
J͏u͏l͏y͏ ͏3͏0͏ ͏a͏t͏ ͏5͏:͏3͏5͏ ͏P͏M͏ ·
When I say I have a deep, personal fucking beef with Anthony Fauci and the people who controlled the pandemic response, I need you to understand that I am talking about far more than politics, television interviews, congressional hearings, or whichever political team you think I am supposed to be defending.
I am talking about my sister-in-law, who was also one of my very best friends, dying after she repeatedly told a hospital that something was seriously wrong and they repeatedly sent her home anyway.
My sister-in-law was 31 years old when she was suddenly diagnosed with epilepsy after living her entire life without it, and the hospital prescribed her Tegretol to control the seizures. Within days of beginning that medication, she developed a rash that concerned her enough for my brother to take her back to the same hospital that had diagnosed her and prescribed the drug.
She showed them the rash, explained that she had just started taking Tegretol, and told them that she believed she was having an allergic reaction. The hospital sent her home with instructions to take Benadryl and continue taking the medication exactly as prescribed, so she trusted the medical professionals who told her she was safe and followed their instructions.
Within a few more days, the rash became hives that continued spreading across her body, and my brother rushed her back to the emergency room because the reaction was clearly getting worse. She once again showed them what was happening to her skin, reminded them about the new medication, and told them that she believed she was having an allergic reaction.
They sent her home again with the same instructions to take Benadryl and continue taking the Tegretol.
And this is where the COVID restrictions became a devastating part of the story, because my brother was prohibited from entering the emergency room with his wife and advocating for her in the way he normally would have.
My sister-in-law was an immigrant from Burma, and while she spoke fluent English, English was not her first language. So my brother was the person who usually stood beside her during medical appointments, helped her explain exactly what she was experiencing, asked the questions she may not have known to ask, and pushed harder when he felt that something important was being dismissed.
He explained all of that to the hospital, pleaded with them to let him accompany his wife, and made it clear that his presence mattered because he knew her medical history and could help her communicate. But they refused to let him through the doors and assured him that they would take care of her…
And once again, they sent her home with the same instructions (take Benadryl, keep taking the seizure meds).
Within another day, the hives began turning into painful blisters and open wounds, her eyes were burning, she felt feverish, and my brother rushed her back to the hospital for the third time because her body was now showing every possible sign that this had become a medical catastrophe.
This time, they finally admitted her.
The doctors eventually diagnosed her with Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a rare and devastating reaction to medication that was destroying her skin and ravaging her entire body from the inside out. Then the hospital kept her for several more days before calling my brother and admitting that they were not properly equipped to treat her condition, so they transferred her to another hospital with a specialized burn ICU.
By the time my brother was finally allowed to see his wife, she could no longer open her eyes, and more than 95% of her body had been affected by third degree burns and wounds (yes, 3rd degree burns).
She was still conscious at this point, she was still speaking, and she was still the woman my brother loved trapped inside a body that was being destroyed by the same medication she had repeatedly told the first hospital was hurting her.
About 72 hours later, the hospital called my brother and told him to come immediately because the doctors needed to speak with him… and I was the one that drove him there because there are certain phone calls that tell you everything before anybody has said the actual words.
A nurse met us at the entrance because she was supposed to escort my brother upstairs alone, and security initially planned to stop me from going with him because the COVID restrictions still limited who could enter the hospital. That nurse knew the news my brother was about to receive, understood how incredibly cruel it would have been to force him to hear it by himself, and she fought for me to accompany him.
(I never learned her name, but I will thank God for that woman for the rest of my life because she gave my brother the dignity of having somebody beside him when his entire world collapsed.)
She led us into a conference room inside the burn ICU, and a doctor came in to explain that my sister-in-law had become septic, her organs were failing, and the damage had progressed beyond anything they could treat.
I will never forget my brother looking directly at that doctor and saying, “Look me in the eye, doc, man to man, and tell me. Is my wife coming home?”
The doctor looked completely defeated, let out an empathetic sigh, and shook his head and told him, “no.”
I remember letting out the words, “Oh my God,” while my brother froze so completely that it looked like his body had forgotten how to breathe.
My brother stepped out of the room to process what he had just heard, and the doctor sat next to me and asked me what had happened before my sister-in-law arrived at their facility because he was so confused and sad for us and had been under the impression that his hospital was the first place to treat her.
Then I explained the epilepsy diagnosis, the Tegretol, the first rash, the spreading hives, the repeated emergency room visits, the instructions to continue taking the medication, and the fact that my brother had been forced to remain outside while his wife tried to advocate for herself alone…
I will never forget the disbelief and concern that came over that doctor’s face as he listened, because he understood how many times she had asked for help before she reached him.
He became extremely careful with his words, and I understood why, because multiple hospitals had been involved and there were serious questions surrounding how her case had been handled. All he could finally say was “I am so sorry…” before he walked us into her room where my brother could say goodbye to his wife.
To say my sister-in-law was completely unrecognizable is an understatement.
I watched my brother stand beside the woman he loved for over 10 years while she lay covered in burns and wounds, her organs failing, and her body unable to survive what had happened to her…
My brother gently stroked her head and sob as he said, “Goodbye, my love.”
I watched the numbers on the monitor begin to fall after they removed her from life support, and when her heart reached its final beats, my brother looked at the screen, looked back at his wife, and sobbed again in agony and softly said, “Oh… I know what that means.”
