Are our dreams the conscience reality of others or are we living the dreams of an even greater conscience mind? I have explored the dimensions of dreams for the last three years for I see dreams, not as expressions of one’s subconscious, but a portal to changing our reality.
My name is Adrienne D’Angelis. I have been interested in dreams ever since an incident changed my life and the lives of others around me.
During my mother’s pregnancy, she was addicted to cocaine and was strung out most of the time, which caused my birth to be premature. When I was born at only seven months old, the doctors gave little hope for my survival. I suffered violent tremors, seizures and convulsions during the first hours after my birth. The hospital was over staffed and so they pretty much ignored me.
According to my mother, a woman who was a known spiritualist in our city, came over to my crib in the maternity ward and laid hands on me. After awhile the tremors stopped and I was breathing normally. She leaned forward and whispered something into my ear and then left. My mother was too weak to call out to the woman as she was leaving. I was ten years old before I realized the significance of that encounter.
They tell me it is a gift. I don’t know. What ever it is, it still scares me.
When I was ten, I was watching television late one afternoon around six o’clock on a Saturday when the news came on. I was playing a game when the newswoman reported a local man was in a coma at the county hospital. When they mentioned his name, I stopped playing and moved closer to the television set. It was my teacher, Mr. Thompson, who I had just seen the day before at school. He had a massive stroke and was rushed to the hospital around one o’clock that afternoon. The prognosis was grim. They did not expect him to survive the night.
I went to my room and cried. He was such a nice man. He tutored me in math after school for several weeks during the year. He was always pleasant with a smile on his face. I did not want him to die. As I worried about him and grieved over his fate I started to dream, which was strange, because I was still awake.
In my dream, I was traveling through dark tubes, propelled by my feet as if I was swimming. I traveled for what seemed to be hours, as if I was looking for something yet having no idea what it was. After twisting and turning through countless pathways I was stopped by an impasse of some kind. The force of the fluid behind me was pressing me up against it. The barrier was large, yellow like and crumbly. I could tear into it with my hands and as I did, the pieces fell to the bottom of the tubing. I worked on it for several minutes, digging out the debris until I had worked my way through to the other side. The force of the fluid stream was pushing me past the barrier, but I kept holding on to the sides of the tube until I had removed all of what remained of the blockage. I then allowed the current to whisk me away, carrying me further inside the tube until I awoke.
This was a very strange dream, unlike any I had ever had, but it wouldn’t be the last. I felt like the dream had a realistic quality to it, like I had actually experienced the occurrence. As I looked at the clock on the wall in my room, I noticed that two hours had passed since I had starting dreaming. I had never known a dream to take that long.
Later that evening, my mother and I were watching the local evening news to see if there had been any changes in Mr. Thompson’s condition. Early into the broadcast the newswoman stated that Mr. Thompson had improved and that the blockage in his brain had worked itself loose and he was in stable condition. After hearing this, I had an eerie feeling come over me as I sat on the couch next to my mother. I was in shock! I couldn’t allow myself to believe what I was thinking.
Days later, I shared my dream experience with my mother, who looked concerned as I was telling her about it. She recounted to me the incident with the spiritualist, who had helped in some way to heal my medical condition the day I was born. I wanted to go see her, but my mother wanted to take me to someone with medical training that might be able to make sense of what had happened.
Over the next nine months, my mother took me to psychoanalysts and clinical psychologists, none of who knew what they were doing. They prescribed emotion-suppressing drugs and wanted to hook me up to wires and monitor my dreams for weeks at a time. When it was all over, mother owed more money than she could pay and I had become a nervous wreak. None of the so-called professionals had helped me. They had only helped themselves to their fees.
The next time I had a dream like that I was twelve. It was lunchtime at school and I was leaving the cafeteria heading back to class when I saw a classmate in a wheelchair waiting outside the main office. I remember seeing her in a recital performed by her dance class in the school auditorium a few months earlier. She was very good. I was amazed at her performance.
Now she was in a wheelchair due to a car accident. Her and some of her older friends were out joy riding and were racing another car up hill. There was a car coming in the opposite direction, but they could not see it, because the hill blocked their view. They were hit by the oncoming car, which killed everyone except her.
When the office door opened, the office clerk placed a pair of dancing shoes in her lap and shut the door. She looked at them for a few moments and sadly wheeled herself down the hall. This touched me deeply. To be a promising dancer and have it snatched away because of one stupid mistake was more than one should have to bear.
While I was attending my next class, I had another dream like the one I had two years earlier. In the dream I got up during class without being noticed and went to the main office. As I was walking through the halls, it appeared that no one could see me. I entered the office and walked over to the file cabinets and started searching for class schedules. I found the class that the girl in the wheelchair was in and headed in that direction.
When I got to the room I entered the class to find everyone taking a test. I tip toed toward the girl and then realized that no one could see me. I kneeled beside her wheelchair and slipped her dance slippers off her lap. I went to the back of the class and sat down. After taking off my shoes, I put her dance slippers on. I went back over to her and placed my hand on her shoulders. As I did, I felt her spirit merge with mine and I began to dance across the room.
I danced around the room moving around each of the student’s desks with fluid movement for a few short moments. The freedom I felt was invigorating. Then suddenly I stopped! I knew the dance was finished. I removed the dance slippers and placed them back in the girl’s lap, put on my own shoes and went back to class.
