Reuniting
I'm happy to see Chris again. I feel a regularity about our meetings, even though I've tried so hard to keep him at a distance and set my feelings aside for a time when he's ready to begin. I cup his cheek with my hand in loving greeting. My spirit self is aware that we only see each other in the spirit plane, and is amazed by its consistency. Every other night he makes an appearance, though I am full of doubt during waking reality on who he is and how he sees me and how he wants to be with me, my dreams persistently remind me to recognize his spirit and not how my stereotypes and impressions want me to see him as. We haven't met face to face in almost ten years. My family is ready to accept him into ours, but he is not, and I know its a difficult lifestyle to accept. I stopped bothering him with my need to connect. Maybe he thinks he's doing me a favor by leaving me alone, but he's not. I suffer without him and always will. That's how it is in the physical world.
On the spirit plane, we reunite with love. My negative perspectives on the situation, my assumptions of who he is all melt away as if they have no substance in spirit, though they weigh so heavily on my mind. My subconscious, my spirit guides, are determined to convince me that he loves me deeply, which, when I pause, I know he does. The circumstances that keep us apart, the fears on all sides of raising a family, break me down in sadness against the forces of the physical plane. Our reuniting has been built up so much now, there will never be a proper time we can create. We are left back in the hands of the forces that be, keeping faith that someday the stars will realign for us all.
I wonder if he dreams of me.
In the dream, having his presence, I can finally unleash the multitude of things I wish to show him, tell him, know, and share. In this particular one, I get to demonstrate my mothering knowledge and care to him with no goal other than to express my pride in what I've learned about caring for another. But it wasn't until I recorded this dream did a very different story start to come through.
Being a Surrogate to Fetus' Not of My Ova
When I dream about babies in what at first seem like average scenarios, for some reason I dream about fetus' in sacs and jars external to my body, not newborn infants. This dream renewed what is a rather irregular series of dreams where I am tending someone else's baby. The person who's baby it belongs to is too distracted or poor at mothering to properly nurture the baby, and so it was handed off to me. There are three or four dreams I can think of with this theme: 1) in a clinic pregnant with a transparent sac that exists outside my body, resting at my belly like a pregnant belly, but retractable; 2) carrying a baby in a pack as a nanny figure at a theatre where we are displaying the growth of the baby for some reason to a strange crowd; 3) figures in a nursery place an alien looking baby in my arms to suckle at my breasts, which I reject in desperate search of finding my real son.
The baby in the first two, and this current dream, grows rapidly to maturation in my care from fetus stage to infant. My spirit self notes aloud the speed at which the fetus matured, how abnormally fast it was. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that my uterus has been used to accelerate the growth of implanted fetus'.
Wait, is this for real? Wouldn't it be detectable? How would it not be detectable? How do you channel the 'idea' of my body for growing a test tube baby?
This one was my sister's, who did just give birth to my first niece two weeks ago. In the dream, she was keeping the fetus (not newborn) in a glass of viscous liquid with ice cubes, per her doctor's orders. It looked like a glass of ice water with a straw, but the illogicality of it revealed another level of information. The drinking glass and straw was just how my mind made sense of it. What I really saw was an open-topped jar the size of a drinking glass with a fetus four inches or so long, and a transparent mucous with the same color and viscosity of mucous, mixing around in a thick water with ice cubes floating on top. The straw led from my sister's nipple to its mouth, the logistics of which confused me. How was the baby sucking? How was milk expelling into the small hole of the straw?
The straw wasn't a drinking straw like we are familiar with, it was representing a feeding tube.
I was upset by this cruel, unsound medical advice, it seemed more of an experiment for the scientist's research, than in the best interests of my sister and her baby. How was submersion in ice water good for a growing baby?! This would kill it.
My sister was frustrated from her fatigue and exhaustion of caring for a newborn that my challenging words against this procedure shut her down. She handed the cup to me and closed herself furiously behind a door.
I looked at the fetus, wondering whether to uphold her wishes and advice from the fake doctor, or do what I knew best. The baby bobbed around in the glass, its skin not even formed, just a transparent bluish-purple outline (similar to the outline of a soul I've seen before). It was getting worse as it froze to death. Was it even still alive? Is it breathing? This seemed a treatment designed to preserve it not incubate it growth. Why would the doctors want to preserve a newborn? It opened its tiny eyes, looking more alien than human, as fetus' do, and confirming it still had life.
