My name is Kate and I’m a 45-year-old military veteran. I lived a busy life prior to the Pfizer jab although I faced some health challenges.
I worked two jobs over 5 days a week and ran a small hair-tie business. Unfortunately, I had to close my business in May, 2022 when my health deteriorated.
I was battling a bacterial and fungal infection in my oesophagus and stomach during the vaccine rollout, so I did not want the vaccine until I felt well enough. I’m sceptical by nature, but I’m not an anti-vaxxer.
One of my jobs had no Covid vaccine requirements, but the boss of my other job stated in an October, 2021 email that staff had to be vaccinated by the 31st of January, 2022. I told her she was misinterpreting the mandate legislation and that only company staff who visited building sites needed to be vaccinated. She insisted that all staff had to be vaccinated. She said to me, “If you’re not vaccinated, you can’t work.” I could not live on my other job’s wage, so I had no choice.
I had my first Pfizer vaccine (right arm) at my GP clinic on the 20th November, 2021. I noticed nothing unusual, so I got my second Pfizer vaccine on the 19th of December at the same clinic.
On the 22nd of December, both my mother and niece noticed a dark-red bruise at my injection site. I thought hmm that looks weird, so I took photos and kept an eye on it. It grew bigger and covered most of my upper arm by the 24th of December. It wasn’t sore and I wasn’t sick; I just felt fatigued, but I often feel fatigued given my PTSD and military service injuries.
By the evening of the 31st of December, a purple-red bruise covered in small black dots extended from my shoulder to my elbow, and I developed a dot-like rash over my body. I debated whether to go to hospital. But I was so exhausted that I fell asleep at about 10pm.
The next thing I remember is waking up on my bedroom floor at 5am on what I thought was the next day (New Year’s Day). I let my dogs out and went into the kitchen. I spoke to my housemate but had a hard time getting my words out. In my mind, I spoke gibberish. But out loud, my housemate could understand me. I remember thinking maybe I’d had a stroke, but I wasn’t thinking straight and returned to bed, exhausted.
I woke again at midday with absolutely no recollection of having woken at 5am; I still thought it was New Year’s Day. I went into the kitchen where my housemates were ordering food and said, “Happy New Year!” They said I had slept through it, and it was now the 2nd of January. I picked up my phone to check the date, but the phone was dead. I knew something was wrong because I had spent over 30 hours in my room. I was so confused. What I didn’t know then is that I’d had a seizure.
It took all day to pack a bag for the hospital as I kept forgetting what I was doing. I foolishly drove to hospital at 11pm (in hindsight, I should have called an ambulance, but my brain just wasn’t helping me.)
Disoriented, I stood in the hospital waiting room. A triage nurse noticed me and sat me down. He asked a few questions and took me straight to admin when I told him I thought it was 2020. I checked in and handed the receptionist my Medicare card and veteran’s card. The triage nurse saw my veteran’s card and said he was also a navy veteran. He asked straight up if I had been on a bender. I said, “No, I do not do drugs and I’m not much of a drinker.” By asking me straight up, he basically meant do not bs me. When you work in the military, you can’t bs someone when they ask you straight up. It’s an unwritten rule. He got me allocated to a bed in Emergency.
Once in bed, many nurses repeatedly asked if I was under the influence of drugs or alcohol, but I got no actual medical help. I was scared, confused, and experiencing indescribable pain. I cried silently and thought this is where I die. Oddly, I accepted that. I just lay there and thought I’d done a lot in my life, and it was okay to die.
I felt awful and looked worse. My face and lips were swollen and red; my eyelids were inflamed and felt strange. My hands and feet were on fire; they weren’t sweating, just burning. I begged the nurses to feel my hands and feet, but no one would. What saved me was another ex-military nurse. I knew he was ex-military by his language. He also asked me if I was on a bender, and I repeated what I had told the first ex-military nurse. He felt my hands and feet, raced off, and returned with four pathology bags packed with ice. He said he had never seen anything like my burning hands and feet.
My ED stay lasted 17 hours and, while there, I handed staff my prescribed medications. Having had some medical problems in the past, I knew they would need to know my medical history. Eventually, a junior doctor saw me, and, after 2 minutes, he left to find a senior doctor. He returned with her a short time later. She was clear and confident and diagnosed me with a benign immune-mediated reaction to the vaccine. She told me that I might feel like I am dying, but that this feeling will soon pass and that I will be okay.
