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  • Writer's pictureKatherine Reese Kusza

The Last Christmas

December 25, 2019 was the last Christmas I spent with all of my children.

Our tradition after our divorce was to have the children celebrate Thanksgiving with their father and Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at my house (the rest of the school holidays were up for grabs).

At Christmas 2019, I was still feeling quite ill after an acute respiratory virus put me in the hospital for a few days.

Lucky for me, I was not murdered by my physicians as they treated my symptoms appropriately with IV Solu-Medrol and fluids, supplemental oxygen, various breathing treatments and prophylactic antibiotics lest I end up with a secondary pneumonia.

They were smart enough not to intubate me and put me on a ventilator when my lungs were full of chunks of what looked like cheese or tofu. Instead, they let me sit up, move around and cough up the gunk.

They did not lie me face down, flat on my fat belly so my breathing would be restricted, and my oxygen levels would decrease.

It never occurred to them to give me a failed Ebola drug that would likely destroy my kidneys and cause my lungs to fill up with fluid.

And, thankfully, I don’t have hypertension and my resting heartrate is usually in the low 60s (so it only got up into the 150s with all the albuterol).

And I wasn’t Vitamin D deficient or a diabetic.

I was also an experienced nurse and EMT so, when they asked a second time in the Emergency Room if I had ever been intubated, I told them, emphatically, “NO!” and that they had better not try because they would shred my lungs if they forced air into them (they were blocked with chunks of tofu, remember?).

I will forever remain a DNI – Do Not Intubate.

They did most everything that could have helped someone in acute respiratory distress even without knowing what was causing it (it was definitely not my usual “asthma exacerbation” that came around once or twice a year if I got a cold).

I went back to work shortly thereafter, but I didn’t feel particularly well for a few months. I needed more steroids and albuterol and lots of sleep.

That entire winter from Thanksgiving to Spring Break, I saw lots of patients with vague, respiratory illnesses that were “not the flu”, “probably just bronchitis”, “maybe pneumonia” and “not sure”.

Patients’ doctors prescribed breathing treatments and steroids and antibiotics and told them to drink plenty of fluids and get lots of rest and it is my understanding that all the people I initially assessed in our college health center got better eventually (they were young and relatively healthy for the most part).

It was not until March of 2020 that doctors and hospitals decided to stop treating patients with known, effective, decades old medications and started sedating people and putting them on ventilators when their lungs were full of gunk.

It was not until the politicians and bureaucrats got involved and incentivized the administration of medications that failed their initial trials, that patients really started to die in droves.

They scared the shit out of all the Boomers who are afraid to die because they think they are entitled to live forever. They shut down the planet.

They convinced even relatively sensible people to lock themselves away in their homes and apartments, smother themselves with cloth masks, stay out of the sun and fresh air (remember Vitamin D?) and stop interacting with other human beings.

Anyone who questioned it was a “granny killer’. Anyone who tried to prescribe effective treatments had their medical licenses investigated by the boards. Anyone who wouldn’t follow the protocol and, essentially, kill patients for financial gain was fired or forced to resign.

Schools, colleges, universities and medical facilities received millions in Covid dollars for shutting their doors, “going remote”, requiring frequent, absolutely unnecessary testing of the asymptomatic and enforcing mandates for masks and experimental injections.

The fraud continues to this day.

Thousands of elderly men and women who survived World Wars and normal childhood disease died alone, without their families by their sides, from neglect and malnutrition, over-sedation and God knows what other cruelties.

Patients with chronic diseases were denied treatment for manageable conditions such as high blood sugar or urinary tract infections and, instead, given Remdesivir.

They were denied fluids, given the wrong food or none at all, and coerced in moments of hypoxic confusion to consent to intubation and mechanical ventilation.

It didn’t matter if they died in the hospital or not, the hospital still got paid.

Insurance companies across the world should be auditing everyone right now.

While it makes me sad that, after 2019, I didn’t get to celebrate another holiday with all my children (distance, quarantine rules, etc. made it difficult), I am glad I was able to spend that last Christmas with them.

I felt like Death warmed over, but my daughters cleaned and decorated the house, my eldest son helped me pick up and move the younger in and out of his wheelchair and I just had to rally enough Christmas Day to cook the Yorkshire Puddings.

I am, indeed, one of the lucky ones to have had that time with family not knowing what was to come.

Merry Christmas and may God forgive us.

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