The Elon-12 Chronicles, No. 2
“Threads of Truth”

Ever since COVID-19 tore up the tapestry of our lives, I have been searching for threads of truth. That is what these chronicles are — my search for threads of truth. 

I have discovered something about Elon-12. It was intended to control me, but it is imperfect. My mind is beginning to use it for my own purposes. It is still difficult to distinguish my own memories from the device’s implants, but I am working on sorting them out as best I can in this condition and trying to store memories that seem to be my own into a private part of my own brain. To say the least, it’s tricky to distinguish what’s mine and what’s theirs, coming by intention or by accident through transmissions from Elon-12.

There’s a pixilated image, almost like a drawing made with dots, but I perceive a real face in it. A woman. And it stirs a cloud of anxiety, like I’m hiding from something dreadful that I may have done. To make less of her strong impression, I call her “the pixilated girl.” In police movies, they show how a computer can work over a photographic image while the cops wait impatiently to recognize the perpetrator’s face, except I fear I am the perpetrator.  

The memories are in pictures and some words. Are they about me? Another lifetime? About some other doctors — someone older than me, perhaps, someone whose memories I am tapping into through crossed wires and transmissions?  

It is back at the beginning of it all. That phrase haunts me. “Back at the beginning of it all” is loaded somehow, as if the time has passed with unspeakable consequences. He, this doctor, this man or woman, this person, there are several of them — they are like my own memories, but I’m sure it’s Elon-12. Now I’m focusing in on him and his memories. It’s the year 2020; I’m almost sure of it.    

He seems like me, but this is many years back now. He is a caring doctor, the youngest to get a Doctor of the Year Award for caring so much for his patients and community, and he’s a good Christian, who adores his two young kids. His patients see the pictures of him and children on the office wall, more conspicuous than his diplomas, and they are right to feel he loves them, too, like family.

Now he is talking with a patient…or trying to talk with her. There is a feeling of dread choking this memory. A dread no one is allowed to feel because we must now pay attention to what is going on around us. We feel content with being doctors. But I cannot feel content and hide this crime from everyone. I feel this dread surrounding the young doctor, as I look back, with Elon-12, connecting me somehow. I…me…he…this feels so bizarre, and I apologize, I do, for subjecting you to this confusion which is beyond, I know, anything you have experienced…but please, listen. 

It’s a simple scene. It feels like the real me.

A mother has come to me. Her twelve-year-old son — we gave him a vaccine in our clinic yesterday, but I had nothing to do with it — it’s a part of our Community Hospital and Health Center, our vaccine tent in the parking lot. We gave him the vaccine; I don’t even know if it was Moderna or Pfizer. He died soon after that day; that was yesterday. Acute myocarditis with signs of systematic inflammation, from what I gleaned from calling the ER doc. The young doctor was very guarded. It could have been COVID-19 that killed him, he said without conviction, and added, “Of, course, we always have to call it COVID, especially if they die.” 

There are whispers that the vaccinations prime the immune system and that later exposure to SAR’s-Cov-2 can cause an overreaction — a deadly storm of immune overstimulation. A cytokine storm. Or it could have been the spike protein in the vaccine. They both do the same thing — the disease and the vaccine, both of them containing the spike protein of the Chinese virus. Or is it just an oddity…a coincidence…nothing to think too much about… The ER doc and I ⏤ we did not really talk about the specific cause of death. We are learning not to be so specific in our diagnoses when it was such a matter of pride and seeming necessity in the past. As medical students, we revered “the great diagnosticians,” and now I would fear for them.

The mother is talking to me. She’s somewhere in the distance, way across the room. A hundred feet away…although, I could, if I wanted, reach across the space between us and put my hand on hers. I could.

She is asking me questions. “Could it be the vaccine?” No, she is really mumbling to herself as if in shock, “Could it be the vaccine?” She is used to getting no answers from doctors.

I could ask her questions in return. What was the exact time of the jab, and was there anything unusual? When did she first see that something was wrong? Was the onset of her son’s reaction to the vaccine, gradual or sudden?

Did he collapse?
Was there a fever?
Nausea or vomiting?
A rash?

