On January 6, the last time I wrote here on Substack, my older brother Ricky called me in the early afternoon from the hospital. He said he had fallen out of bed, but couldn’t explain how. He called 9/11 and of course the first thing they did when he entered the hospital is give him a COVID test. Just as predictably, it came back positive.
Ricky had no symptoms whatsoever. He was perfectly healthy. There were no injuries from the fall. Instead of sending him home, and maybe advising him to quarantine himself, they immediately began tests. Tests are the lifeblood of our horrific Medical Industrial Complex. Like corrupt car repair shops, they have to find something to stay in business. Within a day or two, they had amended his diagnosis to COVID pneumonia. He still sounded pretty normal, and I wasn’t that alarmed.
Once the COVID diagnosis was made, there was no chance for me to see my brother. The hospital permitted no visitors to COVID patients. Eventually, I couldn’t even talk to him on the phone, because the machines in the room made it hard for him to hear what I was saying. So there was little I could do. I told two different doctors and two different nurses that I absolutely forbid the use of Remdesivir. They argued, but agreed to go with my wishes.
On January 18, I discovered that they had begun giving him Remdesivir against my explicit instructions, on January 15. That just happened to coincide with when Ricky began to really spiral downwards. They stopped when I ordered them to, but obviously the damage had already been done. They also refused my request to give him Ivermection. I was told “Ivermection isn’t allowed at this facility.” He died on January 20, my niece’s birthday.
My brother’s death was so unexpected, so head scratching, that it was essentially as if he’d just dropped dead. To go from being healthier than the vast majority of seventy three year old men, to dead in two weeks is an indictment of the healthcare “professionals” who were supposed to be caring for him. How does that possibly happen? What kind of “care” essentially kills someone in two weeks? The idea behind a hospital stay is that you’re in the ideal hands- professionals who know best.
There is zero doubt in my mind that my brother would be alive and well today if he’d never called 9/11 that morning. The hospital stay killed him, not any deadly virus. They saw a seventy three year old guy, who had not been vaccinated, and they got their $13,000 bonus for a COVID diagnosis. And his non-vaxxed status assured that he’d be fast tracked for death. Family members have had the classlessness to blame his death on the fact he didn’t get the vaccine. And to essentially hold me responsible for him not being vaccinated.
Ricky’s death would have devastated me regardless, because I was basically his caretaker. He had mental and emotional issues that were never really quantified, but he definitely needed someone to look out for him, which I tried to do. But the fact he died supposedly from COVID-19, the psyop I’ve written and talked so much about, makes it even harder to deal with. I’m sure there are those out there- probably even within my own family- snickering, “See, he said it was a hoax, and now his brother’s dead from it.”
Maybe if I’d been able to visit him during those two weeks, and to understand what was happening to him, I might be handling this better. But the last time I saw him was on Sunday, January 2, when we had our weekly ritual of lunch at Red Lobster. I had grown to love that ritual, and he did, too. I will probably not be able to eat at Red Lobster again. At any rate, that was it. Eighteen days later he was dead, from a virus that I firmly believe has been politicized and never isolated or concretely identified.
Actually, I did see Ricky again, on the day he died. They called me early in the morning, and said that now I could visit him, since he was the end of life stage. Quite a policy there- you can see your loved one when they’re about to die. After being required to don three masks, a face shield, a patient gown, and gloves, my wife and I spent three agonizing hours in his room, watching him slowly wither away. I told him I loved him a hundred times, but he showed no cognizance that we were there.
So that’s how I said goodbye to the sibling I was closest to, and had by far the closest relationship with. My life was intertwined with his in a multitude of ways, which becomes clearer as I go through all his papers and settle his affairs. It’s frightening to consider that a life can be lost, on the basis of an unnecessary 9/11 call, and a bogus PCR test that yields a 90 percent false positive rate. That’s all it took, along with a policy that forbid me to visit him and be more directly involved.
