I was very ill in 2020 with what they used to call long Covid. I jumped directly into the long version and didn’t bother with the short one.
I had to travel to Jenbach, Tyrol, for a leadership meeting that couldn’t be postponed — on March 9, right after everyone panicked and a few days before the pandemic was officially declared, which I think was on March 12. I travelled by train, almost alone in the wagon, which was spotlessly clean as usual. I didn’t interact with anyone. At the hotel I was literally the only guest — a small, family-owned and family-run place, equally spotless. The staff interacted with me from a distance of two to three metres. At the office, we were four or five people in a meeting room, seated two metres apart, surrounded by disinfectants, the air itself thick with them. I travelled back on March 12 under the same conditions.
Immediately upon returning I started drinking tea, took essential oils, and everything else I could find that seemed beneficial or preventative.
On March 16 I noticed involuntary movements — my fingers moved on the keyboard on their own, and I had muscle spasms in my legs. The next day things got worse: extreme weakness, nausea, and a general malaise I cannot easily describe, along with a low-grade fever and a diffuse discomfort around the gallbladder and liver area.
I called my GP — he didn’t answer. After a while his assistant picked up. When I began describing my symptoms, she said she didn’t have time for this and that I should take paracetamol, drink tea, wash my hands, and stay at home. That was the professional advice.
I called several other doctors. Some offered guidance but said that without test results they couldn’t form a proper opinion — and I couldn’t get any tests without going to the hospital, which at that point felt out of the question. I can’t adequately describe how ill I was. The worst of it was an extreme weakness I had never experienced before. Taken individually the symptoms were not severe — except for that weakness — but their cumulative effect was devastating. I genuinely thought I wasn’t going to make it.
On a Friday evening I felt so bad that I called an ambulance. I felt I couldn’t breathe and my chest was burning — not the lungs themselves, but the pleura, the membrane surrounding them. It didn’t hurt, but it was terrifying. Three paramedics arrived, fully dressed in white protective suits with plexiglass masks, and even so they spoke to me from three metres away. They asked whether I suffered from panic attacks. I said no. They checked my eyes to see if they were jaundiced from possible liver or gallbladder involvement, and checked my oxygen saturation — everything looked normal, except that it wasn’t. As I was answering their questions, I started to feel better, so in part they were right to suspect a panic component. They asked if I wanted to go with them to the hospital. I said no.
I suffered for a few more days until I came across an article by a Hungarian doctor who had treated an entire care home — around 110 patients — primarily with vitamins, in very high doses. I told myself it couldn’t get any worse, followed his protocol, and gradually began to improve to the point where I could work from home. I was still weak and felt miserable, especially on weekends, but overall incomparably better.
What was particularly striking was the cyclical nature of the condition. From Monday to Friday I would gradually improve, until Friday evening when I would deteriorate again. It peaked over the weekend and the cycle would restart on Monday. This continued until June.
In May I was finally able to visit a private clinic without fear of testing and quarantine protocols. They found no Covid, but my blood was extremely thick — so much so that they had me drink 1.5 litres of water before they could draw sufficient samples. The only anomaly they found was that two autoimmune markers were markedly elevated. I had two options: pursue an endless series of inconclusive tests, or continue the protocol recommended by that doctor without further investigation. I chose the latter.
By September I was perfectly fine. Out of curiosity I returned to a specialist — a gastroenterologist, on account of that persistent discomfort around the liver and gallbladder. The blood work revealed an E. coli bacterial infection. I was prescribed antibiotics and recovered fully, but I was puzzled as to where I could have picked it up, given that the whole of Tyrol is immaculately clean and I had been in a constant state of disinfection along with everyone else.
The answer came from an Austrian colleague. She told me that E. coli had been found in the tap water in Jenbach. I can’t recall the exact timing, but it hardly mattered. I had always drunk the tap water there — it was clean and tasted good.
How did the bacteria got into the tap water? Later I read that the devil surrogates were using E.coli DNA in some of the vaccine batches….Enough said…The Conspiracy Fluffy.
PS: Claude refused to revise the last two sentences…Infinite laughs…