for nausea. But I couldn’t even get through half of it. So much for that idea.

What I really wanted was ice cream.
The cold always helps me when I’m nauseous, especially McDonald’s vanilla soft serve. Not the cone, just the ice cream itself. I was craving it so badly because I knew how much it helps me in those rare moments when I feel sick. And I do mean rare, because nausea isn’t something I usually deal with. I can travel for hours and feel fine. Ever since I was a kid, long car rides never made me sick. My sister, on the other hand, was always the one throwing up.

The only time I get nauseous is if I try to read in the car. Motion sickness hits me hard. Most people get it to some degree, but mine is pretty severe. Just a few seconds of looking at my phone, and I’m queasy for a long time.

The last time I felt this sick was during your pregnancy. The first three months were terrible. I literally couldn’t eat anything and kept losing weight. Everything made me sick, even chocolate. Just smelling food or anything edible at all would turn my stomach. My OB-GYN told me it usually passes right around the three-month mark. And like magic, that’s exactly when it stopped.

Still, I’ve never been someone who vomits easily. It’s so rare for me. Honestly, before today, I can’t even remember the last time I threw up, it had been years and years. But this time, it came so easily, without me even trying.

And then, like a miracle, I found a tub of ice cream in the freezer. Your dad had brought it a few weeks ago to celebrate… something, I can’t even remember what. But he left it here. And in that moment, I loved him so much for it. Somehow, without even knowing, he was helping me.

I had the ice cream and to make it even better, it was Haagen-Dazs macadamia, my absolute favorite!
I felt so happy and lighter, and the cold really did help. I went downstairs, and you were playing like crazy with Noah, Sophia, and at least four other kids. It looked like a little amusement park down there.

I chatted with Cheila, telling her about my surgery and everything I was going through, when the doctor called about the nausea. He said that since I was using three Restiva patches, I should remove the two on the front. So I did. I had never even bothered to look up what that patch was actually for, I just knew he told me to put on the third one a few days earlier, so I did. But if he thought taking them off might help, then fine.

Then he told me I should come to the clinic for this so-called post-op treatment: IV iron, fluids, multivitamins—all through the vein—that would supposedly help me feel much better, and that it would be a “good investment.”

The moment he said investment, it hit me: this wasn’t free. That day at the clinic when they offered it while I was feeling sick, it wasn’t out of kindness, they make money off this.

But seriously, how does he operate on a patient, she’s feeling awful, and he charges her to help her feel better? It makes no sense.

Still, I was feeling so miserable and so desperate that I asked his secretary how much it would be. She sent me a quote: five sessions for R$2,350.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Yeah, right. No way. I’ll go to a hospital for IV fluids and iron if I need it. There is no way I’m paying that kind of money.

 04-05/09 Chapter 443 Sick of It All

Days kept passing, and my nausea showed no sign of easing. I was starting to worry, convinced something was wrong because, let’s be honest, something was wrong. I was on the edge of losing my mind. I could barely eat or drink anything, I'm practically dehydrated, and yet everyone around me insisted it was all in my head. They said nausea was normal, that I was overreacting, looking for problems where there were none.

But I had done my homework, and I knew this wasn’t normal. Nausea wasn’t supposed to be this bad, and vomiting? Even less so. At this point, I was only taking two medications: the blood clot prevention one and the antibiotic. Neither was known to cause nausea and certainly not vomiting. Still, when I tried to explain that, people said I needed therapy, that I should see a psychologist and sort out my head.

My grandmother was here helping me, and even she thought I was losing it. So there I was, sick as a dog while everyone else assumed I was losing my mind. But I knew something was off.

At night, lying in bed before falling asleep, the desperation would hit hard. I’d find myself praying—to a God I didn’t believe in, to the entire universe—begging for some sign, some clue to show me what was wrong with me. And then, as if by miracle, a thought suddenly popped into my head: the Restiva patch.

I can’t even explain how that sticker came to mind, but it felt like a flash of light as if my prayers had finally been answered.

Without thinking, I ripped it off with my bare hand. I read the name, searched it online, and there it was: Restiva. One of its most common side effects? Nausea and vomiting in more than 16% of patients. That’s not a small number.

I dove into everything I could find about it and was suddenly sure this was what had been making me so sick. I’d been wearing two 10-mg patches on my chest, 20 mg total, and on the sixth day I added a third one. 30 mg of Restiva. Restiva is stronger than morphine!

I found posts and forums full of the same complaints. People calling it expensive, unbearable. One woman even wrote that her husband, on just 5 mg for cancer pain, couldn’t stop throwing up. 5 mg. And I was on 30.

Yes, the doctor told me to remove the first two patches, and now I was “only” on 10 mg. But I’d already been at 30 mg. And I read it takes 37 hours for this drug to leave your body after removing the patch. Which meant the original 20 mg hadn’t even cleared yet. If this was really the cause, I wouldn’t feel any relief until Sunday. Still, I knew in my gut this was it.

That’s when anger started to rise. If it weren’t for that damned patch, I never would have ended up in the hospital in the first place. None of it would’ve happened. I wouldn’t have pestered the doctor, my parents wouldn’t have had to rush me to the ER in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t have been vomiting and convinced I was dying — one of the scariest days of my life. I wouldn’t have torn my throat throwing up or spent two straight weeks unable to eat. All because of a patch.

And this doctor — so “renowned,” or at least he claims — didn’t even consider removing all three patches, even though it’s one of the most common causes of adverse reactions? I had to do his job for him.

Of course, blaming my nerves, my mind, was easier than actually figuring out what was wrong. It was so simple: Come on, Natascha, let’s look at every medication you’re taking and figure out what’s causing your nausea. If he’d just stopped long enough to analyze my case and give me real attention, none of this would have happened.

Now I’m furious.

 06/09 Chapter 444 Nausea has a name

The night before, I told my mom and grandma about my “lightbulb moment” — that it was probably Restiva making me sick. They looked at me with surprise, and I could sense a hint of guilt for having spent all this time insisting it was all in my head.

Today was Cauã’s birthday party — eight years old already — but I wasn’t going. Between the nausea and the fact that I was fresh out of surgery, there was no way. Grandma dropped you off at your dad’s place before heading to the party with great-grandma, and I stayed home with my dad.

The nausea lingered, but I expected that. After all, the patch information said it took 37 hours for the medication to leave your system. That day, I ate exactly two little biscuits and that was it. Just those and some Gatorade. No orange juice, no milk. Literally just two biscuits keeping me alive.

Still, the nausea never let up. By evening, despite eating almost nothing, I ended up vomiting. That’s when the panic hit me — a red alert blaring in my head. Even though I knew Restiva hadn’t fully left my system yet, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed a doctor to look me over, to reassure me that this really was the patch causing it all.

In tears, I called my mother. The moment she picked up, I blurted out that I’d thrown up again and told her if she didn’t take me to the hospital, I’d go alone or ask my aunt to drive me. I said it that way because I knew she didn’t want another trip to the ER. But I heard the worry in her voice. She said she’d call my dad to drive me to São Paulo so we could meet her there, and from there we’d go to the hospital together. Her calm voice was meant to soothe me, to make me feel safe.

My mom called my dad, and I could hear him grumbling on the other end, but in the end he drove me to São Paulo. I could barely wait to get to the hospital.

When we finally met up, my mom asked which hospital I wanted to go to. I told her Oswaldo Cruz. The doctor who used to treat you with those vaccine doses every ten days had once told me it was an excellent hospital, the third best in São Paulo, right after two famous ones we couldn’t use because our health plan wouldn’t cover them.

We had actually tried to take you there once before your last admission, but to our surprise they didn’t have a pediatrics unit, and that’s how we ended up at Beneficência Portuguesa, where you stayed. But I’m not a child, and this time I really wanted to see Oswaldo Cruz for myself. So off we went, my mother right there by my side as always.

When we arrived, to my surprise, both my mom and I already had a patient record there. I don’t remember ever setting foot in that hospital before, and neither did she so maybe she had taken me there as a child and forgotten.

The place felt upscale from the moment we walked in. To reach the ER, though, we had to take an elevator down, and the waiting area there was shockingly small compared to other hospitals. Honestly, there were maybe six chairs total for patients waiting to be called. But since it was a Saturday night, the place was practically empty — just me and one other woman. Which meant everything moved quickly.

I was called in for triage almost right away. They gave me a wristband marked “non-urgent,” and strangely, that alone eased my nerves despite all the symptoms I was feeling. Afterward, we were directed to another waiting room, also modest in size, but this one had about eight or ten people. Still, for a hospital, that was nearly deserted. And in less than twenty minutes, the doctor called my name.

I was already falling in love with this hospital.

And my affection for the hospital only grew after I was seen. Usually, on a Saturday night, you expect fresh residents on call — like that idiot I’d dealt with at the other hospital, the one who insisted I was having internal bleeding. But to my surprise, the doctor who walked in was older, almost elderly, and from what I glimpsed in the other rooms, there weren’t any young doctors around at all.

He turned out to be wonderful, easily the best doctor I’d encountered in all my hospital visits. He listened carefully, gave me his full attention, and had a calm presence that immediately put me at ease.

He listened to my entire story with patience, and then, in a calm and kind tone, explained that I needed to be patient myself. Because of the diastasis repair, it was almost like I’d had bariatric surgery — my muscles had been stitched together, and that meant feeling nauseated after eating was to be expected.

I told him what had happened at the previous hospital, and he looked horrified. He said that doctor clearly didn’t know what he was talking about. He reassured me that the altered PCR in my blood test, along with a few other markers, was completely normal after such a long surgery and significant blood loss. Nothing alarming at all.

But when I mentioned the Restiva patch, his expression changed to shock. He said Restiva is notorious for causing nausea and vomiting, and he was appalled that I had been using 30 mg. According to the guidelines, the standard dose is 10 mg per week, and considering my weight and height, even that was a lot. Thirty milligrams, he said, would almost certainly cause severe nausea. Even though I had already ripped off two of the patches and was down to “just” 10 mg, that was still too much for me. By the next day, once the medication cleared, I should feel better. In that moment, he confirmed what my “light from the universe” had revealed to me the night before: it was the Restiva.

In his opinion, the nausea came from both the patch and the tightened muscle, but deep down, I knew it was the patch. How could my own surgeon have overdosed me like that? And when he finally told me to remove the two patches in front, why didn’t he tell me to remove them all?

