There is a gizmo in Star Trek that Dr. Crusher had. It was called a dermal regenerator and she used it to heal wounds and broken skin. The process was instantaneous. 

I am no doctor, but that isn't how it seems to work. The parameters of a surgeon seem to be limited to cleaning the area, removing dead flesh, and stitching up the gash. Healing refuses to be rushed. 

Now that I am in my fourth score of years on this planet conversations seem to lean in to health concerns. At least five people have described their joint replacements to me in the last month, and the punch line is always that it takes time. For a culture whose patience with money transfers, UPS deliveries, and internet service is shrinking this does not bode well. In my grandmother's time a letter across the pond could take weeks to arrive. Visiting her daughter in another state was an arduous trip. My aunt told me that her mother's engagement lasted for four years because that was how long it took to embroider her Gibson Girl wedding gown. Modern advances have made some of those wait times shorter. 

But bodies still get the last word. While we can surround skin with ideal circumstances for rejuvenation, healing sets its own pace. I am not sure this is a bad thing. 

A friend asked how she could make her marriage heal. She would do anything. Yet every day of waiting feels like a lifetime. I suppose all she can really do is to keep her heart clean, scrape away any resentments, and wait. She does not in fact have a guarantee that her relationship will regenerate. 

But she will.