Fuck it. I made a choice. I carefully lifted the fetus out of the liquid and searched for a wash cloth to wrap it and warm it up. The shock of being out of the liquid might kill it alone. The skin was so delicate. I could just rub it wrong and baby insides of jelly would pour out in my hand. I marveled in this instance how delicate life was as jelly contained in an oddly shaped sac that was nothing more than a film. One wrong application of friction and I would have killed my sister's baby.
Thankfully, I managed to find a pastel washcloth to wrap it in, and then another longer hand-towel for me to hold it with. Suddenly it looked like a newborn with peach skin, solid form, tufts of hair, beautiful eyes. I held the infant as an infant should be held, with love and attention close to my body, not cold in a glass of ice water.
Keeping Up
I continued on to where the family reunion was meeting. Everyone already had binders with our roles of an impromptu play. I flipped through mine to find where we were, but I couldn't find the right page. I feared I'd miss my entrance. I saw the page where I speak, but not how far ahead or behind that page is in relationship to the current pace of the read-through.
I stumbled, one-handed, to find the page everyone was on, but before I could the reading ended. No one called attention to me missing my part, so they either already passed me or hadn't got that far yet. Whatever. I put the binder aside and tended to the baby, whom had tripled in size and apparent age.
It's growth surprised me. I figured my care had accelerated its progress. In a way, I took pride in this evidence of nurturance being the best medicine. Unfortunately, the baby's growth was too rapid, it's system, or brain development was keeping up with the cellular regrowth. Someone from the doctor tells me the baby will die in two days because of its acceleration. They had kept it in the test tube because of a defect in its DNA. Either way, whether left in preservation or by my methods, it would die. I felt helpless. My method worked, and failed. It was a terrible bitter-sweetness.
Retaliation
Then things spiraled downhill. Some figures from the doctor take the baby. They taste of disdain for me. I can sense their judgements of my naivety. Perhaps they are right, I was being idealistic in my emotional response to seeing the baby in a nutrient tank instead of in the arms of a parent. I knew their method wasn't going to save it either. Neither side could have saved it.
I'm made aware in the middle of my grief, that my binder is missing. I locate it on the pavement of the parking lot, smashed or trampled or dropped --broken. Except, now, it was not simply a binder, it was my expensive, top of the line, laptop, the only brand-new electronic I had. I felt my hope of a writing career lay crumbled before me.
As I bent to pick its fragmented body up, I noticed my car tire had been slashed. I raise my eyes to see the extent of this attack. All four tires were slashed flat, and the car was raised up at every end on a jack. The sight baffled me. Why would they raise the car except to prevent me from towing it, why slash all four tires except to grind in my isolation and compound the repair process. Its current state seemed an impossible problem. Everyone had already left. I was alone, and I had no phone to call anyone because it broke (in real life). This was deliberate. Was I being punished, targeted for taking the baby? Who were these doctors? This organization that understood the genetic malfunction of this baby and were so secretive about their work that they would send a message of warning and vengeance?
Further Translation
I have been suspect of being pregnant for a week or two before my period. My breasts get sore, when they never used to. For three years after birth, and a year after breastfeeding, they never showed this symptom of my menses. The only time my breasts were ever sore like this was when I first became pregnant with my son. Sore breasts was my main indicator that led me to suspect I was.
I took a pregnancy test though when the ache remained two weeks later (this was a few months ago). It was negative. The pain subsided a couple days after. It was very unusual to me. I will keep monitoring my pattern, but I don't know I will ever find anything. Even if entities with the capability to transplant a fetus into a human female were doing so, I'm in an active sexual relationship. I would too easily assume it to be another failure in our birth control (we were using spermicidal gel the first time I got pregnant), or a miscarriage. Nearly fertilized eggs don't stick and are expelled more often than women realize. I have no way of proving implantation of this nature.
These alien doctors experiment on humans to learn how to correct a genetic abnormality in their hybrid reproductive process. Using human and alien DNA with human hosts results in accelerated aging.
From the perspective of a species with a reproductive dilemma that threatens their survival, humans have a surplus of sperm and ova and vacant uterine space. We would never agree to alien surrogacy if the option were presented to us, so why bother with consent? When the fate of your species rests on these invasive procedures, consent is not a priority. I'm not agreeing with that perspective, simply stating how they may operate.
Question for investigation: what is Chris' role in this? He was in the #2 dream listed above as a surrogate father. It was not his baby, but he was going to help me raise it. There are some obvious correlative possibilities with my waking life, which is fine to consider. However, I search for secondary meanings as well that help to trigger content into the stories we see in dreams, the bizarre stories.
So, who is Chris in these dreams?
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