I had several blood and urine tests in Emergency, but they lost the first tests as I overheard them talking about it at the nurses’ station. The tests were re-done several hours later, and I was found to have elevated CK Cardiac Muscle Markers (they should be between 30-150 and mine were 3388). The clinical pathologist noted that my CK markers were “consistent with significant heart muscle damage, rhabdomyolysis, which may be secondary to trauma, severe exercise, medication, or toxins.” He recommended that my troponin levels be measured if cardiac involvement was suspected.
To date, the clinical notes state that my troponin levels were negative. But after contacting the laboratory the hospital uses, I discovered the troponin test was never done, never lodged, and no record exists. I contacted the hospital’s head office and they said they would investigate. I mean, if my CK cardiac markers are 3388 when they should be lower than 150, then you’d expect the test to be done. I was fortunate to have my query answered by someone who straight up said, “No, that test wasn’t done” rather than gaslight me with a, “he said, she said” routine.
My other test results revealed that I had blood in my urine and that my C Reactive Protein was off-the-scale. My elevated white blood cells indicated infection and inflammation and my liver function test also showed inflammation.
Finally, I was transferred to General Medicine and thought thank goodness I’m going to feel better soon. I was mistaken. The narrative was about to change from Covid vaccine reaction to something else entirely. We were about to go down the “she’s been on a bender, she’s a drug addict, a sex worker, and is mentally unstable” narrative.
I had handed in all my medicines while in Emergency. So, after I was admitted to General Medicine, a nurse entered my room and queried my ADHD medication dosage. I told her it is to take up to 7 tablets a day and she said no, it is to take 1 tablet, 7 times a day. It is my medicine and I know what I’m talking about, but she yelled at me, saying I was not telling her the truth. I told her to go and read the sticker on the bottle again. She stormed out furiously.
I was very quickly seen by three female doctors, none of whom introduced themselves or explained why they were in my room. One of the doctors oversaw my ‘medical workup’ and she was the only one who spoke. She began by questioning me about my ADHD medication, Dexamphetamine. She then yelled at me, saying I wasn’t being truthful about the dosage, and I was not being truthful about whether or not I had been on a bender. She paced up and down and grew increasingly aggressive. I told her that I handed my medications to staff already and had explained why I took Dexamphetamine, along with other prescribed medication. I explained I was a Navy veteran with a disability and her yelling was starting to frighten me.
This doctor then told me that I must have obtained the medicine illegally. I replied, “Huh? What?” I told her to call the pharmacy because it has my prescription on file.
Enraged, she told me that I must have forged the script. I said “No! No!” and began to cry. I told her to call my psychiatrist. I also told her to call the Department of Veterans’ Affairs because they have all my medications on file. She looked directly into my eyes and said, “What’s that?” The other two doctors looked at each other as if to say, “Oh, she shouldn’t have said that.” I also remember they discussed calling the police, but all I recall saying was, “That’s okay. I have friends in the police force, and I’ve never been in trouble in my life.
Finally, they left and in came a male neurologist. He conducted a few tests, went over all the medicines I take, and asked me if I had taken any drugs or alcohol. He mentioned a syphilis outbreak in the community and that if I was a sex worker, then I’d need testing. Shocked—and with a brain not on my side—I was unable to respond before he moved on to ask me about my navy service. Wondering where he was going with this, I said, “Yeah, it was 20 years ago.” He then asked awkwardly how many men I had sex with while in the navy. I zoned out at this stage, and he left the room and came back with a female nurse. He explained that he needed to examine my genital area and the nurse was there to assist. I didn’t object; I was so far removed from the situation that I just did what I was told. I had to remove my underwear, bend over, and cough. Yes, seriously. In my naivety, I thought they were looking for syphilis sores. It wasn’t until months later after a random chat with a nurse that I found out a simple pin-prick blood test can check for syphilis. What they were really looking for were drugs hidden in my body.