All I had ever wanted was for him to do what this ER doctor had just done: sit down, listen, go through my chart, review every medication I was taking. Then, when he reached Restiva, say: Look, Restiva commonly causes nausea and vomiting. Let’s remove all of the patches, wait 37 hours, and if you feel better, we’ll have our answer. If not, we’ll keep investigating. That was it. That was all I needed. But he never did it. A simple ER doctor did it instead. Actually, I did it. I was the one who tore the patch off, who researched it. I’m not a doctor, but in that moment I was a better one than the man who calls himself so highly respected.

Back to the doctor, after examining me, he said the surgery looked beautiful.

He explained he would order bloodwork to compare with the previous results, and only if something came back highly abnormal — which he doubted — would he request another CT scan. In his opinion, everything looked fine. He also prescribed IV steroids and something to ease my nausea.

When I stepped into the medication room, I was stunned. It was a separate space where each patient had their own TV, plus a reclining chair comfortable enough to sleep in. And the best part: a sofa for a companion. Most hospitals don’t even allow that. My mom sat beside me the whole time.

The nurses were wonderful too, gentle with the needles so I barely felt a thing. I ended up staying there nearly two hours while the medication ran, even dozing off into a sweet little nap. We were both hoping the same doctor would be the one to review my results, though we doubted it — in hospitals, there’s always a shift change, and I don’t think I’d ever once been seen twice by the same physician.

But about an hour and a half later, the blood test results were back, and to our surprise, the very same doctor came into the medication room himself to check on me. He reassured me that everything looked fine and told me that once the IV finished, I should go straight to his office so he could prescribe some medication to take home and discharge me.

We were amazed. I had never seen a doctor leave his own office to personally check on a patient in another ward. From that day on, I'll just go to this hospital.

Once the IV finally finished, I went back to the doctor’s office. He reassured me that everything looked fine, and then we were free to go home.

Part of me wanted to send my surgeon a long text or a voice message to unload everything that had happened that night. But I let it go. Tonight, all I wanted was rest. When I see him at my follow-up in a month, I’ll tell him everything.

For now, I’m just holding on to tomorrow, hoping that this awful sickness will finally pass. I have to believe it will.

 07/09 Chapter 445 Crying your way out

What I thought would happen, happened: the nausea was gone. Proof that the patches really had been the culprit all along. Just over thirty hours later, exactly as the internet had promised, the sickness lifted.

After so much psychological torment the doctor insisting, my family repeating that it was “all in my head,” that I was just inventing problems, this was undeniable. And the relief I felt was overwhelming. Happiness, too. Finally feeling well again lifted such a weight off me. The constant fear of something happening to me eased, and suddenly the day felt beautiful, simply because I woke up without nausea.

To celebrate, after nearly two weeks without eating, I indulged in everything I could and even baked a brownie.

But while that fear left me, another worry began to creep in — this time, about you. I’ve noticed that whenever I scold you, raise my voice, or even when your grandparents correct you — like the times you push your cousin — you cry so hard, so deeply, that it almost makes you sick. You get so worked up that you gag, as if you might vomit from the nerves.

It breaks my heart, because you’re such a good, well-behaved little girl that no one really needs to scold you often. But the few times it happens, you crumble, crying as though the world had ended. And life doesn’t work that way. There will be many more moments when you’ll be corrected, when you’ll hear “no,” when you’ll be disciplined. You can’t let yourself fall apart every time.

It’s not just with me, it happens with anyone who speaks to you in a firmer tone. That same flood of tears. I know a part of it is genuine sadness, that you really feel hurt when someone is upset with you. But I also recognize the drama in it, the need for attention. I know it because I was the same way, maybe I still am.

And that’s exactly why I want you to grow stronger, to be better than me in that sense. To take correction without falling into pieces.

I’ll be watching more closely, and I’ll figure out how to guide you through this.

 09-12/09 Chapter 446 All I need was a call that never came

After so many setbacks in my recovery, I was overjoyed to finally feel well again. But more than anything, what I longed for was for life to slowly fall back into place. I couldn’t wait to return to our home, to go back to work, for you to start school again, for us to settle into our routine. It’s wonderful staying at my parents’ house, but nothing compares to the comfort of your own home. And let’s be honest, at your grandparents’, all sense of routine disappears. You eat even worse than you do at home, undoing all the little progress I’ve made with you at the table. You fall asleep after one in the morning, wake past noon, watch endless cartoons… everything upside down.

Today I’m more grateful than ever for my mother. She cared for me these past two weeks with such patience and tenderness, proving once again that she’s the best mother in the world. And if someday I can be even half the mother to you that she has been to me, you’ll be very lucky.

I spent those days resting, watching endless movies, sleeping too much, throwing up too much, while my parents cared for you with so much love. It was almost like an unwanted vacation, stuck in bed while they took care of everything else. But now it’s time to return to reality.

I believe things will truly go back to normal once I’m free of this splint and surgical binder, but that will still take time. Until then, I need to focus on the present instead of rushing toward the future.

Going home will also ease the constant tension with your father. He’s been throwing it in my face that when I chose to have this surgery, I promised it wouldn’t disrupt his life. And yet, you didn’t go to school during that time, which meant he had to drive to my parents’ place to pick you up on his days. I understand it wasn’t convenient for him, but isn’t it a father’s duty to pick up his daughter from her mother’s house? That was my home at the time. And what if I had moved back in with my parents after our separation?

What hurts the most is that, apart from asking my mom about me on the day of the surgery, he never once called, never visited. The only time I saw him was that Saturday when he came to take you to the park,  and even then, only because he had to. Once upon a time, he was affectionate, loving, tender with me. Now it feels like nothing remains. Sometimes I think back to what we were, and it feels almost unreal to see what we’ve become.

Maybe once we’re back in our routine, he’ll stop arguing and criticizing me. I know I made promises I couldn’t keep, but right now I’m as helpless as a sack of potatoes, relying on my parents for everything. I can’t expect them to be the ones driving you to him, or to school, that’s something he and I need to figure out. Yet to him, my surgery seems to have been nothing but an inconvenience. Not one ounce of concern for my health, but endless complaints about driving ten extra kilometers — in the car that I lent him, my car.

But the truth is, I feel sad. Hurt. Disappointed.
All I needed, the one thing that might have given me a little hope in this uncertain future was for your father to show even a trace of concern for my surgery, for my health. All I needed was a visit. A call. Something. But it never came.

Now there’s nothing left.

To my daughter Melanie (August 2025)

 03/08 Chapter 428 Let's win this thing

For the first time in my life, I went to a political protest. And this time, it wasn’t about supporting Bolsonaro, it was about calling for amnesty and the impeachment of Alexandre de Moraes.

Even under the weight of the Magnitsky Act, the man hasn’t stepped down, and he won’t. Now the other Supreme Court justices are in the crosshairs too. According to Donald Trump’s administration, anyone who helps Moraes—whether they’re fellow judges or outside allies—not only loses their U.S. visa (which most already have) but also gets hit with the full force of the Magnitsky Act. And that’s far more devastating than losing a visa. It wipes you out financially—banks won’t take you, credit cards are off-limits, and you’re stuck living on cash. And that’s just the beginning; there’s a long list of other consequences that come with it.

I’ll admit, I enjoyed seeing him publicly humiliated and added to a list reserved for tyrants and terrorists. But I don’t believe he’ll give up power. He’s a psychopath and psychopaths double down, and they fear nothing. Venezuela’s entire Supreme Court was sanctioned in the exact same way, and they’re still clinging to power. They’ve found ways to keep their lives comfortable, and our corrupt judges won’t be any different.

One of them in particular—one of the most corrupt of all—was even exposed abroad for working with the Biden administration and the CIA to interfere in Brazil’s 2022 elections. He owns a $22 million property in the U.S., along with offices and speaking engagements at Harvard. Losing his business and his luxury home will be a blow. Losing his visa already hurt him. If the Magnitsky Act comes for him, he’ll be the one hit the hardest.

But Brazil is infamous for corruption, it’s been that way since my grandparents’ time. Our politicians are a disgrace, and the Supreme Court is no exception. They’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on. That’s why, even though I’m glad these sanctions are in place, I don’t think much will change for Brazil unless Moraes is actually removed from power. And the moment is now—either we bring him down, or a full-blown dictatorship will take hold, just like in Venezuela or China. And then… it’s over.

This is the time for the people to rise, to protest, to shout, to make themselves heard. And this time, I was there. I went with my parents, Aunt Ro, her idiot husband, my sweet grandma, and Cheila (the mom of Noah and Sophia).

You stayed with your godmother, who took you to Uncle Rafael’s parents’ farm, where you had the time of your life feeding the horses.

While you played, I was fighting for a better country, not just for you, because you might not even be here, but for my nephew and for the family who will remain.

We took the subway, and at first, I thought the crowd wasn’t that big. But as we got closer, I realized there were enough people to make noise and be impossible to ignore.

Being so short, I found something to climb on so I could actually see. And to my surprise—and absolute joy, there he was: Nikolas Ferreira. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of seeing him; he’s from Belo Horizonte. But when he appeared, I probably looked like a crazy person.

Nikolas is young—about four years younger than me—but he’s done more than most people twice his age. He doesn’t bow to the system, he’s razor-sharp, he says exactly what needs to be said, and he gets under the skin of every corrupt figure in his path. One day, I believe I’ll see him as the president of Brazil—if we still have clean elections by then, and if we haven’t fallen completely into a dictatorship.

Seeing him there, surrounded by so many people standing up against the absurdity we’re living through, made it all worth it.

I just hope he never disappoints me like the others have, and that he keeps being one in a million.

 07/08 Chapter 429 All About You

Daughter, here are a few things about you:

• You’re unbelievably affectionate and fiercely protective. Once, my sister pretended to pull my hair and you burst into tears. That’s just one of many little moments that showed us how deeply protective you are.

• Like me, you inherited your mom’s sweet tooth. You’re a little sugar bug—much to your dad’s despair—choosing chocolate and candy over anything savory, every single time.

• You’re a little fashionista. I never was. You like feeling beautiful and love when people notice and say so.

• Dresses are your weakness—especially the twirly ones. You can’t resist spinning around just to watch the skirt swirl.

• And shoes. Oh, you love shoes. I never cared for them, but you light up when you get a new pair. When I was a kid, I hated getting shoes as gifts—I only wanted toys, nothing else.

• The way you love your grandparents is beautiful, but your bond with your grandfather… that’s something out of this world.

• You and Rafinha are like siblings—right down to the arguments. But you can’t seem to exist without each other.

