Recently, UK Column had the privilege of interviewing Wayne Cunnington, who has been experiencing multiple serious adverse reactions after following the government’s advice to take Covid-19 jabs.
Wayne, a previously healthy young man with no existing serious medical conditions, has lost his job, his independence, and what he would describe as a normal life since trusting ‘the science’ and ‘the experts’. Wayne shared with UK Column the battles he has had to fight in order to determine what his condition involves.
He is still waiting for answers, nearly two years on. Alone and abandoned by the authorities, Wayne has had to navigate his way through multiple government departments trying to access help. His MHRA Yellow Card report appears to have disappeared into a void, and far from being offered help, he has been virtually ignored.
UK Column has pledged to walk alongside those who are vaccine injured and to keep their stories and experiences at the top of the news. Wayne has shared with us the initial stages of his story in his own words below.
Anyone wishing to donate to the UK CV Family vaccine-injured support group can do so here.
Inside a Case of Dangerous Vaccine and Medical Failings
Through the Government’s paid media campaign to prevent anti-narrative content that would affect pharmaceutical sales, many people suffered from the fear pushed on the masses and underwent a medical treatment they didn’t need.
Sadly, I was one of them.
I’d heard of some basic side effects of an achy arm and a headache, so I booked a week off work in anticipation of anything untoward occurring. The morning of Monday 22 February 2021 rolled around like any other, and so I joined the queue of cars at my local doctor’s surgery drive-through.
The lady doctor attending to me was full of a cold, and I couldn’t help thinking it didn’t bode well. But anyway, she said, “Can you roll up your sleeve, please,” and then she proceeded to jab me in my right arm and then gave me a sheet of basic side effects to look out for while I waited in the car park for five minutes to check for reactions.
I couldn’t help thinking how poorly it seemed to be organised. There was nobody overseeing anyone sitting there waiting, but after my allotted time, I left and drove to the supermarket to stock up on a few things in case I didn’t feel like going out for a few days.
Walking into the store, I had a bit of an achy arm and a headache coming on, but didn’t think too much of it. However, back home it seemed to develop quite rapidly into an excruciatingly bad headache that felt like my head was being squeezed, and I had great trouble processing my thoughts. So I went to bed with some pain relief and spent most of the following days there.
On the Wednesday, I rang my doctor’s surgery, as I was concerned at the slowly worsening effects of dizziness, fuzzy eyesight and confusion that were creeping in. But straight away, the receptionist told me, “Don’t worry, that’s just normal side effects,” to which I initially said, “Oh, okay, thank you,” and hoped for an improvement over the next few days.
On the Friday, I rang with the same concerns, to which I was again told, “Don’t worry, it’s just normal side effects”. I did actually question the medical advice this time, because it didn’t feel normal. But no further advice was given apart from taking pain relief, which I was already taking.
Heading into week 2, I was feeling increasingly worried about a lack of improvement, and the thoughts of confusion seemed to be getting more pronounced. But again, the following Monday, I was told, “Don’t worry, it’s just normal side effects”. I was told not do too much and rest—even though I wasn’t actually doing anything other than eating and sleeping. I did request a sick note, because by this point I was absent from my job.
I’ve never had a huge amount of time off in my whole career, apart from a couple of ill-health occurrences many years before, so it was a new arena for me to deal with reporting to work by phone with the reasons as to why I was absent. I was told I needed to notify them each morning an hour before I was due at work. A boss told me quite clearly, “You need to ring in an hour before your shift starts at 5 am.”
Dealing with the increasing pressure from company bosses while I was trying to find out what was going on with my health was very challenging, especially considering the fact that I’d just reached the milestone of nine years working with the company.
After waiting a few more days, I contacted the doctor’s surgery again on the Wednesday, and after presenting my symptoms I was told someone would call back later that day to arrange a check-up, which was what I’d been waiting a week and a half for. Sadly, and not surprisingly, that didn’t happen.
So, on the Thursday, I called again, to which I was told the standard and rather annoying, “Don’t worry, we don’t need to see you, it’s just normal side effects. But if you’re still not well after the weekend, get in touch on Monday.”
Now, although I hadn’t been feeling well for nearly two weeks and my symptoms were worsening, I wasn’t particularly concerned—because of their relaxed manner. I thought that if it was serious, they would see to me straight away or get me to a hospital.
Unfortunately, by this point, I’d lost all awareness of how serious my health actually was, and I was resigned to accepting what they’d told me. So I didn’t go to Accident & Emergency, because by the Monday I was totally delirious and struggling to walk. During a phone call to my surgery, I sounded so strange that thankfully the operator realised there was an issue. A doctor called me back shortly afterwards, stating, “I need to see you now”.