I am still angry a year later about being asked about the number of men I had sex with in the Navy. When I joined the navy, women had only recently been allowed to serve at sea. Like many others, I had worked hard to be there. To be asked how many men I slept with is insulting and disgusting. I served my country proudly and that’s what gets thrown at me?
After that ordeal, I was exhausted and finally slept. On the morning of the 4th of January, I woke suddenly and remembered what had happened after I fell asleep on the 31st of December: I had overheated in bed, pulled off the quilt, got out of bed, and fallen to the floor. I remember falling, but I do not remember hitting the ground. I immediately told a nurse. She had absolutely zero interest in my recollection.
In the afternoon of the 4th of January, I was transferred to the Cardiology ward. The General Medicine doctors tried to blame my condition on anything but the vaccine. I now wonder that if my heart had been checked earlier, maybe the damage would not have been so bad.
I had an ECG, which only showed a spike in my heart rate. I was soon set upon by the same trio of female doctors. This is despite my request that the one who had shouted at me be kept out of my room because she had triggered my PTSD. I very quickly realised that my mental health needs were of no importance. They just did not acknowledge my disability or my PTSD.
Other than being accosted by the 3 doctors again, my stay in this ward was less stressful. The nurses and staff were kind. Individually, staff told me that they had seen a lot of vaccine reactions, but as soon as someone else walked in the room, the conversation stopped. It was like they all knew vaccine injuries were happening, but no one was allowed to discuss it.
On January the 5th, the burning in my hands and feet had gone from a furnace to merely hot. I still had the rash on my body that, strangely, some doctors and nurses could see, and some couldn’t. I had mouth and nose ulcers and a blood clot in my left leg just below the knee. The clot appeared on the 31st of December. It started small but got bigger, changed colour, and it now felt roasting hot, so I took some photos of it. While I was doing that, one of the nurses touched it and said she had never felt anything like it. She pointed it out to a doctor who said it was just a bruise, but this doctor also said she could not see a rash on my body. I could see it, nurses could see it, but, according to her, it didn’t exist. I insisted I had a rash and a blood clot. She said I was anxious, possibly having a psychotic episode, and that I was hallucinating the rash. Having had no history of psychosis or a psychotic episode, I said, “Yep, okay, get the psychologist up here then.”
A psychologist visited that afternoon and reported no signs of a psychotic episode. The medical gaslighting from that doctor was so unbelievable that I thought perhaps I was hallucinating the rash. I even took a photo in case the camera saw it differently to me. You start to question yourself and it was only when I had friends visit that I asked them if they could see a rash. They all could.
From the evening of the 5th of January, I was left in a room on my own until midday the next day (the 6th of January). Before I was discharged, the three doctors came in to tell me that they had reported the adverse reaction to the Department of Health, Vaccine Surveillance, and an immunologist would contact me.
I reminded one of the doctors about the pain in my shoulder and neck from falling. She had completely forgotten I had asked her for X-rays. I was sent to Radiology, and a month or so later at a follow up appointment, I was told my neck was fractured.
Over the following months, I saw many allied health professionals for my ‘cervical fracture’ treatment. But when I saw a new chiropractor in August, he took X-rays and said there is no evidence of a fracture. He then looked at my X-rays from the hospital and said there’s no fracture, and I needed to contact them and find out what was happening. I never received an explanation. All I got was an amended report uploaded to My Health Record stating that I did not have a fracture. Well, that’s just great after spending close to $2K on physical therapy and living my life like I had a fractured neck.
Six weeks after the vaccine reaction, I had a surgery booked (unrelated to the Covid vaccine injury) and I ended up with a 5cm blood clot in my hand and had to go on blood thinners for three months. The hospital took no notice but, fortunately, my GP sorted me out with an ultrasound and blood thinners for three months.
For approximately nine months after my seizure, I had what I thought was vertigo. But it was Meniere’s disease, a condition where a clear fluid leaks out of the ear. I was referred to an ENT specialist, and I saw him on the 18th of January, 2023. I had waited almost a year on a private wait list! He did a few tests and I had no idea just how bad the balance on my left side was. I knew it was off, but I failed those tests badly. He wrote referrals for 2 MRI’s, 2 CT scans, and a balance test. Knowing how much I have spent on my health in the past year, he wrote ‘request to bulk bill’ on the referrals.