• Even though we set stricter screen limits for you, you’re far more hooked on cartoons than Rafinha ever was (and he didn’t have any screen limits). I think you take after me in that. I’ve always loved losing myself in shows—cartoons, soap operas, series—more than your Aunt Tayna ever did. Many times I’d skip other plans just to sink into that imaginary world. Maybe the real one always felt too heavy for me, so I found shelter in fiction to face it better.

• You’re already so close to your little school friends. One afternoon when I came to pick you up, you were at the playground. As you left, your friends called out, “Bye, Mel!” and you, grinning from ear to ear, answered, “Bye, kisses!” blowing kisses their way. Then you turned to me and said, “They’re my friends.”

• You’re already excited for your birthday. Seeing your classmates celebrate theirs has you constantly asking when yours will be. I think you’ll enjoy your third birthday party more than any before.

• You adore princesses—your current favorites are Cinderella and Elsa—but you can’t resist singing along to Moana’s songs.

• You learn things so quickly. You mastered riding a bike with training wheels right away and figured out how to swing all by yourself, pushing your legs forward and back. But when you can’t do something, you get so frustrated—angry at first, and then in tears.

• You hate being held down. Whether it’s taking medicine, doing an inhalation, or putting something in your nose—you’d rather do it yourself, like a big girl, than have anyone hold you still. I think that might be a shadow left from your hospital stays.

• Just like your mom, you’ve loved sleeping since the day you were born. You enjoy going to bed late, waking up late, and you love sleeping in your own bed. In fact, your bed is bigger than mine, and somehow you still manage to claim every inch of it—arms and legs sprawled out like a starfish. Sometimes you even spin in a full circle from the position I originally placed you in.

• You’re not the type to get cold easily.

• You’re very shy—a trait that seemed to appear out of nowhere at a certain point in your life. Now, the moment you see unfamiliar faces, you retreat, hiding between my legs or curling into your own arms, your head bowed. Take the doorman at school, for example: every single day, without fail, he greets you with a cheerful “Hi, Melanie,” and you walk past in complete silence, eyes down.
  Even with relatives you see fairly often, if too much time passes between visits, it takes a while before you finally warm up.

• You love to pretend you're driving my car.

• You love to run, but just like me, you’re a little uncoordinated. Your stride tilts slightly to the side, giving your run a quirky, almost playful crookedness.

• Strangely enough, you’re always thrilled when I come to pick you up from school—but the entire car ride home, more often than not, you end up fussing or crying for no reason at all, and out of nowhere.

• You’re incredibly bossy—incredibly. My sister always jokes that you’ve got the soul of a mom.

• You constantly mix up green and red. Whenever I ask you how to say “green” in English, your answer is always “red.”

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•  09/08 Chapter 430 All About You

• Today was Father’s Day at your preschool, and they’d planned a little celebration—gifts for the dads and a special dance from you all.

  We were the second to arrive, right after my sister. A few minutes later, the teachers whisked the children away while the parents were led to the school gym. After about five minutes, you all came in to perform your Father’s Day song. But right when it was your class’s turn, the speaker stopped working. Suddenly, there you all were—frozen in front of a crowd of parents, waiting for music that never came.

  To make things even more awkward, instead of fixing the speaker, they played the song on a phone. We couldn’t hear a thing. Poor Teacher Alice ended up singing loudly to try to save the moment. Most of the kids barely danced, probably because of the sound issue—they just wiggled a little. You, though, turned into a statue. I could tell you’d been ready to perform at first, but standing there so long, staring at a sea of adults, made you shut down. At one point, I honestly thought you might cry. You just wanted it to be over. And when it finally was, you ran straight into my arms.

  Then came the English song performance, and this time, your dad had to go up and stand with you—otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone back in front of everyone.

  It was different from the June Festival dance. Back then, all the kids danced more (including you) and seemed so much more at ease. Maybe it helped that the space was bigger and the audience was farther away.

  After the music, the children handed out the standard little personalized gift for their dads. Then we all had hamburgers the school had prepared, while you happily ran around the playground with your friends.

  The event was held at Unit 2, not your usual school building. Your current unit is for kids from nursery to age three. From age four onward, classes are at Unit 2. Which means, my little flower, next year you’ll be moving there—right now, you’re the oldest in your unit, and next year you’ll be the youngest in the new one. I actually really liked Unit 2; it’s bigger and has lots of fun spaces for you to explore.

  After all that, you and I curled up and napped together in the afternoon. Later, your dad came to pick you up so you could spend the night with him and wake up tomorrow to celebrate Father’s Day together—because he truly is a wonderful dad to you.

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•  11-15/08 Chapter 430 There's no coming back

  This week flew by in the blink of an eye. You went to school every day, but on Tuesday you slept at your dad’s, and on Wednesday your grandma asked to take you home with her so you could spend the night with her and grandpa. Luckily, your dad swapped Thursday for Friday so you could sleep there again, otherwise it would’ve been three nights in a row without you. I don’t think we’ve ever gone that long, haha.

  It was such a happy, wonderful week with you. We played with blocks, played with your little monkey (you love when I grab him and make him “talk”), played with Noah and Sophia, watched cartoons, snuggled up to sleep, talked… just enjoyed each other.

  Then today—Friday—before your dad came to pick you up, the package from the U.S. finally arrived, and inside were the Elsa dresses I ordered for your third birthday. They’re a bit big, but you adored them. In fact, getting you to take one off was an ordeal—you threw yourself on the floor, cried, and put on the biggest show. I had to take it off so you could leave with your dad and bundle you up in a jacket because it was freezing. But even with all the drama, I couldn’t help feeling happy, seeing how much you loved your dresses and didn’t want to let them go.

  The only thing weighing on me right now is the surgery. Today I had my second and final appointment with Dr. Rafael before the big day, and my mom and sister came with me. Everything is now paid and set, and it’s less than two weeks away… I’m trying to savor every single moment with you, as if each one were the last. And I promise that even when everything goes well (and it has to go well), I’ll keep making the most of our days together. Because every day with you makes me happy—you’ve completely changed my life.

  My return visit went smoothly. Since my sister came along and wanted to ask questions about breast implants, most of the appointment ended up being about that. I also asked for a quote for myself—what it would cost to bring my breasts closer together, create more definition in the cleavage, and do a mastopexy, since they sagged quite a bit after breastfeeding.

  I seriously considered it and was very tempted, but in the end, I decided against it for two reasons:

  1) The additional cost would be over R$30,000, and that’s money I’d rather put toward renovating the new apartment.
  2) The main reason: breastfeeding. I still want to have a second child someday, and I want to breastfeed. A mastopexy interferes a lot with the mammary glands and can completely compromise lactation. It was already challenging for me without the surgery; with it, I’d likely have to give up breastfeeding altogether. And I don’t want that. I see it as selfish. My breasts aren’t perfect, but they’re fine. If I plan to have another baby, I can’t take away the most natural and essential source of nutrition just to improve something that’s still good enough.

I cleared up some basic doubts, and we even touched on the case of Nathalia Cavanellas, who passed away, as well as another well-known influencer. I thought he would give me more reassurance about that, but honestly, he didn’t. So of course, I’m still very scared.

But everything is already set—scheduled, paid for, and there’s no turning back. Now it’s about moving forward with courage, head held high, and holding on to the belief that everything will be all right.

16/08 Chapter 431 Tiny Dancer

Today your dad took you to the park—the same one you had gone to with your preschool and little friends. He brought you back around 4:30, and I rushed you straight into the bath so we could get ready for Marina’s 15th-birthday party.

Since Thursday, you’ve been waking up with your eyes sticky and glued shut from pink eye. Last night you slept at your dad’s, and he told me your eye was still bothering you. Aside from that and your eternally runny nose, you seemed fine.

I was in good spirits while getting you ready, until my sister called to say Rafinha wouldn’t be coming to the party. He was sick, coughing a lot, and besides—it was really more of an adult party. He would have needed a phone in his hands the entire time just to stay put. Which meant it would just be you. And I knew exactly how that would end: you, bored to death.

Still, I tried not to let it dampen my mood. I dressed you up like a little princess, and you, so vain already, twirled in front of the mirror, completely enchanted with yourself. You even chose your own shoes.

For the first time, I didn’t invite your dad. I think I made the right call. We’ve been separated for nearly a year, but kept attending events together, traveling, doing everything as if nothing had changed. It only led to fights, to tension. If we want peace, we have to accept the truth: sometimes the only way forward is apart.

When we arrived, the buffet table looked beautiful. I filmed it—it was all delicious.

But you hardly ate. Just as I feared, you were miserable, sitting alone. You’re shy, after all; you only open up with me, your grandparents, Tayna, or Rafael. Anyone else who dares to approach you, you immediately turn your head away in embarrassment.

Eventually, I gave in and handed you my phone. You watched videos for most of the night. And I had to admit my sister was right—parties like this aren’t really meant for little ones. Honestly, you would have been much happier staying at your dad’s, running around and playing, instead of spending four hours glued to cartoons on a screen. I don’t mind you watching shows—but an entire party like that? That, I can’t help but think, is just awful.

Then came Marina’s dance with her grandfather and father. But it wasn’t even a waltz—the traditional dance every girl dreams of at fifteen. The whole party felt like any other gathering, nothing that carried the magic of a quinceañera, except for a giant LED number “15” glowing in the corner. That was it. I honestly thought she would at least change into a princess gown for the dance—I even saw the photos she had sent to my mom while trying some on—but no. It never happened.

Still, I found the dance beautiful. There’s something enchanting about that moment; it always feels like a scene from a fairy tale.

And for me, what made it truly magical was seeing Marina—the baby I once loved with all my heart, long before you were born—now stepping into womanhood.

When Marina was born, I was 18. I was going through one of the hardest phases of my life, with depression weighing heavily on me. Her arrival was a light in that darkness. I was already driving back then, and once or twice a week I would go to my grandmother’s house, where Marina lived at the time, just to see her. She was the most beautiful baby I had ever laid eyes on—blonde hair, blue eyes. I was completely captivated, and being with her soothed my aching heart.

As she grew, the magic of childhood slowly faded, as it always does. Children lose a little of that ethereal glow as they turn into kids. But in her first two years, I was inseparable from her. That bond never left me. So when I watched her dance that night, in my mind’s eye I didn’t just see a young woman twirling in front of everyone. I saw a little ballerina—the tiny girl who had been my very first love for a child—dancing her way into adulthood.

17-18/08 Chapter 432 What have we become?

