Conspiracy

Over the last ten years, I've had an odd recurring/serial dream that came to me in increments. The first few times I was hit with this one, it was really short and I just got the beginning of it. It was confusing and strange, because I knew some of what was happening, but not all, and not why. It was weeks and sometimes months in between times having the dream, too, so there's rarely been a sense of deja vu until I wake up. After the a while, little by little over time, more details filled in.

This is what it was like the first time I dreamed it:

I'm in the kitchen of a house. It's a nice kitchen, and I'm comfortable here as far as feeling like I belong and feeling welcome. I'm waiting for two men to come pick me up. They are officers of a law enforcement agency that is something of a cross between FBI and Secret Service, but it's not either of those things. They are supposed to be guarding me on the way to a location where I am going to share important information with a group of people who are going to use that information to help the general public of the entire world.

What the information is, is not on my mind at the moment. I'm more worried about the faction of people who do not want the information to exist. Their interest is in exploiting for profit a condition or circumstance which will end if the information is shared and practical use of it is made. I am proof of and container of the information, so my life is in danger.

To be absolutely certain that I'm not taken by whoever this enemy is, I have a code question to ask my escorts, to which there is a code reply that I know to expect. I'm to do this even though the escorts will show me their credentials, and even though the senior escort will be wearing an item that is also supposed to act as an identifier to me.

I wait nervously for a few moments, then there is a knock at the door. I follow the protocol which was given to me for this event. First, I look out the kitchen window to make sure no one is pointing a gun at the door. Then, I look out the spyhole in the door. I see that the shorter man is wearing the designated item. I press a button to speak over the speaker, and request credentials.

These are slipped through the mail slot onto the floor. I continue to watch through the spyhole until the escorts take three steps back from the door. Then, I pick up the credentials and examine them. They are in order. I press the button again, and ask the question, and look through the spyhole again. The senior escort approaches the speaker, presses the button, and gives the correct reply.

I open the door and step outside. The men rush me into an older (late 90s) black 4 door sedan with tinted windows, and a tinted barrier between the high front seat and the back . I notice two odd details about the car. First, the tires don't fit the style of the car at all. The tread is deeply textured, and the tires are oddly wide. The vehicle sits up from them a little more than it should, not enough to look raised like a truck, but enough to look slightly off. The other thing is the license plate. It only has numbers, no letters. I notice it because within the sequence is a series of numbers that I actually use for something.

The driver takes off before I get my seat belt on. Then, I realize there is no seat belt. The senior escort explains that we need to be able to get out quickly in case of an attack, and that there are other protections in case of an accident. I haven't ridden without a seat belt in almost thirty years, and I feel positively naked. On the seat in front of me, I see a handle like the ones that are sometimes on passenger doors in a car to pull it shut. There is also what looks like a cover for an airbag.

Several times, I had just that part of the dream. There was nothing before or after it, and I woke with no idea what the information was that had people wanting to kill me. I am absolutely nobody to the rest of society - just another warm body. I don't even have a college degree. I could not imagine what the heck kind of information I could possibly have that anyone else would think anywhere near that important. 

Eventually, the dream expanded:

 As we leave the neighborhood, two other cars just like the one we're in fall in around us, one in front and one in back..They both have the same license plate we do.

My driver passes the car in the front. Then, the rear car passes both us and the car behind us. A fourth car just like the other three, also with the same plate, joins the line from behind and passes all of us. Then, we come to a parking lot. All four cars drive into the lot, go different directions, drive past each other, and then line up and exit. It's like a game of cups, with a walnut underneath, only I figure we're trying to fool a viewer in another vehicle.

We leave town. There are four different ways to go from the last intersection in town; a left or right turn, a straight shot onto a two lane county highway, and an exit ramp onto an interstate highway. Each car goes a different direction. We do not take the interstate, because that would be expected.

We drive for what seems like a long time. My escorts are not very conversational, except at the beginning when I am given a set of safety instructions, including the order that whatever they tell me to do, I must do without hesitation or question, even if it sounds odd. I nod in agreement. I know these guys are experts, and I am not, so I'll do whatever they say.

This is where the dream is inconsistent. Sometimes the ride is uneventful. Sometimes it is not. When it is not, it goes like this:

I'm watching the area around us, even though I do feel safe with these men. I do not want to be distracted or unaware, because I might not hear what they say to me if I do that. Because I'm watching all around us, I notice reflected in the barrier in front of me a vehicle approaching quickly from the rear. I notice it at the same time as my escorts do, and I slouch down in my seat and put my hands against the back of the front seat, but at the same time as I do that, the car I am in speeds up. Then, we change lanes, and the approaching vehicle speeds past us. I can feel the car slowing rapidly as the other vehicle goes past. I keep an eye on it, and maintain my posture. Our driver returns to the correct lane before there is oncoming traffic. All of this takes less than ten seconds.

My escort says, "Good instincts" and keeps his eyes on the vehicle.
I feel pleased that I did the right thing.

I see brake lights, but at the same time, we are approaching a turn. My driver, still moving slowly, turns off of the road. Once the turn is made, he speeds up a lot, much faster than the speed limit of this road. I watch in the tinted divider, expecting to see that other car coming up behind us again. When it does, I grab the handle in the back of the front seat with both hands, and brace my feet against the bottom.