I have also been referred to a neurology professor because my GP (and most people in my life) have noticed my speech and coordination have worsened as well as my ability to track what I am doing. I am still waiting for an appointment.
And, finally, my menstrual cycle—like many have reported—went crazy. My periods were normal before the vaccine. But since the vaccine reaction, they have been heavy and painful. I saw a doctor and had a few tests and have been told I have a lesion on my cervix and I need a colposcopy. Really? Anything else? Well, yes, there is: I must have polyps removed from my upper GI tract in March. I also just returned from a holiday in Bali where I had 24 hours of bliss followed by 6 days of some random virus that has now landed me in hospital where I am writing this final draft.
I had moved in with my parents as the cost of medical care was ridiculous. For example, this week I spent $650 on out-of-pocket costs (I have private insurance, yet so much isn’t covered). My parents are tired of my poor health and can’t seem to understand how a 45-year-old can be so ill. I can no longer work full time due to sickness. My savings are nearly exhausted. On the day I went into hospital, my mother told me not to come back. You might say I am now officially homeless.
It’s almost a year and some of my symptoms have improved, but many haven’t. I work 10 hours a week and the Department of Veterans’ Affairs supplements my income, but it isn’t enough to cover the basics. I’m not on a pension, and it will take up to 3 years before that may or may not be approved.
A writer at Jab Injuries Australia asked me where I would like to see myself in the next few years. I don’t know how to answer that because during my time in hospital (and in between sleeping, and tests, and recovering from this virus) I have been searching for share houses. I’ve also been researching how to pimp out my car to live in it. Life has become awful. But, somehow, I keep doing what I can to make it better.
I wasn’t going to share my story, but I read about people’s adverse vaccine reactions. I noticed that all their compensation claims were rejected. I figured if they were all rejected, mine will be, too. I thought, “What do I have to lose?” I also believe our stories are historically significant and will guide public health management going forward. Our stories will at least educate the public about the importance of looking at information from all sides, not just the main narrative.
Kate, 45, Perth, Western Australia
#1 FH3221
#2 FK6268
My name is Kate and I’m a 45-year-old military veteran. I lived a busy life prior to the Pfizer jab although I faced some health challenges.
I worked two jobs over 5 days a week and ran a small hair-tie business. Unfortunately, I had to close my business in May, 2022 when my health deteriorated.
I was battling a bacterial and fungal infection in my oesophagus and stomach during the vaccine rollout, so I did not want the vaccine until I felt well enough. I’m sceptical by nature, but I’m not an anti-vaxxer.
One of my jobs had no Covid vaccine requirements, but the boss of my other job stated in an October, 2021 email that staff had to be vaccinated by the 31st of January, 2022. I told her she was misinterpreting the mandate legislation. I told her that only company staff who visited building sites needed to be vaccinated. She insisted that all staff had to be vaccinated. She said to me, “If you’re not vaccinated, you can’t work.” I could not live on my other job’s wage, so I had no choice.
I had my first Pfizer vaccine (right arm) at my GP clinic on the 20th November, 2021. I noticed nothing unusual, so I got my second Pfizer vaccine on the 19th of December at the same clinic.
On the 22nd of December, both my mother and niece noticed a dark-red bruise at my injection site. I thought hmm that looks weird, so I took photos and kept an eye on it. It grew bigger and covered most of my upper arm by the 24th of December. It wasn’t sore and I wasn’t sick; I just felt fatigued, but I often feel fatigued given my PTSD and military service injuries.
By the evening of the 31st of December, a purple-red bruise covered in small black dots extended from my shoulder to my elbow, and I developed a dot-like rash over my body. I debated whether to go to hospital. But I was so exhausted that I fell asleep at about 10pm.
The next thing I remember is waking up on my bedroom floor at 5am on what I thought was the next day (New Year’s Day). I let my dogs out and went into the kitchen. I spoke to my housemate but had a hard time getting my words out. In my mind, I spoke gibberish. But out loud, my housemate could understand me. I remember thinking maybe I’d had a stroke, but I wasn’t thinking straight and returned to bed, exhausted.