Did she call 911?
Was she with him in the ER, or did they separate her from her child as we always seemed to do?

Did they have time to hook up an EKG?
Did they draw blood?
What did they tell her in the ER? 

I know why she’s sitting here in my office. I’m her family doctor. I’ve known her son since he was a baby, practically wet from the delivery. I have an ear for music — I think I can still hear the uniqueness of his crying in the office when she brought him in with colic. There is almost no information in the ER report that was routinely sent to me in the morning.

Doctors always are the first to get reports of their patients going to the ER. Just a note at the bottom of a routine discharge form:

“Arrived at 12:15 and became unresponsive at 12:30. Probable cardiac arrest. Twelve years old. Diagnosis: COVID-19.” Our medical notes have become cryptic. All that matters is the diagnosis the CDC and insurance require: COVID-19. In my years with COVID-19, I have never seen or heard of a child — from infancy to young adulthood dying of COVID.

I find myself still wordless, looking at this mother, not wanting to remember her name or mine, in such deep, acute mourning. A terrible feeling overcomes me. I want to… to hurt her.  

Hurt her? Where did that come from? It gives me a sick feeling in my gut.

What is happening to me?

One of my colleagues lost her position last week at the hospital for raising questions about the vaccines. She has no other place to go. Private practice has been made almost impossible with red tape and regulations. Another colleague received a formal warning letter from the state medical board for falsely reporting too many adverse reactions to the vaccines. No one dares say a word that’s not been said or approved by the CDC. I cannot lose my job. How would I raise my children, pay the lovely woman who is our homemaker, the babysitters, the Christian private school they are attending… Like a trauma victim, even a dementia patient, I can remember my ingrained social habits from the past more clearly than anything since the catastrophe.   

She — this woman in front of me — is not crying anymore. Just looking at me with hollow eyes. She wants something from me.

I could open my mouth and tell her my name. Introduce myself. I am Doctor —. That would be a good start. That’s how I would have done it a mere year ago. I am doctor — and my patient’s eyes would light up seeing the warmth in my smile…dear God.

I could give her a referral to our pediatric cardiologist, but I don’t want to do that to my friend and colleague. A month ago, he became so distraught about the growing number of vaccinated children coming down with myocarditis soon after vaccination, that he had to do something. He had three deaths in his practice — that’s more than all the deaths ever confirmed in children in the US from COVID-19. He could not in good conscience withhold the information, and he sent a clinical report, a series of his patients to the CDC. In less than a week, they responded. A phone call grilling him. They identified themselves as “tracers” from the CDC. They were trying to trace other people he had infected with these falsehoods, people he made into “victims of misinformation,” and people the CDC now had to put into “misinformation quarantine.” 

What is the use of a name? Why tell her my name?

“Doctor?”  

The greeting jolts me.

It’s my physician’s assistant. He saw that I never closed the door behind this poor soul who sits in front of me. I did not want to be completely alone with her, this woman from my family practice.

My physician’s assistant looks at me. He looks at the woman who is crying again, very quietly.

He reaches down to her and puts his hand on her shoulder in an expression of sympathy, and leaves, wordlessly closing the door.

I am fully alone with her. Damn him!

I grew up wanting to be brave. I wanted to be a fireman who saved lives. I grew older and wanted to be a doctor who saved lives. And I have become someone…become someone else…someone who is enmeshed in the taking of lives. 

And my name, my good name, my place after all this hard work, my children’s security, the money my ex-wife needs to support her life, myself, my identity, our children and their future, and all that depends on being content with this…?

I hate this woman. I hate her dead child.

My Elon-12 images blur. I am writing all this down as fast as I can for you to know, and now it is receding. This doctor’s nightmarish experience is so real it seems as if it’s me. It might as well be me. If I am that doctor, God, save me.

But I need these awful images to remain with me. I will practice remembering them and storing them separately from Elon-12 in those corners of my brain that remain mine. I want them to remain with me. My own identity depends on keeping their identities alive — the identities of all the lost identities of my colleagues at the beginning of it all in 2020.  

Who or what gave me this awful task? I have no idea.

To be continued.

Read – The Elon-12 Chronicles, No. 1: “Good Job, X-i-41520-Y^10”