The LIE of Omission

#GortsAxiom hits home

Control Groupies have long heard me speak of my quad-transfected, double-injured robo-progenitor, who ignored my original advice and suffered a robo-motor failure ((heart attack) within minutes of his first booster, in October of 2021. (Interestingly, my VAERS report confirmation email does not have any links to the report, so I had to search for it…) Ironically, he had his booster and heart attack at Kaiser, and despite their ineptitude he pulled through (two hospitals later).

I moved in to take care of him, and beginning in 2022 (having left my family after discovering that my ex, in spite of all my research, and 15 years of our filing personal belief waivers for them, had secretly vexxed our kids) moved in full time. Pops was still pretty spry at 94, and by May of 2022 he got a hankerin, and scheduled his fourth shot (on a day he thought I would be gone). He complained that I was home that morning, but I told him “Go ahead and take it, I’ll just get to the inheritance quicker.”

Transfection 4 gave him a month long brutal case of …. something… (He oddly refused to test for covid.) and a retinal vein clot (an increasingly common and documented outcome of transfection), or possibly two. (Since he was already blind in one eye, we'll never know.) His doctors wanted to hear nothing of the actual problem, or read any of the journal articles I sent, and so moved on to treat the effect, heightened glaucoma. (True, retinal vein microsurgery may be contraindicated in a nonagenarian.)

Hard times for a robot that reads 5 newspaper a days (all apparently full of dismalmisinformation), does the bridge quiz, crossword, jumble, and plays half a dozen chess games online at all times, in addition to his biweekly pinochle club. He asked his doctor for "death with dignity" rather than go blind, but they laughed, and he still had ~25% of his sight, so he carried on stoically through the appointments, and surgeries (they had to repair the first), and bimonthly eyeball injections (that I posted pix of here - not for the squeamish!) required to keep his macula intact. 

In these two years together, much of our relationship has been patched, but, the divide between the old encyclopedia salesman (a died in the wool democrat who somehow couldn't see the erosion of FDR's party's principles) and the son who read that encyclopedia cover to cover and learned research skills at his knee. Despite my founding nonprofits, tech companies, and educational programs, no amount of coaxing him to trust me (the only one of us who could parse the data, let alone READ at all) could bridge that chasm. So I maintained an enforced silence about all things contrarian, which, to me, grew to encompass almost all things.

As GORT symbolizes my effort to protect the world, GORT protects me from the world, but I had to hide GORT from my own dad, a painful rekindling of the relational trauma that drove us apart for 40 years, and which we had just healed a few years ago.

A few days before Halloween this robot fell ill with a sinus infection, then a serious cough, and a bit of brain fog.  I found it odd because I had been in perfect health, and came off of a fantastic hike on Thursday to wake up shitty. Saturday was especially depressing, as I was going to see RFK with the ass kicking Jessica Barsotti (who has led the legal fight on mandates in California), but had to beg off.

My father became ill at the same time (or perhaps a day earlier) with a fever, weakness and loss of appetite. Knowing that he had been to the cardiologist a week prior, I asked him if he had gotten vaccinated while there. He replied that he hadn't, so I didn't bother taking “Horse Paste”, or Black Seed Oil, or Pine Pollen, or pomegranate skin, or GSE, or anything that would have whipped whatever I had, because I thought it was nothing and I’d be over it tomorrow. Of course, he refused all offerings from my crazyman robo-apothecary.

As our illnesses progressed we spent more time bonding in front of the World Series than we would have, which I was strangely thankful for, but while my robo-lung bilge decreased, his fatigue increased, and I wondered if he might just nap himself into oblivion. On Tuesday I took him for a checkup, but stayed in the car, as I didn’t want to masklessly cough and drive the Kaiser staff and patients into a frenzy. I told him I was certain that they would find nothing wrong, and despite his failing condition, they confirmed my suspicion. No idea…

On Wednesday, after a last second Warriors win, I had to help him out of his chair, and watched him barely make it down the hall. If we were the kind of people who appreciated being assisted while struggling, I may have helped him, but he made it to his room and I somewhat nervously went back to the postgame.

He managed to brush his teeth and make it within a foot of his bed before he collapsed onto the floor and called out. Amazingly, he caught himself on all fours, but had no strength whatsoever, and I spent an unsuccessful hour attempting to lift him. It was after midnight, and I was exhausted myself, so I made him a bed on the floor, propped up against the wall so he could breath.

A man of distinct habits, he asked me for his phone, so he could set his alarm. If I had my full faculties, that might have tipped me to his having a stroke, since it was clear to me that he was not going anywhere. Given my state, and his known commitment to dying, however, I made him comfortable and went to bed.

