<p>Wearing a traditional white coat and a surgical mask, "Doctor" Suelen da Silva uses a stethoscope to listen to her patient -- a black doll that she is healing at her home on a hillside near Rio de Janeiro.</p>.<p>Da Silva does not have a medical degree, of course, but the 62-year-old Brazilian certainly has ingenuity and spark.</p>.<p><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/international/coronavirus-updates-cases-deaths-country-wise-worldometers-info-data-covid-19-834531.html" target="_blank"><strong>15 countries with the highest number of cases, deaths due to the Covid-19 pandemic</strong></a></p>.<p>After losing her job as a housekeeper in April at the start of the coronavirus pandemic, she has transformed her hobby into a way to earn a bit of money during hard times.</p>.<p>Da Silva, a small woman with a big personality, has created her "lifelike" hospital for dolls in a poor area of Niteroi, which overlooks Guanabara Bay.</p>.<p><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/coronavirus-live-news-covid-19-latest-updates.html" target="_blank"><strong>CORONAVIRUS SPECIAL COVERAGE ONLY ON DH</strong></a></p>.<p>If frontline health care workers are the superheroes of the fight against Covid-19, Da Silva is perhaps a worthy sidekick, helping children endure the crisis by healing their ailing toys.</p>.<p>The black woman, who wears glasses with thick frames, regularly updates her "clients" with pictures of their recovering dolls via WhatsApp -- and a medical chart.</p>.<p>The patients at her hospital rest in tiny white beds illuminated with mini multicoloured lights.</p>.<p>"I give them updates day after day. The children act like parents whose babies are hospitalised," she tells AFP.</p>.<p>"One day, a five-year-old girl was in tears as she left me her doll, and said, 'Make sure she doesn't suffer too much, don't give her too many needle jabs!'" she recalls.</p>.<p>Perola is the shabby doll she is currently treating, her legs bent at odd angles. She inserts a thin IV to her wrist with adhesive tape.</p>.<p>Da Silva started fixing broken dolls when her daughters were little girls -- today, they are 35 and 22.</p>.<p>"I raised them as a single mother and I never had money to buy them dolls. So I repaired the ones I found in the trash," she explains, adding she also donated refurbished toys to community groups.</p>.<p>"But when I lost my job, this became my new job."</p>.<p>Da Silva's eldest daughter Lydiane helped get the word out about the hospital via Facebook.</p>.<p>"When she told me there had been more than 3,000 views, it scared me a little bit," she said.</p>.<p>The unexpected job has allowed Da Silva to make ends meet, even if her income can be "very fluid."</p>.<p><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tag/coronavirus" target="_blank"><strong>For latest updates and live news on coronavirus, click here</strong></a></p>.<p>She charges hospital fees starting at five reais (about $1) for minor symptoms -- meaning minor repairs -- and going up to 70 reais for dolls in a more "critical condition."</p>.<p>"In a good week, I get about 20 of them," for stays of three to four days on average, she says.</p>.<p>The dolls, which arrive in a variety of states -- twisted limbs, bald, some even decapitated -- are fixed, pampered a bit, cleaned up and sometimes even given a new outfit made by Da Silva herself.</p>.<p>She boasts of a secret formula -- a mix of cleaning products -- that she uses to wipe away pen marks often believed to be permanent.</p>.<p>In a bucket at her home, several dolls are getting a bath to scrub away the unwanted marks.</p>.<p>But just like many hospitals in Brazil with precarious infrastructure, Da Silva's clinic is at the mercy of Mother Nature.</p>.<p>After torrential rainfall the night before, she had to move her hospital from her patio, which was flooded, to a small space near her kitchen in her tiny red home.</p>.<p>She dreams of one day being able to open her real hospital, which is being built on land next door and will be bigger.</p>.<p>For now, there is only a cornerstone and a pile of red bricks. She hopes it will eventually be a lovely little spot with a huge window to admire the bay and the view of Christ the Redeemer.</p>.<p>"I pray to God that he will help me heal enough dolls so I can finish this construction project," she says, hope glistening in her eyes.</p>
