My husband’s closest childhood friend passed away last month. He did this the way an unlikely number of people have been doing so these last few years: suddenly.
Todd was extremely active and fit at just 60, and I knew from several exchanges that he was also squarely on the side of science and reason when it came to the jabs. I didn’t bother scrolling through his Facebook page for evidence; there was no way he was vaccinated.
The “extremely active and fit” bit isn’t me being generous or hyperbolic; Todd was a lifelong athlete training for a marathon. We’ve been waterskiing and snow skiing together and I’ve seen that man pull off moves that would impress an Olympian.
Todd was nine miles into a familiar trail run when his heart gave out. Just like that.
His passing was both painful and confusing. Up until that moment, I automatically assumed every notch in the #DiedSuddenly belt implicated the clot shots — even low-key reveling when a definitive link could be drawn. (I’m not proud of this, but it’s true.) Todd could have had cardiovascular issues he chose not to disclose; maybe he lived on tater tots and Taco Bell and all that running kept him lean and seemingly healthy despite his deplorable diet. And even if neither of those things were true, the world is a cruel and unforgiving place. While most of us are loath to admit or even acknowledge it, the line between life and death is precariously razor thin. Sometimes people simply perish prematurely. It’s excruciating and unfair, but it happens. Religions are built on the desire to understand and accept such injustices; some are angrily abandoned alongside an inability to do so.
Shortly after Todd’s tragic and untimely passing, his fiancée sent me an unsolicited message — a response to one of my daily plandemic posts. “He had no family history of heart disease and never had any issues. He ate healthy (most of the time) and exercised,” she wrote, her pain palpable. “I know it was that f**ing vaccine.”
My heart shattered into pieces on the spot. Trust me when I say I have never known a hollower victory.
I asked the unaskable: Why?
Todd didn’t want to get vaccinated, she explained. The nursing home where his mother had lain dying demanded it.
Our combined rage could have fueled a thousand rockets (ideally packed with every last member of the WEF, the WHO, the CDC, and the FDA on a crash course with Neptune).
My misstep wasn’t merely allowing confirmation bias to foretell any autopsy; it was also blithely believing that nobody as awake as Todd would knowingly take a poison dart. But of course, they would, and they did. Millions of them. They did it to travel and to keep their jobs and to be with loved ones in their final, precious moments. They did it to foster peaceful family gatherings, and to be allowed in the same room with their grandchildren and their grandparents. They did it because not doing it made them a selfish sonofabitch at best and a murderous criminal at worst.
The irony.
Some of the folks who suspected the juice was bad probably didn’t think it was that bad. Who could blame them when the “official” data is nothing but a steaming pile of lies, and when the vaccine injured are either roundly ignored, swiftly exiled from social media, or forced to quietly admit they’re afraid to speak up so we never hear their stories? “The choice between a little ‘mild heart swelling’ [spoiler: there’s no such thing] or finding a new job? Ugh, do I at least get a donut with that?”
Then there are the unfortunate victims like Todd, for whom knowingly risking injury or death was the lesser of two evils; a nightmarish mash-up of Contagion meets Sophie’s Choice. Left with two equally unthinkable options, they rolled up their sleeves and hoped they’d be one of the lucky ones.
Todd was not one of the lucky ones. Neither is his fatherless son, his grieving fiancée, nor any of his thousands of faith-shaken friends.
To be fair, we don’t know for certain that Todd’s death was caused by the vaccine. But we don’t know that it unequivocally wasn’t, either — and we never will. What we do know is that billions of people were forced to take an experimental injection that has been found to cause myocarditis (among countless other unwanted conditions).
We know that an overwhelming majority of doctors and clinicians failed in their legally-required duty to obtain informed consent to a medical procedure — meaning the recipients were not made aware of the potential dangers or available alternatives. (That may not have helped Todd, who was informed and still left with no option but to consent, but it still should have happened.) We know that people in all age ranges are dying at exponentially elevated rates — and the media doesn’t seem to give a flying middle finger about it. We know that there was a time in the not-so-distant past when you were allowed to wonder — aloud, even — how and why a relatively young athlete with zero medical issues could be plucked from life in his prime. Most importantly, we know exactly what’s changed in the meantime.
I’m not necessarily pointing any fingers here (well, maybe I am — I’m heartbroken and pissed, so I wouldn’t put it past me), but Todd would never have been put in that impossible position if more of us had refused to comply in the first place. If people had been encouraged to pull their parents from those poke-happy nursing homes rather than bowing to their bullshit “mandates.” If employees had gone full Elon Musk and told their bosses to [perform an impossible solo sexual act] rather than playing jabs-for-jobs roulette. If every last hedonist who just really wanted to go to Cabo or see Pink in concert had been willing to forgo some fun in exchange for sending a powerful message of resistance, there’s not a single doubt in my mind that lives would have been saved.
The sad truth is, until scores more of us are willing to be mildly or massively inconvenienced we’ll be seeing scores more devastating stories like Todd’s.
