‘Healed’ @ Second Thought Theatre

Photos by Evan Michael Woods

—Martha Heimberg

For every ailment under the sun
There is a remedy, or there is none;
If there be one, try to find it;
If there be none, never mind it.

This proverbial advice predates modern medicine’s understanding and treatment of chronic illness and auto-immune disorders, so-called “invisible illnesses” that can cause horrendous pain, but are still not easily diagnosed — and then often dismissed as “all in your head.” Never mind it. Right?  If only.

The world premiere of Healed by Dallas-based playwright Blake Hackler is directed with relentless physical and emotional intensity by Carson McCain at Second Thought Theatre—and it’s not for the faint of heart. Healed is a literally hard-hitting, harrowing 90-minute exploration of one woman’s last-ditch attempt to rescue her body and soul from a debilitating disease, one that none of her numerous doctors can seem to diagnosis and treat seriously. It’s also filled with Hackler’s signature mix of clear, tough language and quiet everyday lyricism—and his splendidly natural way with women characters. This is the fourth of Hackler’s plays to premiere at Second Thought—and Dallas needs to hang onto him.

Gail (determined, trembling Gigi Cervantes) a middle-aged woman desperate for relief, reels off a shocking list of failed treatments, incorrect diagnoses and competing changes in diet, exercise and infusions. She’s staying with her daughter, and barely sleeps because poor Caroline (exhausted, patient Amanda Nicole Reyes) is up half the night trying to quiet her crying baby.

When Gail announces she’s sold her house to pay for an out-in-the-wilds retreat that offers a chance for healing, dismayed Caroline tells her mother she just cannot expect (when, it’s implied, the treatment fails) to move in permanently with her and the baby. She pleads with Gail to see this as just another dead end with “scam written all over it.”

But no matter. Gail arrives at the “rather Spartan” bunkhouse, and accepts the rules: “no meds, no sex with self or others, no isolating.” In fact, in a satiric scene familiar to anybody who’s checked into a hospital, the flustered woman ends up signing a stack of forms, clearly giving up all rights and personal resources when she walks onto the grounds. With minimal furnishings, scenic designer Jose Torres creates an elongated playing space for the pain-wracked patients with the spa/retreat at one end and Caroline’s home at the other, amplified by Roma Flowers' moody lighting and Cresent R. Haynes’ surround-sound design.

Gail is greeted by other patients, all sympathizing with her pain and proclaiming the reality of their own particular aches and collapses. “We give them pet names,” says upbeat Rena (funny, vulnerable Karen Parrish), who’s perfected the art of falling.  Sacha (touching, militant Liz Sankarsingh) is a singer who “slept around” and “woke up screaming” until she underwent a cure; she’s now a kind of retreat staff sergeant leading the patients in wellness dances and brainwash games. “We all feel like shit,” says Sam (honest, shrugging Kat Lozano), who admits, “I love it here, even when I hate it.” Maybe the howling coyotes are good company.

Gail is also put off, to say the least, when she is not personally greeted by the retreat director Dr. Tolliver (Lisa Lloyd in tough, stiletto-heeled, seen-it-all mode), a scowling woman in a white coat who says she treats the sickest first. (Hint: She’s not putting Gail at the top of the list.) Gail phones her daughter to come get her, but Caroline is caring for her sick baby.

Unlike the sold-out audience in the intimate Bryant Hall theater on opening night, Dr. T. appears unmoved when the restless patients howl like the furies and writhe on the ground to prove their persistent pain—and get help. It creates a deliberately uneasy situation for the audience. Even if somebody jokes about her predicamentt, should I be laughing at these tortured, sick people? 

“I thought we were partners,” Gail says, when she finally gets her session with Dr. Tolliver. “That’s just marketing,” the doctor replies. “Women get sick; your immune system is shot,” she’s told. (Auto-immune diseases, like rheumatoid arthritis, lupus and over a hundred other syndromes and diseases, are gender-biased against women, occurring at a rate of 2 to 1, due to a gene doubling shared by all women and few men.)

Other patients have forewarned her, but now Gail gets it straight from the doctor’s mouth. “Own your illness. If you can’t love yourself, love the ground.” Is this the only treatment left for exhausted people? Well, they are also coached to “breathe from the solar plexus,” if that helps.

I did. It helps.

Then a tall, composed Black woman named Ruth (a majestic vickie washington) shows up. Is she a longtime patient with her own place on the grounds, or some sort of mystical chakra healer with magical massage powers?  Stay tuned.

Rumors circulate that Gail may be a “candidate”—but for what? Dr. T did say, “Miracles don’t happen every day, just every once in a while.” Gail is instantly enthralled by Ruth’s calm smile and gentle touch amid all the hysteria and groans of the patients—or prisoners, as she regards them.

Intent on following the path of healing before her, Gail misses urgent phone calls from her daughter, and proceeds with Ruth’s direction. We learn that Gail, to regain her health, must expect that something will be taken from her—a loss she will need to accept and absorb. What that something is remains ambiguous, though we shift in our seats to think we might be witnesses to a cosmic-tradeoff we weren’t expecting. Gail seems connected to her daughter once more, but the play asks: What does a miracle cost, and would you pay the price?

Scary question.

Healed is a fascinating, haunting depiction of the scams and fears and hopes of women struggling with an auto-immune disease, and the people who love and care for them. As for as what price I’d pay for health, check my hefty insurance co-pay.

WHEN: April 23-May 10, 2025
WHERE: Bryant Hall (next to Kalita Humphreys), 3636 Turtle Creek Blvd., Dallas
WEB: secondthoughttheatre.com