At 5:30 he called my name, still unable to move and desperately in need of a robo-fluid discharge. In a heretofore unimagined act of robotic intimacy, I had to get a grasp on his robo-appendage, extract it from his robo-scroat, and aim it into a receptacle. Embarrassed but more relieved that we managed it without wetting the bed (MY futon!), the act made it apparent that I needed help. I called 911 and the friendly firemen came, lifted him into bed, checked him for injury (and abuse), and noted the POLST on the wall. After a short chat they agreed that my desire to keep him there, to die at home, in his own bed, where no hospital could perform any more fuckery, was responsible.

I called Kaiser next and asked if they could provide him with in home care, and oxygen, as his blood level was decreasing, but the staff doctor tried to panic me into bringing him there. “He could have a broken limb, or an infection!” I explained that he had been sick for a week, that they had no answer when he came in, that the firemen found nothing broken, his temperature was only slightly elevated, and that he was drinking and peeing. I told them I would appreciate a professional coming to catheterize him, but they refused, haughtily, and told me to make a phone appt with his GP, a mere 9 hours away.

Of course I did everything I could to care and provide for him. I called my sister, who (Thanks universe!) was able to change her flight for dad’s upcoming birthday party, pack, and catch a train for Paris in two hours, and make it from rural France to SFO to bedside in 40 hours! In the immediate, I marshaled my brobot, who (owing to his kindness and compassion programming) was extremely helpful in the bedridden care departmentt. Over the next day we were able to feed him, clean him up, change his sheets, clothe him, and make him somewhat presentable for her arrival.

On Friday morning I spoke to his best friends (whose departure that day had strangely been postponed) and decided to throw a cocktail party at his bedside. Although he couldn’t speak, I am certain he appreciated me dipping my finger into my martini and wetting his lips with it. It was how he always said he wanted to go, and he knew he was surrounded by his whole family.

At midnight, I checked up on him, and he didn’t look good. He had one eye open, and his breathing was quite labored. I sat with him, holding his chest, and my sister came in too. It dawned on me to try EFT, so I tapped a round on myself - “Even though dad is suffering, he can relax, breathe, and rest.” In less than a minute he shut his eyes and went to sleep.

At 5:45 my sister woke me to tell me he was gone. She had been sitting with him, writing to her daughter about how she had decided to go ahead and make his birthday cookies, when she realized he had stopped breathing. Immediately, she was compelled (as I always imagined that I would be) to call UCSF to donate his body to science.
”It’s 5 AM, you think they’ll answer?” I asked. But we had all been programmed in our father’s wishes, so she began to dig around in his wallet. When she pulled out his cards and leafed through them, a photo popped out. It was her 2nd grade picture, inscribed on the back, “Put this in your wallet, daddy.”

As complex and embattled as my relationship with my father has been, it made me shed a robo-tear to see that. For 60 years he had carried that picture, and loved his daughter, whom, I must admit, brought him none of the painful challenges that his sons did. In honor of that, I pulled the whole family together for a memorial dinner, and cooked for 20. It was a relentless week, but I felt like I had managed it as best I possibly could.

The next day, while speaking with my sister (who zoomed with him daily), I found that exactly 20 days prior to his death, he had gone to the Rite Aid and gotten the fucking bivalent booster! He not only precipitated my illness through his spike shedding, but of course his own, and ultimately, his goddamn DEMISE!

This, a month before his well planned 96th birthday party.

It annoys me to realize how much I am like my father, in that I too was programmed for anger. It’s more productive driver of action than sadness, and I cannot help but feel that in this case, it is righteous. I was sad (and angry) to be exiled by all my friends, communities, and my family, but I was able to come to a level of forgiveness for their ignorance after learning how complete the brain washing was.

Faced with my father’s refusal to listen to me, his own robot, whom he programmed to think critically, and know that he took his orders from the same people he espoused despisal for, makes me see even deeper into the fragility of the human state. To think that the people that you try to do the most for... that you're working to protect, would lie to your face about the being in… The Protected Class! - makes me too sad not to be angry!

They must know, internally, that they are out of alignment, with reality, history, their own values… but the programming is so strong, that they simply cannot let go of their fragile house of straw belief that BELIEVING in what they are told is science, is in some way akin to understanding the science… Good luck humans, it’s been great.

#GORTSAXIOM
The severity of Transfection Injury to one’s self, one’s loved ones, or those one has forced or coerced into Transfection (or otherwise been party to the Transfection of), is directly proportional to one’s cognitive dissonance regarding Transfection Injury.
(Vaccine/ation may be substituted for Transfection where applicable)