The Great Healing

I remember the jolt of excitement and disbelief from that day—the day “The Great Healing” was announced. Twenty-five years ago, the media buzzed with the discovery of a so-called “Holy Grail”, overshadowing even the endless headlines about wars, political and economic crises, demographic challenges, and new fears of AI stealing jobs. Many people had lost faith in the news altogether. Back then, I was sixty-five, freshly retired after a lifetime of hard work.

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Lisa immediately phoned her best friend, Henry, who had just turned seventy. “Have you heard about it yet?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of hope and anxiety.

Henry responded dryly, “So, humanity has finally declared itself God.”

Lisa frowned, determined to cut through his cynicism. “Don’t you want to get healthy?”

“I’m not sick anymore,” he insisted. But Lisa remembered all too well how, just ten years prior, he’d needed heart surgery. A lifetime of chain-smoking, boozing, poor diet, and late nights had clogged his arteries. His doctor had practically begged him to change his habits. Without Lisa’s persistent urging, Henry wouldn’t have even agreed to the operation.

“But living like this,” she pressed, “you won’t last much longer!”

After that, the conversation took a quieter turn, drifting into safer topics that neither truly cared about, as the weight of what they had just discussed lingered over them like a dark cloud.

The very next morning, Lisa stepped into the bustling HIC—short for Health Information Center—where she hoped to learn more about what the media called “The Great Healing”. Inside, she discovered a carefully outlined set of conditions. Anyone aged seventy or older must undergo a thorough medical evaluation; only those who passed it were deemed eligible. Younger participants could receive the therapy too, but their pensions would be gradually reduced after five years—dropping to ninety-five percent in the sixth year, then ninety, and so on. If you were already over seventy and failed the evaluation, you could at least keep your full pension without changes.

From the moment the therapy began, alcohol and smoking became strictly forbidden, and participants had to wear a sensor watch nearly around the clock to monitor the treatment’s effects and prevent any “cheating.” Lisa found the explanations unsettling but oddly convincing. She couldn’t help thinking of Henry, fearing how these rules might collide with his stubborn streak—and what might happen if he refused.

The “Apollo Project for the Healing of Age-Related Diseases” was a global undertaking so vast that no single nation could manage it alone. Its origin lay in the crushing national debts of the member countries being driven skyward by health care costs that had soared for decades, largely thanks to aging populations and too few births to finance the older generation’s pensions. Some nations also shouldered massive military expenditures—something Lisa quietly questioned, even if she rarely delved into politics.

Clinical studies, spanning ten years and involving hundreds of thousands of subjects, now deemed the new medication “sufficiently safe.” Media coverage was divided: half the commentators hailed it as a salvation, while the other half warned of potential catastrophes. Lisa sensed the rift tearing society into polarized camps.

At home, she couldn’t shake a lingering unease. Her mind wandered over her own life: family, dreams, a long career behind her, and a handful of goals still unfinished. She thought about all the people she had known—some now deceased, others severely ill—and finally, about her own health.

“What if I come down with one of these so-called age-related diseases?” she murmured, flipping open a brochure she had picked up. The list inside was overwhelming: cancer, cardiovascular issues, dementia, diabetes, arthritis, and age-related muscle loss, plus a host of ailments she’d never heard of. Then, in the fine print:

“In clinical studies, it has been found that most age-related diseases share at the molecular level the same root cause. The Apollo Project provides a cure to the underlying source of these illnesses, rendering the current medications obsolete. Therefore, starting next year, we will begin the process of discontinuing all other medicinal treatments currently being offered. All existing treatments will be reassessed and replaced by the new drug if necessary. The previously stated conditions remain in effect.”

At that moment, Lisa realized society had crossed a critical threshold. If people refused to accept the new therapy’s terms, they might be forced to confront life-threatening illnesses alone. For Lisa, the choice felt like a subtle ultimatum: consent or risk abandonment.

She had never truly smoked—just one ill-fated attempt at seventeen. Her father, himself a habitual smoker, caught her in the act and made her finish an entire pack at his side in a twisted contest of “Who can smoke the most?” The next day, she felt so wretched that she vowed never to light another cigarette.

She’d also quit drinking years ago. Although a glass of wine at dinner was practically tradition in her family, one morning in her early forties she woke up feeling drained and thought of her mother, who had died young. As an experiment, she tried skipping her dinner wine, first for a night, then another. Eventually, it dawned on her that, while she enjoyed the taste, the after-effects weren’t worth it. She never picked up a glass again.