After I had sat down in my seat I woke up from the dream. Just then, the bell rang and I collected my books and got up feeling a little disoriented. After I left the classroom, I had walked just a few feet down the hall and heard a scream. It didn’t seem to be close, but it was shrill. I walked down the stairs heading for my next class, when I saw a girl I knew walking up the stairs. As she passed me she grabbed my arm and said, “She can walk”! The crowd of students was pushing us in opposite directions, but I knew what had happened. I knew very well.
Now the dreams were coming on a regular basis and each time, I was able to help someone repair a problem they were having in reality through my dream.
A year later, my grandmother became ill and was taken to the hospital. My mother kept me from seeing her, so finally one day I asked her what was wrong and she paused, looking like she was holding back tears and said … cancer.
I began to cry. I wanted to go and see her but my mother didn’t want me to. She said grandmother was getting weak and I would only drain her energies. I thought on it for a while and went back to my mother and said, “I want to see her. I may be able to help!” This had not occurred to her, so we hurriedly got ready and went to the hospital.
When we got to the hospital we went straight to grandmother’s room. We entered the room as the nurse was leaving; who looked at my mother and just shook her head from side to side. When I entered the room, I went straight to her bed. She looked frail. She had tubes running out of her nose and mouth. I went to the foot of her bed and looked at her chart. At the top was her name, Rose McKinney. It listed the medications that had been given to her to date. They were all for pain. They were not treating her they were relieving her suffering. The doctors had obviously given up on her.
I crawled into the bed beside her and put my arms around her. I remained that way for an hour when the dream began. The nurse came in to give Rose her painkiller, but mother stood guard and would not let her disturb us. The nurse must have thought I was saying goodbye, so she honored that and left the room. It must have looked odd to see a thirteen-year-old girl holding on to her grandmother. I didn’t care. I never care what people think, not anymore.
I began to dream of a spring day with the cool crisp air blowing my hair. After a few moments, I noticed I was at my grandmother’s house in her backyard. Everything was as it was the last time I was there a few weeks earlier. When I turned around, I was surprised to see a giant single rose standing a hundred feet high. I walked over to the base of it and looked up. It was dying. Several of the petals were shriveling up and beneath them was a leaf that had a hole in the center of it and was being eaten by a giant, hard shell bug.
The bug must have represented the cancer that was eating her alive. I looked around for a ladder or rope, something I could use to reach the top of the flower, but I found nothing. I wasn’t going to let this obstacle stop me. Then suddenly I had an idea. I went to her electric power line pole and climbed about fifteen feet straight up with a hatchet tied to my belt, which I got out of her tool shed. When I got to her power lines, I used the hatchet to chop them down. I climbed back down and went into her house and used her phone to report a live wire down on her property.
A couple of hours later, a power truck pulled into her driveway, the kind with a hydraulic bucket. I approached the lineman and asked him if he would let me ride in the bucket to the top of the rose, so I could repair it. He said no, that company policy would not allow him to let me in the bucket or on the truck. I told him it was a matter of life and death, but he still said no. He said that I wasn’t insured and he could get into trouble. I then asked him if he would use the bucket to repair the flower himself and he replied that he didn’t have the time and also that was something outside of his job description.
I began to cry. I looked up and saw grandmother’s car, which gave me an idea for a deal. I asked him if he would repair the rose in exchange for my grandmother’s car. He walked over to the car and inspected it. Finally he agreed and asked what he should do. I told him to set up the truck near the giant rose and be careful not to damage it. While he was doing that, I went into her house and got a small bowl and a sharp knife.
I took the knife and cut the palm of my right hand and bled into the bowl for a few minutes. I wrapped my hand in a rag and took the bowl outside to the lineman. I handed it to him and told him to coat the petals with the blood and afterwards use it like glue to repair the leaf that had a hole in the center of it. He agreed and strangely enough didn’t ask any questions.
It took him about an hour before he was finished, then he lowered the bucket to the ground and said it had been done. I thanked him and went inside to get the keys to grandmother’s car. He took them as agreed, but I had hoped he would decide not to take them. He finished restoring the power line, said he would be back for the car later that evening and drove away.
I went to the base of the rose and stared upwards to see if I could see the repairs that were done, but I couldn’t see anything. It was just too high and the sun was now in my eyes. As I continued to stare upwards I began to awake from the dream still holding on to my grandmother. My mother said I had been asleep for hours.
I wondered if this time I had failed. I laid down once again beside my grandmother and went back to sleep. The next thing I knew, I woke up to the sound of the nurse standing beside the bed talking. I rubbed my eyes and turned towards my grandmother to find she was the one the nurse was talking to.
“Wake up sleepy head,” she said to me. I put my arms around her and held her for a long time.
The doctors were baffled. There was no trace of the cancer that a day before was eating her alive from the inside out. They released her the next day, giving themselves credit for her recovery although they couldn’t figure out what it was they had done.
I slept in my own bed that night and when I woke up the next day, I asked my mother how grandmother was doing. She said she was doing well, had plenty of energy and was full of joy. “Oh”, she said, someone had stolen her car!
These spiritual stories were written by Mark Edgemon who has been writing for 30 years. He writes and publishes short stories, articles, poetry and scripts as well as, produces audio comedy productions for over 700 radio stations nationwide.