As expected, our pursuer approaches rapidly. My senior escort turns to face the back, and pushes a button in the door. A section of the frame around the rear windshield opens just enough for him to stick the barrel of a large pistol out through the hole. He tilts it down, and shoots at the road in front of the other car. The car swerves, but does not alter its course. Another shot is fired, and it looks like the car behind us is losing air in one tire. Then, suddenly the tire blows with a loud bang. The vehicle swerves wildly for a moment, then pulls off of the road. My driver slows a bit, then turns into a field and drives through it back toward the road we'd been on before, driving diagonally through fields and yards. The ride is bumpy, but it feels almost like the vehicle was made to go off road.

After the first time I dreamed the pursued version, it seemed like that was the one that happened more frequently. Once we escape from the pursuer, there is no more variation in the dream, and there is no more travel.

We're in front of a sprawling, modern building. There are a lot of big windows. It looks like a convention center. We're not going in this way. Instead, my driver takes us around the back . As we head that way, the junior escort pulls out a cell phone, presses two buttons, puts the phone up to his ear, and says something about a prescription having been filled. As he hangs up, I see a man come out of a side door and open a bay door (like a garage door,) behind which is a big wide tunnel. We drive into the tunnel, which is about 50 yards long.

From there, it opens out into a parking garage. We drive right up to a door. The car stops, and the senior escort gets out. As I am not told to get out, I sit still. The senior escort has his gun out. He is looking around. He points at the junior escort, who also gets out and looks around. The Senior escort opens the door and looks inside. He steps through the door and turns on a light. Then, he comes back to the car, opens the door and helps me out. He ushers me into the hallway. I hear the car drive away, and the junior escort's footsteps as he hurries to catch up with us. The junior escort shuts and locks the door behind us.

The hallway is several yards long. At the other end is a stairwell. Between the entrance and the stairwell is another door. I don't notice that door until we are almost up to it. The senior escort stops us, takes out a key, unlocks the door, and opens it. He steps in, looks around, then motions for us to follow. There are stairs in this room, which isn't much bigger than a normal sized passenger elevator. We go single file up the stairs. Even if that hadn't been the safest way to go, we'd still have to do it that way. There isn't much room on these stairs.

The top of the stairway opens into a backstage area. There are costumes, props, and tools here. There is a light, and I can hear someone speaking. Stage fright sets in, and my heart starts pounding. I hate public presenting, almost as much as public speaking. Even though I don't have to say much, I still have a whole audience full of people looking at me.

There were several times when just the knowledge that I was going to be on a stage in front of an audience was enough to jolt me awake. In real, waking life, I have terrible stage fright. I don't even like interacting with strangers at all unless it's a type of interaction which has kind of a script (like checking out at a cash register - your stuff gets checked in, you are asked if there is anything else you need, you are given your total, and you pay.) I can handle big group things, like being in a choir, but not just being up there on my own. Doing anything solo or in a small group on a stage sends me into a cold sweat. Eventually, I had this part of the dream enough times that I slept through the jolt.


I can hear a male voice talking. He's saying something about most forms of cancer being DNA mutations caused by damage done by viruses from and related to the herpes family. Having been able to go through and identify the link, he had connected the majority of types and subtypes of cancer to specific herpes or herpes related viruses. That had led him to research which resulted in a set of vaccinations and inoculations which would combat these viruses, and first halt and then reverse the growth of tumors caused by them.


Throughout the lecture, he cited experience with his first test subject, who had been given a terminal diagnosis with no hope before applying for his assistance. This was the only type of subject he had been willing to work with, because he needed someone who was not receiving chemotherapy or radiation treatment, in order for him to know whether or not his treatment was working.


I was the test subject.


He described my condition as a formidable challenge, and stated that he would not have chosen me as a test subject because I was so far advanced that I'd been given only weeks to live. The only reason he gave me the treatment was that his own personal ethics would not allow him to turn his back on someone he might be able to help. As he spoke, I began to remember the conversation I'd had with him in his office.

He had told me that there was less than a single percent chance that I would benefit from the treatment, but he was willing to try if I was. At worst, I might hasten my death as my immune system battled the virus. At best, I might at least go out feeling better than before the shots. Having all ready accepted that my time was up, I felt compelled to do the experiment just to see if I could help find a cure. I had agreed to receive his treatment with the understanding that I was willing to accept whatever the result, and signed papers to that effect.

I surprised him. The drug eliminated the virus from my system, and without the virus to run interference for the cancer cells, my body had identified them as foreign matter. I was really, really sick for about a week, and my doctor thought I was going to die from the treatment. Instead, I got better... and better, and better, until there was no sign of the disease at all.

In treatment with the scientist, I discussed with him every aspect of my personal health, including my history, my medicines, and my diet. It turned out that my dietary philosophy had enhanced the effectiveness of the medicine, and had strengthened my body enough to handle the battle between my immune system and the tumor cells. I was skinny as a scarecrow when I came out the other end of it, but I won. I was cured. There were no tumors, and no signs of cancer showed up in the various tests the scientist used to look for it.