Despite her family doctor’s repeated “You’re perfectly healthy for your age,” she often battled insomnia and fatigue. In a similar spirit of self-care, Lisa began walking to work. The first few one-hour treks—morning and evening —took discipline, but after three weeks, it became second nature. By retirement, her routine included turning in early, rising at the same time, walking two hours each day, hitting the gym twice weekly, and hiking on weekends.

Still, Lisa wondered how long her good health could hold out. Her parents both suffered through torturous deaths: her father, slowly and painfully fighting against lung cancer, and her mother enduring surgery, chemo, radiation to no avail, finally ending her days in hospice care. Lisa’s throat tightened at the memory of losing them both. She had no children to lean on, and while her pension covered the basics, it wasn’t enough to secure a private retirement home. She pictured herself, alone and wheelchair-bound, in a state-run facility—an image that sent a cold dread through her.

That fear crystallized her resolve. She wouldn’t wait passively for her body to betray her. If “The Healing” was her best shot at avoiding her parents’ fate, then she’d do whatever it took.

Lisa rang Henry’s doorbell and then bolted up the stairs to his third-floor flat, her heart pounding with urgency. Normally, he would greet her with an easy smile, but today he stood in the doorway looking somewhat tense.

“Did you know you might not get your medication next year?” Lisa blurted, stepping inside.

Henry shrugged. “What makes you say that? I barely take them, anyway. I just keep lowering the dose so my body adapts.”

Lisa cast a quick glance at the clutter of beer bottles in the corner—an unspoken accusation. The newscaster’s voice droned on from the TV. “If you’d only take better care of yourself,” she pressed, “watch what you eat, cut back on the drinking… you’d feel so much better.”

“Oh, so now you disapprove of my lifestyle?” Henry snapped. “I've got everything I need.”

Lisa tried a gentler tack. “We’ve always talked about doing more together. If you went through with The Healing, you’d be as fit as ever, and we could—”

“So you want me to load up on some untested medication, be monitored around the clock, and let the government dictate my diet?” Henry interrupted, frustration flaring in his voice.

“Is that really so terrible? You’re my best friend,” Lisa pleaded. “Now that I’ve retired, I just want us to have more time… together.”

Henry shook his head, his tone turning defensive. “Sounds like you only care about your own agenda. Don’t change the subject—I’m a capable, responsible person, yet the State’s acting like I’m incompetent!”

Desperate, Lisa latched onto a warm memory. “Remember that spring weekend two years ago? We walked in the woods—it felt like summer, birds singing, the sky glowing.” She paused, her voice softer. “We haven’t done that in ages.”

Henry’s posture relaxed, but only slightly. “I remember. But you know I can’t walk that far anymore.”

Lisa’s voice wavered. “But you said you’re healthy…?”

“We’re going in circles,” Henry muttered.

Tears filled Lisa’s eyes. “Please… just think it over?”

Henry crossed his arms. “My decision is final. But if you want, we can still go for a short walk next week.”

Lisa nodded, forcing a small, sad smile. She slipped out the door, the weight of their unspoken fears trailing after her.

Lisa’s plan to pick up groceries was cut short when she spotted a group of people huddled around a bank of TV monitors. Live coverage flashed on the screens:

“We’re reporting on ongoing unrest in the capital. Several HICs have been evacuated. Members of a militant group calling themselves ‘The Saviors of Humanity’ have forced their way into the buildings, pushing occupants to escape while barring entry to outsiders. Initial reports indicate multiple injuries and at least one fatality. From now on, all HIC facilities will be under armed police guard.”

A wave of fear surged through Lisa. Police cars screamed down the street, lights blazing, and she quickened her pace toward home. Once inside, she locked her door and noticed her hands were trembling. Clearly, not everyone shared her hope for The Healing; some, like Henry, questioned it—but this group was intent on outright sabotage.

The unrest made her decision easier. Lisa pulled up the HIC website, found a branch near the city center, and booked a nine a.m. appointment. “At least there’ll be police nearby,” she told herself. For the first time in ages, she ordered a taxi, in case she needed to leave in a hurry. Though she went to bed at her usual time, sleep eluded her as her mind churned with the day’s chaos and the unsettling thoughts of what might happen next.

A shrieking alarm jolted Lisa awake. Or so she initially thought, but it turned out that it was just the traffic below her window. Glancing at the clock (6:30 a.m.), she was reminded it was Saturday, usually a quieter day. Today the streets were anything but quiet.

Checking her phone, she read the latest nightmare headlines: “Police at Full Capacity,” “Politicians Call for State of Emergency,” “Confirmed: 1,200 Injured, 6 Dead!” Her world suddenly felt out of control, and she struggled to grasp how a therapy for age-related diseases could trigger such chaos.

