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.

 15/09 Chapter 447 Into the mystic

Just when I think the worst of the surgery is finally behind me, something new blindsides me.

After all the battles with nausea and vomiting, after fighting the urge to tell my doctor to go to hell for the psychological terror he put me through, making me believe it was all in my head, my bad luck struck again.

A little before my shower, I removed the dressings and noticed that the area below, where my old navel and the piercing hole are, had some small black dots. At first I thought it was just dirt and tried to scrape it lightly with my fingernail, but when I realized it wasn’t, I stopped. And then, looking down, I couldn’t tell if it was already happening, if I had somehow caused it, or what, but it looked as though the stitches had opened, and I might have an infection.

It even looked like there was pus, the skin around it red and angry. The only reason I didn’t completely lose it was because it wasn’t painful and there was no smell, but still, I was deeply worried.

I went to take a shower, half-hoping it would “clean” the area or somehow make it go away. I’m not even sure what I expected, but when I stepped out and saw nothing had changed, panic rose again. All the dark thoughts I’d fought off — infection, complications, even death — came rushing back.

I called my mom, crying, pouring it all out while she was already on her way to me. And in that moment I couldn’t help thinking: if my surgeon behaved like the other doctors and actually saw me every week — or at least every couple of weeks — maybe this could have been avoided.

It’s so overwhelming because it feels like punishment. We used to have Dr. André — he’d done all of our plastic surgeries. But since he operated only in a cosmetic hospital without an ICU, and because he could be a bit inattentive at times — along with a few other things that bothered me — I decided to go with someone new. Someone who came highly recommended, who promised full support before, during, and after surgery.

And yet, to him, “post-operative care” apparently means replying to WhatsApp messages — often rudely — and that’s it.

Dr. André, on the other hand, always answered with kindness, saw his patients every week, picked up the phone himself, and never acted like he was doing anyone a favor.

So yes, I’m furious. I spent over R$60k, entrusted this man with my life, and I’m not even being properly monitored or cared for. Not the way I should be — not by the doctor I chose and put my faith in.

While my mom was on her way to check my dressing, I started messaging people. My physical therapist. A friend who’s a nurse. And not one of them told me I was overreacting when I said my stitches had opened. In other words, I was “open.”

The physio told me to come to her clinic the next day for sunflower oil and ozone therapy. My grandmother suggested sprinkling sugar to help it heal. But I decided I wouldn’t do a single thing until the doctor saw me and told me what to do.

When my mom arrived, she too thought the stitches had opened. By then, I was on edge with everything. I didn’t even want to speak to my surgeon anymore. So she sent a message to the post-op group — the one she’s in too — with a photo and my story. We assumed that once he saw the picture, he’d tell me to come in right away, or at the very least the next day.

But this is what he wrote back:

“Don’t worry, it’s just a wound. Keep applying 70% alcohol and Nebacetin, and it should close soon. I’ll check with my secretary to find a day this week or next week to take a look at you.”

Excuse me? This week? Next week?
I’m open. An actual open wound. What if something gets in there? Am I supposed to risk sepsis and a life-threatening infection because of neglect and indifference?

My mom, ever the polite one, replied asking if he could please make an effort to see me sometime this week, just so we could both feel calmer. He always seems to answer her more gently — with respect — and this time was no different. He told her not to worry, that “nothing will affect your beautiful result,” and that if needed, he could always “add a little stitch” when he saw me.

Sigh. He’s so confident, so sure of his own work, that it almost drives me crazy.

I was furious. Here I was, with an open wound, scared and anxious, and now I had to wait God knows how long for my own doctor to actually see me and check if I was okay.

All of this made me think of my friend Bernadete — the one who did your life reading and gifted it to me when you were born. I reached out to her again, asking if she could throw a tarot spread for me.

I don’t really believe in these things… and yet, after everything that happened with Nathalia Cavanellas — which shook me deeply — I found myself needing to believe in something. Needing something to hold on to. And why not the mystical?

The mystical and the spiritual world once stripped me of my faith at sixteen (a story for another time), but still, I find myself returning to it every now and then — like when you were hospitalized with bronchiolitis in November and December 2023. And now was no different.

I believe, without believing.
I don’t believe, but I want to.

To make a long story short, Bernadete told me I would survive the surgery but that my recovery would be slow, with complications. And wasn’t she right? My recovery has dragged on because of two setbacks, and beyond the Restiva incident, now there’s the issue of the opened stitches.