Today was Grandma Simone’s birthday (59), just a breath away from sixty, which in Brazil is already considered “elderly.”

We celebrated with a simple little gathering at my parents’ house: an afternoon coffee with her side of the family. Everything felt calm, almost as if life was finally settling into place. You spent the day running around with Rafinha, laughing and playing, until evening came and worry replaced the joy. Both of you were coughing nonstop, and Rafinha even had a fever. Somehow, he managed to sleep through the night, but you stayed awake coughing, which meant your grandmother didn’t sleep either torn between watching over him and you.

The next morning, when we woke up, I asked your dad if he could stay home with you. At 3 p.m. we had the inspection for the new apartment — at last, I was going to step into my very own place — and my parents were eager to see it with me. Your dad agreed to stay, so off we went. I asked your father if he could stay with you because you were coughing too much and clearly not well enough to go to school. You had a feverish look, were struggling to breathe, and needed the inhaler with Aerolin every so often.

We got to his house around 2:30 in the afternoon, and that’s when he already started to get under my skin. All he had to do was stay with you for a single hour. But the moment he opened the car door and saw you asleep, looking sick and fragile, the first thing that came out of his mouth was:
“Great, you’re handing her over like this.”

And when he took you in his arms, he shook his head, silently judging.

In his mind, of course, it meant we hadn’t taken care of you properly, that somehow we had let you get sick. It drives me crazy. There’s no way you caught anything at the birthday party, not even from your cousin, whom you only saw on Sunday. How could you have gotten sick so suddenly, from one day to the next? Impossible. He just can’t seem to understand that since the previous weekend you were already showing signs of conjunctivitis, most likely from adenovirus, and it started with that before the other symptoms came along.

But in his distorted version of reality, my family and I were careless. In his head, he had given you back to us healthy on Saturday, and by Monday we were returning you sick. That’s exactly what he thought,  and later on, he actually confirmed it.

Finally, your grandmother and I met up with my dad at the apartment. I was anxious to see our new home for the first time. Of course, it didn’t have much impact yet — without furniture, it’s still just empty space — but at least you can get a feel for it.

The kitchen and living room struck me as quite small, though the balcony more than made up for it. I plan to level it with the living room, and once I knock down the wall that separates the kitchen from the living area, the whole space will open up and look much larger than it really is.

One pleasant surprise was the extra balcony by the laundry area — such a clever addition. It even fits both a washer and a dryer, which is exactly what I wanted.

The view, however, was disappointing. It faces a cluster of rundown houses, almost like a tiny favela — but then again, São Paulo isn’t known for its beauty.

The hallway was narrow and cramped, but your bedroom felt spacious. Mine, in comparison, is only slightly larger yet oddly laid out. The bathroom in my suite, though, was impressive — big and open, with enough space to fit a bathtub inside the shower area.

Another perk is the private elevator that opens directly into a small hall just for us, which we’ll be able to decorate as our own little entrance. I really liked that. Now I can’t wait to start the process of filling it with furniture, bringing it to life, and turning it into a real home.

For days, your grandmother had been saying the balcony seemed small — about the same size as the one we already had — and that left me disappointed, because I had been dreaming of a proper gourmet balcony. But she was mistaken. Standing there myself, I could see it was actually quite spacious. And the balcony of my private room it was similar to the one I hava now. So imagine...

Another pleasant surprise was finding blackout shades installed in every bedroom — the same kind your father has in his place in Barcelona, which I absolutely love. These ones aren’t remote-controlled, but they close automatically with a simple switch. They even added an outlet so that, if we ever want, we can upgrade them to work by remote.

About an hour after the visit, I texted your father to say we’d come pick you up, but he replied that you had just fallen asleep and asked me to wait. The problem was, my mother was about to leave, and I would need to take the car, get stuck in traffic, and complicate everything. So I stood my ground and insisted I’d come for you anyway.

That turned into an argument over WhatsApp, and in the end, I blocked him for a few hours. With you sick and him blaming us for it, I couldn’t even enjoy the apartment as I should have.

Looking at our conversations lately, the way we’ve been talking to each other, I can’t help but wonder: what have we become? I never wanted it to be like this — and I never imagined it would, even after we went our separate ways.

20/08 Chapter 433 Wheezing in your chest, fear in my heart

It’s already Wednesday, and you’re still not getting better. This week has been school-free. Your grandma was so worried that she took you to see Dr. Humberto. He said your oxygen levels weren’t great, which is always a red flag, since it means you’re struggling to breathe.

He also heard wheezing in your chest, so he prescribed antibiotics. That gave me some relief. I felt certain the medication would sort things out, and maybe by Friday you’d be well enough to go back to school. Rafinha isn’t going either; he’s scheduled for surgery on his little pipi, just two days from now. We all know it’s a simple procedure — you had the same one yourself — but surgery is always nerve-racking. My mother even reminded me how she once lost a cousin at just seven years old during a routine tonsil removal, the very same surgery you had. Of course, things are much more advanced nowadays, but still, it lingers in your mind.

These past few days, my dad went off to the beach house for work, so my mom has been staying here with me for a couple of nights to help with you. It gave me a chance to rest a little, because every so often I need to check your temperature, set up the nebulizer, watch your breathing, or wake up in the middle of the night to give you antibiotics. My mom has always been right there for moments like this.

We’re already on the second day of antibiotics, but this time whatever you and Rafinha caught has been stubborn, barely responding. It’s been a long while since you last had to be hospitalized, yet the thought always hangs over us, and the fear hits hard every time. Get better, my love. Please.

22/08 Chapter 434 Broken inside with no place to go

The day started off on the wrong foot. At 6 a.m. my mom woke me up, worried that your breathing wasn’t improving and insisting we should take you to the hospital. I agreed right away, and just like that, the nightmare began again.

I suggested we try Oswaldo Cruz this time. I’d heard great things about it and thought it would be good to see for ourselves. But when we got there, the receptionist told us the hospital didn’t have a pediatrics department. It was the first time I’d ever seen a hospital that didn’t treat children. I knew children-only hospitals, but never adults-only.

They advised us to head to either Santa Catarina or Beneficência Portuguesa, both nearby. Santa Catarina was where Rafinha had been hospitalized when he was eight months old. My parents had a good experience there. But Beneficência Portuguesa was right around the corner, and I’d always been curious about it. Since it was close enough to walk from where we’d parked, we decided to give it a try. And honestly, we were pleasantly surprised. Sometimes the most famous hospitals leave us disappointed, while the ones less talked about end up exceeding expectations.

At first, we went through triage. It makes me happy that you don’t put up a fight anymore when they check your temperature and oxygen levels. I think you’ve realized it doesn’t hurt, so you stay calm now. The real challenge is always the blood pressure cuff; you probably think it will hurt as it tightens around your arm.

Your oxygen levels at triage weren’t great, so they gave you a yellow wristband for priority care. But the hospital itself was practically empty, and the pediatric wing had no one waiting, so we were going to be seen quickly either way.

We stopped to look at the fish tank before being called in, and it made you smile. Then the doctor welcomed us. She seemed really good—kind and attentive. She examined you, said there was no wheezing, but still ordered a chest X-ray and bloodwork.

The X-ray didn’t worry me much, but blood tests are always a nightmare. They break our hearts every single time, because you panic, you get hurt, and it’s just so hard. I was already feeling anxious, but my mom stayed firm, insisting it was necessary and would be quick.

Before the blood draw, you took five puffs of Aerolin, and then we headed to the lab. And it was exactly as awful as I feared and as I remembered. Four nurses had to hold you down, my mom tried to soothe you while holding you from the other side, and I held your legs. I couldn’t even look. I turned my face away, because watching them poke you and hearing your screams was unbearable.

They got the vein at first, but you moved, and it slipped out. Then they kept digging around for what felt like endless minutes while you screamed and your grandmother, clearly shaken, told them to stop. After all, the test was mostly to check for influenza. And really, who cares which virus it is? The treatment is almost always the same. Meanwhile, you kept crying:
“Stop, please stop! Take it out, it’s over, it’s over!”
Every word shattered me and your grandma.

By the time it was over, you were shaken, exhausted, and your breathing was fast again. It’s always the same… pure torment. When we went for the X-ray afterward, you calmed down. You’ve gotten used to it lately, since we tell you it’s just like taking a picture of your heart.

But my mom was still upset. She said blood tests should only ever be done on you in cases of real urgency and I couldn’t help but point out, “See? You used to insist it was necessary, but now that you’ve seen how much she suffers, you agree with me, don’t you?” She stayed quiet. Your father and I had witnessed this scene before; she hadn’t. Now she finally understood us a little better. Sometimes people only truly understand when they go through it themselves.

Right after the X-ray, we waited a little in the lobby until the doctor called us back. You were crying, begging to go home, and the doctor gently told you, “You’ll be going soon.” That gave me hope that the results would turn out fine.

But as soon as we stepped into her office, she said that although you weren’t wheezing much, your oxygen levels hadn’t improved and the test showed pneumonia in both lungs. You would need to be admitted.

It felt like a bucket of cold water thrown over us. My God, another hospitalization… your fourth one. It would have been the fifth if I hadn’t refused it once at Sabará. Still, it was far too many. We had hoped that as you grew older, we wouldn’t have to go through this anymore. I asked if it would be the ICU, and the doctor reassured me it wouldn’t, which brought a small measure of relief.

Even so, we insisted, asking if she could authorize another round of inhaler treatment to see if your oxygen levels might improve so we could take you home. We explained that your levels had probably dropped after the blood test, because of how nervous it had made you.

The doctor listened and said that anyone who knew her knew she was the last person to admit a child unnecessarily. She hated hospitalizations and only did it when it was absolutely necessary. She understood our fear, our trauma, but she was certain your levels wouldn’t improve. To ease us, though, she agreed to let us try another round, even if she truly believed admission was the only option.

We clung to that fragile hope and sat back down in the waiting room until they called us again for the inhaler. In the meantime, my mom made her calls, and I made mine. I had to call the clinic where my surgery was scheduled for the following Thursday, explaining that it might need to be postponed since you were being admitted that Friday. I wasn’t sure if things would settle in time.

My mom called her parents—my grandparents—and her sister to cancel their trip. I felt so sorry for them. Their plan had been to meet my dad at the beach house and spend a week relaxing together.

The plan had been to leave on Friday and come back Wednesday night, so I’d be ready for my surgery Thursday morning. My aunt Andrea, my mom’s sister, had been planning this vacation with her since the beginning of the year, certain we’d manage to get the beach house. She works a lot and only has time off during her holidays, so she hadn’t even seen our place by the ocean yet.

