Dad Was Treated Like a Piece of Meat; Dr Death Pointed At Him And Uttered “End Of Life” Then Nurses Administered Lethal Midazolam And Morphine!

Our Dad was known for his no-nonsense personality. He was a character. Love him or hate him, he always spoke his mind - never sugarcoating his opinions and certainly didn't suffer fools! He had an astute awareness of the world we live in, regularly engaging in conversations about government corruption and global events. He saw through the facade of mainstream media (unlike many who blindly accepted everything they were being fed). Dad encouraged us to question everything and was himself a relentless researcher, spending countless hours on his computer, determined to uncover the truth.

From the outset of the pandemic, Dad expressed his belief that it was part of a larger depopulation agenda targeting the vulnerable (particularly the elderly) and people on benefits. We totally agreed with him as had delved into the topic of the New World Order and the Great Reset for years, but we certainly never expected to witness it unfolding in our own lifetime! When reports started emerging of sudden deaths in care homes across the country, Dad immediately recognised the pattern, that families were deliberately being kept away from their loved ones, and also the excessive use of drugs like Midazolam and Morphine.

Despite being in his 80s, Dad was technologically savvy and had his own social media accounts where he regularly voiced his opinions. However, his posts against tyranny got us both banned from Twitter! He became an avid follower of Clare Harrison, who exposed the use of Midazolam on vulnerable seniors, and John O'Looney, who provided regular updates on the alarming body count. Dad was well-informed and acutely aware that he could be a target, so he prioritised his health and fitness to the best of his ability.

So how on earth did we find ourselves in this heartbreaking situation when we were fully "awake" and aware of the atrocities happening in our care homes and hospitals?

It all started in early January when our boiler broke down, leaving us without heating for two long weeks. We wrapped up as best we could, relying on a wood burner to keep warm. Unfortunately, Dad developed a chest infection amidst the cold spell. He tried the usual remedies—paracetamol, cough mixture and oregano oil—but his condition didn't improve. We were worried that he'd get much worse without anti-biotics.

By 27th January, Dad realised he wasn't getting any better and asked us to call for medical assistance. He too believed that a course of antibiotics might help him recover and that maybe they could be prescribed without him having to leave home. We had an oxygen meter at home, so were able to check his levels which sadly turned out to be low. We made that fateful call for an ambulance - not knowing it would be a decision we would regret for the rest of our lives.

Before being whisked away, Dad said "You probably won't see me again once they get their hands on me." We reassured him, telling him he'd be fine and that he just needed to assert his wishes to the medical professionals. We emphasised that he was still in charge and had the final say in his care. Little did we know...

"Dad was very explicit that, under no circumstances did he want to be given Midazolam and Morphine or any similar end-of-life medication"

The ambulance arrived; the paramedics were like good cop bad cop! The older one attempted to lighten the mood, jokingly telling Dad he had won a "prize"—an overnight stay at the George Eliot Hospital. What a tragic prize that turned out to be!

In discussions with the paramedics, we explicitly stated the treatments Dad was willing to accept and those he absolutely did not want. Dad also made clear himself to the ambulance crew that he absolutely did not want any invasive procedures - SPECIFICALLY NO VENTILATORS! Dad had seen what was happening in the UK, US and elsewhere, whereby hospitals were being financially incentivised to put patients on ventilators!

Dad was very explicit that, under no circumstances did he want to be given Midazolam and Morphine or any similar end-of-life medication, as he new all too well they were being used to harm rather than heal. The paramedics reassured us that he just needed to go in overnight for observation, that his wishes had been noted and that they would organise a "purple form" to ensure he was listened to going forward. Dad finally agreed to be taken to the hospital.

By 9:00 PM, Dad was ready to walk out to the ambulance under his own steam, but the paramedics insisted he be transported in a chair. He wasn't happy. He was a proud man and didn't want to give the "curtain twitchers" something to gossip about so asked they be quick getting him to the ambulance to minimise exposure outside the house.

Once settled in the back of the ambulance, he busied himself, requesting his hat, money, phone charger and even his comb. We scurried around, gathering his belongings, ensuring he had everything he needed for his overnight stay. It's worth noting that no one was permitted to accompany him due to COVID-19 regulations—how convenient!

The moment Dad left our home felt eerily empty. The silence was deafening. For the past 12 years we had rarely been apart, and now Dad's chair sat unoccupied for the first time. We paced the floor for hours, endlessy calling the hospital but never managing to get through to anyone. Exhausted, anxious and feeling totally helpless, we reluctantly retired to bed around 1:00 AM, our minds still racing with worry.

Sleep eluded us, and by 6:00 AM, we were wide awake. I tried calling the hospital again, only to be met with more unanswered calls. At that point, it felt as if Dad had been whisked away in the night, kidnapped with no means of finding him.

Finally, at 7:30 AM, we managed to speak to someone at the hospital. We hoped to learn which ward Dad had been assigned to, with the intention of visiting him and assessing his condition firsthand. Unfortunately, that hope was shattered.

The hospital staff informed us that Dad had been tested for COVID-19, which left us dumbfounded. There was absolutely no way Dad would have consented to that test. He was fiercely against the testing regime, recognising its manipulative nature in inflating statistics. Moreover, due to breaking his nose in his teens he suffered with a tight nasal passage which caused discomfort. He would have fiercely resisted any attempt to swab his nose so any test was likely forced on him. Surprise Suprise, they said he'd tested positive and had been placed in a COVID-19 ward.

