The Treatment

I’m the Doctor’s assistant—one of many. The water we are using today is on Hokkaido. It’s beautiful here. I arrived last night from Finland, greeted by the exact bitter cold the Doctor loves. He chooses his locations well. As I could see from the plane, there’s lots of viable water here.

The Doctor has a monopoly on the kind of treatment he performs. He developed it and, although he’s written extensively on his methods, no other physician has been able to replicate his results. I expect he’s omitted some details on purpose, but I’d never say it out loud. A small body of water is all that’s needed. Preferably volcanic. It’s good to start with water that contains a certain level of sulfur and other minerals. After that, it’s up to the equipment and the skills of the Doctor.

As I arrive to the designated location today, spotting the medical tent, its plastic walls rippling in the wind, I notice that this water is frozen over. I was expecting a hot spring, something bearable for the patients. But the Doctor knows what he’s doing, I’m sure.

When I arrive, Frey unzips the door to let me in. She’s already in her white hazmat suit. I rip open the clear plastic pouch containing mine and put on the suit as quickly as I can. The Doctor will be here at any moment, and the tools are not yet prepared.

I begin to rip tape and plastic off the machine and its monitors, turn on the electroencephalogram, and clean the electrodes. Everything seems to be functioning. I clean his tools and arrange them on a tray in the exact order he likes. I place clean towels on the tray.

The patient arrives, a woman about forty years of age, slim, with long black hair. Frey checks her in. She runs through the procedure with her once more, the steps, the risks factors, and collects her signature. Payment has already been processed, along with the necessary background checks.

All seems to be in order. The Doctor arrives. He is a striking man. All the patients stare at him as if he were some kind of divine being. Really, it’s his natural gravitas, his confidence, and his stoney demeanor that sparks deference. He speaks only the words he needs to say—no small talk, no jokes, no good morning or goodbye. It can be disarming at first, but after a while you get used to it.

He inspects his workspace and then gives a nod to Frey to prep the patient. She leads her to the edge of the pond, attaches the electrodes, and wraps her in a gown. The patient shivers.

The Doctor goes to greet her, and I follow. I introduce him and myself to the patient, who I’m only now getting to really see. I see that her eyes are dark and deep. She holds eye contact with me as I speak to her. She’s beautiful. Why she’d want this treatment enough to pay its exorbitant fees is beyond me. The only lines on her face are two smile lines on either side of her mouth. Her body is youthful. She isn’t hunched over or visibly in pain like many of our patients are. She seems in perfect health, in the prime of her life.

As I test her vitals and attach the breathing apparatus, Frey cuts an opening in the ice that covers the pond. We help her in. She lays on the bottom, in the rich soil, weighed down by our specialty gown. The electrodes that cover her body are attached to wires that run back to the machine. The Doctor turns it on, choses his tools, and begins the procedure.

Twenty minutes later, he is finished. The patient is asked to stand. As she does, we get to see the transformation. Her skin is flawless porcelain from head to toe. Her hair is thicker, and her lips full and pink. We help the patient out of the water and toward the prepared heat chamber. We switch out her gown for a thermal robe. I go to the heat chamber with her to test her vitals once more.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Fine,” she says. Her voice is slightly higher now, and the smile lines around her mouth are gone. There isn’t as much depth in her eyes as before. They are clear, untouched by life’s hurt and sleepless nights. She’s successfully aged backwards twenty years, every molecule. I liked her better before, but my opinion is irrelevant and not asked for, so I of course keep it to myself.

~~~

Twenty years later I have my own practice. Although the technology has improved, I still use the Doctor’s methods. I also adopted his practice of being the last to arrive at a procedure site.

When I do, my team is already there, the tools clean and displayed for me to my liking, the machines set up and ready, the patient prepped, dressed in one of our gowns. Everyone’s watching as I arrive. My assistants stand at the ready. The patient looks at me like I’m a god. When I go to greet her I’m momentarily struck by a sense of familiarity, her deep eyes, her smile lines. I can’t help but smile at her and greet her like an old friend. She’s forty years old again. I realize I’ve missed her.

I try to be subtle, but I’m secretly cherishing these few moments with her before I lose her again and she’s set back to twenty. Our conversation lasts but a minute, then I’m obligated to allow my assistants to escort her into the water.

Twenty minutes later she emerges, again with thick hair, again with porcelain skin, again with pink lips. I can’t help but be unhappy with my work. In the heat chamber I go to speak to her again. I ask her to promise to come back to me in twenty years for her next treatment. She agrees.

I’ll be counting the days.