I felt bad for Andrea. She doesn’t have a husband—which isn’t an issue, I don’t either—but she also doesn’t have children, and that does make her life feel lonelier to me. Her happiness comes from doing things with her sisters: going to the movies, taking a trip, eating out. Her family has always been, and always will be, her parents and siblings. She had been looking forward to this trip so much. And of course, I felt bad for my mom too. She didn’t think twice before canceling her plans to help me with you because that’s in her nature. She could never enjoy herself knowing you were lying in a hospital bed.

She called my dad to let him know, and he said he’d come back right away. But she told him not to rush, that he could wait until the next day, since there wasn’t much he could do right then.

A second doctor came to see us, since the one who’d admitted us had already left. That’s the thing with hospitals—you finally feel comfortable with a doctor, and then suddenly their shift is over. This new doctor was just as experienced and capable, but stricter and more serious. When I explained what we’d agreed on with the previous doctor, she shook her head. With thirty years in pediatrics, she said there was no way she could discharge you in that condition, not with pneumonia in both lungs. I showed her the X-ray from Sabará, and she pointed out that case could’ve been treated at home, but not this one. She carefully went over the scans with us, showing exactly where the pneumonia was.

That was it. We were defeated. The battle lost. You were going to be hospitalized. The hardest part now was calling your dad. And of course, his first reaction was to scold me, and he was right. He asked why, if there was even a chance you might need to be admitted, they hadn’t just placed a catheter during the blood draw, so you wouldn’t have to go through the ordeal twice. And he was 100% right. How had I not thought of that? Now you’d have to be poked again, go through it all over again because of my failure to anticipate it. I was furious with myself. I’m your mom, I should have known better.

When it came time to insert the IV line, I couldn’t stay in the room. Unlike the blood test, this time I just couldn’t handle it. My mom had to be the strong one. I stepped outside, desperate for air, and broke down crying. I didn’t care who passed by or stared at me, I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. After a while, I wiped my face and went back in. By then, you were already in the observation ward, and my mom told me they’d managed to get the vein on the first try. That alone brought me a wave of relief.

After seeing you calm in my mother’s arms, with the oxygen mask on and the IV in place, I really needed some air. I told her I’d walk around and find something to eat, so I wandered through the streets for a while. Nothing really caught my eye, so I ended up in this little bar-slash-restaurant and ordered a simple plate of rice and breaded chicken. R$35 for a lunch box—not cheap, but fine, whatever.

When the plate arrived, regret came with it. The chicken was dripping with oil, a sad, soggy mess. I’m terrible at complaining about food—or anything honestly— so I decided to just eat it and get on with it—too much else on my mind already. But one bite in and I nearly gagged. It was raw. Completely raw. It instantly reminded me of something that had happened years ago at my ex-boyfriend Caique’s house, when his sister once fried chicken for me… I’ll tell you that story another time. But that memory hit me right then and there.

I tried chopping it into a thousand tiny pieces to see if it would go down easier, but no, there was no saving it. Finally, I had to say something.
“Sir, this chicken is completely raw.”
He picked up the plate with a quick “just a minute” and disappeared into the kitchen.

All I could think about was whether my chicken would come back covered in the chef’s angry spit or my lemonade, which hadn’t even arrived yet. But honestly, with you in the hospital, I couldn’t even care that much.

The chicken came back eventually, still awful, but slightly more cooked. It was technically edible now, so I ate the edges, the over-fried bits, and left the rest. In the end, the bill came to R$45 with the juice. I was so mad. I don’t mind paying good money for food if it’s actually good. But paying that much for something awful? That drives me crazy. Just like that restaurant we went to recently.

On my way back, still frustrated, I decided to treat myself to a pistachio ice cream, and at least that brought me a tiny bit of happiness in a day that had otherwise been a disaster.

By the time I got back, you were sleeping peacefully in your grandmother’s arms, and I felt myself finally exhale. We were still waiting in the observation ward when your father arrived, and the three of us took turns watching over you. At first, you were so quiet, completely worn out, sleeping for hours. It wasn’t surprising—so much stress, so much fear.

But then I overheard the mother in the next bed saying they had been waiting almost twenty-four hours for a room. My heart sank. Staying in the observation ward was miserable—just a curtain for privacy, other children crying through the night, everyone cramped together. Despite liking the doctors and nurses there, my mom and I started looking into transferring you to Sabará or another nearby hospital.

The man from the admissions department was kind enough, but he explained a few things to us:

1. By 7 p.m., they would know if more rooms had become available, so it might be worth waiting. Transferring hospitals is always stressful for a child, he reminded us.

2. If we started the transfer process that afternoon and a room opened up—there was only one person ahead of us, probably the mother next to us—we would lose the spot because we’d already be in the middle of the transfer paperwork.

3. There was no guarantee another hospital would have a room. They would try several until they found one, but it might not be the hospital we had in mind. Winter months filled every pediatric ward with sick children.

After thinking it through, we decided to stay. We were actually happy with this hospital. The structure itself was better than I’d imagined, and you were already settled, IV in place. Moving you to an ambulance, transferring you to a stretcher—it would only add more stress. It was better to let things be.

The only thing we couldn’t quite understand was why no one had checked your oxygen levels in hours. In this ward, unlike the others we had been in before, there were no monitors. When we asked the doctor about it, she explained that monitors were only for patients headed to the ICU. And it made sense. Every time you’d been in observation before, it was to go straight to the ICU, but this time wasn’t like that. A tiny baby a few beds away was hooked up to a monitor because he was being transferred to the ICU. Still, I thought it would’ve been good to check your oxygen now and then, just to be sure.

What surprised me most was how well you were handling the oxygen mask. You fussed a bit, asked to take it off once in a while, but there were no tantrums, no scenes—you accepted it calmly. The only thing that broke my heart was you whispering over and over that you wanted to go home…

Despite everything, you were eating—that alone was a wonderful sign. At one point, you were suddenly in the best mood, wandering up and down the hall, happily munching on two little chocolate cakes, laughing, content. When your grandmother came back from her phone calls and saw you like that, it lit her up completely. All we ever want is to see you well. And happy. Always.

Still, watching you go through yet another hospitalization, seeing you endure so much… it left me broken inside. There was nothing I could do, nowhere to run from it.

Night fell quickly. I told your dad and your grandmother to go home and rest—especially her, poor thing, she’d been keeping an eye on you since the night before, and we’d been in the hospital since eight that morning. I told them to come back the next day around noon so I could finally go home, sleep, and get a bit of rest myself. They resisted for a while but eventually gave in.

Your grandmother dropped your dad off at his place and then stayed at my apartment, since it was close to the hospital—and honestly, she hates sleeping alone in that big house with my dad away at the beach.

As for you and me, we spent the evening in your hospital bed watching the video of your second birthday party—the one you’re obsessed with. You’ve watched it at least ten times already, and it’s over half an hour long. You love seeing that party… and you’re already so excited for your third birthday.

We waited in the observation ward for hours. They kept assuring us that a room would be ready that night, but midnight came and went, and still nothing. A newborn baby was in the bed next to ours, and every time you cried, you woke him and his mother. By two in the morning, when it happened again, I finally went to the nurses’ station to ask about the room. It had just been cleaned for us.

We moved upstairs close to three in the morning, exhausted but relieved to finally settle in.

Even the night-shift nurses were kind and attentive. You fell asleep almost instantly, and so did I.

The room was bigger and more comfortable than any we’d stayed in before—even better than Sabará. It had a reclining armchair, a big sofa, and the hospital bed you slept in, where I ended up sleeping too. I decided to stay beside you because the bed wasn’t designed for children—the sides were open, and you roll around a lot in your sleep. I pushed the nightstand against one side so you wouldn’t fall, and on the other side, I wrapped my arms around you. We both collapsed into sleep after such a long, exhausting day.

23/08 Chapter 435 I'm growing tired

The morning started in chaos, and I felt myself slowly unraveling. I had asked your dad and grandma to be there by ten, but knowing them, I was certain it would be closer to noon. Meanwhile, doctors and nurses came and went all morning long, and with each visit you grew more anxious, more upset, until the tears came, and with them, my heart shattered into tiny pieces.

What terrified you the most was the catheter. No one was allowed near it. You panicked at the thought that someone might remove it. But every single medication—fluids, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics—had to go through that catheter. There were so many doses throughout the day that your stress rose in direct proportion to the number of treatments.

Each time a nurse came close with a syringe or an IV bag, you screamed, “STOP, STOP, STOP!” You’d always hated being held still, but now it was a thousand times worse.

The nurses, to their credit, were endlessly kind and patient. One even managed to get you to sit on his lap for a moment. Your fear of anything going into that catheter was so strong that you begged for medicine to be given by mouth or through your nose instead. You even tolerated the uncomfortable nasal flushes without tears, anything, as long as it didn’t go through that dreaded line in your tiny arm.

There were so many doctors coming and going that I finally called your grandma and dad in tears, begging them to hurry. I told them I had been with you through the whole night, but my nerves were fraying again, watching you suffer with no one else around. My mom apologized and said she was on her way. Your dad, though—rather than apologizing—blamed me, saying that they’d wanted to stay last night and I didn’t let them. Sigh…

This whole thing is exhausting, these endless respiratory issues, this emotional roller coaster when it comes to your health. It’s not the sleepless nights or even the hospital itself. It’s watching you suffer. I’m growing so tired of it all because it feels like nothing I do can make any difference.

You were already traumatized before, and now it’s a thousand times worse. You scream, you refuse to let anyone touch you, you keep yelling “stop” over and over again.

The nurse I liked the most was Caio. I’ll always remember him. He held you on his lap. At one point, he picked up the IV bag, and you shouted, “Put that away! Put it away now!” I honestly have no idea where you even learned that phrase—how you knew what it meant. You had never said it before. And somehow, that hit me even harder.

Despite all the stress and everything you were going through, I was amazed you were still managing to eat a little. The only thing was your hair—tangled from sweat and nerves, in desperate need of a bath. But giving you one at that moment would’ve been complicated. So when your dad and grandma arrived, I asked her to handle it.

I hugged you, kissed you, and then headed home. I needed to eat, shower, and sleep, just enough to recharge before facing more long hours at the hospital.