All of this led me down a rabbit hole of LMN videos on YouTube — documentaries about past-life regression therapy, children and adults remembering previous lives.

Could the mystical world be real after all?

 17/09 Chapter 448 Rebuild

Still waiting to hear back from the doctor about when he’ll finally see me, I might as well share some good news.

At the beginning of the month, I asked my Aunt Rosely if she’d be interested in opening a clothing shop in what used to be my dad’s office garage — a space that’s been unused ever since my grandfather passed away. Well, technically not unused: my dad’s half-brother, Rodrigo, had been storing a bunch of random junk there, as if it were a basement. But I talked to my dad, and he said he’d speak to Rodrigo if needed.

So that weekend, I invited my aunt out for pizza, and we planned everything. We decided to go for it and open the shop. My dad spoke with Rodrigo, and within a week he was clearing out the space. My aunt would handle the store day-to-day while I focused on sourcing more pieces for our bazaar.

The best part is that since the space isn’t rented, the profit will be entirely ours. The only thing left is to officially register the business and pay the taxes, sigh. Unfortunately, taxes in Brazil are painfully high, but there’s no way around it. We can’t take any risks.

My aunt already has plenty of experience, she’s owned two clothing stores before and she really knows the business. I have experience with sales too, but I simply don’t have the time to stay at the shop every day.

The whole idea for this venture actually came from the donations I’ve been receiving. It all started when a client gave me several bags of her late mother’s clothes as a donation. I decided to open a thrift group to sell the pieces and make a little profit. Slowly, I began asking for more donations and they kept coming.

Things really started taking off, though, once I began doing monthly raffles. Everyone who donates at least six good-quality, sellable pieces automatically enters a draw for a prize at the end of the month. And I made sure the prizes were worth it. Since I have the convenience of receiving suitcases from the U.S. every month, I can bring back great products for cheap and imported ones, which people love.

So I started offering Victoria’s Secret and Bath & Body Works body splashes, Guess bracelets, and other things women adore and the donations began to pour in like crazy.

Of course, there are always the opportunists who send lower-quality items, things that can still be sold, like a swimming cap, for instance just to get into the raffle. But on the other hand, some people donate amazing things: brand-new Adidas watches, handbags, bags and bags of beautiful clothes. At the end of each month, I always feel a little pang of guilt seeing those who give the best items sometimes win something small, while others who donate junk end up with expensive prizes.

So I had to rack my brain for a solution. If I didn’t, the people donating the best things would eventually stop. That’s when it hit me: I’d create two kinds of prizes: a standard prize, which everyone could enter for, and a special prize, an extra draw with higher-value gifts.

That way, I could spend less on the regular prizes and invest more in the special ones. People who donated better or larger quantities would win not just once, but twice. And even if they ended up with something small in the first draw, they’d still have the chance to win something great in the second — since all the special prizes were valuable. Of course, some might even get lucky twice and walk away with two amazing gifts.

Thank God, the donations poured in after that. But now I have a new “problem”: there’s so much good stuff — expensive, beautiful pieces — that I can’t always sell right away. And I can’t bring myself to donate them, either. So I started saving those items, and now I have tons of inventory.

Opening the shop will make the profit all mine, but since I’m partnering with my aunt, we’ll split everything fifty-fifty, still a great deal. Plus, she’ll bring in her own merchandise and give me half of those profits too, even on the pieces she invests in herself. I won’t be putting in money directly, but I’ll still earn on what she sells. It’s what I’d call a win-win.

Of course, we’ll need to invest a little in the space like paint, mannequins, racks, hangers, but I truly believe it’ll be worth it. What matters most is creating some movement. The location isn’t perfect, but it’s not bad either. Maybe we’ll sell a lot, maybe it’ll flop, but we have nothing to lose. And we’re excited.

When one door closes, you can’t just stand there waiting for another to open; sometimes you have to carve out a new exit yourself ,or you risk staying stuck. I’m proud of that about me. Whenever something goes wrong in my career or finances, I always find a way to reinvent myself. I only wish I could do the same in other areas of my life. Still, I’m content knowing I’ve mastered at least that one skill.

 18/09 Chapter 449 Pain is the price you pay

The doctor finally scheduled an appointment to see me, but, of course, it landed on the same day as Joaquim’s fourth birthday party. You and your dad were going, and even though we haven’t really been doing things together for a while now — which, let’s be honest, is for the best — he agreed to go with us this time. I really wanted to take Rafinha too, since it was a children’s party at a play buffet full of toys and games, but there was no way I could handle both of you on my own.