<p>Wearing a traditional white coat and a surgical mask, "Doctor" Suelen da Silva uses a stethoscope to listen to her patient -- a black doll that she is healing at her home on a hillside near Rio de Janeiro.</p>.<p>Da Silva does not have a medical degree, of course, but the 62-year-old Brazilian certainly has ingenuity and spark.</p>.<p><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/international/coronavirus-updates-cases-deaths-country-wise-worldometers-info-data-covid-19-834531.html" target="_blank"><strong>15 countries with the highest number of cases, deaths due to the Covid-19 pandemic</strong></a></p>.<p>After losing her job as a housekeeper in April at the start of the coronavirus pandemic, she has transformed her hobby into a way to earn a bit of money during hard times.</p>.<p>Da Silva, a small woman with a big personality, has created her "lifelike" hospital for dolls in a poor area of Niteroi, which overlooks Guanabara Bay.</p>.<p><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/coronavirus-live-news-covid-19-latest-updates.html" target="_blank"><strong>CORONAVIRUS SPECIAL COVERAGE ONLY ON DH</strong></a></p>.<p>If frontline health care workers are the superheroes of the fight against Covid-19, Da Silva is perhaps a worthy sidekick, helping children endure the crisis by healing their ailing toys.</p>.<p>The black woman, who wears glasses with thick frames, regularly updates her "clients" with pictures of their recovering dolls via WhatsApp -- and a medical chart.</p>.<p>The patients at her hospital rest in tiny white beds illuminated with mini multicoloured lights.</p>.<p>"I give them updates day after day. The children act like parents whose babies are hospitalised," she tells AFP.</p>.<p>"One day, a five-year-old girl was in tears as she left me her doll, and said, 'Make sure she doesn't suffer too much, don't give her too many needle jabs!'" she recalls.</p>.<p>Perola is the shabby doll she is currently treating, her legs bent at odd angles. She inserts a thin IV to her wrist with adhesive tape.</p>.<p>Da Silva started fixing broken dolls when her daughters were little girls -- today, they are 35 and 22.</p>.<p>"I raised them as a single mother and I never had money to buy them dolls. So I repaired the ones I found in the trash," she explains, adding she also donated refurbished toys to community groups.</p>.<p>"But when I lost my job, this became my new job."</p>.<p>Da Silva's eldest daughter Lydiane helped get the word out about the hospital via Facebook.</p>.<p>"When she told me there had been more than 3,000 views, it scared me a little bit," she said.</p>.<p>The unexpected job has allowed Da Silva to make ends meet, even if her income can be "very fluid."</p>.<p><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tag/coronavirus" target="_blank"><strong>For latest updates and live news on coronavirus, click here</strong></a></p>.<p>She charges hospital fees starting at five reais (about $1) for minor symptoms -- meaning minor repairs -- and going up to 70 reais for dolls in a more "critical condition."</p>.<p>"In a good week, I get about 20 of them," for stays of three to four days on average, she says.</p>.<p>The dolls, which arrive in a variety of states -- twisted limbs, bald, some even decapitated -- are fixed, pampered a bit, cleaned up and sometimes even given a new outfit made by Da Silva herself.</p>.<p>She boasts of a secret formula -- a mix of cleaning products -- that she uses to wipe away pen marks often believed to be permanent.</p>.<p>In a bucket at her home, several dolls are getting a bath to scrub away the unwanted marks.</p>.<p>But just like many hospitals in Brazil with precarious infrastructure, Da Silva's clinic is at the mercy of Mother Nature.</p>.<p>After torrential rainfall the night before, she had to move her hospital from her patio, which was flooded, to a small space near her kitchen in her tiny red home.</p>.<p>She dreams of one day being able to open her real hospital, which is being built on land next door and will be bigger.</p>.<p>For now, there is only a cornerstone and a pile of red bricks. She hopes it will eventually be a lovely little spot with a huge window to admire the bay and the view of Christ the Redeemer.</p>.<p>"I pray to God that he will help me heal enough dolls so I can finish this construction project," she says, hope glistening in her eyes.</p>