Then the monitor went flat.
It was around 1:30 in the afternoon.
I walked beside my brother through what felt like the longest hallway on the face of the Earth back to my car, carrying his wife’s belongings while he whimpered, “Oh man… oh man…” over and over because those were the only words he could manage to say.
When we reached my car, his crying suddenly stopped, and at the first traffic light outside the hospital, he asked me to do him a solid and stop at a gas station so he could buy cigarettes. He had quit smoking a years before then, but after watching him have to take the love of his life off of life support, I sure as hell was not going to deny him that one small request.
When he got out of my car, I watched him walk into that gas station store with a dazed look all over his face, and I just knew that nothing would ever be the same after that day.
Because I knew that a massive part of my brother had died inside that hospital room with his wife that day.
Over the following years, he turned to alcohol because he did not know how to make that level of grief stop hurting… and last August, alcoholic liver failure took him too.
I received another hospital phone call, sat inside another conference room, listened to another doctor explain that someone I loved would never come home, and watched another heart slow down on another monitor until it stopped.
Now my niece and my youngest nephew have lost both their mommy and daddy, which means the damage did not end when my sister-in-law’s heart stopped beating… because it created a dark ripple effect that continued tearing through our family for years.
So when I say that I have a personal fucking beef with Anthony Fauci and every official who created, enforced, defended, and celebrated pandemic policies that separated vulnerable patients from the people who knew them best, this is the grief I am talking about.
My anger comes from knowing that my sister-in-law repeatedly asked for help and was treated like her concerns were insignificant.
It comes from knowing that she was instructed to continue taking the medication she believed was hurting her.
It comes from knowing that my brother fought to stand beside his wife and was kept outside while the hospital assured him that she would be taken care of.
It comes from knowing that an immigrant woman who spoke English as her second language was forced to advocate for herself alone during one of the most terrifying medical emergencies of her life.
It comes from knowing that had she been treated with urgency the first time she walked through those doors, or had my brother been allowed to fight for her from inside the room, the outcome could have been different.
And my family’s experience with those restrictions did not end there, because my grandmother also died alone inside her assisted-living facility while visitors were prohibited during COVID.
She had advanced dementia, and the people she recognized, trusted, and loved were kept away from her during the final season of her life. My last living grandparent left this world without her family beside her to hold her hand or say goodbye, and that is a grief I will carry for the rest of my life too.
Yes, COVID was real, and yes, COVID killed an unimaginable number of people, but acknowledging the reality of the virus does not require me to pretend that every policy created in response to it was compassionate, justified, effective, or harmless.
People in positions of power used an emergency to make sweeping decisions that stripped patients and families of their voices, removed advocates from hospital rooms, isolated vulnerable people from the humans who loved them, and created consequences that will never be captured by a case count or government report.
My family became part of those consequences.
So yes, I struggle with anger, and there are days when forgiveness feels almost impossible because the grief has names, faces, hospital rooms, conference tables, flatlining monitors, and children who will spend the rest of their lives missing their parents. Biden admin restarts bat virus research grant that funded Wuhan lab, coronavirus testing | Fox News
Live: Anthony Fauci pleads Fifth at Senate hearing, lawyer removed from room
Anthony Fauci is a NAZI – Search
And yet, I still pray for Anthony Fauci.
I pray for the hospital workers who dismissed my sister-in-law.
I pray for the officials who created policies that separated sick people from their advocates and dying people from their families.
I pray because every one of them is human, every one of them is a sinner, and every one of them needs the mercy of God exactly as desperately as I do.
But prayer does not require amnesia, forgiveness does not remove accountability, and mercy does not require me to sanitize the truth so that the people involved can feel more comfortable with the consequences of what happened.
My sister-in-law deserved to be believed the first time she asked for help, my brother deserved to stand beside his wife and advocate for her, my niece and nephews deserved to grow up with their parents, and my grandmother deserved to leave this world surrounded by the family who loved her.
So I will continue praying for everyone involved, and I will continue telling the truth about what their decisions cost my family, because both realities exist inside me at the same time.
I am a Christian woman trying to forgive, and I am also a grieving sister, aunt, granddaughter, and friend carrying a very personal, very painful, and very fucking justified anger over lives that deserved better.
God help me, some days carrying both feels heavier than I know how to explain.
Carlos Charlie M. Gonzalez
1͏9͏m͏ ·
I am so sorry for everything you all went through.
This happens to thousands of families because this is our medical system and people do not know to question everything and to get second and third opinions. They do not know because no one gave them options, natural health practitioners etc.
I was going to study to become a surgeon while being stationed in the Air Force and learned of how the medical system works while working at this Air Force training hospital and decided I did not want to be a part of that. I instead had an incident of severe back pain that led me to discover Chiropractic.
36 years later I still try to educate my patients and followers on social media of the dangers of so called “medicine” which are synthetic toxic petroleum based drugs with MANY SIDE EFFECTS and those include all vaccines, flu shots etc. At nearly 70 I take no prescription drugs, I do not go to medical doctors.
But if there is a life threatening situation like a gunshot wound, stab wound, broken bone, heart attack, severe burn then Emergency Rooms are you best choice. Other than those situations there are SO MANY NATURAL SAFE WAYS TO HEAL THE BODY. Please find a positive way to channel that anger to help others awaken from the dangers of the medical system













Has her message changed?