My mom was at the beach, so I asked Grandma Sonia to come with me to the doctor instead, just in case he needed to stitch me up. My blood pressure tends to drop, and I didn’t want to risk fainting, or worse. So Grandma came along, as she always does, ready for anything.

I left early while you stayed with your dad. The whole way there, I felt that familiar mix of anxiety and dread, wondering what the doctor would say, or what I might have to face next.

When we arrived, we waited for a little while until his assistant finally called us into a small room — more like an infirmary, the same one where I’d had my dressings removed and where they’d examined me that one single time after surgery.

She took a look at the wound and commented that it was strange for something like this to happen, because it usually occurs within the first few days, and if it doesn’t, it rarely happens later. Well, what can I tell you?

What’s even more absurd is that she herself had written in the group chat that this kind of opening could take three to four weeks to close, as if it were completely normal. Then she asked whether the physical therapist who did my lymphatic drainage might have been applying too much pressure, already trying to pin the blame on the poor woman.

It’s always the same story, they’ll look for anyone to blame rather than admit that mistakes or small complications can simply happen. 

Grandma noticed it too. She had the exact same impression.

After that, the assistant left the room, and we stayed there waiting for the doctor. Almost an hour. I was already so fed up I nearly walked out and told them all to go to hell. But I forced myself to breathe, to count: one, two, three.

Meanwhile, the clock kept ticking. You needed to be picked up and taken to school, your dad had to work, and I had a hair appointment at two to get some curls done for the party. I wanted to look nice, but it was becoming clear I was going to miss it. All because the damn doctor was taking his sweet time.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting and silent frustration, he finally walked in smiling, cheerful, as if nothing at all had gone wrong. Unlike his assistant, he didn’t downplay anything, but he did make a point of saying that if I’d taken my vitamins intravenously, “this probably wouldn’t have happened.” He never explained what this actually was, why it happened, or anything that mattered. He just kept dodging the important questions.

In the end, he gave me a local anesthetic that didn’t hurt at first, but after a few injections, the pain kicked in hard. I didn’t look down, but he spent quite a while stitching me up. Later, Grandma told me he hadn’t given just one stitch, he’d done around five, cutting away a good bit of skin in the process. Basically, it was a mini-surgery right there on the table. He assured me it would look perfect, but after everything, I’ll believe it when I see it.

And here’s the thing, for an assistant who said it was “nothing” (not in those exact words, but close enough), and for a doctor who told me to just use alcohol and Nebacetin, I ended up having a surgery. So no, it clearly wasn’t “just a little wound.” He even prescribed me a topical antibiotic and strong oral antibiotics for seven days. The negligence is unbelievable. Every time I think this can’t possibly get worse, it does.

I left there in a rush, but thankfully the hairdresser managed to squeeze me in at 3:30. I dropped Grandma off at her place, took you to school, and went to get my hair done. By the time I was finished, it was almost time to pick up your dad and then get you and your cousin for the party. Your dad had told me it started at seven, so we planned to leave around 6:30 and go straight there since it was close by. But it turned out the party began at 7:30, so we ended up killing time at a supermarket. You and your cousin were in the back seat driving me crazy while your dad went in to buy a few things.

I drove around the buffet a couple of times, stalling, while your dad kept pressuring me to go inside. But I refused to walk in before the official start time, I think it’s incredibly rude. And yet, as usual, we ended up being the first ones there. Again. They must think it’s my thing, always showing up first.

I’d heard great things about this place, especially about the food. But honestly? It was nothing special. There were a few interesting dishes, sure, but the Star Kids — where you had your first birthday party — is still, by far, the best when it comes to food.

Now, toys and entertainment? That’s where this one shined. It was way better than Joaquim’s last two parties at that “educational” play space. This place had more variety, and you kids had the time of your lives, especially on the little train. At first, you were scared, both you and your cousin, but after half the party convincing you, I finally got you to go. And once you did, you stayed on that thing for nearly half an hour, going around and around, refusing to get off.

I thought I’d really enjoy the party, but I ended up distracted and restless. I had to walk back and forth nonstop, keeping an eye on Rafinha — since your dad flat-out refused to watch him — and by the end, my stitches were aching so badly I was sure they’d open again.