The moment I got home, I devoured four fogazzas with pastel dough, took the most glorious shower while watching The Summer I Turned Pretty—my new tv show—and then collapsed into bed for four solid hours. By the time I woke up, it was already past eight in the evening.

I checked the camera and there you were with your dad and my parents. Grandpa had driven back from the beach and straight to a toy store, where he spent over R$500 on Elsa and Anna dolls for you, R$250 each. He brought you Elsa that night and promised to bring Anna the next day. The same doll in San Diego? U$10. Here? Over R$250. Ridiculous. But with all the taxes piled on top of everything here, I guess it wasn’t surprising. Grandpa wasn’t the type to splurge like that, not even for us when we were kids. But for you? He didn’t think twice. Drove back from the beach, spent money we really shouldn’t be spending right now, just to make you happy.

When I called, you started crying for me. I didn’t hesitate, I grabbed the car keys and rushed back. My dad had told me it was time for me to come anyway, since you kept asking for your mom, but I was already on my way.

I felt recharged, ready to face everything again. Amazing what a little rest can do for the soul.

When I got to the hospital, they told me everyone had been wonderful with you, except the new nurse on duty. She wasn’t exactly mean, but she wasn’t warm either. There’s always one, isn’t there? Every place has that one person: school, work, hospitals, even families... someone who just doesn’t fit the kindness or are aligned with the rest.

Grandma said you’d been quiet, withdrawn, not even interested in the Elsa doll Grandpa gave you (maybe because you already had the same one?) She said she hoped you’d like Anna better the next day. Poor Grandpa…

I thanked everyone and stayed with you again, holding you close. We watched your birthday videos, some cartoons, shared a little chocolate cake Grandma had brought, and together we faced the long night of doctors and nurses coming and going.

24/08 Chapter 436 Moral scale

The next day, my parents came to take over for me and your dad. They arrived around lunchtime; your dad decided to stay a little longer, and I drove back home. This time, we noticed you were in much better spirits, especially when you saw Anna. That doll made you so happy, and in turn, it made Grandpa even happier.

But unlike yesterday, I didn’t manage to rest at all. I got home later than planned and jumped straight into work, catching up on countless customer orders that had piled up since Friday’s unexpected hospitalization. A few days away, and suddenly everything felt overdue. I packed as much as I could and handed most of it over to the delivery guy before the evening was done.

Meanwhile, my parents spent the whole day with you. And that’s exactly why I let things slide, little things I’d normally care about, like too many sweets, too much TV, or the endless pampering your dad disapproves of.

I guess, as humans, we all carry our own moral scales, constantly weighing things on both sides. My parents do so much for me, for you, even for your dad in the past, that the few things we might not agree with fall on the lighter side of the scale. The positive side always outweighs the negative by so much that the balance tips so far in their favor it’s not even a contest.

But your dad, well, I’ve talked to him about this before, his moral scale feels skewed. He takes fifty good things and five bad ones, yet somehow those five weigh heavier for him than all the rest combined. It’s as if his scale is wired wrong, letting the negative side crush the positive, no matter how much heavier the good should be.

Gratitude isn’t something you can teach. I can’t give you a step-by-step guide on how to be grateful or how to weigh your own moral scale. What I can do is warn you, give you clues, little reminders so you can always check that scale and let it guide you.

Take, for instance, the moral scale of my first uncle—the one I wrote about in the previous chapter. I remember feeling conflicted about him so many times, trying to convince myself that maybe he “didn’t mean it,” because he was also the cheerful uncle, the one who smiled easily, played with us, took us to buy sticker packs for our albums at the corner shop.

On the positive side of his scale, you had things like the jokes, the family trips to his farm, the little treats here and there. But on the negative side was the fact that he was a predator who harassed me. Even if there had been only this one thing on the negative side—which there wasn’t, but let’s set that aside—it would still outweigh all the small, frivolous positives by an immeasurable amount. One single act of that weight crushes ten, a hundred lighthearted moments. And that’s the thing: sometimes one negative carries far more weight than a whole pile of positives.

Now, when it comes to your dad, my parents’ moral scale is completely different. Their positive side not only has far more items, but each of those positives carries heavier weight than the few negatives. That’s why one of your father’s flaws is ingratitude because when someone’s moral scale is out of balance, they tend to lean toward being ungrateful, sometimes even selfish. That’s why so many people make those famous “pros and cons” lists, it’s nothing more than putting the moral scale down on paper.

I kept wishing your dad would one day stop and really look at his own moral scale, see all that my parents have done and continue to do for us, and truly feel the weight of it. But I think I’ve given up on that hope. I’ve started to understand that a moral scale is something private, deeply personal. We each have our own, and we have no control or even the right to adjust anyone else’s.

After yet another day of my parents helping in every way they could, I returned to you. Tonight, my mom would stay with us, keeping us company through the night.

That afternoon, a doctor came by and said she wasn’t sure if you’d be discharged yet, since you still couldn’t stay off the oxygen for long. But by evening, before I even arrived, they had removed it. They checked your oxygen levels several times, and you were going to spend the night without it—a huge step toward the possibility of going home, maybe as soon as Tuesday. We went to sleep holding each other tight, both of us hopeful that things would finally turn around.

P.S. You finally showered, though it was a quick one because you screamed and fought it the entire time. Your grandmother barely managed to get through it, and washing your hair was simply out of the question.

25/08 Chapter 437 Singing your way home

This morning, we woke up to a bit of good news. The doctor who came to check on you said the wheezing was gone, and you no longer needed the oxygen. She was ready to discharge you, unless, of course, we felt uneasy about it.

We talked it over for a while and agreed that as long as they prescribed the antibiotics for home, you were well enough to continue your treatment there, especially now that your oxygen levels were back to normal.

But before finalizing things, the doctor returned, saying she wanted to run one last chest X-ray just to be sure. We were actually relieved she suggested it. Off we went again, exposing you to yet another round of radiation. You’ve had so many X-rays already that I can’t help but wonder what kind of long-term effects all this might have. And yet, we know they’re necessary. It’s a tough balance...

We did the X-ray and waited in the room for a while until a nurse—who seemed to be the head nurse—came in and announced that we were officially discharged. We asked about the X-ray results, and she told us the doctor had already reviewed them: your lungs were clear, no more antibiotics needed.

We were stunned. Just days ago, both your lungs were full of pneumonia, clearly visible on the scans, and after only three nights on Rocephin, you were suddenly “cured.” I couldn’t help but comment,
“Wow, this antibiotic works miracles.”
The nurse, clearly in a good mood, replied,
“Oh, it does. When someone comes in with leptospirosis, we use it too, it works wonders.”

So there we were—relieved, grateful, and overjoyed. Not only were you going home, but your lungs were clear, and we wouldn’t have to put you through any more days of those heavy-duty antibiotics.

But that’s when things started to get confusing. Just as we were about to meet your grandpa and head home, I received the prescription on my phone—nowadays doctors send everything digitally—and it listed both antibiotics. My mom and I were baffled. The nurse had sounded so sure when she said otherwise.

I went looking for her to clear things up, but in that short time, she had already left. And guess what? The doctor had too. I think both the doctors and the nurses had switched shifts.

The next nurse I asked seemed just as puzzled. She suggested that maybe what the first nurse meant was that you were done with the hospital antibiotic (Rocefin) and the doctor wanted you to continue only the other one at home, since Rocefin is administered only in the hospital.

Still feeling unsure, I told my mom, and she tried asking yet another nurse but same vague answer. Honestly, given all this confusion, there was one simple thing they could have done: call the doctor. Just a phone call. But for reasons beyond me, they refused.

We pushed for it, but they wouldn’t budge. So on our way to the elevator, we asked yet another nurse, who insisted we should follow the prescription because the doctor’s orders outweigh the nurse’s.

What worried us was the possibility that the doctor had prescribed both antibiotics before discharging you, then, after seeing your lungs were clear, decided to skip them but forgot to update the system.

But I guess we’ll never know since no one thought it was worth making a simple call to the doctor.

So we left, frustrated, and the entire way home I kept trying to call the hospital’s main line for more information.

But your improvement was undeniable. My mom and I had been worried because when you woke up this morning—and even as we left the hospital—you seemed down, quiet, withdrawn. Yet the moment we got in the car, you started singing Borboletinha, clapping your hands, making it crystal clear to everyone that you understood you were finally leaving that place behind. The happiness just poured out of you. There’s no denying it anymore: hospitals drain you.

After picking up your medication, we went to my parents’ house. Your mood had lifted, but by the afternoon there was still a shadow lingering. We all noticed it. We talked about it amongst ourselves, saying we would do whatever it takes to make sure you never have to be hospitalized again. My dad said your little heart wouldn’t be able to handle it a second time.

It broke us to see how shaken you were. Giving you a bath—something you’ve always loved, splashing around in the tub—turned into a battle. And now, no one can even touch you without you flinching. It hurts to see you like this.

27/08 Chapter 438 As ready as you can be

After all the emotional exhaustion from the hospital, the day of my surgery finally arrived. Luckily, they were able to admit me the night before. Since the procedure was scheduled for 6 a.m., it made much more sense to already be there, prepared, than to wake up at 3, rush to the hospital by 5, and start surgery at 6.

Grandma and I left home around ten that night, leaving everything ready so Grandpa could stay with you and put you to bed. While he was there tucking you in, we were on our way to something that would either change my life for the better or leave me regretting it forever if anything went wrong.

We got there close to midnight. Check-in was quick, and the nurse explained that at 5 a.m. she’d be in to give me a fast shower and get me ready to head to the operating room. So yes, I’d get only a few hours of sleep, but at least it would be better than none at all.

I held Grandma’s hand, we told each other everything would be fine, and we got ready to rest.
Am I ready? Well… as ready as I can be.

28/08 Chapter 438 And then there was nothing

At 5 a.m., they rushed in, telling me I had to jump in the shower immediately because it was time to head to the operating room. For heaven’s sake, I had already showered at home, but fine. They insisted on using their own special antiseptic wash on my skin. Sigh.

Then came the warning: under no circumstances could I get my hair wet—not a single drop—or the surgery would be canceled. Seriously? Why take the risk at all, then, by making me shower again? Soon after, I slipped into the hospital gown, hugged my mom, just as I had already hugged your dad, my dad, my sister, my nephew, and, of course, you. We kissed each other tenderly, and she told me everything would be fine. Surprisingly, I felt calm. With your unexpected hospital stay and the whirlwind of days leading up to this, time had flown by so fast that we hadn’t even had a chance to be anxious about my surgery. In a way, that helped.

