It was Christmas Day 2017, and the elderly of the world awaited their Christmas present. The homeless had opened their package, and the prisoners and orphans and mental patients had each opened theirs. In fact, I believe most every group of needy had opened their package except the elderly and the sick.
It was noon before the gift bearer even made it there. Dressed as Santa, he came down the hall a ho-ho-hoing. Trailing after him was a chorus, all decked out in the brightest green costumes. "Good tidings of great joy we bring, to you and all your kin," they sang.
Santa sat down next to the fireplace. He sighed heavily. "I sure wish I were bringing you good tidings," he said. This is the day we celebrate the Savior's birth, and that is 'good tidings,' but other than that . . ."
He paused, a tear welling up in his eye. "I'm thinking I should take a gift away from you, instead of giving you one," he said. He looked around at the elderly, many of them stuck in beds, flat on their backs. They lived that way day in, and day out. "Yes, I need to take a present away, if I'm going to do you any good."
He dabbed at his eye. "Your prescriptions, your painkillers -- they are opioids. We, as society, do you no good by sending you out of your lives strung out on drugs. We send you out addicted to drugs, and they often cause depression. Sometimes, they cause psychosis, and you end up accusing folks of things that aren't true."
He paused, looking around, again. "A real Christmas present would be to get you off these drugs. A real Christmas present would be to let you live the end of your lives without being addicted, without being depressed, and still without being in pain. A lot of you suffer from brittle bones, and from lack of coherency." He looked around, yet again. "I just wish I could make these things better."
He suddenly slapped his knee and jumped to his feet. "I know what we'll do. You might end up continuing on those opioids for a while, and with bad backs for a while, but we're going to do something. We're going to organize something, and we're going to make it about as important as any organization we have. We'll call it NIfBoS. That's short for the National Institute for Betterment of Seniors. You've seen how hard we, as a society, can press for a cure to cancer. This will be the same. We will push with all our heart to discover how to return brittle bones to health, how to make it so those of you dwindling your lives away in beds can hop up and walk around normally. And, we're going to go after pain-killers, just the same, making it a national priority to discover something that doesn't addict and doesn't cause depression. We're going to seek to cure Alzheimer's Disease like we've never done before. We're going to make the lives of our seniors a priority, a pursuit, and a dream, and a cause of which we will not let go of."
He stopped, for a moment, gazing with fixed eyes at the people. "It's Christmas, isn't it? Funny, that this is the day we celebrate the birth of a person who brought resurrection -- renewed life -- to all the earth's residents. What we'll do for you might not be resurrection, but living longer and happier is a little bit of that. Funny, too, how the Savior went around healing the sick and afflicted. We sure would like to do that with you."
He leaned over and picked up a well-wrapped present. "NIfBoS," it said on the side. He carried it carefully over and placed it under the Christmas tree.
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