I’ve been suffering heart pain for a while, grinning and bearing the pain until it passed. And, to date, it always had.
Last night, it didn’t pass. Last night, at four in the morning, after pacing the floor of my bus, Florence, burping, and stretching, I finally gave up and woke my partner, Kelli.
We got dressed, packed up the bus, and drove to the closest hospital with an emergency unit—Redcliffe.
There, I was quickly diagnosed with a heart attack, and as I write this, I’m waiting to be transported to another hospital, The Royal.
But I’m writing this, under the effects of fentanyl, to talk about the view I can see from my hospital bed.
The community, whose stories I’ve been recording, has long had a deep suspicion of doctors and hospitals.
This stems from the fact that hardly any of those who worked in hospitals spoke out about the “unholy juice,” or went public about the injuries we knew they were seeing.
But while one doctor pulled me aside to almost chat about the COVID time, and you could feel his anger, and another nurse shared how she took it and didn’t want to, both of them—and everyone else I interacted with, or studied as they passed or chatted in the nurses’ station—was clearly dedicated to their work. They were all interacting with each other with a foundation of fun and respect.
Basically, they were extremely cool and, for want of a better word, lovely.
In the morning, we made a short post to let our community know what happened.
And it was then that I was gifted a stunning view of you.
While there were a few haters, the majority of well-wishes were warm, authentic, and humbling. The foundation of the vast majority of it, was love. Like a family love.
But five years ago, few of us knew each other.
And in these last years, we have all faced numerous trials: court cases, police abuse, ostracization from family and friends and community groups, job loss, etc. And, of course, we faced the frustration of having our warning voices ignored. We’ve had to become spectators, as those we loved not only participated, but many of them have died and been injured.
And let’s not forget the trolls. These people, usually with false names and fake social media pages—perhaps they’re not even human, perhaps they’re AI bots—who knows? Whoever they are, they spend their days hating us. Never debating, just derision and hyperbolic hate, as if they’re convinced that, through hatred, they can finally get us to join them.
Which we haven’t.
And while we were born in EPIC, and can still recall the beauty of those few days when, together, we glowed, the years of lost court cases, ignored petitions, and (questionably) infiltrators causing division through infighting… today, for me, the hardships fell away as the view from my bed was of the community I’m a part of, glowing through bulbs of their kind words for me.
We truly are a unique and beautiful community.
But now, as I observe the beauty of those who took the juice to remain in the industry, for whatever reason, I wonder: who is it that is determined to divide us?
For these are good people—you can just feel it.
And we are good people.
We know it. We can feel it.
So the gap between us hasn’t been carved by either side, but by someone, or some ones, above.
If only we could see that, realize it, and start the bridge-building with the soul’s tools of forgiveness.
Dr. Nixon, who, after being suspended, reinvented himself by studying the jabs via his Dark Field Microscope, states that when he does his live blood analysis work, he can no longer differentiate between jabbed and unjabbed blood. Both appear corrupted.
We are one.
And we can be one again. This possibility is what I can see now from this bed, as my struggling heart ponders whether to allow me to stay here or leave.
Can you imagine the power of that? Of reuniting all these lights?
Or, if they don’t want to know, then perhaps, through my struggle today, we can all see, through the outpouring of support, that we are still united.
We are more than anti-vaxxers and “cookers.”
We are the children of EPIC, and we have the essential qualities we need to grow into a true alternative to the tyranny that is still attempting, through bureaucratic osmosis, to smother our voices and steal all that we hold dear.
And it is worth defending. We are all worthy of defending and fighting for.
In fact, in the words of Paul Lassig, we don’t need a revolution, we need a renovation.
And we can do this, for not only are we great renovators, but from the possible edge of my life, and the perch of this hospital bed, I saw us living, working, and healing together.
The one people, who, weary from duress, simultaneously switched on their lights, and illuminated the world with a message that read:
Australia is back, and keep watching, for we are all working our way back to the one word that used to define us… Lucky.