Rafinha isn’t like you, you’re easy. To give you an idea, he grabs anything within reach: scissors, sharp objects, whatever catches his eye. You, on the other hand, already have a sense of danger. You don’t even think about touching something that’s not yours without asking first, which I find the sweetest thing. When someone tells you not to do something, that’s it, you don’t do it again. You have respect.

Rafinha, though… it’s different. It’s not that he’s being defiant or trying to test limits, it’s like he genuinely doesn’t understand what respect means yet. He just acts on impulse, without realizing what could happen.

When someone tells you “no,” you get upset, sure, but you don’t throw yourself on the floor. Rafinha, though… the moment I told him “no” at the party, he hit me. He’s been going through a phase where every time he’s told no or challenged, he reacts by hitting. And here’s the thing, you’re my daughter. If you ever hit me, I could correct you, discipline you. But with him, I can’t. All I can do is scold him, grab his little shoulders, and speak firmly.

Honestly, I have no idea how to correct a child who hits. My sister hits him back when he hits her — but it doesn’t change anything. He still does it. So it was hard for me, especially that night. Every time he tried to climb the stairs and I said no, he’d just keep going. And there I was, stitched and sore, chasing after him. He ran through the entire hall while you quietly played in one spot. When I refused to give him another brigadeiro, he threw himself on the floor and hit me again.

I felt so embarrassed, people were staring. They must’ve thought I was some kind of clueless mother, but I wasn’t even his mom. I know we shouldn’t care what strangers think, especially people who mean nothing to us, but it was embarassing.

At one point, he even went up to a table full of strangers and drank from a woman’s glass of water. She looked stunned, and I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear.

But the hardest part came when the robots arrived. They’d hired two people in giant robot costumes, and Rafinha went absolutely wild. At first, it was adorable, he was so happy, completely mesmerized. But then he wouldn’t leave their side. The poor guys were trying to entertain other kids — especially the birthday boy, and there was Rafinha glued to them, refusing to let go.

You joined in too, obsessed with getting their attention, trailing behind them for over an hour. When it came time for the robots to take photos with everyone, I had to literally hold him by his ankle as he dragged himself across the floor, reaching for them. It was chaos.

To make matters worse, you hadn’t napped all day, and a tired child is a ticking bomb — cranky, fussy, defiant. Your dad helped a little, but he kept his distance. He’d been against me bringing Rafinha from the start. He just doesn’t have love for that boy, and I can’t understand why. I do. I love him dearly. I wanted both of you to have fun together. And you did, in your own way, but it was too much for me, especially after getting five fresh stitches that very morning.

Completely exhausted, I left right after the birthday song. Your aunt and Rafael came to pick up Rafinha, we dropped your dad off, and you and I went straight to bed. You slept beside me because I was too sore to lift you into your own bed.

Later, your dad texted, thanking me for the invitation and apologizing, saying he should’ve helped more with Rafinha. And I appreciated that — I really did. I know he doesn’t have much patience, and it’s not exactly his responsibility, but still… he could have shown a little more kindness to the boy. The way Rafael — your aunt Tayna’s husband — does with you.

When you go to their house, Rafael plays with you the whole time. He gives you attention, affection. The warmth he has for you is something Stan never showed Rafinha, and I’ve never understood why. Just because Rafinha is a handful? He’s still a child.

Rafael even spent almost two hundred reais on an Elsa toy to give you for Children’s Day next month, just to make you smile. He’s not even your uncle by blood, but he’s everything an uncle should be.

And beyond being more understanding with the child, your father could have been more considerate with me. My surgery. My pain. Sure, going to that party wasn’t the wisest decision, and bringing Rafinha along was even less so, but did he really need to stand back and let me suffer just to prove a point?

Sometimes I wonder how my heart still beats for your father, because these little things he does… they shatter me.

 24/09 Chapter 450 Troubles will come and they will pass

Today I got a call from my mom. She told me the lab had phoned to say her test results were ready, asking if she wanted to pick them up in person — it’s pretty far — or pay a small fee of R$8.99 to have them delivered to her house. Of course, she chose the second option.

But since she was at the beach, she asked them to deliver it here instead, and then called me, asking a favor: to go downstairs, pay with my card, and collect her exam for her.

After a while, my phone rang, it was the lab. They said the delivery driver was on his way and would arrive soon, and that I could pay the fee by card, credit or debit. I said that was fine, and a few minutes later, the intercom buzzed. I headed downstairs.

