My wife and I rolled up our sleeves in April. Moderna, both of us. I’m eighty-one, she’s seventy-nine. We did what we were told, what the experts recommended, what seemed like the only sensible choice at the time. Protect ourselves. Protect each other. Do our part.
We have been sick ever since. She’s had it easier than me. I ended up in the ICU on June second with a cerebral hemorrhage. They drilled into my skull, drained the blood, kept me for five days while machines beeped and nurses came and went with that particular expression they wear when they’re not sure you’re going to make it.
Was there a connection? Maybe. The doctors don’t know. The studies don’t exist yet. The official line is that everything is safe, effective, thoroughly tested. But I lie awake some nights and wonder.
Mike Yeaden was a Pfizer vice president, a virologist, a chief scientist. Not a crank. Not a conspiracy theorist. A man who spent his career inside the industry now saying that the mRNA injections are poison, that the inoculated have been marked, that devastating health impacts are coming. Bhakdi and Wodarg and Hoffe say similar things. Microscopic blood clots. Autoimmune responses. Damage to organs that can’t regenerate. The worst yet to come.
Sixty-two percent of Hoffe’s patients developed microscopic clotting after vaccination. Not the kind that shows up on scans, the kind you need a D-dimer test to find. The kind that damages brain tissue, spinal cord, heart, lungs—places where permanent means permanent.
I don’t know if that’s what happened to me. Neither do the doctors. Neither does anyone. That’s the part that keeps me awake.
With regard to the Party of Davos, the global elite, the great reset, whatever you want to call it—I have no evidence. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle, as it usually is. I’ve lived long enough to know that the people who run things don’t need conspiracy theories to explain their behavior. They do what they do because they can, because it serves their interests, because the rest of us let them.
All I know for certain is this: I got the shot in April. In June, they drilled a hole in my head. I’m still here, still thinking, still trying to make sense of a world that stopped making sense a long time ago.
Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s something else. I’ll never know for sure, and neither will anyone else. The studies will come out years from now, after enough people have had enough time to develop enough problems. By then, it won’t matter. The decisions will have been made. The damage will be done. And the rest of us will be left to wonder what we should have done differently.
I don’t have answers. I have questions. At eighty-one, that’s enough.