Standing under the shower spray, Lisa wrestled with conflicting thoughts. "If I avoid those dreaded diseases, my pension gets cut in five years. I’ll need to work again—but I still want the peace of mind that I won't have to worry about getting sick." By the time she stepped out, she’d resolved to sketch out a plan for the years ahead.

After breakfast and her favorite cup of tea, she hopped into a taxi.

“Normally, this drive takes maybe half an hour, but traffic’s insane today,” the driver remarked.

“I’m just glad it’s only eight,” Lisa replied, eyeing how young he seemed. As she settled in, she spotted a symbol on the rearview mirror, vaguely familiar but something about it was unsettling.

“You’re heading to the HIC, right?” the driver asked bluntly. “Mind if I ask your age?”

“I’m sixty-five,” Lisa answered. “Why do you ask?”

He glanced at her in the rearview. “You look amazing—I’d have guessed early fifties. And you want this Healing—why?”

Lisa offered a bright smile. “Thank you. I feel great, and it can’t hurt. Plus, I can enjoy my pension for a few more years before I figure out what’s next. Who’d have guessed I’d see something like this in my lifetime?”

The driver’s tone sharpened. “Ever think about how the planet suffers, with more people living longer, using up resources? Nature can’t keep up.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Lisa tried to sound calm. “I’ve read that the global population might be peaking—and yes, there’s a crisis with so many older folks, but there’s also progress: recycling, sustainable energy. I’m no expert, though.” She felt scrutinized, as if on trial.

The driver snorted. “The system wants folks like you back at work paying taxes. They’ll recoup their money and then some. What about those who can’t get healed—too sick, or living in countries that aren’t part of the project? Is that fair?” His voice rose, making Lisa’s heart pound. She glanced again at the dangling emblem and finally realized why it was so familiar; it was an abstract human figure the same icon used by the “Saviors of Humanity”.

“Nothing is perfectly fair,” Lisa conceded softly. “But maybe we can each do a little good in the world. Please let me out here—I need to grab something,” she added, telling a small lie to escape the increasingly uncomfortable conversation. After paying and tipping him, she slipped away.

At the HIC, a friendly receptionist welcomed her. “Good morning, Lisa. Have a seat. This therapy could help you avoid age-related diseases and give your life a fresh start. It’ll be administered at a specialized longevity clinic, where they can answer all your questions. Here’s a referral.”

Brimming with cautious excitement, Lisa immediately headed to the clinic, where a doctor greeted her with practiced warmth. “Pleased to meet you, Lisa. My colleague will draw some blood, then we’ll proceed.” Moments later the doctor returned, results in hand, and nodded with satisfaction.

“You’re in excellent health for your age,” he said. “Biologically, you’re about ten years younger than sixty-five—a good sign for the therapy. Think of it like an annual vaccine. We’ve seen no dangerous side effects in this generation of the drug. I even tested the first generation on myself,” he added proudly. “It targets cells at the molecular level to regenerate them. You’ll feel practically reborn.” His eyes gleamed in the sunlit room. “Ready?”

Lisa felt a surge of both nerves and excitement. “Yes, I want this.” She signed the multi-page consent form and received the injection, goosebumps prickling her arms.

“You’ll need to wear this watch at all times,” the doctor continued, handing her a sleek device. “It tracks your biodata, has a calendar, and recharges itself. It’ll also remind you of next year’s follow-up. If you have questions, the brochure can help—or you can call us.”

Lisa slipped on the watch, noticing the doctor wore an identical model. They exchanged a small nod. Minutes later, she was out the door, head buzzing with questions. As soon as she got home, she added “Second Birthday” to her phone calendar. She sensed life would never quite be the same.

Five years later, Lisa steps into the palliative care center, her heart tightening the moment she sees Henry seated by the window. His gaze is fixed on the fading daylight outside.

“You look so young and happy. Thanks for coming,” Henry whispers, his voice frail. A stroke weeks earlier had robbed him of the ability to walk, and his health had spiraled downhill ever since.

Lisa eases into the chair beside him. “Of course. How can I help?”

Henry’s eyes flick to her, then back to the sunset. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my life. When I retired, I felt enormous relief at first—I never had to work again. But truthfully, I lost any real sense of purpose after that. Then they introduced this ‘healing,’ and it felt like someone was snatching away my final reward.”

“You could still apply...” Lisa offers gently.

Henry shakes his head, a weary smile forming. “I always felt more alive when I was around you. But now I’m just... tired, and oddly at peace. Thank you for staying by my side.”

A month later, Lisa begins her new job with a mix of determination and a lingering ache—aware that as her world keeps shifting, she must keep moving forward.