When I got there, the courier wasn’t there yet, but he showed up soon after. I thought it was strange that he didn’t stop right in front of the building like every other delivery driver does, but I didn’t overthink it. He parked across the street, by the entrance of a parking lot, and called out for me to cross, saying too many cars were passing by on my side. Which made no sense 'cause the cars pass between the sidewalks, not on them, but I was too sleepy to argue. So I just crossed.

He typed in the R$8.99 amount and showed me the little card machine. I inserted my card and entered my PIN. The screen said “processing”, but the payment wouldn’t go through. Usually that happens when the machine can’t pick up a signal.

We stood there for about five minutes, waiting, until he switched to another device. I don’t even remember entering my PIN that time. He fiddled with it for a while, then handed my card back, cursing under his breath about how terrible the lab’s machines were. He said he’d go back to the lab to exchange them and then come right back.

Annoyed, I asked if I could just make a bank transfer instead since it would show up instantly, but he said no, that the company only accepted credit or debit payments. And since the card didn’t go through, obviously, he couldn’t give me the envelope.

I was already irritated knowing I’d have to go downstairs again.

I went back upstairs, and a few minutes later, the lab called again, apologizing and saying the courier had taken the wrong machine, each one blaming the other. They assured me he’d be back soon. I said okay and went to have lunch.

But I was so tired that I ended up falling asleep. When I woke up, startled, I realized neither my phone nor the intercom had rung. Which meant he never came back with the exam.

I called my mom to let her know, then went back to what I was doing. Later, she phoned me — frantic, panicked — saying she had called the lab herself, and they told her they never call patients, and that the home delivery option is always arranged and paid for at the lab on the day of the test.

In other words: it was a scam.

A scam, and with my credit card.

Then it all made sense — why the courier had asked me to cross the street. He didn’t want to be caught on the building’s security camera. Not his face, not his motorcycle. Suddenly, every piece of the puzzle fit perfectly.

I couldn’t help feeling guilty. For such a small amount — less than R$9 — I could have just asked to use the contactless payment option, which doesn’t even require a PIN for transactions under R$200. That way, he never would have gotten my password.

Then again, he probably would’ve said the contactless feature wasn’t working, and I, naïve as ever, would’ve believed him.

Lesson learned. If the tap function “doesn’t work,” tough luck — take your broken machine and come back with one that does. I’m never falling for that again.

I immediately checked my statement, but there were no charges listed, which gave me a wave of relief. I figured maybe the machine really hadn’t gone through, and they’d gotten nothing.

But when I called the card company, my heart dropped. There it was, a charge for R$9,999.00. I nearly fainted. They’d tried to make two more charges, one for R$8,999.00 and another for R$3,999.00, but after those failed, the bank flagged the activity as suspicious and blocked my card. Still, the R$9,999 charge had gone through. I opened a dispute right there on the phone, but they said it could take up to five business days. Those five days stretched into seven of pure anxiety. Not even for me, for my mom. Because deep down, I knew that if something went wrong, she’d insist on paying for it herself.

I called to tell her what had happened, and she was devastated. My dad, though, stayed calm. He told her not to worry, that the bank was legally required to refund the money. He’s a lawyer — he even won a similar case once — so if anyone knows, it’s him.

Still, I’d always heard that when a card is cloned online, the bank refunds you right away, no problem. But when you enter your PIN yourself, it’s different. If you think about it, the bank isn’t exactly at fault either, they lose money too. I’d always heard that once you type your password, you’re on your own, that they don’t reverse the charge in those cases.

But it’s complicated, because so many machines are tampered with — screens altered so you see one number while the real charge is another. In the end, everyone’s a victim: the customer, the bank — everyone but the criminals.

These scammers are criminals too. They don’t carry guns, but they steal money that doesn’t belong to them. A thief is a thief, whether it’s a corrupt politician, a man who points a weapon at you, a rapist, or a scam artist. The crime may differ, but the rot is the same.

And do you know why these crimes are so common in Brazil? Because there’s no punishment. The laws are laughable, almost nonexistent. Criminals with records that go on for pages and pages are routinely released. How can that happen in a supposedly civilized place?

What’s worse is that many of these people are intelligent. They could use their minds to build something, to grow, to create their own success. But instead, they use their intelligence for harm, choosing the so-called “easy way out.” It’s pathetic, really, sad, even.

Never, not for a single moment, should you desire something that isn’t yours. Fight and work for everything you want. Build your own path. Because people like that may thrive for a while, but they always fall back eventually, and their spirits never prosper.