The face mark (sick part III)

Six months had passed since the events in Guatemala and, consequently, in Colombia. I had finished my tour around my favorite Spanish-speaking countries, had learned a great amount of Spanish, gathered more unforgettable experiences, and decided to come back home to Brazil to kick-start my life.

I made my way to Belo Horizonte, reconnected with my roots and my family, and started looking for a fresh start. I was searching for a new career path, trying new things.

Even my diet and habits had changed. I went from eating very little to bulking, eating a lot of food and working out heavier to gain muscle. I was eating everything I hadn’t eaten in the past ten years while living in the United States.

I was enjoying every bite of Brazilian food in large quantities. My body wasn’t used to the amount of food I was taking in, but I kept pushing. It was the first time I had decided not to be skinny, but to work hard to build muscle.

My calorie intake was almost double what I was used to. My body was working twice as hard to digest and adapt. Weirdly, I started getting sick more often. Before, I would catch a cold once or twice a year at most. At that point, I was getting sick almost every other week.

My immune system was crashing, and I didn’t see the signs, until one day I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed a red mark on my face. Curious, I searched online to understand what it could be.

Many answers came up, and some people said it might be an allergy to something I was eating. One day at my grandmother’s house, one of her nurses told me to “put garlic on it,” because garlic heals everything. Without thinking much about what the mark was, that night I chopped some garlic and placed it on my face.

My parents were watching television in the living room, so I laid next to them on the couch with garlic burning my skin. My mom couldn’t understand why I was doing that, and my father, as always, just observed me trying something new.

The garlic burned and burned my face. I kept my eyes closed so it wouldn’t burn them too. A few minutes later, I couldn’t take the pain anymore and removed it.

If there was any allergy or bacteria on my face, I was sure the garlic had done its job. The next morning, I woke up excited to see the mark gone, only to be horrified when I saw the left side of my face completely swollen.

From my cheek all the way to my jaw, my face had doubled in size. The garlic hadn’t healed anything; it had made something burst. I screamed and ran to show my mother. The moment she saw me, she said, “That’s it. I’m taking you to the doctor.”

At that point in my life, my parents still respected my independence and gave me space to make my own decisions—even health-related ones. But after my near-death experience in Colombia, they had learned not to let me go too long without professional help.

We rushed to our family dermatologist, Dr. Paulo, a very experienced doctor who had known our entire family for years. Kindly, he fit us in last minute. He looked at my face and immediately began asking questions: what products I was using, what procedures I’d had, what I’d been eating, anything that could be related to my skin.

I told him I had done a few aesthetic procedures, and he asked me to list them and where they were done:

Botox on my entire face, 56 points, to be exact, done in the U.S., Mexico, and Brazil.Collagen injections, done in Mexico and Brazil.Filler in my nose and cheeks, done in Mexico. A nose job, done one year earlier in Brazil.Burning extra eyelid skin, done in Mexico.Under-eye filler, done in Mexico.

“Why so many things done in Mexico?” he asked.

At that point, I couldn’t hide anything. My face was almost twice its normal size, and his tone made it clear this was serious.

“I dated a doctor there. He tried things on me.”

That sentence landed terribly, for both him and my mother. If there is a look that combines surprise, frustration, confusion, judgment, and a suppressed desire to laugh, it was the one on their faces.

Yes, I dated a young doctor in Mexico who had just opened an aesthetics clinic. He was young, the clinic was in a nice area, and I was in a phase of trying to figure out who I was. Wanting to look younger and prettier was part of it.

Maybe I gave myself too much to the idea of being his test subject. I definitely didn’t tell them the story about how I once mentioned my insecurity about the extra skin on my eyelids, and he told me he had just gotten a pen that burns excess skin, no surgery needed. So I jumped in.

The pain during the procedure was excruciating. We left the clinic, went to his house, I got drunk on champagne, laid on his bed, and he finished the procedure.

