In January, Luisa Martínez García entered menopause. At first, it seemed like an easy transition. No hot flashes, no night sweats, no pounding heart or headaches. Her period simply stopped. “Well, hello old age,” she thought wryly.

She didn’t see a doctor. She’d read plenty, and friends had already walked her through it. “You’re lucky,” they said. “It’s weird how smoothly you’re going through it!”

As if they’d spoken too soon. Odd symptoms began creeping in: sudden mood swings, dizziness, exhaustion that clung like lead. She could barely stoop to play with her granddaughter Lucía, her appetite faded, and a strange back pain settled in.

Her face puffed up in the mornings, and by afternoon her legs felt like concrete. It was her daughters-in-law who voiced concern: “You’re so pale, Mom. Please get checked. This isn’t right.”

Luisa didn’t argue. Deep down, she knew something was off. Then came the burning chest pain, too tender to touch, and a gnawing in her lower belly that stole her sleep.

Night after night, she lay beside her husband Andrés — who snored through everything — and stared at the ceiling, remembering, wondering.

She wasn’t ready to die. She was only fifty-two. She hadn’t even retired. She and Andrés had been dreaming about a quiet little home in the mountains. The kids were doing well.

Her daughters-in-law helped dye her grays and picked loose dresses for her changing body. Lucía, her joy, would be starting school in the fall — figure skating, bright crayon sketches… she’d even started knitting scarves with her grandma’s help.

Spring and summer dragged by. By September, pain stabbed at her side and back. She finally made an appointment.