Good morning readers. Regular visitors to this blog will recognize the subject of this post as being very personal and emotionally raw for me. My 78 year old brother was murdered in March of 2021 by Collingwood General and Marine Hospital in Collingwood Ontario. He went into Emergency there one night complaining of an inflamed prostate. He was never able to go anywhere else again. I have reviewed the details of his murder [as much as I know about them anyway] many times on this blog. But, today, I present a very similar story about the murder of someone else’s brother. Please read this post written by Donald Jeffries and I will have a final brief comment to follow:
Losing my Brother to the Medical Industrial Complex
When Philosophy and Research Become Personal
Donald Jeffries H/T Dennis
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.
I don’t know how many doctors and nurses are actual monsters. Maybe they believe they’re providing the best treatment possible. They certainly trust what their education, and the medical establishment, tells them. But while they may not be monsters, the system the serve- the Medical Industrial Complex- is monstrous. Medical practitioners are the third leading cause of death in America. Hospitals kill more people than anything except cancer and heart disease.
I spent forty four years working for the Medical Industrial Complex. I have more than enough material to write a book about it. I heard nurses mutter “I wish he’d die” in response to some poor soul screaming in agony. I saw a nurse joke with a surgeon about “not trying too hard” before operating on a child, because her unit was already filled with patients. I heard constant tales of surgeons leaving scalpels inside patients, or operating on the wrong limb- that’s why they circle what area is to be operated on now with a magic marker. Is that what you’d expect of “the best and brightest?”
I have stayed away from doctors as much as I can. My brother, on the other hand, made appointments for the slightest imaginable malady, had regular blood work done, and was up for any and every test they proposed. He put his trust in them, and they ultimately failed him in the most tragic way possible. From what I’ve seen of “healthcare professionals,” one would be better off visiting a witch doctor. They don’t heal; they create permanent patients, addicted to the poisons of Big Pharma.
I keep fantasizing about going back in time, to the morning my brother fell out of bed somehow, and stopping him from calling 9/11. Would he have developed COVID, or cold/flu symptoms? I’ll never know. And that is the hardest thing to accept. What really triggered things will remain a mystery. His heart was fine, as were all his other vital organs. He didn’t have diabetes, or high blood pressure. He didn’t even have a trace of arthritis. He never smoke or drank, or ate fried foods; Ricky was incredibly careful about his health.
Yesterday, when my wife and I went back for the second time to clean out his apartment, the guy in the apartment next to him asked about Ricky. He was shocked to hear he’d passed away, but he volunteered information that just makes this all the more bizarre. He claimed that he heard a commotion at around 2 or 3 a.m., and my brother was arguing with the EMTs, saying he never called them, and was fine. Ricky never said anything to me about this, so I have no idea what it means. But it adds yet another layer to the puzzlement which consumes me.
Greencrow concludes: Just one more indication that the step in the Agenda21 which is written in many whistleblower documents as “Get Rid of the Old Men” is true.
I kid you not. That is actually a step in the Agenda21 depopulation plan. When I first read it I was incredulous…why would they want to get rid of “Old Men”? Then after reading of at least a doZen instances where old men were offed in hospitals I reasoned: Old men on average are likely the richest people in society. The Plunder “bang for the buck” of offing them makes the inconvenience of plotting and carrying out their murder under the eyes of their friends and family worth the bother. Old men who live alone, like my brother and the brother of the author in the story above, are even softer targets. More easily isolatable.
But, dear readers, the old men are the low hanging fruit in our society. They are the first to go but definitely will not be the last. Already we’ve heard the monstrous tale of Ben Gord who lives in AriZona. He’s the ‘not so old’ man who lives alone and was kidnapped from the scene of his car accident and taken to the local hospital–after being drugged unconscious via a paramedic’s injection. In the hospital, while unconscious, he was hooked up to a ventilator, IV full of very powerful drugs, and a catheter. It was only by the grace of God he woke up in time to save himself–by fleeing the hospital on foot and in great pain.
So, those who think that this targeting of lonely old men is not a threat to them or any member of their circle this should be a final wake up call. They are routinely killing people in the hospitals. Don’t go there for any reason. Especially if you are a pureblood. Stay tuned.