Old, Sick, and Still Shopping: The Cost of Living Forever

I’ve been noticing something strange around my hometown of Newcastle. Not the usual trucks waking up babies or the weird Aussie fascination with putting beetroot on burgers. No, this is something else. In this sleepy beachside town, where tradies still crack tinnies at noon and the ocean’s always a few blocks away, there's a quiet explosion happening—of bum lifts, facelifts, under-eye zaps and skin-tightening lasers. Longevity, it seems, has landed here. And if it’s happening here, you can bet it’s already old news in LA, Tokyo, and New York.

You don’t have to look far. Billboards, Instagram ads, local clinics popping up on every corner—each one selling the dream: eternal youth. Stay young. Live longer. Be ageless. It's like a new religion, except instead of salvation, it promises another decade of Botox and bum implants.

But here’s the thing: the dream’s a lie. And an expensive one at that.

Living longer is only sexy in the brochure. The reality? For most, it’s 30 more years of stiff backs, hospital appointments, memory lapses, pills for breakfast, and funerals every other weekend. You outlive your friends, your lovers, your dog. Hell, you outlive your kids. And let’s be honest—who’s excited to hear another eulogy about Bob being a “great guy” when we all know Bob was a passive-aggressive prick who hoarded toilet paper during COVID?

We’re told we’re on the cusp of a golden era of health. Longevity clinics, anti-aging supplements, hyperbaric chambers, stem cell cocktails, and sleep optimization coaches for $900/hour. But beneath it? A medical-industrial complex that profits off keeping us barely alive—longer. Not thriving. Not flourishing. Just existing. Chronically sick. Ever reliant.

Lifespan is stretching, sure. But healthspan? That bit where you're actually well, mobile, mentally sharp, able to wipe your own arse and surf a wave? Not so much. If anything, it’s shrinking. We’re padding out the backend of life, not the meat of it.

And the cost? Mind-blowing. A 60-year-old in Sydney or London or New York today would need over $2.5 million to live “comfortably” to 110. Comfortably meaning still being able to eat, maybe see a specialist once in a while, and not rely on instant noodles as your major food group. Add aged care, mobility aids, medications, dementia management, and funerals of everyone you've ever known—and you’re talking Monopoly money.

So what’s the point? Really.

To live 20 more years in a sick, fragile body, just so you can read another book, scroll through more selfies of people you don’t like, watch your 14th grandkid play soccer on an iPad, or vote in your 18th disappointing election?

This is where it gets murky.

Because this obsession with youth and long life? It’s not really about life. It’s about control. It’s about wealth. It’s about whiteness. The longevity movement is being driven by people who already have everything—tech billionaires, mostly white, mostly male—who want to live forever, so they can… buy more things? Colonize Mars? Upload their egos to the cloud?

They’re not afraid of death. They’re afraid of becoming irrelevant.

And while the rich wring out another 30 years thanks to custom-built organ farms and calorie-tracking nanobots, the rest of the world—usually poorer, browner, harder-working—continues to suffer, age without care, and die far too soon. We live in a system where some people can order immortality with Afterpay, while others can't even afford a root canal.

This isn't just a health issue. It's an equity one. And a distraction.

Because the more we obsess over how long we can live, the less we ask how well we’re living right now. How connected we are. How just our world is. How compassionate. How sustainable. You can extend a life by 20 years, but if it’s just 20 more years of watching rich white guys drive their 15th Ferrari through streets lined with homeless shelters, what’s the f***ing point?

Personally, I don’t want to live to 110. I want to live well now. With some fire. With some joy. With enough health and clarity to swim in the ocean, hug my kid tight, and take a stand against the stuff that’s broken.

I want to feel the pain of being alive now, not spend 40 years numbing it with pharmaceuticals and plastic surgery.

I want to rage against injustice now—not just live through another 200 years of watching poor people die in rich people’s wars, or get chewed up by profit-driven healthcare systems, or be told they’re not beautiful unless they erase the very signs of a life fully lived.

So no, I’m not chasing immortality.

I’m chasing beauty. Actually, I’m not chasing anything at all.

And maybe, just maybe, if more of us did that—looked after our health not out of fear of death but out of love for life—we’d stop feeding this ridiculous machine that promises to keep us alive longer, just so we can die a little more slowly.

Evan Sutter