This is an article in a series of articles I wrote, it’s not everything, but I’m still putting together everything from Sept 2021:
I’m happy to write the whole story if needed, but that will take some time …
I’ve been on many podcasts telling my story of grief and each time that I’m given the opportunity to tell my story I learn something new, I arrive at a new insight and new meaning and I’m so very grateful for these beautiful voices bringing grief to the surface of the Human Experience. My details of the story of my grief might change in small ways as it’s been three years, but the bones and lessons of the story remain the unchanged. I decided to post a different podcast I was on each day this week, starting with the day my mother died and continuing seven days until the day my father died. (If I forget a few days, forgive me, as this year has been particularly vulnerable for me <3)
Today was the day three years ago that my mom let go of her life here on earth.
She called me from her hospital bed at 3:00 AM in a Morphine dream to ask for help to find her way back home, tired and hungry and lost wandering the halls of the unknown. She was frightened and confused, her voice soft and small and yet clear and alert. I told her I loved her and to stay by her phone, I would call her right back, not sure what was happening. I immediately called the nurse’s station to make sure she was okay. They said she was in her bed and that her phone wasn’t by her, there was no way she called me. I looked at my phone, a call from my mom just minutes prior. I tried calling her phone over and over again, but no one picked up.
I got a call around 9:00 AM asking me if I’d like to come visit my mom because she was dying and the staff would make an exception to let me come in and see her since both of my parents were in the hospital. I went right away since I had been asking to see her since she was brought in three days prior.
There was an onslaught of masks, gloves, hair nets, gowns and a changing station at the front of the room, the moment I got inside her room I took everything off and sat with mom, my hands on her skin, my breath close to her, my voice steady as it could be letting her know I was there.
The room was so cold with the lights low, the constant drum of the air filters and periodic beeping of machines. I noticed my mom’s skin was freezing, her bare feet were hanging off the bed, her chest was exposed, she had one pillow behind her head and her body was under a thin sheet that didn’t cover her. Her eyes were closed, she was breathing with her mouth open. She was agitated and uncomfortable and not able to communicate.
I remember telling her over and over again how much I loved her, reminding her I was there, massaging her legs and feet and arms and holding my hand over her heart. I cried with my head on her chest. I told her not to be afraid to leave, that I would be okay and the kids would be okay and when I apologized for not being a better daughter, her whole body shook, her head and neck spasmed and her agitated gurgling reminded me that I didn’t have to apologize for anything.
My dad was wheeled into the room, a plexiglass cell on top of a wheelchair that required a nurse to open a latched plexiglass door in the front to allow him to touch my mom and to see her without the clear barrier. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would see. He wasn’t allowed out of the wheelchair and could only hold her hand and bow his head.
He only said a few words. “She suffering. I can be angry, but I can’t be sad. Oh Di.” I tried to talk to my dad to tell him what was going on. but he just sat holding her hand with his eyes cast down. After a few minutes we were told that we both needed to leave. I was told I needed to leave the hospital immediately, my dad was wheeled back to his room. I asked to stay with my mom through death and I was told, I had enough time, I should be grateful for what I had because the nurses shifts were changing.
My mom died not twenty minutes later, alone. Her death was recorded in her medical records over an hour after she died.
Both of my parents had Covid, they went into the hospital for different reasons. My mom’s oxygen was low, my father fell on a tile floor. Neither of my parents died from Covid. You could say they died from neglect. You could say they died from mistreatment. You could say they died from a lack of consent in their treatments. You could say my dad died from a broken heart. You can say they died from the arrogance, self righteousness and inhumanity during a period of time where protocols meant more than a human life. You could say they died from a medical system in bed with big pharma rolling the dice between greed and power. You could say it was murder. You can say many things, but they did not die from Covid. This is something people don’t seem to get. This is something that I have to remind people of all too often.
My mom was a healthy holistic woman, who was not vaccinated for Covid, and this is mentioned many, many times in her medical records. She never took a medication, she never had a hospital stay, she was an aromatherapist and FeldenKrais Practitioner. My mom died from having over 15 medications in her system, six with black box warnings. She had Serious and Glaring side effects from her medications that were passed off as her being ‘non-compliant’. She was a drag on the nurses because she complained of her side effects many times over the three days. She was unheard, unseen and ignored. She was not treated with respect, not by the EMTs, not by the doctors, not by the nurses. When she was brought into the ER she was left in the hallway as ‘unknown patient’ untreated and when she died they lost all of her belongings including her phone, glasses, clothes, etc. The nurses blamed it on the morgue who blamed it on the funeral home, no one has any idea where her belongings ended up.
How does this happen? It happened because my father and I were unable to advocate for my mom. It happened because during the time of these protocols everything was done behind closed doors, medical records were falsified, doctors chose what they would entertain or not according to their own personal beliefs – not the patients. It happened because communication was so limited and there was no actual physical contact with loved ones and instead people withered in fear, helplessness and loneliness.
My mother would have you question everything that was done to her in the name of Covid. She would want you to know that the hospital she stayed in made hundreds of thousands of dollars off her diagnosis, her remdesivir doses, even the word Covid on her death certificate.
If she were alive she would fight for you to have medical freedom. She never vaccinated me once in my life, took me to chiropractors, learned the loopholes and kept me safe. I only wish I could have done the same for her. We had ordered Ivermectin, Hydroxychloroquine and the like in the beginning of the Summer, but it was held up in customs and arrived the day she died.
I’ll leave the story of my dad for another day this week. Today is my mom’s day <3
See Joseph’s story here: https://chbmp.org/cases/murdered-by-fda-death-protocol/joseph-e-bates/