I woke again at midday with absolutely no recollection of having woken at 5am; I still thought it was New Year’s Day. I went into the kitchen where my housemates were ordering food and said, “Happy New Year!” They said I had slept through it, and it was now the 2nd of January. I picked up my phone to check the date, but the phone was dead. I knew something was wrong because I had spent over 30 hours in my room. I was so confused. What I didn’t know then is that I’d had a seizure.
It took all day to pack a bag for the hospital as I kept forgetting what I was doing. I foolishly drove to hospital at 11pm (in hindsight, I should have called an ambulance, but my brain just wasn’t helping me.)
Disoriented, I stood in the hospital waiting room. A triage nurse noticed me and sat me down. He asked a few questions and took me straight to admin when I told him I thought it was 2020. I checked in and handed the receptionist my Medicare card and veteran’s card. The triage nurse saw my veteran’s card and said he was also a Navy veteran. He asked straight up if I had been on a bender. I said, “No, I do not do drugs and I’m not much of a drinker.” By asking me straight up, he basically meant do not bs me. When you work in the military, you can’t bs someone when they ask you straight up. It’s an unwritten rule. He got me allocated to a bed in Emergency.
Once in bed, many nurses repeatedly asked if I was under the influence of drugs or alcohol, but I got no actual medical help. I was scared, confused, and experiencing indescribable pain. I cried silently and thought this is where I die. Oddly, I accepted that. I just lay there and thought I’d done a lot in my life, and it was okay to die.
I felt awful and looked worse. My face and lips were swollen and red; my eyelids were inflamed and felt strange. My hands and feet were on fire; they weren’t sweating, just burning. I begged the nurses to feel my hands and feet, but no one would. What saved me was another ex-military nurse. I knew he was ex-military by his language. He also asked me if I was on a bender, and I repeated what I had told the first ex-military nurse. He felt my hands and feet, raced off, and returned with four pathology bags packed with ice. He said he had never seen anything like my burning hands and feet.
My ED stay lasted 17 hours and, while there, I handed staff my prescribed medications. Having had some medical problems in the past, I knew they would need to know my medical history. Eventually, a junior doctor saw me, and, after 2 minutes, he left to find a senior doctor. He returned with her a short time later. She was clear and confident and diagnosed me with a benign immune-mediated reaction to the vaccine. She told me that I might feel like I am dying, but that this feeling will soon pass and that I will be okay.
I had several blood and urine tests in Emergency, but they lost the first tests as I overheard them talking about it at the nurses’ station. The tests were re-done several hours later, and I was found to have elevated CK Cardiac Muscle Markers (they should be between 30-150 and mine were 3388). The clinical pathologist noted that my CK markers were “consistent with significant heart muscle damage, rhabdomyolysis, which may be secondary to trauma, severe exercise, medication, or toxins.” He recommended that my troponin levels be measured if cardiac involvement was suspected.
To date, the clinical notes state that my troponin levels were negative. But after contacting the laboratory the hospital uses, I discovered the troponin test was never done, never lodged, and no record exists. I contacted the hospital’s head office and they said they would investigate. I mean, if my CK cardiac markers are 3388 when they should be lower than 150, then you’d expect the test to be done. I was fortunate to have my query answered by someone who straight up said, “No, that test wasn’t done” rather than gaslight me with a, “he said, she said” routine.
My other test results revealed that I had blood in my urine and that my C Reactive Protein was off-the-scale. My elevated white blood cells indicated infection and inflammation and my liver function test also showed inflammation.
Finally, I was transferred to General Medicine and thought thank goodness I’m going to feel better soon. I was mistaken. The narrative was about to change from Covid vaccine reaction to something else entirely. We were about to go down the “she’s been on a bender, she’s a drug addict, a sex worker, and is mentally unstable” narrative.
I had handed in all my medicines while in Emergency. So, after I was admitted to General Medicine, a nurse entered my room and queried my ADHD medication dosage. I told her it is to take up to 7 tablets a day and she said no, it is to take 1 tablet, 7 times a day. It is my medicine and I know what I’m talking about, but she yelled at me, saying I was not telling her the truth. I told her to go and read the sticker on the bottle again. She stormed out furiously.
