Last week, my Mom died. She was 94 and a half years old. She and my father, who cared for her with extreme devotion during the last seven disabled years of her life, were married for 72 years.
Mom declined sharply when, at 87, she broke her hip. Thereafter, defying the odds, she regained her ability to walk for five more years. Then, in the summer of 2021, after taking mRNA shots, she had a series of strokes and never fully recovered. Yes, I know unvaxxed 92 year-olds can also suffer strokes. But the timing was suspicious.
Mom remained mostly cheerful until the end. At Christmas, 2021, I wasn’t allowed to visit her, except to slide my wife’s homemade dinner to her and my father—both boosted and Covid-infected—through their briefly-opened, glass sliding door.
Christmas, 2022 was much better. Our adult kids were great with Mom and she was delighted to share time with us. That day and evening are now part of a series of happy family memories.
Mom lost vision in one eye the next day and was admitted to the hospital. She stayed for a week and died, alone, maybe in her sleep, early in the morning that she was supposed to have been discharged; my father had not yet arrived to keep his daylong bedside vigil. Officially, she died from cardiac arrest, though that explanation seems tautological.
In the past few days, many people have offered consolation. I sincerely appreciate everyone who has done that.
But no one needs to feel sorry about my Mom or for me. She lived longer than 98.5% of people do and she raised an intact, functional, fun family with four kids. Many people loved or liked her. She got to do many things that she enjoyed. And she cared for others in their times of need.
As she aged, along with losing mobility and the ability to care for herself, Mom was steadily losing memory. Thankfully, she remembered all of our names and faces until the end.
Having been around plenty of older folks, I know the many, big, irreversible challenges that old age presents. Physical pain, confusion and loneliness are common. Thus, when, in February, 2020, I heard of an illness that, like the flu, slightly shortened the lives of some tiny fraction of older people, I didn’t feel worried or sad. I know that death is part of life and that, because old age is hard, death is often merciful. It had been for various people I’ve known and it was for my mother. The climb of life had become very steep for her and it was getting steeper.
Covid was said to end the lives of many people who, in truth, had simply worn out. Different people wear out at different ages. If they’re in failing health, some people are worn out by 60. Mom had been wearing out visibly since her eighties. If she had died a year ago, when she had tested Corona positive, the hospital would have categorized her death as a Covid death; government subsidies encouraged such mischaracterization. Really, her body was just beaten down; in part, I suspect, by the shots. But largely by being 94. She was like a wildflower in a late season field.
I’ve been around long enough to have seen many people I know die before their time. Casting a sideways glance as I walked through my hometown cemetery to bury my mother, I saw the gravestone of a very pleasant schoolmate who died at 35 of a brain tumor. I also saw the grave marker for another classmate’s mother; she died at 38, when my classmate was 14. If I had looked even a little more, I’m sure I would have seen more graves of those who died young. Such deaths differ qualitatively from my Mom’s death or the hundreds of thousands of ostensible Covid deaths, which were nearly all among the old and sick. Despite all of the TV news death tickers, comparing Covid deaths among the old or baseline ill to the deaths of younger, healthy people is like comparing night and day.
Yet, over the past three years, drunk on power, Government/Media/Pharma opportunistically pretended that some deaths among the old and sick meant that all people were at risk. Many people naively or insincerely asserted that the deaths of a tiny fraction of old, sick people were unacceptable and that Covid could, like viral lightning, strike down anyone, of any age. This was obviously false, even from Day 1.
In reaction, many were foolishly certain that we should lock everyone down, close schools, universally mask, test and inject mRNA. They insisted that doing so was worth it if might “save just one life,” no matter how old or unhealthy the small, definable segment of the population said to be dying “of/from Covid” was.
The political and economic exploitation of a disease that only threatened a very small cohort of very old or ill people has been the most contemptible, destructive thing that I’ve ever witnessed. Anyone who compares the deaths of old people to the deaths of young people or who supported locking down or injecting healthy, young people, ostensibly in order to slightly extend the lives of some old, sick people should be permanently discredited and disqualified from holding public office, teaching or voting. They lack basic discernment.
My Mom had a fair chance at life, and she used it well. Unrestricted youthful years enabled her to create memories and to create and raise a family that gave her life meaning and cared for her in her old age.
During the past three years, such life-shaping time was stolen from young, healthy people and they were compulsorily injected with a harmful substance in order to sell lies that served a political and economic agenda. This stolen time can never be replaced. And these lies can never be forgotten or forgiven.
I don't think human society has ever witnessed such horrific abuse and evil as we have seen over the past 3 years.
It is so astonishing that so few have seen it though.
My condolences to you. I hope you remained close to her over her final years. I'm in a position, because of my covid views (amongst many other things) where I may never see my Mother (and other family members) again. Playing the role of family black sheep is a bummer at times.
The world can be very wicked.
Dear Mark, I lost my mother at age 81 in October of 2013.
At first I busied myself with all the religious and legal aspects of her death, and I thought I was handling it all pretty well until a prospective client met me a week later in my office and told me I looked like Hell. (She was right but I still thought it was alright and I was fine.)
After that, I proceeded to do a slow-motion collapse for about two years, and on October 30, 2015, I physically collapsed and spent the next 6 weeks in a place I'd never been before: a hospital.
Almost 10 years post my mother's passing, I find myself thinking about her more and more. Random memories of the way she spoke, and the happy incidents of growing up as her first son just appear out of nowhere. Although we're of Northern European stock, and therefore very stoic and reserved as a rule, I'm often deeply moved by her memory.
My unsolicited advice is take it slow and let yourself grieve. Honor your mom's memory and all the good times in your lives. I'm praying the rosary for the repose of her soul today.