Our hearts sank. We understood the implications all too well—separating the elderly from their families, concealing the truth behind closed doors. Panic consumed us. We made sure the team dealing with Dad were fully aware of his wishes, in particular NO Do Not Resuscitate (DNR), NO Jabs, NO ventilators and certainly NO end-of-life drugs!

Dad had made his wishes very clear to us and intended to do the same with the doctors and nurses. He would advocate for himself, just as he had with the ambulance crew. He firmly refused any vaccination, a stance the medical staff continued to bring up. He had a strong will to live, often joking about rejecting a telegram from the Queen as he was determined to make it to 100! He was doing remarkably well, all things considered. Little did we know what lay ahead.

To our shock, we discovered that a DNR order had been placed on Dad. We immediately contacted the hospital to rectify this error. They claimed he had agreed to it, but we vehemently contested that notion. Dad was hard of hearing, and they had conveniently taken away his hearing aid, leaving him deaf and vulnerable. It's likely he misunderstood their intentions and unknowingly nodded in agreement, possibly thinking they were asking if he wanted a cup of tea.

When I challenged them, they told me they couldn't do CPR on Dad, they said it would likely break his ribs and he'd end up on a ventilator which went against his wishes. We insisted they perform CPR if it became necessary, even if it resulted in broken ribs to keep him alive—he was a tough old boot after all, and would get over a few broken ribs.

We had a lengthy discussion with Dad's consultant who seemed to genuinely have Dad's best interests at heart. She reassured us that his stats were improving. X-rays had revealed dark shadows on Dad's lungs but the consultant was confident this could be dealt with at a later date as an outpatient. For now, they just needed to get Dad on antibiotics and steroids to lessen any inflammation currently in his lungs.

They said Dad had "Suspected Covid-19" pneumonia, and although his oxygen levels were not great, he had improved and had just been started on antibiotics. This sounded positive. We felt a big sigh of relief and slept better that night.

Next day we spoke with dad on his mobile phone. He was in a good mood, boasting he'd had 3 puddings and lots of tea. He was diabetic and occasionally had treats to satisfy his sweet tooth, but never over did it. At one point he was quizzing my brother about the Coventry City football results, as they had played that day.

In the very last conversation we had with Dad, he persistently asked " when am I coming home?" to which our response was "soon as you've finished the anti-biotics". He was desperate to go home and sleep in his own bed. On day 3 we were waiting for a call from the hospital to give us an update on his condition and hopefully a release date. We got everything prepared at home ready for his return, fresh bedding and the place spic and span.

Around 3:30 PM we got a call from the hospital saying we needed to go in as Dad had taken a turn for the worse. This certainly wasn't what we were expecting. I was so shocked! They went on to say that the ward needed to be prepared so we shouldn't arrive before 5:30 PM. I let the rest of the family know who were as shocked as I was at the news.

My brother was the first to arrive at the hospital (just after 5:30pm). He rushed to the ward and was distressed to find Dad sprawled across the bed with his head to one side and feet half hanging off the bed with his slippers still on. His neck was scrunched up. My brother complained asking how the nurses could they leave him lying there like that. They very coldly responded "move out of the way then and we will move him".

After the nurses moved Dad my brother went on to question how he ended up like that. They claimed he'd earlier tried to get out of bed, putting his slippers and asking to go home. They considered this to be agitation and called the doctor over who pointed at Dad and said "End of Life", the nurses then sedated him and he became unconscious.

This was the first we knew about what they had done to Dad. We went into panic when we realised, he had been put on end-of-life and they admitted administering both Midazolam and Morphine. We were all well aware that these drugs were a lethal concoction and were being widely used to euthanise the elderly. Dad was now totally unconscious and unresponsive.

We had to think fast! Our research showed that in most cases Midazolam would be out of the system within approximately 4 hours. However, at this point we had no idea how much dad had been given. Our goal was to first stop them administering any more drugs and then once he came round, to get him out of there. We created a legal notice of liability for the hospital to cease and desist from giving Dad any further treatment and informed them that should they continue, they would be held liable for £250,000 minimum. This stalled things a bit allowing us time for Dad to wake up. My brother spent the next 16 hours at Dad's bedside but he never woke. We had no idea how much of the killer concoction he'd already had. Around 9am my brother went home to get some sleep.

At 12:15 the hospital called saying Dad didn't have long left and that we should all head back there. I asked "how long is not long, are we talking hours or what?" I let rip how angry I was for giving Dad the drugs we explicitly asked them not to. I explained how they had gone against the wishes of Dad, his primary carers and his next of kin. Next thing the woman on the call said "oh wait a minute, sorry to do this, don't bother coming in as he has gone". I was totally distraught and, in a rage, called them murderers! I asked for the name of the doctor that killed him to which she obliged. Dr Death's name (as I call him) will be etched in my mind forever. He is the one who pointed at dad like a piece of meat and ordered the Kill!

We were left stunned, shocked, and overwhelmed with grief. In a mere three and a half days, our beloved father had fallen victim to a healthcare system that was supposed to protect him. And, as we combed through his medical records, the chilling truth became apparent—Dad had been given a lethal cocktail of drugs, administered in one fatal dose rather than gradually. He never stood a chance!

It turns out Dad was right all along. We are in no doubt that he saw the things they wanted to keep hidden, and they couldn't allow him to come home because he knew too much. The trauma we have endured as a family is unimaginable. But we will never stop fighting for justice. We will hold accountable the CEO, Glen Burley of George Eliot Hospital, who has shown no interest in meeting with us or answering any of our questions.