I was very quickly seen by three female doctors, none of whom introduced themselves or explained why they were in my room. One of the doctors oversaw my ‘medical workup’ and she was the only one who spoke. She began by questioning me about my ADHD medication, Dexamphetamine. She then yelled at me, saying I wasn’t being truthful about the dosage, and I was not being truthful about whether or not I had been on a bender. She paced up and down and grew increasingly aggressive. I told her that I handed my medications to staff already and had explained why I took Dexamphetamine, along with other prescribed medication. I explained I was a Navy veteran with a disability and her yelling was starting to frighten me.
This doctor then told me that I must have obtained the medicine illegally. I replied, “Huh? What?” I told her to call the pharmacy because it has my prescription on file.
Enraged, she told me that I must have forged the script. I said “No! No!” and began to cry. I told her to call my psychiatrist. I also told her to call the Department of Veterans’ Affairs because they have all my medications on file. She looked directly into my eyes and said, “What’s that?” The other two doctors looked at each other as if to say, “Oh, she shouldn’t have said that.” I also remember they discussed calling the police, but all I recall saying was, “That’s okay. I have friends in the police force, and I’ve never been in trouble in my life.
Finally, they left and in came a male neurologist. He conducted a few tests, went over all the medicines I take, and asked me if I had taken any drugs or alcohol. He mentioned a syphilis outbreak in the community and that if I was a sex worker, then I’d need testing. Shocked—and with a brain not on my side—I was unable to respond before he moved on to ask me about my navy service. Wondering where he was going with this, I said, “Yeah, it was 20 years ago.” He then asked awkwardly how many men I had sex with while in the navy. I zoned out at this stage, and he left the room and came back with a female nurse. He explained that he needed to examine my genital area and the nurse was there to assist. I didn’t object; I was so far removed from the situation that I just did what I was told. I had to remove my underwear, bend over, and cough. Yes, seriously. In my naivety, I thought they were looking for syphilis sores. It wasn’t until months later after a random chat with a nurse that I found out a simple pin-prick blood test can check for syphilis. What they were really looking for were drugs hidden in my body.
I am still angry a year later about being asked about the number of men I had sex with in the Navy. When I joined the Navy, women had only recently been allowed to serve at sea. Like many others, I had worked hard to be there. To be asked how many men I slept with is insulting and disgusting. I served my country proudly and that’s what gets thrown at me?
After that ordeal, I was exhausted and finally slept. On the morning of the 4th of January, I woke suddenly and remembered what had happened after I fell asleep on the 31st of December: I had overheated in bed, pulled off the quilt, got out of bed, and fallen to the floor. I remember falling, but I do not remember hitting the ground. I immediately told a nurse. She had absolutely zero interest in my recollection.
In the afternoon of the 4th of January, I was transferred to the Cardiology ward. The General Medicine doctors tried to blame my condition on anything but the vaccine. I now wonder that if my heart had been checked earlier, maybe the damage would not have been so bad.
I had an ECG, which only showed a spike in my heart rate. I was soon set upon by the same trio of female doctors. This is despite my request that the one who had shouted at me be kept out of my room because she had triggered my PTSD. I very quickly realised that my mental health needs were of no importance. They just did not acknowledge my disability or my PTSD.
Other than being accosted by the 3 doctors again, my stay in this ward was less stressful. The nurses and staff were kind. Individually, staff told me that they had seen a lot of vaccine reactions, but as soon as someone else walked in the room, the conversation stopped. It was like they all knew vaccine injuries were happening, but no one was allowed to discuss it.
On January the 5th, the burning in my hands and feet had gone from a furnace to merely hot. I still had the rash on my body that, strangely, some doctors and nurses could see, and some couldn’t. I had mouth and nose ulcers and a blood clot in my left leg just below the knee. The clot appeared on the 31st of December. It started small but got bigger, changed colour, and it now felt roasting hot, so I took some photos of it. While I was doing that, one of the nurses touched it and said she had never felt anything like it. She pointed it out to a doctor who said it was just a bruise, but this doctor also said she could not see a rash on my body. I could see it, nurses could see it, but, according to her, it didn’t exist. I insisted I had a rash and a blood clot. She said I was anxious, possibly having a psychotic episode, and that I was hallucinating the rash. Having had no history of psychosis or a psychotic episode, I said, “Yep, okay, get the psychologist up here then.”