The nurse wheeled me into a small waiting room where I’d meet the doctor before heading into surgery. My mom walked alongside until they stopped her, and I told her not to worry, that I’d be with her again soon.

Inside, there were other patients on gurneys, each waiting for their turn in different operating rooms. It was still dark outside. Dr. Rafael arrived about 10 minutes later and led me behind a curtain to mark my body with a pen and take the obligatory “before” photos. As he worked, we chatted about you, about your bronchiolitis, and he told me his own son had been hospitalized with the same thing when he was a baby. We talked about your dad, about the United States… and little by little, the tension inside me began to fade. After signing a few consent forms, the anesthesiologist came by with more papers for me to sign. Soon after, they took me into the operating room. Everyone there was so kind, so reassuring, explaining each step of what they were about to do. I really liked the anesthesiologist. He even asked for my mom’s phone number, promising to keep her updated throughout the procedure—a habit of his, he said, to help ease the nerves of anxious families. He seemed young, maybe not even forty, warm and friendly. He found a vein quickly, with only a small sting, and explained that after this, I wouldn’t feel a thing. He mentioned they would also give me an epidural after I was under, to help control the pain afterward. I’d always dreaded the idea of an epidural, haunted by the thought of paralysis, but there was no time to panic—he assured me I’d be completely out by then.

One by one, the nurses introduced themselves while Dr. Rafael sat calmly in a chair, waiting, smiling, confident, as the team bustled around getting everything ready.

The anesthesiologist asked if I was feeling sleepy yet.

I said no.

And that’s the last thing I remember.

Then—nothing but darkness.

When I finally opened my eyes, slowly, cautiously, I found myself in what looked like a recovery room. There were other patients around me, the soft hum of monitors in the air. I could feel my body again, piece by piece. And my very first thought was: I’m alive. I’m going to see my daughter.

I remember calling out to the nurses a few times, though I can’t recall what I said. I was groggy, words probably tumbling out in fragments that made no sense. I don’t even clearly remember being wheeled back to my room—just faint flashes of movement, of things gradually falling back into place.

At some point, I drifted off again. But when I woke, I woke to a thirst unlike anything I had ever felt before. My mouth was dry, my whole body parched, as though I hadn’t had water in days. I drank endlessly—glass after glass, the entire day—and still, the thirst refused to leave me. By the end, I had downed nearly 6L of water, something I had never done in my life.

I told my mom I felt like that dry, cracked sand at the beach—the kind kids try to turn into a tiny pool, running back and forth with buckets of water from the ocean. But the moment they pour it in, the sand gulps it down greedily, leaving no trace it was ever there. That was me. Every sip of water disappeared as if I hadn’t had a drop in days. I kept asking for more, and more, and more.

29-30/08 Chapter 439 And then there was nothing

The doctor came by in the morning and, since everything looked good, told me I was ready to go home. He asked if I’d been using the “respiron” (a device where you inhale deeply until all three tiny balls rise to the top) and I said I was doing my best. He replied that I need to do it 10x every 15 minutes, except when you’re asleep. Every fifteen minutes? Seriously? Ain’t nobody got time for that!

He discharged me right after lunch, and off we went home. I was even a little surprised at how flushed my cheeks looked—rosy, like I’d put on the perfect blush. I felt beautiful. Of course, by the next day, the glow had completely faded.

We stopped by your dad’s place to pick you up, and I hugged and kissed you like I hadn’t seen you in ages. But you barely noticed me because the moment we got to my parents’ house, Rafinha was there. You two played all day long, and honestly, that worked out perfectly for me. I spent the entire afternoon sleeping. I was beyond exhausted, but relieved too because I’d made it through the surgery without complications.

Still, I knew the next two weeks would come with a fair share of nerves, every twinge sending me into panic mode. The first 48 hours are always the hardest, they say. So my survival plan had three phases: first, make it through the surgery. Second, survive the next 48 hours. And finally, get through those 15 long days ahead.

The very next day, things took a turn, and not for the better. I spent the entire day feeling nauseous, barely able to eat a thing. The only thing I could keep down was Gatorade. Water, which I had guzzled like a camel the day before, now made me queasy. By evening, the nausea had gotten so bad it started to worry me.

Before the surgery, the doctor had set up a WhatsApp group called “Post-Op,” so I sent a message explaining how awful I felt. The reply? To keep using that wretched breathing device and drink plenty of fluids. Seriously? I had just said I was feeling horribly nauseous so how on earth was I supposed to chug water or do lung physiotherapy with that tube in my mouth? It was impossible.

But it was like I was speaking another language. No one seemed to understand, not even my parents. They just kept telling me to stay calm, try to sleep, rest… For heaven’s sake, I was miserable, and no one was taking me seriously.

My sister tried calling the doctor, but he wouldn’t pick up. That alone made her furious. A few minutes later, he finally texted back: “I’m putting my kids to bed.” That was it. And that only made her angrier, I was a patient who had just come out of surgery, clearly unwell, and he didn’t seem to care.

A little while later, he messaged me asking if I had taken my Venlift—one of the meds we had listed before surgery. I told him I hadn’t, not since the operation two days earlier, but that I would. Still, I knew my symptoms had nothing to do with that. Missing one dose—even four, as I once did while waiting for a new prescription and never left me like this.

Eventually, I hit my breaking point. I begged my parents to take me to the hospital, and they finally agreed.

By then, my sister had already gone home, so we tried calling her but no luck. She was the one who would have to stay with you; we couldn’t take you to the hospital with us.

The moment I stood up to leave, I vomited. A lot. And it hurt like hell. The kind of pain that makes you scream inside because every heave pulls on the fresh stitches across your abdomen. I felt like everything inside me was ripping apart. It was excruciating.

Oddly enough, the nausea eased afterward but that didn’t calm me down. Vomiting after lipo isn’t just unusual, it’s a huge red flag. My mind instantly went to the darkest place: the sister of my former boss. She’d had lipo, went home, started feeling sick, returned to the hospital… and never came back.

Was the same thing happening to me? Would I become part of that tiny, less-than-one-percent statistic? No. No, it couldn’t be.

We drove to my sister’s place, and since she wasn’t answering her phone, my parents took you upstairs to knock on her door. She was already asleep by then, but they left you with her anyway. You’d dozed off in your car seat during the short ride, and handing you over already sleeping brought me some comfort. At least you were safe.

While they were upstairs with you, I stayed alone in the car and that’s when the nausea came back with a vengeance. I got out to catch some air, but the moment I stepped outside, I started vomiting again. Not much this time, but three times in a row, and each time felt like someone was tearing through my stitches with a knife.

Right then and there, I was sure of it—this was it. The same story all over again, just like my boss’s sister. The one thing I had feared most was happening to me.

There was no explanation for why I was so sick—vomiting like that, with a persistent nausea. That’s not what happens after lipo. Not like this. It had only been two days since the surgery, and I already knew something was seriously wrong. My whole life flashed before my eyes.

But what crushed me the most was you. The terrifying thought that I might actually leave you behind. Would your dad take you to Europe right away? Would you still see my parents? How long would you miss me before the memories started to fade? How long would your little heart ache? I couldn’t believe this was happening, that I might really be leaving you.

When my parents came back, I told them about the vomiting and begged them to drive to the hospital fast. My body was flooding with adrenaline. My heart was racing, my blood pressure was crashing, my hands were tingling, and I felt dizzy and lightheaded. My leg kept trembling uncontrollably, and I was sure I might faint, or worse, that my heart might stop right there in the car.

I asked my dad to put the hazard lights on and drive faster, but he, already on edge, said he couldn’t risk it because if he crashed, my freshly stitched body wouldn’t stand a chance. I pleaded for him to at least go a little faster, and my mom sided with me, urging him to do his best.

So there we were, the three of us racing through the empty streets in the middle of the night, all of us terrified. At one point, my dad started scolding me, saying he’d warned me this surgery was a bad idea. Through tears, I told him how unfair that was. So many people in our family had done it with no problems so why me?

The drive couldn’t have taken more than 20 minutes, but it felt endless. When we finally got to the hospital, the same one where I’d had my surgery, the receptionist said we needed to go around to the other entrance. I begged her to let us cut through somehow, I couldn’t face getting back in the car. She took one look at me, pale and trembling, and quickly brought me a wheelchair, personally escorting me through the halls to the ER.

To our relief, the hospital was empty, so triage was quick. But my vitals told a scary story: blood pressure dangerously low, heart racing out of control, so they took me straight into the observation room. Which, of course, was anything but comforting.

The moment I was wheeled into the observation room, they hooked me up to a monitor, the same kind they use on you whenever you’ve been admitted. My heart was still racing at 125 beats per minute, far too fast for an adult.

A doctor came in, someone who looked competent and calm, and explained the three possibilities behind what was happening.

First, it could be mild anemia, nothing alarming. I might simply be feeling this way because of blood loss during surgery. That, he said, was the scenario they were hoping for.

Second, the one that worried them more: an infection.

He didn’t go into details about the infection or what they’d do if that was the case. But he was worried about this one. Then, he moved on to the third possibility. The scariest of all: the early signs of a thrombosis or embolism.

To figure it out, he said they’d run bloodwork and do a contrast angiogram to check my internal organs. In the meantime, they’d use the same IV line to give me medication for the nausea—Dramamine. He noticed my leg shaking restlessly and said that if the medication didn’t ease the nausea or calm me down, they might give me a mild sedative.

Might? That was the first mistake, in my opinion. I was shaking uncontrollably, heart pounding like it was about to give out, completely strung out and they were debating whether or not to calm me down? A sedative seemed like the very least they could have done for my sanity.

The nurses were fine, I guess, but let’s just say I expected more. The one who inserted the IV wasn’t exactly gentle, and it made me even more anxious. But I was so tightly wound, so terrified, that I didn’t even notice when she drew my blood. What I did notice was the needle sliding in for the medication.

And even with the nausea meds going straight into my vein, nothing changed. That worried me even more. It’s true I’d already taken Dramamine earlier in the day with no relief, but IV medication hits harder and faster. This time should have been different. It wasn’t.

It was all so overwhelming. Even after hours in the hospital, feeling slightly better, it didn’t seem like they were doing much to actually stabilize me. I still felt almost as bad as when I first arrived.

After the IV dose of nausea meds, they wheeled me off for the angiogram. The scan itself was quick, but moving from the stretcher onto the machine was agony, every movement pulled at my fresh stitches. What truly scared me, though, was the contrast dye. I’d never had it before, and I’d heard the horror stories like people going into severe reactions, some even life-threatening.