Not the safest way to burn skin near your eyes, but as a story to tell, definitely one of the wildest. And absolutely not one I told them.

Dr. Paulo was overwhelmed by the list and asked me to message the doctor in Mexico to ask if any of his clients had ever had allergic reactions. He wanted to consider all possibilities.

Bruno didn’t like hearing that he might be responsible. Instead of answering, he said, “Everything I use is very safe and clean.” Period. We haven’t spoken since.

Dr. Paulo immediately told me to stop using everything on my face, no creams, serums, or even sunscreen. We needed to avoid anything that could make it worse. My mother and I silently agreed not to mention the garlic incident. I could see on her face how badly she wanted to tell him.

As Dr. Paulo spoke, I looked at her and silently begged her not to say anything. She burst out laughing, trying to hold it in. He stopped mid-sentence and asked if something was wrong.

We couldn’t lie. I told him.

He stared at me in disbelief for a few seconds.

I wasn’t sure whether he had been more worried about me or judging my impulsive decisions up to that point, but then he said, “Why? Why garlic?”

“The nurse told me to. She said garlic cures everything.”

“Great. So why doctors, right?” he laughed.

Given that my face was twice its normal size, laughing felt like the only reasonable reaction. He ordered exams and said he needed to scrape some skin from my face for analysis. He had a few theories but needed confirmation. In the meantime, he prescribed antibiotics.

A few days later, I returned. The moment I walked in, I knew something was wrong. He didn’t joke. He went straight to the point.

“Sam, I don’t know how you got this, but you have something very rare happening on your face. You have bacteria inside your cheeks and a fungus on the outside. Both at the same time. This is dangerous, and we need to start the right treatment immediately.”

“Of course, doctor. Whatever we need to do.”

“I sent your case to the university where I teach. This fungus is very rare in Brazil. I’ve never had a patient with it. We’ll start with one medication, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll switch.”

He continued, “The bacteria, however, we were able to identify. Imagine a tiny organism that entered your body and found all those fillers, Botox, and collagen to be the perfect environment, a bed to lay in. That’s why your face swelled. All those procedures compacted into one mass.”

I was frozen. A rare fungus. A bacteria nesting inside my face. What the hell had I done to myself?

“Do you have any idea what caused this?” I asked.

“It could be contamination during a procedure, but it’s hard to say. You mentioned that red spot had been there for months, so the bacteria was probably already present. Something in your body changed that allowed it to attack. Did you change your diet?”

Caught.

“Yes. I’ve been bulking.”

“So you’re eating much larger quantities?”

“Yes.”

“That could explain it. Your body is spending energy digesting food instead of defending itself.”

If there were a clown emoji for real life, this was the moment. I felt stupid. My body had once again warned me, and I hadn’t listened.

I spent weeks on heavy antibiotics. The swelling went down, but the red mark took over half my face. Dr. Paulo warned me it might take time, and it might leave a scar.

During that time, people stared at me constantly. Not out of curiosity, but disgust. Some stepped away, as if I were contagious. Others would point out, “You have something on your face,” as if I wasn’t aware.

A month later, the bacteria was gone, and with it, all the fillers and procedures. Slowly, the redness faded until it completely disappeared.

When I returned, Dr. Paulo was thrilled.

After reviewing everything, he asked, “Have you ever played with stray dogs?”

That’s when it clicked.

In Guatemala, my friend Erwin had three dogs. They roamed the streets all day and came back filthy at night, jumping onto his bed. I slept there for days.

The bed smelled like wet dogs. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t.

Guatemala had once again given me a life-changing experience. Volcanoes, parasites, near death, and now, a rare fungus.

“You’re healed,” Dr. Paulo said. “I was worried it might scar permanently.”

Healed, and reminded, once again, that my body isn’t invincible.

Travel has given me extraordinary experiences. Some unforgettable. Some life-threatening.

And if I want to keep collecting stories, I need to stay alive long enough to tell them.

Lesson learned.