Testing continued for a year, with no return... then two, then two more, and pretty soon we were at five years. During that time, more patients were tested with the drug, with the same success as was seen with me, but only if they followed my diet. Those who did not hit more hurdles and had a much more difficult recovery.


The scientist gives me an introduction that ends in "living proof of the cure," and I realize it's time for me to walk out onto the stage. I step forward out of the wings onto the brightly lit floor. Halfway across the stage, standing at the podium, is the familiar man who treated me, wearing a suit and tie instead of his white lab coat and scrubs. Behind him, staring from the other wing, I see his assistant, standing with his hands in his pockets.

As I step out of the wing, he pulls his right hand from his pocket, points a gun at me, and shoots. I feel something hot and hurtful happen in my throat, right above my collar bone. Pain bursts through to the back of my neck . Blood sprays out in front of me, and I can't breathe. I can't feel my arms and legs. Everything around me seems to be moving upward, and I realize I'm falling down.

Here is where the dream has always ended up until last night. Last night, it got more graphic. It was weird.

There is another shot, and a red stain blooms across the front of the assistant's white shirt, right under his nerdy red bow tie. He looks down at his chest in surprise.

The scientist's look of pride and almost parental affection morphs into a shocked, horrified stare and gasp. He stammers, then runs toward me. I feel a jarring pain in my neck as my fall stops momentarily, then I'm sliding sideways instead of falling straight down. I have a weird sense of almost but not quite nausea. It's like motion sickness, but I don't think I'm going to throw up. It's almost more in my chest, and almost like there's a weight on it.


The scientist runs toward me, and as he approaches I see a red spray hit his white shirt. I have the bizarre, disjointed concern that he's not going to get his deposit back on it, and then everything becomes so blurry that I can't see. I hear someone shouting that an ambulance is needed, and feel someone's hands touching my throat. Something cold and hard is pressed up against the inside of my throat, and I am suddenly again able to suck air into my lungs. I still can't move anything, and my vision is worthless. I hear another voice say that it looks like "it" came out through the spine. That is followed by, "Hold her head still."


That's where it ends.

I woke this morning with a slightly sore throat. It got better right away when I had my coffee, but until I got something to drink, it kind of ached like a sore muscle. Along with that, I was just plain tired. I really had a tough time coming out of the sleep state, even with my annoying, beeping alarm right next to my head. I hit snooze twice, but didn't dream any more. I dozed off just enough that it felt like my snooze was going off right after the original alarm. I've been tired all day, too, almost like I didn't sleep properly last night, even though I didn't wake up the whole night.

I find some of the details of this really weird, like the cure itself. I can remember the feeling of "duh, why didn't we think of this before?" in the scientist's lab when using drugs to cure herpes and other blistering viruses reversed the growth of various forms of cancer. I had the feeling that the connection had been right there, with many clues leading to it, but no one had pursued the research simply because other avenues were more popular.

Dreaming about getting shot through the throat is really creepy and weird. The feeling of suffocation was terrifyingly familiar, as I grew up with severe childhood asthma and more than once almost did suffocate.


The conspiracy thing creeped me out, too. I've heard and seen discussions among people who suspect or believe that pharmaceutical companies have a cure for cancer, but are withholding it from the public because they make more money on chemo and radiation. I don't have a position on that, really. I've looked into it, and there is some odd stuff on both sides of the argument. I don't trust non-pharmaceutical healers any more than I do druggists. After all, they have a financial stake in their end of the medical spectrum, just as much as anyone else involved. Still, it's a scary and compelling thought. 

In waking life, I've never had full blown cancer, but I've had cells which were becoming cancer. I found out I had precancerous cells when I was pregnant with my son. I am now missing a chunk of my cervix, have scar tissue, and make sure to get the proper tests regularly, but nothing has shown up during the 13 years since then, so now it's just a habit. Colon cancer runs in my dad's side of the family, but only among smokers, and that divider is absolute. I don't smoke, and I never will, and that's why. 

This dream has really made me think.. I know from talking to the gyno that the HPV virus, a herpes virus that causes genital warts, does lead to cancerous tumors on the cervix due to DNA mutation which takes place in the warts. (I don't have HPV. I've had negative tests over and over. Not everyone who gets cervical cancer has the virus.) I know from reading that there is actually a pretty wide variety of viruses which are of the herpes family. Chicken pox is a herpes virus. So is the virus that causes lip sores, and it's not the same virus that causes genital herpes. I've also read that mononucleosis (the kissing disease that gives you a sore throat and makes you feel extremely exhausted) is related to herpes.


I suppose it would make sense that if one herpes virus causes DNA mutations which make tumors form, others might also do the same. If so, there are enough variations to account for many if not all of the various forms of cancer that exist in the modern human population. I wonder if, 20 years from now when the first people to get the chicken pox vaccine hit their 40s, we'll see a generational reduction in the occurrence of some cancers, as many of them will never have suffered the pox. It makes as much sense as the pollution theories that link cancer to the intake of various foreign substances labeled carcinogens (like cigarette smoke or burnt food). I wonder if anyone has ever looked into the idea.