Thank God, all I felt was a brief tingling in my lower body and a metallic taste in my mouth that faded quickly.

But what rattled me most was the way people looked at me. Every nurse, every tech who asked why I was there or why I needed the tests and I answered “liposuction” their expressions shifted. Concern. Pity. A kind of quiet, knowing fear in their eyes. They didn’t have to say it; I could see it written on their faces. Whatever was happening to me wasn’t normal. It was a red flag. And their worry only fueled my own panic.

Oh, and I forgot to mention. On the way to the hospital, my mom had finally gotten the doctor on the phone. He picked up with a groggy voice, clearly woken from sleep. She told him we were heading to the ER, and he just said “okay.” That was it. No urgency. No concern. My dad was livid. He snapped, asking if this was really how a surgeon handled a patient in distress, demanding to know where on earth we’d found him. I told him it had been through a recommendation.

By then, my parents were furious not just at the situation, but at the cold, detached way this man was handling it while we were all living a nightmare.

Back at the hospital, after the angiogram, they again moved me to the stretcher, and again, it hurt like hell. Then I was wheeled back to the observation room, still a bundle of nerves, when I noticed the doctors changing shifts.

The one who’d been following my case left, and in walked a young Asian doctor, barely in his 20's. A shame the first one didn’t stay, he seemed to know what he was doing, and that alone had been a small source of comfort.

Not long after, the new doctor came over, holding my lab results. His face was calm but serious.

“My concern,” he said, “is your hemoglobin. It came back at 9. Normal is 12.”

He explained I might need a blood transfusion and asked if I’d been anemic before surgery. I told him I had no idea.

“Well, it looks like you were,” he said flatly. “And I don’t understand why your surgeon proceeded with abnormal labs. Everything suggests there may be some internal bleeding.”

I froze, a lump forming in my throat.

“Internal bleeding?” I asked.

“Possibly,” he replied.

That was it. My knees buckled beneath the thin hospital blanket.

Already drained, already exhausted, I finally whispered, “So… is there anything you can do? Or…?”

“I’ll speak with your surgeon,” he said.

And just like that, he left.

I was alone then. My parents had gone downstairs for coffee, and the silence was deafening. My mind spun with a million thoughts.

Bleeding inside? Seriously? Had this so-called surgeon nicked something during the procedure? If I’d been bleeding since Thursday morning, why wasn’t anyone rushing me into emergency surgery right this second?

When my dad finally walked in, smiling softly, I burst into tears before he could even ask.

“What’s wrong?” he said, alarmed.

I told him everything the doctor had said. Every terrifying word.

My dad froze when he heard the words. He tried not to show it, but I saw the terror flash across his face, the way all the color drained from it. For a few seconds—an eternity of silence—I could see him wrestling with the words, trying to make sense of what the doctor had said.

Still shaken, he finally muttered that it seemed odd. I didn’t have dark purple bruises, I hadn’t vomited blood… and then he did some quick test they teach at the police academy, something with my fingers, which apparently didn’t point to internal bleeding either.

I was sobbing by then. He tried to calm me, saying not to panic, that if I did have internal bleeding, they would take me into surgery to find the source, cauterize it, and only then give me a transfusion. Somehow, both scenarios sounded equally terrifying.

But I was grateful it was him there with me. If it had been my mom, she would have broken down right alongside me.

A moment later, he stepped out. I saw him pull a nurse aside. When he came back, he said I’d misunderstood everything, that the nurse told him I wasn’t bleeding internally.

But I knew what I’d heard. The doctor had been crystal clear. There was no way I’d imagined it. Most likely, my dad guessed, the nurse had spoken to him or maybe he was already on the phone with my surgeon.

Right after my mom walked in, the young doctor returned and said he had spoken with my surgeon. According to him, the surgeon had cleared up a lot of doubts about my bloodwork. Apparently, since I had just come out of surgery and lost a significant amount of blood, my lab results were “normal” and nothing to worry about.

And then, as if he hadn’t been the one to terrify me minutes earlier with talk of transfusions and internal bleeding, he casually said I was being discharged.

What?

A moment ago, I was bleeding internally, in danger, maybe dying and now I was fine? Now I could go home? I didn’t understand a thing. None of it made sense, and I felt anything but safe.

I asked about the infection. Negative, he said. I asked about the angiogram. Everything normal, he replied.

But I still felt awful. I told him there was no way I could go home like this, that I’d had nausea meds through an IV and was still sick to my stomach.

He just shrugged and said, “Dramamine is mild. There are stronger medications.”

Oh, really? Then why the hell didn’t you give me the stronger one while I was here?

He said my surgeon didn’t think hospitalization was necessary, and that’s why they were discharging me.

I pushed back, telling him it felt like negligence, considering how sick I still was. And then—oh, the nerve—he turned to my mother, speaking as if I weren’t even in the room, practically suggesting it was all in my head. Anxiety. That was his explanation.

I could tell my surgeon had planted that seed in his mind, because he started blaming the Venlift I’d forgotten to take. My mother immediately told him I’d skipped doses before and never reacted like this, but he claimed it was different now because this time I’d had surgery.

And they just kept talking about me while I was sitting right there, trying to speak up only for him to respond to my mom instead of me. The fury burned in my chest.

We tried convincing him that the nausea was unbearable, that with so many medications in my system my stomach was probably wrecked, and that if I stayed in the hospital at least they could give everything intravenously.

He admitted that, yes, IV medication might help with the nausea. He even said he’d call my surgeon again to make that argument, that maybe it would be reason enough to keep me there.

That gave me a sliver of relief… but not much. I was terrified. None of it made sense. One moment they were worried, now they were ready to send me home? What if something was happening that they weren’t catching?

This doctor was useless. And this hospital, the one I thought was so good? I swore right then I was never coming back.

The doctor finally came back after what felt like forever, only to say that hospitalization wasn’t an option and that my surgeon was apparently annoyed about the whole situation.

Annoyed?

I was the one terrified out of my mind, clinging to the edge of sanity, and he was annoyed?

The doctor—clearly the surgeon’s parrot by now—went back to blaming the Venlift, insisting that my shaking, my racing heart, my panic… it was all anxiety from missing the medication. He said they’d give me a sedative to calm me down, along with some IV fluids, and then I’d be discharged.

They brought 0.5 mg of Rivotril. Practically nothing. But I took it anyway.

By then, I was drained in every sense—mind, body, soul. The terror, the confusion, the endless back-and-forth had left me hollow.

The fluids dripped slowly into my veins. The sedative finally softened the sharp edges of my panic. At last, I felt myself slipping into a fragile, uneasy sleep, half-relieved, half-numb, knowing maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t dying after all.

I woke up only when they pulled the needle from my arm.

On the way home, I slept like a child, silent, weightless, spent. The entire morning too.

I was alive. For now, at least.

31/08 Chapter 440 Nothing is falling into place

I slept for hours and woke up Sunday morning feeling a little better but still confused, still uncertain about so many things.

The doctor sent a message in the post-op group, asking if I was feeling any better, his tone a bit gentler this time. I was still queasy, though. Eating was hard. I was running on nothing but Gatorade, unable to stomach much else.

I tried to rest, but my mind wouldn’t let me. It kept circling back to the night before—all the fear, all the chaos, all the unanswered questions that I still couldn’t fully process.

One thing I knew for sure: I had been sick. This wasn’t anxiety. It wasn’t some rebound effect from missing my antidepressant. Something was wrong.

Maybe it was just the mountain of medications I was taking. Maybe. But could it have been something else? Absolutely. My bloodwork hadn’t been perfect, the first doctor clearly thought something was off, and yet my surgeon dismissed it all as though it were in my head. I felt that nothing was falling into place.

In the end, I came up with one solution: attach my lab results and ask ChatGPT.

ChatGPT is this revolutionary AI tool that has completely changed people’s lives. It hasn’t even been around for long, and yet it’s already taken over so many jobs—mine included. But that’s life. We have to keep reinventing ourselves.

For the longest time, we only had Google. And now, suddenly, there’s something far more sophisticated, something that answers your questions instantly, with countless features Google never dreamed of offering. It’s hard to even explain. All I know is that my academic life would have been a thousand times easier if ChatGPT had existed back then.

It’s funny to think about it, how my generation survived a world without cell phones, without the internet, without ChatGPT, without Netflix… things people today can’t even imagine living without.

So, I uploaded my lab results to ChatGPT, and it flagged several things—some relevant, others downright concerning:

• C-Reactive Protein (CRP): 15.87 mg/dL (alarmingly high; normal is <0.30)

• Slower-than-normal clotting: INR 1.53 (elevated; normal is up to 1.30)

I immediately sent a message to my doctor:

“Doctor, I managed to access the results through my login… The anemia looks moderate, but the C-Reactive Protein (CRP) is at 15.87 mg/dL, which is extremely high (normal is below 0.30). Doesn’t this indicate intense inflammation—possibly an infection or some kind of complication? And the clotting time is also slower than normal, with an INR of 1.53 (normal is up to 1.30)."

I don’t know why, but he completely lost it. I’ve realized by now he’s one of those doctors. The kind you can’t question, can’t contradict, can’t even breathe wrong around, or they take it as a personal insult. The kind of people you have to tiptoe around, which is ridiculous.

He scolded me, saying they’d already done “every possible test” at the hospital, that everything was meant to reassure me, and that I was “looking for problems where there were none.” Basically, a whole lot of nonsense.

Excuse me? I just spent R$65k on this surgery (money that could almost buy a brand-new car in Brazil, where cars cost a fortune) and I can’t even say I’m feeling sick, or ask a single question, without getting a lecture?

I had always been upfront with him about my fear of this surgery, how anxious it made me. The least he could’ve done was show a little patience, a little empathy. For the price I paid, I feel like I have every right to ask whatever I want, to understand what’s going on with my own body.

I’m not saying I need to argue and fight like your dad does—debating every little thing—but there’s a middle ground. There’s a difference between being rude and simply wanting answers. And honestly, for this price, the attention should have been tenfold.

When I first met him, he promised me their biggest strength was the care they gave before, during, and after surgery. Well… let’s just say I’m not exactly seeing that.

Sure, I feel a little better now, but I’m still furious about the whole situation.

And to top it off, he says he wants to see me in his office tomorrow. Tomorrow! I was only supposed to go back on Thursday, but apparently, “because of everything that happened,” he wants to see me sooner.

Oh, wonderful.