A psychologist visited that afternoon and reported no signs of a psychotic episode. The medical gaslighting from that doctor was so unbelievable that I thought perhaps I was hallucinating the rash. I even took a photo in case the camera saw it differently to me. You start to question yourself and it was only when I had friends visit that I asked them if they could see a rash. They all could.
From the evening of the 5th of January, I was left in a room on my own until midday the next day (the 6th of January). Before I was discharged, the three doctors came in to tell me that they had reported the adverse reaction to the Department of Health, Vaccine Surveillance, and an immunologist would contact me.
I reminded one of the doctors about the pain in my shoulder and neck from falling. She had completely forgotten I had asked her for X-rays. I was sent to Radiology, and a month or so later at a follow up appointment, I was told my neck was fractured.
Over the following months, I saw many allied health professionals for my ‘cervical fracture’ treatment. But when I saw a new chiropractor in August, he took X-rays and said there is no evidence of a fracture. He then looked at my X-rays from the hospital and said there’s no fracture, and I needed to contact them and find out what was happening. I never received an explanation. All I got was an amended report uploaded to My Health Record stating that I did not have a fracture. Well, that’s just great after spending close to $2K on physical therapy and living my life like I had a fractured neck.
Six weeks after the vaccine reaction, I had a surgery booked (unrelated to the Covid vaccine injury) and I ended up with a 5cm blood clot in my hand and had to go on blood thinners for three months. The hospital took no notice but, fortunately, my GP sorted me out with an ultrasound and blood thinners for three months.
For approximately nine months after my seizure, I had what I thought was vertigo. But it was Meniere’s disease, a condition where a clear fluid leaks out of the ear. I was referred to an ENT specialist, and I saw him on the 18th of January, 2023. I had waited almost a year on a private wait list! He did a few tests and I had no idea just how bad the balance on my left side was. I knew it was off, but I failed those tests badly. He wrote referrals for 2 MRI’s, 2 CT scans, and a balance test. Knowing how much I have spent on my health in the past year, he wrote ‘request to bulk bill’ on the referrals.
I have also been referred to a neurology professor because my GP (and most people in my life) have noticed my speech and coordination have worsened as well as my ability to track what I am doing. I am still waiting for an appointment.
And, finally, my menstrual cycle—like many have reported—went crazy. My periods were normal before the vaccine. But since the vaccine reaction, they have been heavy and painful. I saw a doctor and had a few tests and have been told I have a lesion on my cervix and I need a colposcopy. Really? Anything else? Well, yes, there is: I must have polyps removed from my upper GI tract in March. I also just returned from a holiday in Bali where I had 24 hours of bliss followed by 6 days of some random virus that has now landed me in hospital where I am writing this final draft.
I had moved in with my parents as the cost of medical care was ridiculous. For example, this week I spent $650 on out-of-pocket costs (I have private insurance, yet so much isn’t covered). My parents are tired of my poor health and can’t seem to understand how a 45-year-old can be so ill. I can no longer work full time due to sickness. My savings are nearly exhausted. On the day I went into hospital, my mother told me not to come back. You might say I am now officially homeless.
It’s almost a year and some of my symptoms have improved, but many haven’t. I work 10 hours a week and the Department of Veterans’ Affairs supplements my income, but it isn’t enough to cover the basics. I’m not on a pension, and it will take up to 3 years before that may or may not be approved.
A writer at Jab Injuries Australia asked me where I would like to see myself in the next few years. I don’t know how to answer that because during my time in hospital (and in between sleeping, and tests, and recovering from this virus) I have been searching for share houses. I’ve also been researching how to pimp out my car to live in it. Life has become awful. But, somehow, I keep doing what I can to make it better.
I wasn’t going to share my story, but I read about people’s adverse vaccine reactions. I noticed that all their compensation claims were rejected. I figured if they were all rejected, mine will be, too. I thought, “What do I have to lose?” I also believe our stories are historically significant and will guide public health management going forward. Our stories will at least educate the public about the importance of looking at information from all sides, not just the main narrative.
This is shocking. How are you getting by? I’m really concerned for your wellbeing and that you have nowhere to live. Can you update your story please?