Not fully comprehending the state of my ill health, I jumped into my car, which I hadn’t used for two weeks, and somehow made it to the surgery. I proceeded to stagger down the corridor, where the doctor observed my gait and then said, “We need to call you an ambulance”.
So, after a surreal two weeks, I thought I was finally being taken seriously. But then the doctor stated that he and the paramedic were in agreement: they told me to make out that my condition was much worse than it was to the hospital consultants, so that I’d be taken more seriously. This shocked me, as I was already in a very bad way, with slurred speech, severe headaches, blurred vision, memory issues and difficulty walking.
However, because my blood pressure was 203/120, I didn’t need to ham it up, and the doctor said that he’d be reporting my case to the Yellow Card scheme, which was the first time I’d ever heard of this injury-reporting procedure.
Heading off to hospital expecting to be checked over turned out to be a very intense and eventful eleven days’ stay. As a result of some patients suffering poor mental health due to inadequate care, my anxiety was heightened because of their bizarre behaviour and repeated visits from security and orderlies trying to secure them.
Commonplace was trouble from patients in the early hours and late nights, when less staff were around: they were pinching things from bedsides and harming themselves. The ward ended up looking like a war zone and something out of a Hallowe’en slasher movie. It was surreal.
During my hospital stay, I had CAT scans, MRIs, deep ophthalmic scans and finally a lumbar puncture—which I don’t fully understand the reasoning behind, because my brain tissue damage injury was evident from the MRI scans. So everything afterwards didn’t really provide anything further or new.
It is a huge regret that I had the lumbar puncture, because of the pain and severe weakness it has caused with my neck ever since. If the risks had been explained to me fully while I was not already being dosed with morphine, I probably would have been more aware and not had it done.
Most of the staff I encountered were amazing, which was a Godsend, bearing in mind the Covid restrictions in hospital. Revelations about other patients injured by their jabs were pretty shocking, with a staff member telling me that one patient had lost all feeling in his body—but fortunately, by the time he left he was improving. This was one of many mentioned to me in confidence, and I couldn’t help but wonder why the mainstream media were not mentioning these cases.
Sadly, during my stay, I discovered more and more cases by scrolling through social media. This really opened my eyes to what was happening. But I was stunned that people could be complicit in covering it up, and I couldn’t understand why nobody was preventing others from being harmed.
So, when I wasn’t being badgered by my company bosses phoning to ask when I’d be returning to work (while I was in my hospital bed dosed up on morphine), I was asking the doctors as many questions as I could and taking copious notes, as my memory was still affected.
One day, a young doctor said that he’d never seen a case like mine, so he was going to write a paper on it. I tried to be as excited as he was about it, but I felt a bit shocked, as I had been sitting there waiting for positive news. A neurologist came in another day and declared, “We’re so excited by your case, we’ve been having an EDC conference about it because it’s so unique”. Again, I really couldn’t share their misplaced enthusiasm, as I was the patient waiting for some positive news.
This seemed quite typical of doctors and consultants, I found. They seemed far removed from the situation and quite clinical about imparting bad news, which they did without any empathy. Two other consultants who visited the ward I was on—and on two separate days—stated that it was likely I would develop Multiple Sclerosis and/or dementia due to the injury pattern on my MRI scans. When they asked me if I knew what these conditions were, I said “yes”, and both of them (on these two separate days) just walked away—leaving me in tears the first time, and in total shock the second time, as it was a confirmation of the prognosis.
Eleven days after I was admitted, I was discharged and wheeled to the main entrance of the hospital. I was given a large bag of medications that I would need in order to control the hypertension (high blood pressure) that the Covid shot had left me with. Then a ward nurse bid me farewell.
Everything I’d been dealing with ticked the boxes of Guillain-Barré Syndrome, POTS, encephalitis and more, and—although it had been confirmed that I had suffered a demyelination of the nerve sheath that covers my brain as a direct consequence of my Covid shot—I had nothing that would help me progress, because I still had no proper diagnosis. I still had issues with my balance and gait, but I wasn’t even given a walking stick, despite the hospital staff knowing of my difficulties in walking andstanding. So I used walls to guide and steady me on my way out.
The first thing I did upon being discharged from hospital was purchase a hiking-type walking aid to give me confidence when moving around. But for many months, I felt I was so alone, as I had to then battle doctors and neurologists to be seen again, since I was still struggling to function, let alone feel like going out.
Little did I know I was barely getting into the struggles that I would continue to experience for the rest of the year.